The night was still holding the world when he opened his eyes.
The stars above the hide roof were fading, one by one, as if the sky itself grew tired of holding them. A faint glow touched the far edge of the horizon, pale and cold, not yet strong enough to warm the earth. The air was sharp in his lungs. Damp. Heavy with the smell of wet leaves and old smoke. Morning was close.
He pushed himself up from the woven bedding of hides. His joints ached from the last hunt. His back felt stiff. His shoulders carried the familiar weight that never left him. The tribe still slept, curled under skins or huddled close to dying fire pits. Only a few embers flickered in the darkness, blinking like tired eyes.
He listened.
The world spoke before the people did.
Wind brushing through tall grass. A crow calling from a dead tree. Water dripping from a rock ledge after the night rain. Far off, something large shifted among the trees. Too far to track. Too close to ignore.
He breathed out slowly. The cold touched his chest and slid across his skin. His breath made a faint white cloud that drifted past his face. He watched it vanish. Only then did he rise.
He was chief. There was no one to tell him to wake. No one to remind him of the hunt. No one to say that the tribe must eat today or tomorrow or the next. Those thoughts lived inside him now. They belonged to him as much as his own bones.
He stepped out of the hut and into the gray half light.
The ground was soft beneath his feet, damp from the night mist. The grass brushed his ankles. The camp spread out before him, a small circle of huts made of wood and hide, some patched with leaves or bark. Smoke drifted from a half buried fire pit at the center. The tribe slept close together, bodies wrapped in furs or skins. He could hear gentle breathing, soft snores, the little clicks of teeth chattering in dreams.
He walked past them without a sound.
He checked the spear sticks leaning against the side of a hut. They were straight enough. Smooth enough. Their points sharp enough to pierce flesh but not to survive a beast larger than a man. He brushed his thumb against one of the sharpened tips. There was a small crack near the edge. He remembered making this one for the last hunt. It had served its purpose, but it was already failing.
We need better, he thought.
The thought came quietly. Not in words. In feeling. In the pressure inside his chest. Like a stone that grew heavier each day.
He moved on.
His brother slept near the fire pit, curled like a beast himself. Broad shoulders. Arms scarred. His hand rested on the stick he used as a weapon. Even in sleep the younger man looked ready to leap into a fight. The chief watched him for a moment. His brother looked peaceful only when unconscious. Awake, he was all fire and teeth and reckless strength. A strength the tribe needed. A strength that would someday burn him.
He glanced at the next sleeping figure.
His sister lay with her head on a folded hide, face turned toward the dim light of morning. Her hair fell across her cheek. Her breathing was calm. Her hands were clasped together, as if she prayed to something no one could name. She was gentle, careful, always trying to keep the peace among the tribe. Yet he knew she would need more than kindness in the days to come.
He knelt, tucking the edge of her hide closer around her shoulder so the cold would not reach her skin.
Then he stood again.
Movement caught his eye. A tall, lean figure crouched near the dying fire, scribbling shapes into a piece of bark with a blackened stick. The historian. Awake as always before dawn, recording things no one else cared to remember.
The historian looked up, his eyes bright even in the low light.
"You wake early, Chief," he whispered.
The chief nodded. His voice was low. "Hunt."
The historian smiled slightly, dipping his head. "I write that. The day of the hunt. Good to keep reminders."
The chief made no answer. He walked past him, checking the huts one final time, ensuring nothing was out of place. His body moved with practiced certainty, but his mind felt unsettled. Something sat behind his ribs. A pressure. A warning.
The forest felt wrong.
He could not explain how. The trees seemed to lean a little too close. The shadows beneath their branches looked thicker than usual. Even the air carried a taste, like something watched from far beyond sight.
A hunter feels when eyes rest on him.
He stood still a long moment, staring at the treeline.
Nothing moved. Nothing broke the silence.
Still, the feeling stayed.
A few warriors began to wake. They stretched, yawned, rubbed sleep from their eyes. Some nodded to him. One muttered a greeting. Another fastened a strip of hide around his waist. Primitive words filled the air, simple and rough.
"Hunt today."
"Meat soon."
"Good morning, Chief."
He answered with brief nods. He spoke little, but his presence shaped the tribe. Men watched him for direction. Women trusted him to keep their children safe. Elders looked to him when their bodies grew weak. He felt the weight of all of them on his back, pressing into his shoulders like invisible hands.
The rival approached then, stepping from his hut. Broad chest. Proud stance. The only man in the tribe who could match the chief in a fight. He rolled his shoulders as he came closer.
"Chief," the rival said, voice steady. "Ready?"
The chief studied him. "Yes."
The rival smirked. "Try to keep pace today."
The chief did not rise to the challenge. He simply turned toward the hunters gathering at the forest's edge. The rival laughed softly and followed.
More people woke. The camp stirred. The blacksmith woman stepped out with her hair tied back, gripping a stone hammer and checking the spear sticks for flaws. Her eyes narrowed when she saw the small crack in one of the points.
"This break soon," she muttered. "Need better wood. Better stone. Better everything."
He glanced at her. She always pushed for improvement. That was good. The tribe survived because some refused to accept weakness.
"We find stronger wood today," he said quietly.
She looked at him, surprised he spoke first. Then she nodded hard. "Yes. Strong wood for strong hunters."
The healer approached with small pouches of crushed leaves tied at his waist. He pressed one into the chief's hand.
"For wounds," the healer said. "Hope you no need it."
The chief closed his fingers around the pouch. He hoped so too.
When the hunters gathered, they stood in a half circle. Ten men, two women, all armed with long sharpened sticks. Their clothes were hides and rough wraps. Their feet were scarred from years of walking the earth. Their faces carried the hunger to feed their families.
The chief looked at each one. He saw fear in some eyes. Strength in others. Weariness in many. But all of them trusted him. He felt that trust like a chain binding him to them.
He raised his hand.
"We hunt," he said.
Simple. Short. True.
The tribe moved.
They walked through tall grass that brushed their legs. The light grew stronger behind them. Orange streaks cut across the sky as the sun slowly climbed. Birds scattered from tree branches. Dew glistened on leaves. Their breath came in white clouds.
But with each step closer to the forest, the feeling in his chest tightened.
Something was wrong.
His eyes swept the treeline again. No movement. No sound. Only a deep stillness.
His brother came beside him, grinning. "Good hunt today. Feel it."
His sister walked behind them, checking the straps of her hide wraps. Her voice was soft. "Be careful."
The chief nodded without turning.
When they reached the first shadow cast by the trees, he stopped.
The forest stretched before them like the mouth of a great animal. Trees as tall as towers. Roots twisted like sleeping beasts. The light barely touched the ground under the canopy.
He listened again.
Birdsong vanished. Insects fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
His grip tightened on the spear stick.
The rival glanced at him. "What is it?"
He shook his head. There were no words for the feeling. No reason he could name. Only instinct. Only that pressure inside him.
"The forest feels wrong."
A few hunters exchanged uneasy looks. One shifted his weight. Another swallowed hard.
His brother laughed quietly. "Forest always wrong. That why we hunt in it."
But the chief did not smile.
He took one slow step forward.
The shadow of the trees slid across his foot. Cold. Heavy. Like a curtain closing behind him.
He inhaled. The air tasted different under the trees. Older. Wilder. Like something ancient watched from the dark.
Another step.
The hunters followed, though their feet were less steady now.
He kept his eyes on the deep paths between the trunks. The world looked strange, stretched by morning twilight. Shapes shifted at the edge of vision. Branches curled like claws. A hollow between roots looked like an open mouth.
He walked deeper.
Deep enough for the camp to vanish behind him. Deep enough for silence to become a living thing.
His heart beat slow but strong.
He stepped over a fallen log.
Something snapped far off in the forest.
Every hunter froze.
He stared into the trees. The feeling returned stronger than ever, sliding up his spine like cold water.
Eyes.
He felt eyes.
Watching from a great distance. Watching with hunger.
He did not speak. He did not show fear. He simply lifted his chin and looked ahead, deeper into the forest where the hunt would begin and where the world would soon change.
Then he stepped forward again.
And the forest swallowed him whole.