The darkness moved.
Not like wind.
Not like leaves.
Like something with weight deciding where to put it.
Victor didn't step forward.
He didn't shout.
He didn't warn anyone in a language he didn't have.
He just tightened his grip on the knife and watched the place where the night had changed shape.
The first thing that broke was not a person.
It was the rhythm.
The camp had been holding its breath in a controlled way—fire tamped low, bodies still, the perimeter tight.
Then the draft animal nearest the rear cart stamped once, hard.
A short, panicked sound escaped it.
The driver flinched behind the cart.
The younger guard's club lifted by inches.
The spear-man's tip angled toward the gap between two trees.
Victor saw the eyes again—two pale pinpoints catching the fire's weak glow and returning it like wet stone.
Then something lunged.
Fast.
Violent.
It didn't come from the boulders.
It came from the bowl.
Victor felt a cold satisfaction at that.
He'd chosen the right angle to watch.
The first shape hit the camp's edge and vanished under the wagon line, a blur of muscle and fur and teeth.
One of the animals screamed.
Harness straps snapped.
The sound tore through the night and made every human body tighten at once.
The spear-man moved.
Not toward the scream.
Toward the gap.
Because if one came in, another would follow.
Victor didn't chase the blur.
Chasing a fast thing in the dark was how you got pulled off balance and turned into a second target.
He moved to intercept.
He cut angle.
He went for the choke.
The boulders on the left formed a narrow corridor between stone and tree root. If anything tried to flank, it would try there.
Victor slid behind the nearest boulder, keeping his profile low, knife held close to his thigh so it didn't catch light.
He listened.
The forest stayed loud.
Insects. Leaves. The faint, steady creak of wagon wood.
And under it—
Soft foot placement.
Deliberate.
Not scrambling.
Not panicked.
A predator that didn't hurry.
It was circling, not charging.
It wanted the camp to commit.
A shadow broke from the tree line and cut toward the boulder corridor.
Victor saw it clearly for half a second in the low firelight.
Low-slung body. Shoulder-forward posture. Thick neck. Narrow head. Mouth too wide.
Not a wolf.
Not the earth-dense things he'd killed in the leaves.
This one moved like a hunting dog that had never known a leash.
It slipped into the corridor.
Victor let it come.
He waited until it was inside the narrowest point—where stone forced its line and roots stole its footing.
Then he threw the flat stone he'd been holding.
Not at its head.
At its foreleg.
The stone struck with a dull thud.
The creature stumbled just enough for its shoulder to dip.
Victor stepped in and drove the knife down behind the jaw hinge, angling for the soft place where neck met skull.
The blade hit resistance.
Bone.
He adjusted instantly, twisting the handle and sliding the edge deeper along a seam.
Hot breath burst over his hand.
Teeth snapped.
The creature's body surged, and Victor's ribs flared as he absorbed the impact with his legs instead of his chest.
Pain sparked under his right side.
He ignored it.
He shoved with his forearm and used the boulder as leverage, pinning the creature's head against stone.
Its paws scrabbled.
It tried to twist free.
Victor leaned his weight down and drove the blade again, deeper, until the scrabbling became a convulsion.
Then a shudder.
Then slack.
Victor didn't pull the knife out immediately.
He held it there until movement stopped.
Then he withdrew the blade slowly, wiped it on fur, and re-centered his stance.
One down.
That didn't mean safe.
Down in camp, the animal screamed again.
Something heavy hit the wagon wood.
The driver made a sound—short, strangled, the kind you made when you didn't want to draw attention but couldn't stop the panic from escaping your throat.
Victor left the corridor and moved back toward the wagons, staying in shadow.
He didn't run.
Running made noise.
Running made you breathe deep.
Deep breathing made ribs scream and stole air later when you needed it.
He crossed the open gap between boulder and cart and saw the second creature.
It was under the rear cart, teeth in harness leather, tearing with quick, efficient pulls.
The draft animal above it kicked wildly, hooves striking wood, not flesh.
The creature knew exactly where to be.
Out of reach.
Protected.
Feeding on the camp's mobility, not the camp's bodies.
Victor didn't go under the cart after it.
He went around.
He grabbed a broken harness strap, yanked hard, and pulled the creature's attention sideways.
It snapped its head toward the movement.
Eyes caught the firelight.
Victor used that moment to jam the end of the strap into its mouth as it lunged.
The creature bit down instinctively.
Victor used the bite like a hook.
He pulled.
Hard.
It came out from under the cart, unwilling, dragged into open space where hooves and spears could reach.
The spear-man stepped in with perfect timing, spear tip driving into the creature's shoulder and pinning it to the ground.
The younger guard swung the club down once, clean and brutal.
Bone cracked.
The creature shrieked—high and furious—and tried to twist.
Victor dropped to one knee, careful with his ribs, and drove his knife into the base of the skull.
The shriek cut off mid-note.
The body spasmed.
Then went still.
Victor rose.
His breathing was too fast now.
Not panic but adrenaline.
His ribs burned with every shallow inhale.
He forced the air down anyway, small and controlled, and scanned the dark beyond the wagons.
The forest was still loud.
But now it felt like a lie.
Because something else moved out there.
More than one.
A howl rose—shorter than before, closer, and not from far away.
A signal.
Victor's eyes went to the bowl edge again.
He saw a third shape there, just for a second—standing still, watching.
It didn't charge.
It didn't rush in.
It waited.
Measuring.
Then it melted back into shadow.
Victor understood.
They weren't throwing bodies at the camp.
They were testing.
Mapping reaction time.
Finding the weak point.
The caravan leader spoke—sharp syllables, one word repeated, the same sound she'd used earlier when the night first tightened.
"Gloam—"
She snapped the rest of it too quickly for Victor to catch.
But he caught the core.
Gloam.
The spear-man answered with a single syllable that sounded like agreement, then repositioned to stand between the wagons and the bowl.
The younger guard moved to the opposite side, club raised, shoulders hunched.
The driver stayed behind the cart, hands on the harness line like he could hold the animals steady through sheer will.
Victor took half a step uphill.
He wanted to see the approach before it arrived.
Then the howls stopped.
All at once.
The forest noise continued, but the absence of that one band of sound hit like a punch.
Victor's stomach tightened.
Close-range commitment.
He waited.
The next attack didn't come from the bowl.
It came from behind.
From the road side.
A shape surged out of the trees and hit the camp's outer edge where the firelight was weakest.
It went straight for the smallest human silhouette—driver.
Smart.
Take the one who runs the wagons and the whole group slows.
Victor moved before anyone else did.
Not because he cared about the driver.
Because losing the driver meant losing movement.
And movement was survival.
He threw his stone.
Hard this time.
It struck the creature's flank and made it twist.
Enough.
Victor crossed the distance in three steps, ribs screaming on the third, and slammed his shoulder into the creature's side—careful to hit with left shoulder, not right.
Teeth snapped inches from the driver's arm.
Victor grabbed the creature's scruff and hauled it backward into the fire's low glow.
It fought like a living trap.
Muscle coiled. Body twisted. Head whipped.
Victor's knife hand came up.
He didn't stab at the moving mouth.
He stabbed into the ribs behind the foreleg, where lungs lived.
The blade slid in.
The creature shrieked and tried to bite him.
Victor let it bite the knife guard instead, wrist angled to sacrifice metal and leather rather than flesh.
Then he drove the blade deeper.
The creature convulsed.
Its legs kicked.
Victor's ribs flared as it hit him, and pain shot under his right side so bright it washed his vision for a second.
He nearly dropped.
He locked his knees, used the ground, and kept the knife in until the kicking stopped.
When it went limp, he shoved it away and staggered one step back.
Not dramatic.
Just his body catching up with the cost.
The spear-man's voice barked something sharp.
Victor didn't need translation.
He needed targets.
He scanned.
The bowl.
The boulder choke.
The road side.
Nothing.
Then a fourth shape slid into view at the bowl edge.
Bigger.
Not huge.
But heavier in the shoulders.
It moved slower, not because it was weak, but because it didn't need speed to be dangerous.
Its head stayed low.
Its eyes reflected faintly.
And when it opened its mouth, Victor saw teeth that were not meant for tearing leather.
They were meant for crushing prey.
The thing stayed just outside the firelight, weight distributed evenly on all four limbs, neck stretched forward in a way that kept its skull protected. It wasn't stalking the way predators did when they were hungry.
It was measuring.
The younger guard stepped forward before anyone could stop him and swung his club at the creature's head.
The creature didn't dodge.
It took the blow on the thick ridge of its skull and only turned its head slightly, like the impact was information, not pain.
Then it lunged.
Not at the guard's weapon.
At the guard's leg.
It clipped him low and fast, tearing skin through armor in a single snapping motion.
The guard went down hard, breath exploding out of him as his club skittered uselessly across stone.
The creature surged over him immediately, weight slamming down, jaws opening for the throat.
Victor felt a cold snap of decision.
He didn't have time for careful
He didn't have time for clean.
He had time for one thing.
Contain.
Victor sprinted three steps and threw his weight onto the creature's shoulders, driving it sideways off the guard and into the dirt.
His ribs screamed on impact.
His vision narrowed, edges pulling inward.
He ignored both.
The creature rolled under him, powerful, muscles coiling as it tried to flip him into its teeth. Its spine twisted with practiced efficiency, hind legs scrabbling for leverage.
Victor flattened his weight instead of resisting the roll, chest pressed low, one arm hooked hard around the base of its neck to keep its head turned away from him.
Claws raked at his side.
Fabric tore.
Pain flared sharp and hot, enough to steal a breath.
He forced the breath out and stayed down.
The creature bucked violently, hind legs slamming against the ground hard enough to jolt his teeth together. Its jaws snapped blindly, teeth clacking close enough that Victor felt air move against his knuckles.
Victor planted his boot against a half-buried rock and used it as a brace.
He hauled his knife up and jammed it down into the creature's neck from above, aiming for the soft place behind the jaw.
The blade hit tough hide.
Stopped.
The creature surged, throwing its weight sideways, smashing Victor's shoulder into stone.
Stars burst across his vision.
His grip almost went.
Victor didn't fight the hide.
He adjusted angle.
Felt along resistance with the blade instead of forcing it. Found slope. Found tension. Found the seam where muscle met bone and protection thinned.
His forearm wrap tore as claws raked again.
He felt hot wetness spread along his sleeve.
The creature twisted hard, jaws snapping shut inches from Victor's hand. He smelled its breath—meat and rot and something metallic, like old blood.
Victor slid the tip under the jawline, finally finding purchase, and drove inward toward the spine.
The creature shrieked—not pain, but reflex—and slammed backward, trying to crush him beneath its weight.
Victor rode the movement, stayed tight, and drove again.
Deeper.
The spear-man's spear struck from the side, punching into the creature's shoulder and pinning it long enough for Victor to finish the push.
The blade sank.
The creature convulsed violently, legs kicking hard enough to scrape Victor's shin against stone.
Then the kicks slowed.
Then stopped.
Victor stayed on top of it for a full heartbeat longer than necessary, weight still pressed down, waiting for confirmation his body could feel if his eyes couldn't.
Then he rolled off, careful not to twist his ribs too fast, and got to one knee.
He sucked in air and the ribs punished him for it.
He forced the air out slow.
Kept breathing shallow.
He looked around.
The camp was torn up.
Two dead creatures lay near the wagons, bodies twisted where they'd fallen.
Barely contained.
One lay by the boulder choke where the path narrowed, skull caved in from repeated blows.
The other—larger—was sprawled near the bowl edge, the ground around it ripped to shreds, the spear still buried deep in its shoulder. Its body gave one last residual twitch as whatever was left of its brain finished shutting down.
Harness straps lay shredded across the dirt.
One draft animal stood trembling near the carts, bleeding from the flank, a long gash where teeth had found flesh.
Victor pushed himself fully upright, every movement measured, and wiped his blade clean against the creature's hide before sheathing it.
Containment held.
Barely.
That would have to be enough.