The second morning was easier.
That disturbed me.
I woke before the light reached the clearing and didn't wait for footsteps that weren't coming. The space beside the fire was empty, and this time I didn't look at it twice.
I rolled the spare bedding tight and moved it against the wall. Cloth attracted damp. Damp attracted rot. Rot attracted things that bit.
Less was better.
I ate half a portion and packed the rest away. One person didn't need as much. One person couldn't afford waste.
Outside, the forest greeted me the same way it always had—indifferent, vast, watching.
I checked the traps.
The first was empty. The snare line snapped clean through, not chewed, not frayed. Pulled apart.
Something strong.
I crouched and studied the marks in the dirt. Too wide for fox. Too careless for anything starving.
It came back to the clearing.
That was bad.
The second trap was worse.
The rope was tangled around the base of the tree, and something dark stained the leaves beneath it. I followed the line and found the cause.
My knife slipped from my fingers.
The animal was still alive.
Barely.
Its leg was crushed where the snare had tightened wrong, bone pressing against skin at an angle that made my stomach tighten. Its chest rose shallowly, eyes glassy, breath coming in short, wet pulls.
This was my fault.
I should've adjusted the tension. I knew that. The old man had shown me twice.
I knelt there longer than I should have.
The animal watched me. Not with fear. With confusion.
I swallowed.
"Still," I whispered, though I wasn't sure why.
My hands moved anyway. One clean motion. No hesitation.
When it was over, I stayed kneeling until the shaking stopped.
Food was food. Guilt didn't change that.
But blood on the ground did.
The smell carried.
I worked fast, cutting and packing what I could, masking the rest with dirt and leaves the way I'd been taught. Even so, I felt eyes on my back that weren't there yet.
By the time I finished, the forest felt closer.
Heavier.
I should've gone back.
Instead, I followed the broken snare line deeper.
That decision wasn't brave. It wasn't curiosity.
It was calculation.
If something strong enough to tear my traps apart was nearby, I needed to know where it slept.
The trees thickened as I moved, branches knitting together overhead. Light thinned. The air grew damp and cool. My footsteps slowed without me thinking about it.
That was when I heard it.
A low sound. Not a growl. Not a breath.
Movement.
I froze.
The ground ahead of me shifted.
Not like an animal passing through brush. Not like roots settling.
The earth itself pressed upward slightly, dirt cracking as if something beneath it had exhaled.
My pulse spiked.
That's not right.
I took a step back.
The movement stopped.
I stood there, heart hammering, every sense stretched thin. The forest felt wrong in a way I didn't have words for yet.
Then, without meaning to—
"Still," I said again.
The word left my mouth softly. Instinctively. The same way you told fire to calm or water to wait when you were a child and didn't know better.
The ground hardened.
I felt it through the soles of my feet. The loose soil compressed, settling unnaturally fast, cracks sealing as if pressed by an invisible weight.
The forest went silent.
Not empty—silent.
I stared at the ground, breath caught in my throat.
That shouldn't have happened.
The pressure in the air faded as quickly as it came. Birds resumed their calls, hesitant at first, then normal. The trees relaxed.
I staggered back a step.
My head throbbed, sharp and sudden, like I'd been awake for days. My mouth tasted like iron. My hands trembled, not from fear, but from exhaustion that came out of nowhere.
I leaned against a tree until the world steadied.
Don't do that again, I thought.
I didn't know what that was.
I just knew it wasn't free.
I didn't explore further. I didn't test it. I didn't try again.
I turned around and went home the long way, doubling back twice, masking my trail the way the old man taught me for reasons he never explained.
When the clearing finally came into view, my shoulders loosened slightly.
The forest accepted me back.
For now.
I secured the food, washed my hands in the stream, and sat by the fire until the shaking stopped completely. The headache lingered, dull and persistent.
I stared into the flames, replaying the moment in my head.
The word.
The ground.
The cost.
Something inside me understood the shape of it without knowing the name.
Power noticed.
And anything noticed could be found.
As night fell, I made a decision.
Tomorrow, I'd range farther. Map more ground. Learn what moved near my home.
Not to conquer it.
To avoid it.
I fed the fire carefully and lay down, knife within reach, senses stretched thin even in sleep.
If the forest reacted to me—
Others would too.
And I didn't intend to be here when they came.