Midday. The Forest.
Grog moved like shadow through shadow.
The rider's directions had been clear enough—southwest from the village, follow the old logging road until it ended, then east into deeper woods. The monster had attacked a merchant caravan, killed everyone, and was still there. Still feeding.
The boy had been barely coherent when he'd ridden into town, his face streaked with tears and sweat, his horse lathered and trembling. But his terror was real. So was the story he'd gasped out between sobs.
Six wagons. Twelve guards. Merchants, drivers, a family traveling with the caravan. All dead.
Grog had given him coins, told Lena to get him inside, and then walked into the forest without looking back.
That was four hours ago.
---
The forest had changed.
Not gradually—abruptly, like stepping through a door into a different world. The trees here were older, thicker, their branches twisted into shapes that hurt to look at. The light dimmed, even though the sky above was clear and bright. The sounds faded—birds, animals, even the wind seemed muted, like the forest itself was holding its breath.
Grog recognized this feeling.
The Grove. The boundary markers. The places where the veil thinned, where the world of men and the world of something else pressed close together.
He was walking into hunter territory.
Not the hunters who followed the column—something older. Something that had been here long before any of them arrived.
He slowed.
Moved quieter. Listened harder.
The sword pulsed against his hip—not warm, but alert. Ready. It knew something was ahead. The golden apple's gift hummed in his blood, sharpening his senses, making him aware of every sound, every movement, every shift in the air.
He found the logging road's end after another hour.
Old tracks. Wagon wheels, recently made. They led east, into the deeper forest, just as the boy had said. Fresh hoofprints. Signs of panic—horses had bolted, circled, run in every direction before being brought down.
Grog followed.
---
The smell hit him first.
Copper. Blood. Death. The sweet-sick smell of bodies left too long. The sharper stench of torn flesh and spilled entrails.
He'd known it before, in the old timeline. The smell of a battlefield after the fighting ended. The smell of a village after raiders passed through. The smell of too many people dead in one place, their lives ended too quickly, too violently.
He moved forward.
Slowly. Carefully. Each step placed with precision, avoiding twigs, leaves, anything that might crack or rustle. The sword pulsed against his hip—warmer now, more urgent.
It knew they were close.
---
The caravan was a slaughter.
Six wagons, arranged in a defensive circle. Or what should have been a defensive circle—the kind of formation travelers used when they feared attack. Whatever had hit them had torn through the barrier like it was nothing.
Wagons were overturned. Splintered. One had been crushed entirely, its frame bent and broken like a child's toy. Bodies lay everywhere—merchants, guards, drivers. Some had weapons in their hands, raised to fight. None had survived.
Grog circled wide.
Stayed in the trees. Out of sight.
Counted.
Twelve bodies in the open. Probably more inside the wagons, or thrown clear. All ripped apart. Not clean kills—savage, brutal, almost playful. Limbs torn. Chests opened. One body had been partially eaten.
The monster had been hungry.
He found tracks.
Large. Heavy. Clawed. The prints sank deep into the frozen ground, each one the size of his spread hand. Whatever made them weighed as much as a horse—maybe more. The toes were long, ending in talons that had carved furrows in the earth with every step.
He followed the tracks away from the caravan.
They led deeper into the forest. Away from the road. Away from anything resembling civilization.
Toward wherever the monster laired.
---
Grog followed for another hour.
The tracks were easy to read—nothing moved quietly at that size. Broken branches. Churned earth. Scrapes on tree trunks where the thing had brushed against them.
The forest grew darker. Stranger. The trees here were ancient, their trunks wider than houses, their branches so thick they blocked most of the sky. Little light penetrated. Little sound escaped.
He found signs of other kills.
Bones. Animal mostly—deer, bear, something larger that might have been an ox. Scattered at intervals along the trail. The monster didn't hide its kills. Didn't care who knew it was here.
Confident. Or stupid.
Grog guessed confident.
---
He found the lair at sunset.
A cave. Massive, set into a hillside that rose abruptly from the forest floor. The entrance was tall enough for the monster to enter without stooping—fifteen feet, maybe more. Inside, darkness so complete it seemed to swallow light.
Tracks led in. None led out.
The monster was home.
Grog circled wide. Found a position upwind, hidden behind a fallen log, with a clear view of the cave entrance.
Then he waited.
---
An hour passed.
The sun set fully. Darkness fell. The forest came alive with night sounds—things that crept and crawled and hunted in the dark. Grog ignored them. Watched the cave.
Nothing emerged.
Another hour.
The monster was either sleeping or waiting. Patient either way.
Grog used the time to observe.
The cave's location. The terrain around it. Possible escape routes. Possible ambush points. Possible ways to use the environment against whatever lived inside.
He noted everything.
The hillside was steep, covered in loose rock. A fall from the top would hurt anything. The trees nearby were old, thick—good for cover, good for climbing. A stream ran fifty yards away, its banks soft and muddy, likely to slow anything that stepped in it.
He filed it all away.
---
At midnight, the monster emerged.
Grog's breath caught.
It was massive.
Easily twelve feet tall, maybe more. Humanoid in shape—two legs, two arms, a head—but wrong in every detail. Its skin was gray, like old ash, stretched tight over muscles that bulged with impossible strength. Its head was too large for its body, its jaw hinged wrong, opening wider than any natural creature's should. Teeth. So many teeth, gleaming in the faint starlight.
Its hands ended in claws—long, curved, dark with old blood. Its feet were the same, each toe tipped with talons that could gut a man with a single swipe.
And its eyes.
Red.
Glowing faintly in the darkness. Burning with an intelligence that made Grog's skin crawl.
This wasn't just a monster. This was something else. Something connected to the same darkness that haunted Aldric. He could feel it—the same wrongness, the same ancient patience.
The monster sniffed the air.
Turned its head.
Looked directly at Grog's hiding spot.
Grog didn't move. Didn't breathe. The sword pulsed against his hip—urgent now, warning.
The monster stared for a long moment.
Then it turned and walked into the forest.
Hunting.
---
Grog waited until it was gone.
Counted to five hundred. Slow. Deliberate.
Then he moved.
Not toward the cave—that would be stupid. The monster might return. Might have a mate inside. Might have traps of its own.
He circled back the way he came. Put distance between himself and the lair.
Found a spot. Hidden. Defensible.
Sat.
Thought.
---
The monster was real. Massive. Dangerous. Connected to the darkness.
It had looked at him. Known he was there. And chosen not to attack.
Why?
The question gnawed at him.
It had been hunting—moving into the forest with purpose. It had smelled him, seen him, and walked away. Not fear—it wasn't afraid. Not disinterest—it had stared too long for that.
It had recognized him.
The sword? The apple? Kevin's ring on his finger?
Or something else?
Grog didn't know.
But he needed to find out.
---
He spent the rest of the night planning.
The cave. The terrain. The monster's movements. Its intelligence. Its connection to the darkness.
He needed more information before he acted. Needed to understand what he was dealing with.
Killing it was one option. But if it was connected to the hunters, to the Grove, to Vorlag—killing it might alert them. Might bring more.
He needed to be careful.
Needed to be smart.
He waited for dawn.
---
Morning came slowly.
Gray light filtered through the trees. The forest stirred—birds, small animals, the ordinary sounds of life returning.
Grog rose. Stretched. His body hummed with the apple's energy—he'd barely slept, but didn't feel tired.
He moved back toward the cave.
Carefully. Quietly. Watching for signs.
The monster had returned during the night. Fresh tracks led into the cave. No signs of others.
It was alone.
For now.
---
Grog found a new position. Closer than before, but still hidden. Still safe.
He settled in to watch.
The monster would emerge again. Probably at nightfall. He'd observe its patterns. Learn its habits. Find its weaknesses.
Then he'd decide what to do.
The sword pulsed against his hip.
Patient.
Always patient.
Grog waited.