Karl crouched beside the lean-to, the damp moss pressing cool and spongy against his knees, its faint earthy scent mingling with the sharper tang of the forest beyond.
The air hung thick and humid, heavy with the musty aroma of decaying leaves and distant rain, wrapping around him like an invisible shroud. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his fingers leaving a streak of dirt across his skin, as he stared at the makeshift nest he'd woven for the hatchling.
The little creature's sharp, insistent peeps cut through the quiet like tiny daggers, each one echoing off the surrounding trees and jabbing at his already frayed nerves.
Its downy feathers ruffled with every desperate shift, its beady eyes wide and pleading, locked onto him as if he were its only lifeline.
Hungry. That's what it is, Karl thought
The realization twisted in his gut, yet he forced a playful smile, his eyes glinting with a teasing edge.
"I saved you, little guy, but now you're making me overwork," he murmured.
The smile lingered on his lips, but the thought of digging for worms made his stomach churn.
The barrier shimmered faintly at the edge of his vision, a humming veil that promised safety but mocked his growing dependence.
Beyond it, the forest rustled softly, leaves whispering secrets in the breeze, its shadows deeper now, the air heavy with a metallic tang, like blood just under the surface.
What if that wolf's still out there? Or something worse?
He shook his head, shoving the fear down.
he scanned the clearing's soil, spear in hand like a makeshift shovel. The ground here was softer near the roots, clumped with moss that tore away easily under his boot, releasing a musty puff of spores that tickled his nose, making him sneeze, eyes settling on a patch of earth near the boulder, where the soil looked softer, churned by roots and rain.
Damp spots.
That's where they'll be. His talent confirmed it, sensing clean, nourishing life below. Safe to dig here. The barrier keeps out anything dangerous.
He jabbed the spear's tip into a patch of loose earth, the soil yielding with a wet squelch, cool dirt crumbling around the wood. A faint vibration hummed up the shaft—his talent stirring, sensing faint, slithering vitalities below.
There. Something moving down there.
Excitement flickered, but it twisted into unease as he dug deeper, fingers sinking into the cold, gritty soil, the hole widening, the air growing thicker with the scent of turned earth, rich and loamy, laced with something sour.
His fingers brushed something soft, slick. He froze, breath catching, then pulled back a clump of dirt. A pale, fat grub writhed in his palm, its segmented body pulsing faintly, no bigger than his thumb.
Disgusting… but perfect.
His Breath of Spring confirmed it—clean, nourishing, ideal for the hatchling.
He dropped it into a small basket woven from vines, its faint squirming making his skin crawl. How many will be enough for that little guy? A handful? Or more? he thought
He dug deeper still, the soil growing colder and wetter against his skin, the scent intensifying to something almost overpowering—rich and fertile, but with an undercurrent of decay that reminded him of forgotten corners in old stunt lots.
Two more grubs emerged, then three, each thicker and livelier, their pale bodies twisting in protest as he added them to the basket.
This is working, he thought, his hands moving faster now, dirt caking under his nails and smudging his jeans. But then, a sharp sting grazed his finger—hot and quick, like a needle's prick piercing his skin.
He yanked his hand back instinctively, heart lurching in his chest, a hiss escaping his lips.
A small, black centipede scuttled from the disturbed soil, its mandibles clicking menacingly, body arching in threat. Shit. His talent flared in warning, detecting a faint toxicity—not deadly to him, but enough to sicken or kill the hatchling if ingested.
Without hesitation, he crushed it under his boot's heel, the crunch loud and final in the quiet clearing, leaving a wet, dark smear in the dirt. Gotta be careful. Can't feed you poison, little one.
He sat back on his heels, breath fogging slightly in the chilly air, the basket now heavy with six grubs, their collective wriggling vibrating faintly against his hip.
Enough for now?
The hatchling chirped again, louder this time, its claws scraping frantically against the nest's vines.
Okay, okay, I'm coming.
He stood, brushing clumps of dirt from his jeans, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to his thighs, and approached the nest with measured steps.
Dropping a grub into the hatchling's open beak, he watched as its head snapped forward with startling speed, snatching the morsel in a blur. A wet gulp followed, and the creature's vitality pulsed stronger under Karl's talent—a spark flaring brighter, like a dim ember coaxed back to life.
It worked.
Relief flooded him, warm and fleeting, chasing away some of the tension in his shoulders. He fed it two more, each gulp easing the hatchling's restlessness, its feathers settling smoothly, chirps softening to a low, contented coo.
Good. You're not dying on me.
The tiny body relaxed at last, its eyes half-lidded in satisfaction.
He leaned against the boulder, its cold stone pressing through his jacket, grounding him. But the basket felt too light—three grubs left. Won't last. The hatchling would be hungry again by nightfall.
I can't keep digging every time it cries. I need to stock up.
He scratched his head, glancing at the tiny creature squirming in his palm. Putting it back in the dirt would undo all his effort but leaving it out meant death. He needed something in-between.
His eyes wandered across the forest floor until an idea struck. Worms loved damp and dark. He could mimic that.
He found a hollow chunk of rotting wood, it's inside soft and crumbly. He lined the cavity with wet moss he plucked from the base of a tree, pressing it in until it held moisture like a sponge. Then, he snapped a few broad leaves, layering them over the top to create shade while still letting air slip through.
A crude little trap-cage, not for catching, but for holding. The worm wriggled inside, disappearing into the cool dampness.
He exhaled in relief, though the dirt under his fingernails still made his stomach twist.
"There. A bed fit for a king… or a worm."
But as he straightened up, wiping his hands on his jeans, the forest's hum shifted subtly—a low growl weaving into the background drone, heavy and deliberate, like a predator's breath held just out of sight.
His Breath of Spring flared sharp and urgent, sensing a familiar vitality just beyond the barrier: slow, circling, predatory. The wolf. His heart slammed against his ribs, a cold sweat prickling his skin as he gripped the spear tighter.
It's back. It knows I'm here.
He crouched low, eyes straining into the deepening shadows of the trees, the air thickening with a coppery tang, stronger now, like fresh blood spilled nearby.
Did it come to kill something? Or is it looking for me?
No amber eyes gleamed from the underbrush, no shadowy form emerged, but the presence lingered like a weight pressing against his chest, making every breath feel labored.
It's waiting.
His fingers tightened around the spear's shaft, the wood's grain biting into his palm, anchoring him against the rising tide of panic
For now, I'm safe in here. The timer ticked down:
[3 days, 23 hours, 30 minutes].
Every second was a reminder.
A countdown not to freedom, but to slaughter.
When that barrier falls, I'm nothing but prey.
Dead, unless I'm prepared.