I remember the smell of sap. Burnt, bitter, choking the air.

The last thing I saw before everything went black was the Green Stalker—a fern-thing of thorns and sinew—wrapping its vines around my throat. My lungs filled with spores and blood as I clawed at it, buying seconds… just enough for my brother and his son to run.

I remember shouting—no, howling—for them to go. I remember the sound of tearing. Then nothing.

When I woke, the forest was quiet. Too quiet. The vines were gone. My body—stitched, wrong. And something was pulsing in my chest. A faint violet glow under the chest, beating like a second heart.

I didn't question it. I couldn't. All I knew was that I had to find them.

I ran.

The forest had changed. The scents were wrong—burned, stale, soaked in blood. But under it all, faint and fading, was them. My pack. My family. I followed it, nose to the ground, desperate.

The first I found was my brother.

He was pinned to a trunk, impaled through the chest by roots, twisted. His eyes were open, cloudy, the same look he had when he used to tease me for being too soft. I wanted to close them, but I couldn't move my paw.

I kept running.

The scent led me to the Fourth Zone. The air was colder there, sharper. I found my nieces—two of them—tangled in vines, their fur matted with sap

I told myself it couldn't get worse. I was wrong.

By the time I reached the clearing where the scent ended, the dark ceiling felt like it was pressing down on me. My brother's mate lay on her side, eyes glassy, and next to her—

My nephew.

Still growing. Still warm when I touched him.

Something inside me broke. The light in my chest flared, brighter, hotter, shifting from faint violet to a deep, violent red.

And then the voice came. A laugh, low and slick, sliding into my head like a blade through fur.

It whispered names I didn't know. Promises I didn't understand. Rage I didn't question.

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Everything after that was blood.

I don't remember choosing to move, but I did. I tore through the forest, following the first scent that wasn't my family's. A fern monster—like the one that killed me. Then another. Then more. Flora, all of them.

The more I killed, the easier it became. The voice didn't speak anymore—it didn't need to. Hatred was enough.

I became the thing that monsters feared in the dark. The red heartbeat. The howl that never ended.

Now, when I wake, the world tastes of ash. The light in my chest flickers white sometimes. When it does, I see their faces again—the pack, my nephew, my brother's smile. And it hurts worse than dying ever did.

But the light always fades back to red. And when it does, I keep moving.

Killing.

Because that's all I remember how to do.

I don't know how long I've been running. The blood dried from my claws a long time ago.

The forest changes every time I blink. New smells, new trees. I don't even know if I'm in the same world anymore. Everything tastes like rot and iron.

Sometimes I hear my own voice howling in the distance—except it isn't me. It's like something wearing my voice, echoing it back to mock me. I try to chase it, but it always runs ahead, laughing.

When I stop to breathe, the red light in my chest throbs. I look down at it and wonder—did it keep me alive, or did it bring me back? Does it matter?

Once, I saw my reflection in a pool. I didn't recognize it. The fur was half ash, half smoke. The eyes weren't eyes—just glowing pits. And when I tried to drink, the water turned black.

The first time I hesitated to kill was when I met a dryad. She didn't run. She just looked at me, shaking. Her mouth moved—maybe a prayer, maybe a plea—but I couldn't hear over the ringing in my head. I tore her apart anyway.

After that, the voice didn't laugh anymore. It whispered. Softer. Almost kind. It told me I was right to be angry. That I was owed this world.

I believed it.

Until one night, the red began to fade. The forest went still. The voice went quiet. And for the first time, I felt cold.

I saw the moon. Or maybe it was something pretending to be one—white light bleeding through the canopy, reflecting on the pool where I'd seen my reflection before.

I thought I heard someone call my name. Not the name I'd earned through fear, but the one my nephew used to say—small, happy, trusting.

That sound tore through me worse than any blade. The light in my chest flickered again, turning pale, washing everything red into white.

I felt weight. Regret. The smell of fire. The sound of crying. My crying.

And for a single heartbeat, I remembered everything—the pack, the vines, the human's face leaning over me with that cursed gem, the laugh that followed, and the endless blood after.

Then the red came back.

I howled until the forest broke around me.

And when I woke again… I was standing in a field, surrounded by monsters that smelled like the ones I used to kill. They looked terrified. And for a moment, I didn't know why.

Then I saw the cocoon. The girl. The wolf, a familiar one. And I realized what I'd become.

They stare at me like I'm a monster.

The cocoon hovers, glowing faintly. The wolf pup beside it smells like smoke and fear—and something old, familiar. Family.

For a second, I almost call her name. But the memory faded like smoke

If they see a monster— Then maybe that's all that's left of me.

End of Interlude

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