The hunt did not begin with strategy.
It began with movement.
A sudden burst from the undergrowth—muscle and fur tearing through leaves, hooves striking stone. The humans reacted instantly, not with plans but instinct. Some ran forward. Others hesitated. A few froze entirely.
Melina's heart slammed in her chest. "They're not ready."
"They never are," Boris said.
The animal was large—broad-backed, powerful, wounded already by hunger or age. It charged blindly, driven by panic rather than intent. Stone tools struck flesh. Poorly. Inefficiently.
One man went down immediately.
The animal trampled him without slowing.
Another lunged too close and caught a horn through the thigh. Bone cracked audibly. He screamed and fell, useless where he lay.
Blood soaked into the soil—human and animal together, indistinguishable.
"They don't retreat," Melina whispered in horror. "They don't even know when to stop."
"They stop when bodies stop moving," Boris replied.
The animal fell eventually—not cleanly, not quickly. It bled out from a dozen shallow wounds, its breath hitching until it simply… didn't draw again.
Silence followed.
Not mourning.
Assessment.
The group stood over the bodies—three human, one animal.
No one knelt. No one closed eyes. No one checked pulses.
Death was not an event yet.
It was a state.
One of the survivors crouched beside the animal and tore into its flesh immediately, using a stone edge to peel back skin while the body was still warm. Steam rose faintly into the cold air.
Melina gagged. "They're eating it raw."
"Yes," Boris said. "Heat hasn't been assigned to food yet."
Another human approached one of the dead men—the one trampled. He pressed fingers into the chest once, then withdrew them, uninterested.
Then he cut.
Melina screamed. "No—"
The man carved into the thigh, clumsy but purposeful, pulling free a strip of meat no different in color or texture from the animal's.
He sniffed it.
Bit down.
Chewed.
Melina staggered back as if struck. "That's—he's—"
"He's hungry," Boris said, voice hollow.
Others followed.
Some took meat from the animal.Some from the human.
There was no distinction yet.
No word for it.
No boundary violated because no boundary existed.
Melina felt tears streak her face. "In our world… this would be unforgivable."
"In theirs," Boris said, "it's unresolved."
The cold crept in as night approached, sharper now without sunlight to soften it. The humans worked faster, tearing skins free from animal and man alike. Blood slicked their hands. It coated arms, chests, faces.
One woman lifted a section of hide—still warm, still damp—and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She stiffened.
Paused.
Then sighed.
Melina blinked. "She relaxed."
"It retains heat," Boris said. "Even like this."
Others noticed.
More skins were lifted, draped, tied awkwardly with fiber or strips of sinew. Bloody. Sticky. Heavy.
But warm.
Melina watched a man pull human skin away from muscle with less care now, eyes distant, focused only on the material.
"Oh god," she whispered. "They're wearing it."
"They're wearing warmth," Boris corrected. "They don't name the source."
The hides clung uncomfortably. Blood dried unevenly, cracking as bodies moved. The smell was overwhelming—iron, decay, animal fat.
Melina pressed a hand over her mouth. "They'll get sick."
"Some will," Boris said. "Some won't."
The fire was rekindled as darkness fell—not accidentally this time. Someone fed embers carefully, keeping distance. The flame rose obediently, controlled but cautious.
They gathered around it.
The difference was immediate.
Bodies relaxed. Breath slowed. Shivering eased.
Melina's voice trembled. "They're learning when to use it."
"Yes," Boris said. "Night. Cold. Stillness."
A sound echoed from beyond the firelight—a low growl, distant but unmistakable.
The group stiffened.
Eyes turned outward.
Another sound answered it.
Closer.
Melina's pulse spiked. "Predators."
The fire flared as someone added more fuel instinctively.
The light pushed outward.
The sound stopped.
Silence returned.
The humans did not cheer. They did not celebrate.
They noticed.
Fire was not just danger anymore.
It was boundary.
"Protector," Melina whispered.
"And destroyer," Boris said.
Both truths held.
The bodies of the dead were left where they had fallen. No ceremony. No attempt to cover them. No anger directed at the loss.
Insects already gathered. Scavengers would come by morning.
Melina stared at them, shivering—not from cold, but realization.
"They're getting used to it," she said. "Death."
"Yes."
"They don't stop to feel it."
"They can't afford to," Boris replied.
The fire crackled softly.
The group ate until hunger faded—not satisfied, but dulled. Raw meat. Cooked later only by accident, edges seared unevenly.
Skin dried stiff against their bodies.
Melina looked away. "Death isn't sacred to them."
"Not yet," Boris said.
"When does it become that?"
He watched the firelight flicker across scarred faces, bloodstained hides, eyes already adjusting to tomorrow.
"When memory starts hurting more than hunger," he said.
The night deepened.
The fire burned steadily.
The past settled into itself—fewer, harder, and moving forward without looking back.