The growl rippled through the trees like a warning — low, guttural, and close enough to taste.
Lucius rose silently, cloak swaying as he stepped closer to the fire. Rowan was already a shadow beside him, sword drawn and pointed toward the darkness.
The knights stiffened, forming a triangle around the camp.
"Fangwood wolves?" one of them muttered.
Lucius shook his head. "Too heavy."
The ground trembled again — subtle, but present. And with it, the scent of damp fur and rotting leaves crept into the air.
Rowan lowered his stance.
"That's not a wolf."
A shape moved between the trees.
Massive.
Heavy.
Not running.
Stalking.
Lucius's hand pressed over his cloak, feeling the warmth of the little beastkin curled beneath it.
"Stay still," he whispered.
The trees split with a low crack as something stepped into view — tall, lanky, and twisted like bark soaked in blood. A boar-like snout jutted from a narrow face, lined with fangs far too long, far too many.
Its eyes were black.
Its breath wheezed like steam escaping a cracked kettle.
Rowan cursed under his breath. "Forestborn."
Lucius glanced at him. "Thought they were myths."
"Same."
The Forestborn stood at least twice the height of a man, with roots coiled around its limbs like living armor. Its chest swelled as it sniffed the air — and its head snapped toward Lucius.
Straight toward the girl.
Of course.
It could smell her.
Lucius didn't hesitate.
"Disperse," he barked. "Keep it off me."
The knights moved instantly, circling wide.
Rowan lunged forward, blade flashing — it struck the creature's side with a metallic clang, barely drawing blood.
The Forestborn roared.
Lucius turned and ran.
Not out of fear.
But out of calculation.
He needed to draw it away. He needed to hide the girl.
Branches whipped past him as he sprinted through the underbrush, cloak pulled tight. Behind him, the ground trembled again — the beast giving chase.
His lungs burned.
His mana ached — like a locked door shaking on its hinges.
"Open already," he growled, pushing harder.
He ducked beneath a fallen log and skidded to a stop behind a thicket of roots. The cat-girl stirred beneath his cloak, mewling softly.
"Shh."
Lucius set her down gently and opened the cloth.
"Shift," he whispered. "Stay small. Stay hidden. If I die, find Rowan."
The cat stared at him with wide violet eyes.
Lucius pulled a knife from his belt — thin, black-bladed, coated with venom. A noble's weapon. A king's desperation.
The Forestborn crashed through the trees ahead.
Lucius stepped forward.
He didn't speak.
He didn't scream.
He charged.