The blood had not yet dried.
It spread across the packed dirt where Mallow had been sitting, a dark stain slowly soaking into the earth. No one had moved to clean it. No one wanted to step close enough to try.
The fire in the center of the hut burned unevenly now, its flames smaller than before. Smoke drifted upward toward the open hole in the roof—the same hole every pair of eyes kept returning to.
No one trusted it anymore.
Valen stood near the pillar, his spear still clenched in his hand. The blue tassel hung limp against the shaft, stained with dried wolf blood and fresh dirt from the fall.
Across the hut, Jonathon had not sheathed his sword.
The Centurion stood just inside the doorway, his shield raised slightly as if expecting the creature to return at any moment. His eyes moved constantly—from the smoke hole, to the rafters, to the survivors gathered around the fire.
No one spoke.
One of the soldiers finally broke the silence.
"It came through the roof…"
Another soldier looked toward the thick timber walls surrounding them.
"Then the walls mean nothing."
Jonathon stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension.
"Archers."
Two soldiers immediately straightened.
"Both of you. If anything drops through that hole again, I want arrows in it before it touches the ground."
The men moved quickly. Standing on opposite sides of the demon's entrance.
Jonathon turned toward the roof opening.
"Get shields up there," he ordered.
A pair of soldiers climbed onto the supply carts, lifting their heavy tower shields toward the smoke hole. They wedged them across the opening as best they could.
The fit wasn't perfect.
But it would slow anything trying to enter again.
Jonathon finally looked at Valen.
The boy stood in the center of the hut, his armor scratched from the demon's blow. His breathing had slowed, but his grip on the spear was tight enough that his knuckles had gone pale.
"Did it try to kill you?"
Valen shook his head slowly.
"No."
Jonathon's brow furrowed.
"Then what happened?"
Valen glanced at the dark stain on the floor.
"It chose the weakest."
Jonathon followed his gaze.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Jonathon exhaled slowly.
"That's not a beast," he muttered.
Valen didn't answer.
Across the hut, Argon was staring at the central pillar again.
He hadn't moved since the attack.
His eyes traced the climbing notches carved into the ironwood trunk.
Lyra noticed.
"What is it?" she asked quietly.
Argon swallowed.
"The Orcs built this place wrong."
Jonathon looked over.
"What do you mean?"
Argon pointed at the pillar.
"These notches."
"They're climbing grips."
Jonathon frowned.
"For Orcs?"
Argon shook his head slowly.
"Orcs don't need them."
He gestured toward the roof.
"They're too small."
Silence spread across the room.
Understanding crept slowly through the soldiers.
Argon's voice dropped to a whisper.
"They carved them for something else."
A chill passed through the hut.
The realization moved from face to face like a shadow.
The Orcs hadn't built this place to defend against the forest.
They had built it knowing something hunted here.
Lyra's hand tightened around the hilt of her sword.
"It's still here."
Jonathon looked at her sharply.
"What?"
Lyra was staring toward the door now.
Toward the dark forest beyond the walls.
"Predators don't take one bite and leave."
No one argued.
Outside, the night pressed in around the outpost.
The soldiers rotated their watch positions.
Two men climbed onto the roof.
Others took the wall towers.
Inside the hut, the survivors huddled closer to the fire.
No one slept.
Valen sat near the pillar, his spear resting across his knees. The blue tassel hung motionless in the still air.
Across from him, the elderly nun knelt beside Zack.
Her hands rested lightly on the boy's head as she whispered a prayer too soft to hear.
Zack kept his eyes closed.
But Valen noticed the boy's fingers trembling.
On the far side of the hut, Argon had begun working quietly with a knife. Small wooden wedges lay scattered beside him.
Lyra watched him.
"What are you doing?"
"Thinking," Argon replied.
The hammer beside him tapped softly against the floor as he adjusted the wedges.
"If it climbs through the rafters again," he murmured, "we might be able to block the beams."
Lyra nodded.
Anything was better than waiting.
Hours passed.
The fire sank lower.
Outside, the forest seemed unnaturally quiet.
Jonathon stood on the wall above the gate, staring into the darkness.
The green haze of the forest swallowed the firelight only a few dozen feet beyond the outpost.
The trees beyond that were just shadows.
He listened.
The wind moved through the branches.
Leaves rustled.
But something about the night felt wrong.
Too still.
Too patient.
Then—
Clack.
Jonathon froze.
The sound came from the trees.
A single, hollow tap.
Clack.
Another.
Soft.
Measured.
He slowly raised his hand.
The archers on the wall drew their bows.
Clack.
The sound echoed faintly through the forest.
Inside the hut, Valen's head snapped up.
He had heard it too.
The same rhythm.
The same sound the demon had made when it struck its broken horn.
Clack…
The tapping stopped. Followed by a low demonic chuckle. The laughter echoed across the forest before coming to an abrupt halt.
The forest fell silent again.
Jonathon waited several long moments before lowering his hand.
"Did you see anything?" one soldier whispered.
Jonathon shook his head.
"No."
But his eyes never left the darkness. The inky void felt hollower than usual.
Inside the hut, Valen stared up at the shield-covered smoke hole.
The demon had looked directly at him before it left.
Not at the soldiers.
Not at the archers.
At him.
And when it tapped its horn…
He had seen the faint blue spark.
The same color as the shimmer that surrounded his father in battle.
Valen's grip tightened on the spear.
The creature hadn't just been hunting.
It had been mocking him.
Valen's mind raced, his gut twisting in concern for his father.
Dawn crept slowly over the horizon.
Gray light filtered through the trees, pushing back the worst of the night's shadows.
Jonathon finally allowed the watch to relax.
The soldiers climbed down from the walls, exhausted but alive.
Inside the hut, the survivors stirred weakly.
Argon stepped outside to inspect the walls.
He ran a hand along the heavy timber logs.
Then he stopped.
His fingers traced a deep gouge carved into the wood.
A claw mark.
Fresh.
He looked closer.
There were more.
Four long scratches dragged down the wall, deep enough to cut halfway through the outer bark.
Argon's stomach sank.
One of the soldiers approached behind him.
"What is it?"
Argon stepped aside and pointed.
The soldier frowned.
"When did that happen?"
Argon looked slowly toward the forest.
His voice dropped.
"While we were watching the wrong direction."
Behind him, the outpost stood quiet and still.
The gates remained closed.
The walls were intact.
But the feeling of safety had vanished completely.
The night had not ended the hunt. No. Not even Solara's grace would be saving them.
The hunt had only begun.