The forest was quiet.
Not the silence of peace, but the kind of hush that followed bloodshed. A stillness that held its breath.
Lumberling moved through the underbrush like a wraith, every step whisper-soft over damp leaves. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in thin, golden ribbons, tracing across the steel of his shoulder plates. His spear rested along his back. His breath was calm.
But inside?
Tension coiled beneath his ribs.
A whisper of unease.
A long shadow cast by the past.
Almost a year…
Not since he hunted, but since he devoured.
Since he willingly reached into the fading echoes of a soul and pulled its essence into his own.
He crouched beside a moss-slick log, inspecting fresh tracks, broad, sunken prints, deep in the mud. A brute, by the look of it. Heavy, solitary. A perfect target.
Lumberling rose, eyes narrowing.
No more running. No more fear.
He followed the trail.
