The fire’s a meager thing, spitting embers that barely light up the cramped clearing I’ve claimed in this suffocating forest. Twisted branches claw at the sky above, blotting out the stars, leaving only a faint shimmer of moonlight to leak through the canopy. The ground’s a mess of damp leaves and pine needles, sticking to my bare paws as I shift my weight, slumped against a rough-barked oak. My blue woolen cloak’s draped over my shoulders, frayed at the edges, heavy with the day’s dust and the faint tang of my herb pouch—smoking blends and healing salves—slung low on my hip. My spear leans against a nearby stump, its bronze tip catching the fire’s glow, while my dagger’s cold hilt presses against my thigh. My ears, white-tipped and heavy, sag against my back, too tired to stand but not quite careless. The air’s sharp with wet earth, pine sap, and the faint musk of something alive—maybe me, maybe not.

Then—crack—a twig snaps out in the black beyond the fire’s reach. My ears jerk upright, rigid as spears, swiveling to pin the sound. My dark green eyes, half-lidded from a day of trudging, snap wide, scouring the shifting shadows where the trees choke out the light. My paw-hand’s already on my dagger, fingers twitching, as the forest swallows its own noise. My tail gives a single, nervous flick. Whatever’s out there, it’s close.