Story 1144: Forest of the Hunted

They ran.

Branches whipped their faces. Roots clawed at their boots. Every step forward felt like retreat, as if the trees twisted behind them, sealing every path they’d taken. There were four hunters when they entered the Moonwood—now only two remained.

Reller, the youngest, blood on his cheek and panic in his breath, stumbled beside Old Finric, the grizzled trapper who swore he'd mapped this place decades ago. But now even Finric’s compass spun in circles. The forest had changed.

Or perhaps it had always been like this—awake, and they’d simply never noticed.

Behind them, the cries of Callen still echoed—though they’d seen him die. A silver jaw, six feet wide, snapping from the brush and dragging him into the green. No beast they knew left such a clean wound.

“They hunt us now,” Finric whispered.

“Who?” Reller asked, though he didn’t want the answer.

Finric stopped. His face pale. He pointed ahead—“There.”