I awaken with a startling jolt, my senses flooding back as I realize my position. I am hanging upside down by a tightly wound suspended snare trap. I feel the blood rushing to my head, pulsing in my long, pointed ears.
The serene forest around me—a stark contrast to my predicament—sways calmly as if mocking my disoriented state. A faint, distant rumble threads through the trees—water moving fast somewhere out of sight. Leaves rustle in the gentle breeze, and somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker tirelessly drums against a trunk.
The snare holds me fast, its rough cord digging into my ankle. My head throbs, and the world spins slightly with each desperate swing. The rope chafes, and the blood rushing to my head grows more disorienting by the moment. I reach for the hunting knife attached to my belt to attempt to cut the rope. The rope groans, fibers stretch to their breaking point—and then, with a sudden snap, it gives way. I tumble awkwardly to the forest floor, landing with a grunt. I'm free. Blood rushes from my head, and for a moment, the world spins in reverse. Relief floods in. I push myself to my feet, rubbing my chafed ankle. The broken snare hangs limp from a low branch. I take a moment to reorient myself.
I scan the immediate vicinity, eyes sweeping over the forest floor, the underbrush, and the surrounding trees. Nothing out of the ordinary—no tracks, no dropped items, no disturbed earth beyond the imprint of my own fall. The snare is crude but effective, fashioned from natural fibers. Despite my efforts, the forest offers no easy answers, no obvious signs of who set the trap.
As I stand there, a faint, rhythmic thumping echoes through the trees, growing subtly louder. Heavy footfalls—approaching with purpose—shake the very ground beneath me. Something large draws near. I scramble to find cover, trying to blend into the dense undergrowth. But my large frame and the suddenness of my movements make true concealment impossible. A twig snaps loudly beneath my boot, and a rustle of leaves betrays my position. The thumping grows deafening, and then—a hulking figure bursts through the trees. A massive, scarred grizzly bear. Its eyes lock onto mine, a low growl rumbling deep in its chest. It drags a broken snare from its leg—the same type of crude trap that held me.
The bear's posture, the intense growl, and its unwavering stare leave no doubt. It sees me as a threat, an intruder in its territory. It stands on its hind legs, and drool flies from its mouth as it roars.
I stand my ground, frozen, puffing myself up to appear larger, but even still, there is no comparison. The bear is much larger than I am. "I have no wishes to fight you!" I shout, staring into the bear's furious eyes. But my words and my stance fall on deaf ears. All it appears to hear are angry words. The bear snorts and flares its nostrils. My attempt at intimidation did nothing to quell its rage. The grizzly charges—a blur of muscle and claw, a whirlwind of fur and teeth.
With surprising agility for my size, I sidestep the initial rush, eyes scanning the forest floor, and by a miracle, I spot a large, well‑worn great‑axe partially obscured by fallen leaves and underbrush, its broad, heavy blade catching just enough light for me to recognize it. I lunge, scrambling forward with desperate speed, my hands closing around the rough handle. Hauling the heavy weapon off the ground, I swing it with both hands into a ready stance. My eyes lock with the enraged beast as I brace for whatever comes next.
The bear lunges forward with a furious roar, massive paws rising to swipe with razor‑sharp claws. I try to shift, but the claws rake across my side, shredding through layers of cloth and leather before they find skin, leaving a hot, stinging line of pain. The force of the blow sends a sharp jolt radiating through my body.
With a low growl, I adopt a defensive posture, bracing myself to evade the bear's crushing attacks. I focus, ready to shove aside whatever it throws at me and slip away from its furious assault. I try to summon the divine fire within me, but it doesn't manifest. My pain and fear are leaving me too unfocused, and my great‑axe remains cold.
The grizzly roars again, unfazed by my stance, and lunges forward, claws extended, aiming to tear into me once again.A glancing blow connects with my leg — a dull thud against my padded leather leggings — it doesn't penetrate, but the impact is jarring.
With the bear next to me, I grab its thick fur and try to climb onto its back. My hands dig into its matted coat, slick with sweat and forest debris. The bear roars, twisting violently to shake me off. The beast growls menacingly as it shrugs me off with a powerful twist. I hit the ground hard I barely manage to keep my hold on my axe. Before the beast can close the distance with me, I roll and scramble behind a thick cedar trunk, putting it between us.
I look heavenward, "Father, this is up to you!" I plead, raising my axe as the bear comes for another swipe.
As the bear barrels around the tree, I heft my great‑axe, torn muscles flaring as I swing it in a wide, powerful arc toward the enraged grizzly. The steel cleaves through the air to where it finds its mark with a CRACK deep into the bear's ribs that shudders up my arms. The bear's roar collapses into a choking grunt as its legs buckle. For an instant, the blade is wedged fast, held by bone and muscle. Then the beast thrashes, and I'm forced to wrench the axe free.
Then, with a deep growl, the critically wounded bear lunges at me, primal rage still burning in its eyes. Its massive paws and snapping jaws aim to finish the fight—but its desperate lunge is clumsy. I dodge the heavy swipe, feeling the wind of its claws pass just inches from my skin.
Seeing the bear's persistence in its weakened state, I choose survival. I turn heel and sprint, hoping to lose it in the dense undergrowth. My wounded body screams in protest, but adrenaline surges through me. I weave through trees and bushes, the forest blurring around me. The bear's roars fade behind me as I put distance between us. I've escaped—for now, bleeding, but alive.
I want to watch the bear from a distance, to see if its rage subsides. But my body protests. Every breath is a shallow, painful gasp. The raw edges of my wounds burn. The bear's roars still echo faintly, and I know its senses are sharp. To linger here, wounded and exposed, hoping it calms down—that's a death wish. My vision swims. The forest blurs. I need rest. I need safety.
I find a secluded hollow beneath the thick canopy of ancient trees, far from the site of our battle. With trembling hands, I tear strips from my tunic to bind my wounds, wincing at the pain. Dusk settles, and the forest quiets. I collapse into sleep, exhaustion claiming me completely.
Hours pass. When I stir, the first rays of dawn filter through the leaves. My body still aches, but the wounds are no longer fresh. They have scabbed over, but are still fragile. Despite my wounds, however, my thoughts are on the bear that I hurt. *Did I kill it?* I feel this weird compulsion to go look for it.
I scan the forest floor, searching for broken twigs, scuff marks, or droplets of blood—anything that might lead me back to the bear. I follow faint signs, pushing through dense thickets and weaving around ancient trees. But the forest is a master of concealment. Wounded or not, the bear has vanished. After what feels like hours, I realize I've lost the trail completely.
I shift focus, looking for food sources the bear might return to. My instincts guide me toward the sound of the river, and as I draw closer, I find a cluster of wild mulberry trees, heavy with ripe, dark fruit. They're untouched, plump, and fragrant—exactly what a foraging bear would seek. I'm hungry anyway, so I start helping myself to them.
I gather the berries, dropping them into a makeshift pouch fashioned from my mended tunic. I work quickly, collecting enough berries while keeping a wary eye on the underbrush. I consider building a fire, but the river's roar is unsettling; it seems to be growing louder and more furious. Mist creeps through the trees, clinging to my skin. The ground feels damp—not just from dew, but something deeper. I realize staying here would be a mistake. The river's voice warns of a threat greater than any bear.
I abandon my plans for a fire and head uphill. I scramble over roots and rocks, mist swirling around my knees, vision obscured. The roar intensifies with each step, vibrating through the ground. Then the canopy thins, and I emerge onto a rocky clearing. Below me, the river has burst its banks—a torrent of dark, churning water surging through the forest, swallowing everything in its path. I stand just above the rising floodwaters.
I keep climbing. My legs carry me swiftly over uneven terrain. The roar fades behind me, its destruction confined to the lower forest. The mist thins, replaced by crisp, cold air. Eventually, I reach a flat expanse of ancient, gnarled trees. The ground is solid rock, untouched by the flood. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I notice a soft, pulsating glow deeper in the woods. It feels out of place, but I ignore it. As my thoughts drift back to the bear. The river's fury would have swept through its territory, leaving little untouched.
Driven by a powerful, almost desperate instinct, I scour the rocky terrain, my eyes now accustomed to the muggy darkness. My survival instincts guide me—not to the bear, but to a chilling scene. Clinging to a jagged rock, just above the furious, swirling waters, I find remnants of what must have been the bear's lair—torn branches, a patch of fur matted with mud, the scent of damp earth and animal distress. Deep claw marks score the stone—signs of a desperate struggle against the rising flood, but the bear is gone. The flood, a godly snare, has swept through its home.
Amid the muddy debris and soaked leaves, a faint whimper catches my ear. Beneath an overturned root, I find two tiny bundles of fur, no larger than my forearm. Bear cubs. Shivering. Eyes shut tight. Trembling from cold and shock. They're too young to survive alone. *Was that the mother I was fighting?* I scoop them up gently, settling their tiny bodies along my forearms so their weight rests in the crook of my arms. It frees my hands just enough to keep hold of the great‑axe's handle as I rise.
They whimper softly, their warmth a small comfort against the damp night air. Shelter on this exposed terrain is far from ideal. I cradle the cubs close, their vulnerability stark against the wild, dangerous night.
As I take them to higher ground, I see a strange pulsing light in the distant trees that seems to call to me. As I approach, the glow grows brighter, revealing more detail. It's not fire, it emanates from a cluster of ancient, moss-covered stones arranged in a rough circle. At the center, a large translucent crystal pulses with soft, internal light. The air is still. Slightly warm. A subtle hum vibrates through the ground.
I set the cubs down gently, their soft whimpers a counterpoint to the crystal's hum. I reach for the smaller glowing stones scattered around the circle. As my fingers close around them, a faint energy thrums beneath my skin. Smooth, warm, softly pulsing. Each stone feels alive. The cubs stir slightly, calmed by my presence.
I find a sheltered spot among the stones and settle in. I use my body as a windbreak, shielding the cubs from the cold. Their whimpers fade as they burrow into my warmth, their tiny breaths a gentle rhythm against my chest. The crystal's glow casts an eerie but comforting light over our camp as I drift to sleep.
When dawn breaks, painting the sky in soft hues of grey and pink, I wake to the feeling of small paws stirring against me. The cubs blink owlishly at the new day. They seem stronger. The river's roar has faded to a distant murmur. The air is clean and crisp.
I look out over the area — the ancient stones, the gnarled trees, the rocky ground. I have nowhere else to go, so I decide to build a home here around these glowing stones. The cubs snuggle close, their eyes curious. It will take time and effort. I'll need to fell trees, clear ground, and gather materials. I also feel compelled to take care of the cubs—feed them, protect them, and keep them warm. It's a commitment unlike any I've known. But as I look into their innocent faces, confirmation settles in me — this is something I need to do.