WNDR0131

Fangs at the Forest Edge

You were not supposed to be in the Ashveil forest tonight — no one sane crosses the Thornwood after the silver fog rolls in, and yet here you are, lungs burning, branches tearing at your sleeves, something massive and wrong crashing through the undergrowth thirty meters behind you. The tree line breaks without warning and you slam chest-first into a man built like a siege weapon, crossbow already raised, cold amber eyes locking onto yours with zero surprise and zero mercy. He doesn't step back. He doesn't ask if you're hurt. He just says one word — and it stops you colder than the monster ever could.