The forest had moods.
Most days, it was a constant hum of life—birds darting from branch to branch, insects buzzing in the undergrowth, squirrels chattering high above. Even with danger lurking, the forest moved and breathed like a great organism.
But tonight, it was silent.
Not the gentle hush of dusk, but a suffocating stillness that wrapped itself around me like a cold shroud, clinging to my skin and pressing into my ears. No rustle of leaves, no flutter of wings. The quiet was so absolute it felt as though the forest itself held its breath, whispering without words that something was deeply wrong.
I froze mid-step, tightening my grip on the woven basket in my hands until the wicker dug into my palms. My eyes swept the trees, instincts thrumming like a plucked string, urging caution. Slowly, I crouched, setting the basket at the base of an old cedar whose roots twisted like ancient guardians. The faint, earthy scent of crushed herbs drifted up from within—a reminder this trip had been meant to be simple. Just an evening of gathering plants for food and medicine. Nothing more.
But my heartbeat was climbing, and the air had shifted.
It was damp and heavy, every breath dragging in a musky scent that clung to the back of my throat. It was sharp and feral—not prey, but predator. My fingers curled around the smooth shaft of my spear, grounding me as I bent my knees, every sense stretching outward into the dark.
A branch moved to my left—too slow, too deliberate. The faint scrape of claws against bark followed, and my pulse spiked. With it came the ache—days of ignoring the gnawing hunger that no bread or berries could soothe. A hunger sharper, deeper, curling in my gut and tightening my throat. The predator's scent poured into me, stoking that ache until my fangs pressed hard against my lower lip.
Not now. Control it.
The shadows shifted, and then it stepped into a silver shaft of moonlight.
It was massive—muscle rippling beneath a deep brown coat, scars pale against its body like faded battle lines. Its head was broad, muzzle long, teeth yellowed but unyielding. Golden eyes locked on mine, unblinking. It moved with an unnatural silence, each breath measured the way only an apex predator could manage.
A flicker of memory sliced through the moment—narrow alleyways in my last life, where predators wore human faces and their smiles hid cruelty. The same gut-deep tension hummed in my veins now.
"Not today," I murmured.
Its ears twitched. Its tail swept the ground.
Then it lunged.
I dove aside, rolling into the damp moss as it slammed into the spot where I had stood. The ground shuddered from the impact, leaves bursting into the air. My spear scraped along its side, leaving only a shallow cut. I scrambled upright, barrier magic flaring over my skin just in time to absorb the brunt of its claws. The force rang through me like a struck bell, forcing me back a step.
It circled, growl low and steady. It's testing me.
I poured magic creation into my legs, feeling the hot rush of energy pool there, muscles coiling tight. When it lunged again, I met it head-on. My spear sank deep into its shoulder, the wood groaning in my hands, but still it pushed forward. Claws raked my arm, searing pain exploding as my blood spilled into the air.
The scent hit me like lightning.
My hunger roared awake, fangs sliding fully into place. I twisted away, forcing my focus onto the spear, reinforcing it with magic creation until it gleamed sharper than steel in the moonlight. With a shout, I drove it into its chest with everything I had.
Its roar faltered into a choking gasp, legs buckling. And then its blood filled the air—hot, metallic, intoxicating.
Before I realized it, my hands were buried in its fur, my mouth pressed to the wound. The first rush was molten power, flooding through me in waves. My fatigue vanished instantly, senses sharpening until every leaf, every shift in shadow became painfully clear. My magic surged so strongly it tingled under my skin. I drank, and drank, until the predator's heartbeat slowed… and stopped.
I pulled back, breath ragged, the warmth still wet on my lips. In a nearby puddle, I caught sight of my reflection—hair tangled, skin pale, eyes glowing faint crimson.
"I'm not human. Not anymore."
Dragging the body to a hollow near camp, I worked with steady, deliberate hands—skin for hide, bones for tools, meat for smoking. Nothing wasted. But the act of feeding replayed in my mind again and again: the blood's warmth sinking into me, the thrill surging in my veins, and the dangerous, undeniable pleasure that made my stomach twist in guilt.
The forest's sounds gradually returned—owls, crickets, the whisper of wind through high branches—but they felt distant, as though coming from another world. The flames at my campfire licked upward, casting molten gold over the predator's hide stretched beside me. My own shadow swayed and writhed against the trees, its shape alien to my eyes.
I stared into the fire until my eyes burned, trying to trace the line between survival and indulgence. The taste had been intoxicating. I had taken more than I needed. And part of me—perhaps the part I feared most—had wanted to keep going.
"I'll only take what I need," I whispered into the flames.
The words felt fragile, as though they might shatter if I breathed too hard. The night air carried the scent of smoke and charred wood, wrapping around me like a warning. Even then, staring at the embers, I wasn't sure if I was speaking a vow… or confessing a lie.