Chapter 3: The Forest Watches
Mara didn't run.
Every instinct screamed at her to—but she didn't.
Running meant prey.
She stood at the edge of the stream, blood drying dark against her palms, breath shallow, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might crack her ribs from the inside. Each pulse thudded in her ears, loud, uneven. The cold water rushed past her boots, loud in the silence, carrying the copper scent away but not fast enough.
The forest knew.
It always knew.
Across from her, the stranger leaned against a tree.
Casual. Too casual.
Arms crossed. One boot hooked against the bark, sole barely touching the ground. His weight was balanced—not resting. Ready. Like he could move in any direction without shifting first.
Like the Dark Forest wasn't a death sentence.
Like the shadows didn't matter.
Like nothing here scared him.
That was worse than claws.
"Well?" he said mildly, tilting his head. "Are you going to run, or are we going to talk?"
His voice carried easily through the trees, unbothered by the way sound usually died out here. Mara swallowed. Her throat felt raw, scraped thin by panic and smoke and the echo of her own heartbeat.
She didn't lower her guard. Didn't step back.
"Who are you?" she asked.
His gaze flicked—not to her face, but to the body sprawled near the stream.
The Night Howler lay twisted where it fell, neck broken at an impossible angle, black blood soaking into moss and stones. Its claws were still half-curled, as if it hadn't realized it was dead yet.
"Someone impressed," he said.
The System flared.
[WARNING: HOST HEART RATE CRITICAL]
Heat rushed behind her eyes. Not now.
"Get out of my head," she muttered under her breath.
The man's eyes sharpened.
Just a fraction.
His smile didn't fade—but it changed. Less amused. More curious. Like a hunter noticing a footprint where there shouldn't be one.
"Oh?" he said lightly. "That reaction."
He straightened from the tree and took a slow step closer.
His boots didn't make a sound on the damp earth.
Mara noticed that immediately.
He studied her—not openly, not crudely. The way professionals did. The way fighters assessed angles and weaknesses without staring.
"You're holding yourself together a little too tightly," he continued. "People do that when they're… distracted."
Mara's blood went cold.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
Her voice didn't shake. That alone felt like a victory.
"Mm." He hummed, unconvinced. "Most don't."
He stopped a few paces away.
Up close, he was taller than she'd thought—taller than Lucien, broader through the shoulders.
Up close, he was unfairly striking in a way that put Mara on edge.
Not polished. Not noble.
Sharp lines, hard mouth, eyes that looked like they'd learned early that mercy was optional.
The kind of handsome that didn't offer safety—only consequences.
Lean muscle moved under dark leather armor scarred by old fights. Not pack armor. Not ceremonial. No sigils. No markings of rank or loyalty.
Just function.
The kind worn by men who didn't expect backup.
His hair was silver-black, tied loosely at the nape of his neck. A few strands had slipped free, catching faint light. His eyes—amber, sharp, reflective—caught what little glow the forest allowed and gave it back like a predator's.
Not wolf.
Something older.
"You shouldn't be here," Mara said, forcing steadiness into her voice. "No one comes into the Dark Forest unless they're desperate."
"Or exiled," he replied easily.
His gaze locked onto hers.
"Or hunting."
Her fingers curled slowly into fists. Her nails bit into her palms, grounding her. "I'm not your prey."
He considered her for a long moment.
"No," he said after a beat. "You're not."
The words landed heavy. Final.
Silence stretched between them. Thick. Pressurized.
The forest shifted.
Not wind.
Movement.
A subtle rearranging—like something adjusting its focus.
Then...
A roar tore through the trees.
Low. Distant. Powerful enough that the ground seemed to answer it, a deep vibration crawling up through Mara's boots and into her bones. The sound wasn't just heard—it was felt, rattling her teeth, squeezing her lungs.
Her breath hitched.
The stranger's head snapped up.
His expression changed.
Not fear.
Interest.
"Well," he murmured. "That didn't take long."
Another roar followed, closer this time. Branches shuddered overhead. Leaves rained down in uneven bursts. Somewhere high above, birds exploded from the canopy in a frantic black cloud, wings beating in blind panic.
Mara's stomach twisted. "What was that?"
He glanced down at her. "Trouble."
The System pulsed violently.
[ALERT: MULTIPLE HOSTILE SIGNATURES DETECTED]
[ESTIMATED TIME TO CONTACT: 03:12]
Her chest tightened. "You said you weren't hunting me."
"I'm not." His gaze slid past her, scanning the trees, the shadows, the empty spaces between them. "But something else is."
The forest seemed to lean in.
She took an involuntary step back. Water splashed around her ankles, icy and loud. "I killed one Night Howler."
He looked at the corpse again.
Really looked.
Then back at her.
Then smiled—slow, sharp, edged with something almost approving.
"That wasn't a Night Howler," he said. "That was a scout."
"Scouts don't travel alone," he added. "They call the rest."
Her stomach dropped through the forest floor.
Another roar rolled through the trees, close enough now that she felt it in her ribs. The undergrowth rustled. Shadows slipped where there shouldn't have been any—too smooth, too deliberate.
The forest wasn't just watching anymore.
It was waking up.
[WARNING: UNIDENTIFIED HIGH-THREAT ENTITIES APPROACHING]
Mara's pulse roared in her ears. "Then move," she snapped. "Get out of my way."
He didn't.
Instead, he stepped sideways—deliberate, precise—putting himself between her and the trees.
"What are you doing?" she hissed.
"Deciding," he said calmly.
A shape slid between the trunks.
Then another.
Low to the ground. Massive. Too quiet.
Eyes ignited in the dark—yellow, then pale. One pair. Three. Five.
Too many.
Her knees threatened to give. Her fingers twitched, searching for a weapon she didn't have.
The stranger rolled his shoulders like a man preparing for a long walk, not a fight. His stance shifted subtly—weight lowering, balance settling.
"You've got about thirty seconds," he said, "before this turns ugly."
"Then fight," she said, voice tight. "Or move."
He glanced down at her.
For just a heartbeat, something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
Recognition.
Interest.
Decision.
"Oh," he said softly. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Something lunged...