The panel cleared.

  And through the glass, Elias Moore saw a child—alive, pale as winter ash, eyes closed in sleep—and curled around him, a creature unlike anything he had ever seen.

  It wasn’t a bear. It wasn’t a wolf. It wasn’t anything he’d ever tracked, hunted, or even imagined.

  Its limbs were wrong. Its shape was too symmetrical, too controlled. Its body was wrapped around the child with coiled precision, dark fur slick from the mist, unmoving—until it wasn’t.

  The creature’s chest rose, slowly.

  Then—a cough.

  Rough. Wet. Alive.

  Elias flinched. His fingers brushed the strap of the musket across his back.

  But he didn’t reach for it.

  The creature stirred—flexing slightly, as if waking into its own form. Its joints moved as if uncertain, slow and tight. Its nostrils flared, drawing in the scent of the world around it.

  Then it opened its eyes.

  Amber. Narrow. Vertical-slit pupils, sharp and clear.

  They locked onto him.

  Elias held still.

  He’d stared into the eyes of animals before—cornered, wounded, desperate—but this wasn’t that.

  This was understanding.

  It was intelligence.

  It was something else entirely.

  Slowly, carefully, Elias lowered himself to one knee.

  He raised his right hand, palm open, fingers spread.

  A gesture. A promise.

  “I don’t mean you harm,” he said softly. “I swear it.”

  The creature didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

  Then it made a sound—a low vibration deep in its chest.

  Not a growl.

  Not a threat.

  A warning.

  It wasn’t meant to intimidate.

  It was meant to establish something clear: you may approach no closer.

  Elias nodded once, gently.

  He glanced toward the child. Then touched his own chest.

  “Let me help,” he said.

  No reaction.

  Stillness.

  Still those eyes.

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  After a moment, he rose slowly and stepped back. Mist curled between the broken roots and moss-soaked stones. His thoughts swirled like leaves in wind.

  What is this thing?

  Who had sealed that child inside?

  How long had they been down there?

  Then—the forest shifted.

  A sound rolled through the trees—low, ragged, hungry.

  And Elias knew it immediately.

  A bear.

  Big. Close.

  He ran.

  Branches tore past him as he slipped through the undergrowth, boots kicking loose soil, instincts screaming. But halfway down the ridge, he stopped.

  He looked back.

  The child.

  The guardian.

  He couldn’t leave them.

  Elias turned, breath heavy in his throat, and ran uphill, yanking the musket from his back.

  He hit the clearing again just as the bear arrived.

  It tore through the brush, soaked in wet earth, its massive frame draped in tangled fur. Its eyes blazed with a primal hunger, fixed not on Elias—but on the pod. On what it sensed inside. Warmth. Life. Vulnerability.

  Elias didn’t hesitate.

  He shouted—to draw it away.

  Raised the musket.

  Fired.

  The crack shattered the silence like splitting stone.

  The bear staggered—struck in the shoulder—howled, twisting sideways in pain.

  But it didn’t fall.

  Its eyes locked onto him now.

  And it charged.

  No time to reload.

  No time to run.

  Elias dropped the musket and tore the hunting blade from his belt in one smooth motion. He braced his boots in the mud, heart thundering, sweat mixing with the cold mist curling around him.

  The bear closed the distance like a falling tree—fast, heavy, and inevitable.

  Elias moved first.

  He pivoted just enough to avoid the full weight of the initial lunge, the bear’s shoulder catching his side and throwing him down hard. The breath ripped from his chest, but he rolled fast—instinct guiding what thought couldn’t.

  The animal spun with a snarl, its jaws snapping inches from his leg as he kicked free. He came up to one knee and slashed upward, blade catching flesh—warm & wet. A streak of dark blood splashed across his arm.

  It roared and raked at him with a forelimb the size of his torso. Claws tore across his shoulder, shredding fabric and opening flesh. He cried out but didn’t fall.

  Instead, he drove forward.

  Steel met bone.

  He plunged the knife into the bear’s side and twisted. It howled, reared back, and slammed him into the ground with the full weight of its body. Pain flared through Elias’s ribs, hot and sharp. His ears rang. His hand went numb.

  The knife was still in his grip.

  He gritted his teeth and rammed it upward into the beast’s underside again and again—striking deep, finding soft parts beneath fur and hide.

  The bear shrieked, its breath coming fast now, mouth foaming. Blood poured from its wounds, slick and steaming against Elias’s chest.

  It struck again—claws ripping across his thigh.

  He screamed, half in fury, half in pain, and shoved upward with everything he had, burying the blade to its hilt just beneath the creature’s ribs.

  The bear reeled.

  Staggered.

  Its weight shifted.

  And it fell—hard—to the side.

  Breathing ragged.

  Elias lay still for a moment, the world spinning. His hand still clutched the blood-slick knife. His leg screamed with pain, and warmth spread down his side in a slow, pulsing wave.

  He forced himself to sit up.

  His vision blurred.

  The bear lay gasping in the mud, its blood dark against the earth.

  He looked past it—back to the pod.

  And the one still watching.

  Elias lay in the mud, chest heaving, soaked in blood that was not all the bear’s.

  Every breath was a fight.

  He blinked against the mist stinging his eyes, vision swimming with light and shadow. The world felt too loud and too far away all at once. Somewhere nearby, the bear gave a final twitch before going still.

  He tried to move.

  Tried to sit up.

  His arms shook beneath him, mud sucking at his knees as he pushed himself upright. Blood dripped from his shoulder, his thigh. The blade was still clutched tight in his hand—his fingers locked around it.

  He got one foot under himself.

  Then the other.

  He stood.

  For a heartbeat.

  Then the pain surged all at once—white and blinding—and his body gave out.

  He collapsed forward, chest slamming into the wet ground.

  The knife, still clutched in his hand, drove into his own side as he fell.

  He didn’t scream.

  There was no breath left for it.

  Just pain.

  Hot and deep and total.

  His fingers twitched once… then went still.

  And as the sky above blurred into gray, his thoughts turned—not to the pain, not to the blood—but to her.

  To her voice. Her laugh. Her touch at night when she thought he was already asleep.

  To the child they never had.

  To the quiet they had tried to turn into peace.

  Was this worth it?

  The question floated across the darkness like a leaf on water.

  He didn’t know the answer.

  But then he felt something.

  A shadow moved over him—silent and immense.

  He could just barely make out four legs. A low shape. Black fur.

  It stood over him… and then, gently, lowered its head.

  Its eyes, glowing faintly, stared down at him.

  And then—everything went dark.