He had food now. But he was no longer alone.
The howls came again, closer this time. Three, maybe four voices. They weren't just passing by — they were hunting.
Darius's eyes snapped to the boar's carcass. He didn't have time to drag it back. Even if he tried, he'd be dead before he got halfway to the stream.
Take what you can. Move.
His hands moved fast, almost automatic. He knelt beside the body and, with a few precise cuts, severed one of the hind legs — thick with meat and easier to carry. Then he slid his blade beneath the gumline, pried loose one of the long, curved tusks. Blood soaked his forearms. He didn't care.
The growls were coming now. Footsteps in the leaves. Low movement, circling.
No more time.
He gripped the leg and ran — straight downhill, leaping over rocks, weaving through trees, until the sound of water grew louder than the pounding in his chest.
The stream.
He dropped the meat and dropped to his knees, letting the cold current wash over his arms, his chest, his face. Blood swirled into the water like smoke. He scrubbed quickly, viciously, until only the cuts on his forearms remained red.
Back at the shelter, the fire was still alive — a faint glow in the fading light.
Safe. For now.
He hung the boar's leg on a branch, then crouched beside it and began skinning. The blade moved in smooth, practiced lines. His mind, however, was already elsewhere.
I can't eat all of this today. I need to preserve it — dry it, smoke it, wrap it in something.
Salt would've helped. He had none. But smoke, fire, and airflow — those he had.
The fire crackled softly as Darius worked, crouched beside the carved leg of the boar. His knife moved with purpose, slicing thin strips from the thick haunch, laying them across a flat rock he had cleaned with boiling water. Beside the fire, he was building a crude frame from forked branches and bent saplings. A rack — nothing fancy, just stable enough to hold meat over smoke.
He added damp leaves and green pine needles to the fire, careful not to let the flames rise too high. Smoke billowed upward, dense and slow.
This should keep the insects off. Start with the thinnest cuts. Flip them in a few hours. Keep the fire steady, not hot.
His mind was already two steps ahead. The thicker cuts would need more time. He could dig a shallow pit, cover them in warm ash, maybe use bark to shield them from the soil. It wasn't ideal. But it would work — for now.
Above, hidden among the branches of a dark pine, another pair of eyes watched in silence.
The figure said nothing. Moved nothing. Only observed.
A boy — no older than thirteen — skin darkened by sun and dirt, arms marked by scratches and dried blood, moving with the efficiency of a trained survivor. Not just surviving. Thinking. Planning. Like a man raised on hardship. Or something else entirely.
The hermit narrowed his gaze.
He had seen dozens of boys fail in these woods — screaming, starving, broken by cold or by fear. The Taygetos devoured the weak. It was its purpose. That had always been the way.
But this one… this one moved like he already belonged here.
Darius hung the last strip of meat over the smoke and stepped back to check airflow. He adjusted a stone, broke off a branch, trimmed a curl of fat from the roasting joint.
It won't be perfect. But it'll last. I'll test how long it keeps without spoiling.
He glanced toward the forest, unaware of the eyes above him.
Then he sat near the fire, legs folded, sharpening his blade slowly, methodically.
He didn't know he was being watched.
That night, the fire burned low, throwing long shadows across the rocky shelter. The meat hung in the smoke, the world outside faded to black, and Darius finally allowed himself to sleep.
And the mountain let him dream.
It wasn't the forest he saw. It was light — warm, golden light pouring through a kitchen window. His mother stood at the stove, stirring something, humming. His father sat at the table, reading with those glasses he always lost. They looked older than he remembered. More tired. But peaceful.
Then came the laughter — sharp, real. His unit. A table full of brothers-in-arms. The sound of glasses clinking, boots on concrete, someone telling the same joke for the fifth time. He could smell the sweat, the oil, the bitter coffee. And they were all there. Alive.
One by one, their faces faded, until only one image remained.
A statue. Cold. Towering. Eyes of piercing blue stone staring into him like they had the day everything began.
He woke with a start.
The shelter was dark, the fire no more than embers. The smell of smoke clung to everything. He lay there for a moment, staring into the rock above him, throat tight.
His parents.
They were probably alive right now. Growing older. Waiting.
And he wasn't there.
He'd never be there again.
His jaw clenched. He sat up slowly, pulling the hide tighter over his shoulders as the cold pressed in. The meat still hung above the fire, gently swaying in the draft.
He reached for his knife, not to work — just to hold it. He didn't feel like a warrior in that moment. Just a son who had failed to say goodbye.
Then — a sound.
Soft. Light. Barely audible.Leaves shifting. A twig cracking.Not wind.
Darius froze.
His grip tightened around the knife as his ears strained. Something was moving between the trees. Not large. Not clumsy. But close.
He rose silently from the bed of pine and moss, body low, footsteps placed with care. The fire was dying — just enough glow to catch motion in the dark.
There.
A shape stepped out from the underbrush. Four legs. Lean, but strong. Its ears twitched toward him.
A young adult wolf.Alone.
Its fur was a mottled gray, streaked with dust. Eyes sharp. It didn't growl, didn't bark — only stared.
Darius blinked slowly. His heart eased, but he stayed still.
So… that's how they found the scent.A lone hunter. Maybe separated from its pack. Or maybe it never had one.
His instincts kicked in — not from the Agōgē, but from another life. Reading animal behavior. Pressure, distance, threat level.
He reached slowly into his food pouch, tore off a strip of the smoked boar leg. Warm. Aromatic.
The wolf tilted its head, legs tense, ready to bolt.
"Come here," Darius whispered, voice low, steady. "It's alright."
He crouched and held the meat out, arm extended.
The wolf didn't move.
Minutes passed.
Then — one cautious step forward. Another.
Darius didn't breathe.
When the wolf was five meters away, he tossed the strip gently across the ground, landing just ahead of its nose.
The animal stepped back at the sound, then crept forward again. Sniffed. Watched.
Took the strip — and vanished.
Darius remained crouched, watching the shadows.
He let out a breath.
"Enjoy it," he murmured to the dark. "That's all you're getting."
The morning sun filtered weakly through the treetops. Dew clung to the leaves, and the air smelled of smoke, pine, and blood.
Darius sat beside the shelter, whetstone in hand, sliding it carefully along the edge of the boar's tusk.
The tusk had been cleaned and split from the skull at sunrise. Thick. Curved. Dense enough to hold a point. With a bit of carving and reinforcement, it would serve.
Not as a weapon of war. But something quick. Silent.A dagger for survival.
He wrapped the base in strips of hide, layering them until it fit snug in his grip. No balance — not like steel — but the weight was satisfying. It carried meaning.
"Your strength feeds me," he muttered to the carcass still hanging. "Now it guards me."
With that done, he turned to the bow.
Yesterday's work had loosened the limbs slightly and shaped the grip, but it still lacked flexibility. He shaved another few grams of material from the tips, taking care not to crack it. Then he retied the string with a better brace height and checked its tension.
Still crude. Still stiff.
But usable.
He stepped back, pulled the string slowly — full draw — and held it.
It vibrated, barely.Acceptable.
He smiled.
Everything around him had tried to kill him.And now it served him.
The fire had died to a faint glow.Darius lay still beneath his rough cover of hide and pine, one eye half-open, breath steady. Sleep came in waves now — never fully, never safe.
Then…
CRUNCH-CRUNCH
A soft sound.
Not footsteps this time. Lighter. Hesitant.
He didn't move. Not yet.
Something was near the shelter. He could feel it — a presence just outside the circle of heat. He let the silence stretch. Let the forest speak.
A rustle. A sniff. A quiet crunch of leaves.
Then he saw it — barely a silhouette in the shadows. Low to the ground. Watching.
The wolf.
Its eyes caught the dying embers for a second — two pale glints in the dark.
It hadn't run far.Maybe it hadn't run at all.Maybe it had circled back the moment it felt safe.
Darius didn't speak. Didn't reach for more meat.
He just looked at it. Steady. Calm.
The wolf didn't approach. It just sat there. Ears forward. Tail low.
Minutes passed.
Then, without sound, it vanished into the trees again — no fear this time. Just distance. Instinct.
Darius let out a breath through his nose.
So. You're not done with me.
He rolled onto his side, curling up tighter beneath the hide.
Now, he had four pair of eyes watching.