It was a perfect night for hunting.

The soaked forest floor—carpeted with grass, mud, and a thick layer of fallen leaves in a hundred fading colors—muffled every step. A dense, clinging mist offered flawless cover from the eyes of prey. The still, damp, and frigid air lay heavy, yet thick with the remnants of rain, dulling all but the keenest senses of smell. The irregular yet steady dripping of water from trembling leaves—relics of the passing storm—cascading chaotically onto the undergrowth below provided both distraction and an excellent veil for movement. And the moon, wholly swallowed by pitch-black clouds, cast no light at all, turning the thicket into a tangle of pure darkness.

Slipping silently like a specter between low shrubs and the forest’s skeletal bushes, the fox surveyed her surroundings with utmost care, offering her fine-tuned senses to everything around her, waiting to seize upon the slightest detail of interest. Her paws pressed against the earth with innate grace and lightness, and the white-tipped tail behind her swayed faintly in rhythm with her steps, betraying an eager, restless anticipation she struggled to restrain. It had been several days since she had last fed, and she would not endure many more without doing so.

Suddenly, as she passed the moss-covered trunk of an ancient oak, a swift and decisive movement in the undergrowth not far from her brought her to an abrupt halt. Instinctively she turned toward the sound, lifting one paw and her head at once, ears taut and forward. Then, rigid as stone, she tasted the air.

Moments later, a powerful beat of wings erupted from a nearby bush, and a shadow cleaved the mist, rising to settle upon the branch of a barren tree a few paces away. The huntress understood. A large gray owl gripped a lifeless field mouse in its talons. Its hunt had been more fortunate than hers—at least so far.

Paying little heed to the low, lugubrious call the nocturnal raptor uttered as though in grim satisfaction, the predator resumed her movement, withdrawing from that part of the forest. It was neither wise nor profitable to continue hunting near the owl’s chosen ground. Whatever prey might have lingered there would have already fled elsewhere. And so must she.

Weaving through drenched shrubs and blades of grass still bowed by the recent rain, she ventured into a portion of the forest she seldom approached—a stretch bordering the lands of men. A dangerous place. Yet hunger, and the risk it carried, left her few alternatives.

With greater caution still, she glided soundlessly to the forest’s edge. From there she glimpsed the faint lights of the village houses piercing the mist and gleaming within the darkness that cloaked her. They were not close, yet they troubled and drew her in equal measure.

As she lingered, almost spellbound by their quiet, hypnotic shimmer, another sound broke the silence—a rustle among wet grass and fallen leaves. Faint, uncertain, yet to her as clear as thunder splitting the clouds.

As seasons upon seasons of hunting had taught her, she lowered herself into stillness among the bushes, sharpening her gaze and scenting the damp air in the direction of the sound. And within moments, her patience and cunning were rewarded.

A large dark-furred hare slipped from the tall grass, hopping cautiously across the carpet of decaying leaves in search of food—just as she was.

Savoring the coming thrill, the fox sank deeper into the shadowed undergrowth, her tail swaying more eagerly, more impatiently. The impatience fed by the prey’s slow and unwitting approach, utterly unaware of the snare death had laid but a few bounds away. A little closer. Just one small leap more. One single leap, and the huntress would descend upon the hare without granting it the slightest chance of escape.

But then—

Slow, heavy footsteps echoed beneath the bare branches. Steps like those of a man, yet heavier, drawing steadily nearer.

They were enough.

The hare froze, ears rising sharply, then bolted in a single powerful, lightning-swift bound that gave the fox no chance to react. As the prey vanished eastward into the brush, something else emerged from the mist to the north.

Something larger. Stranger.

Something that, despite her failed ambush, stirred the huntress’s curiosity.

Someone.

A man—of immense stature. Partially veiled by fog, the rest obscured beneath a broad, dark hooded cloak that concealed his shape entirely. Only his movements were visible: slow, controlled, deliberate—almost mechanical—as he parted the undergrowth before him.

Hidden among the grass, the fox watched in silence as the figure advanced to the forest’s edge. A few paces from her. A few dozen from the nearest human dwelling.

There he stopped.

Standing. Motionless.

Like a tree rooted to the earth, he stared at the trembling lights of the house without moving a single muscle.

The fox tilted her head slightly, her curiosity sharpening.

As the mist thickened and the air grew colder still, the forest around her fell strangely silent. A silence unlike the one before—a deep, taut, unsettling stillness that descended all at once, like an unexpected lightning strike on an autumn evening.

Only the lingering droplets from the storm continued their quiet tale to any attentive ear. Sliding down a stem, tapping against bark, rebounding from a weary petal before meeting the soil like the final note of a verse.

In that stillness, in that suspended moment, the fox shuddered.

Something was wrong.

An intense yet shapeless sense of threat washed over her as she continued to watch the figure. Until instinct—older and stronger than curiosity—prevailed.

Without hesitation, she rose and withdrew swiftly into the thicket, making not the faintest sound.

For that night, it was wiser to retreat than to tempt fate.

Or hunger.

A meal, however long desired, was not worth her life.