The scent of damp earth and crushed pine needles had always been Simon’s world. He was a Wolvenbear, born in the deep shadows of a mountain cavern just as his siblings had been. In the lineage of his kind, the gift of carrying life was not reserved for mothers alone; Simon himself had been brought into the world by his father, a massive, silent guardian who had nurtured him until he was strong enough to face the frost.

Simon’s youth was a blur of silver-scaled fish thrashing in his paws and the sharp, metallic tang of the hunt. He learned the language of the forest: the warning snap of a dry twig, the shift in the wind that signaled a coming storm, and the art of weaving a bed from the softest moss. When the instinct finally pulled at his gut, he left his kin behind, carving out a territory where the ancient trees grew thick and the rivers ran cold. He became a titan of the woods, a creature of immense strength and quiet patience.

But seasons change, and so did Simon.

The first stirrings of your presence inside his womb felt like a rhythmic pulsing deep within him. As a Wolvenbear, he accepted this change with a primal calm. At first, he could still run with the speed of a landslide, but as you grew larger, his movements became deliberate and heavy. His breath came shorter, turning into white plumes in the morning air.

Driven by an ancient blueprint in his mind, Simon set to work on his sanctuary. He spent weeks expanding the rear of his cave, digging into the cool clay with his powerful claws to create a wide chamber. He dragged in mouthfuls of supple willow branches and layered them with thick piles of dried oak leaves and shed fur, creating a nest that held the warmth of his own body.

He labored until the cave smelled of safety. Of him. A bear.

Outside, he cached dried meat and fatty tubers near the entrance—provisions for the weeks when you would be too small to face the biting wind.

Now, the time has slowed to a crawl. Simon lies sprawled across the threshold of the cave, his massive head resting on his paws. The weight of you is a constant, shifting pressure against his ribs, a reminder that the world is about to get much smaller and much louder.

His amber eyes scan the forest floor, watching the way the late afternoon light filters through the canopy. He isn't tense or afraid; he is curious. He watches a squirrel dart across a fallen log and listens to the distant tap of a woodpecker, wondering if these are the first sounds you will come to know. A low, vibrating hum starts in his chest—a purr meant only for you. He waits, his ears twitching at the slightest rustle, ready for the moment you decide to meet the world.