Chapter 17 : Tracks in the Wild

The forest had grown darker as Ryn and the Spirit Fox pressed deeper into its heart. The trees towered above them, their gnarled branches twisting together to form a canopy that blocked out most of the sunlight. A faint mist clung to the ground, curling around Ryn's boots with every step.

The Spirit Fox stayed close, its glowing fur cutting through the gloom like a soft lantern. Its ears twitched constantly, swiveling at even the faintest sound.

Ryn adjusted the straps of his pack, his eyes scanning the forest floor. The memory of the injured wolf lingered in his mind, a gnawing unease settling in his chest. The beast's wounds hadn't been natural, and the thought that another person might be wandering the Wildlands—armed and dangerous—made his skin crawl.

"Whoever did that didn't stick around," Ryn muttered. "But that doesn't mean they're gone."

The fox let out a low chirp, its tail swishing nervously.

Ryn knelt to inspect the ground, brushing aside a patch of damp leaves. He found what he was looking for almost immediately: a set of footprints, half-hidden by the foliage.

"Human," he muttered, his brow furrowing. The prints were deep, their edges jagged, as if the person who made them had been wearing heavy boots.

The Spirit Fox sniffed at the tracks, its glowing nose wrinkling slightly.

"Big," Ryn said, standing. "Probably taller than me. And armed, if those cuts on the wolf are anything to go by."

The fox growled softly, its fur bristling.

Ryn looked around, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a faint trail leading away from the tracks. The dirt had been disturbed, the foliage crushed as though something heavy had been dragged through it.

He followed the trail a few steps, his stomach twisting as the faint scent of blood reached his nose.

"Great," he muttered. "This just keeps getting better."

The Spirit Fox chirped sharply, darting ahead to sniff at the trail.

"Careful," Ryn said, gripping his knife tightly as he followed.

The trail led them deeper into the forest, the air growing colder with each step. The mist thickened, and the faint rustle of leaves seemed louder than before, as though the forest itself was holding its breath.

Ryn's heart pounded as they emerged into a small clearing. The ground here was stained dark with blood, and the remains of a crude campsite lay scattered across the area. A torn bedroll, an empty waterskin, and a few broken arrows were strewn about, their edges jagged as if they had been snapped in anger—or desperation.

The Spirit Fox growled, its glowing tail flicking as it sniffed at the bloodstained ground.

"Looks like someone was here recently," Ryn said, crouching to inspect the remains of the camp. "Whoever they were, they left in a hurry."

He picked up one of the broken arrows, turning it over in his hands. The wood was splintered, the fletching torn.

"Maybe they were attacked," he muttered. "Or maybe they're the ones doing the attacking."

The fox growled again, its ears flattening.

Ryn followed its gaze and froze.

At the edge of the clearing, partially obscured by the underbrush, was another set of tracks. These were different from the footprints they had found earlier—larger, clawed, and impossibly deep.

"Corrupted beast," Ryn whispered, his throat dry.

The tracks were unlike anything he had seen before. Each print was almost as large as his torso, and the claw marks gouged deep into the earth. Whatever had made them was massive—and powerful.

The Spirit Fox pressed closer to him, its fur glowing faintly as it let out a warning chirp.

"Yeah," Ryn said, swallowing hard. "We need to move. Now."

They left the clearing behind, moving quickly and quietly through the forest. The tension in the air was suffocating, every shadow and sound making Ryn's pulse quicken.

The bond between him and the Spirit Fox pulsed faintly, a constant reassurance in the back of his mind.

"We can't keep running into stuff like this," Ryn muttered, his grip on his knife tightening. "It's like the Wildlands are throwing everything they've got at us."

The fox chirped softly, its glowing eyes scanning the trees.

Ryn stopped suddenly, holding up a hand. The Spirit Fox froze, its ears swiveling as it crouched low.

There was something ahead—a faint noise, just barely audible over the rustle of the forest. It was a low, guttural growl, followed by the crunch of leaves underfoot.

Ryn's stomach twisted as he crept forward, the bond pulsing in warning.

As they approached a break in the trees, Ryn caught sight of the source of the noise.

A massive, hulking beast stood in the center of another clearing, its black fur matted with blood and its glowing red eyes fixed on something on the ground. Its claws were stained dark, and its twisted, corrupted form pulsed with sickly green energy.

A Corrupted Gorehound.

Ryn's breath caught in his throat as he took a step back, his mind racing. The Gorehound was one of the more notorious corrupted beasts, known for its relentless aggression and terrifying strength.

The Spirit Fox growled softly, its glowing tail flicking as it pressed closer to Ryn's leg.

The Gorehound didn't seem to notice them yet, its attention focused on whatever lay at its feet.

Ryn squinted, his heart sinking as he realized what it was—a body.

The Gorehound let out a guttural snarl, its jaws snapping as it tore into the corpse.

Ryn clenched his fists, his stomach churning. He wanted to run, to turn around and put as much distance between himself and the beast as possible. But the bond pulsed again, and he felt the Spirit Fox's determination pushing back against his fear.

"Not yet," Ryn whispered, his voice trembling. "We're not ready for that thing."

The fox chirped softly, its glowing eyes fixed on the Gorehound.

Ryn crouched low, motioning for the fox to follow as he began to back away slowly. Every movement felt agonizingly slow, his muscles tense with the effort of staying silent.

The Gorehound didn't react, its snarls and growls fading as the forest swallowed the sound.

When they were far enough away, Ryn let out a shaky breath, his hands trembling as he lowered his knife.

"That thing..." he muttered, his voice barely audible. "We need to stay as far away from it as possible."

The Spirit Fox chirped in agreement, its tail swishing nervously.

Ryn straightened, his jaw tightening. Whatever was happening in the Wildlands, it was getting worse. And he had a sinking feeling that they were heading straight into the heart of it.