The scent of blood hung thick in the humid air. Elias pressed himself against the gnarled bark of a Giant-Leaf, its massive, leathery surface rough against his cheek. His breath hitched, held tight in his chest. Sweat slicked his Feral skin, mixing with the grime of the forest floor. A low rumble vibrated through the earth. Elias’s eyes, keen and primal, pierced the dense vegetation. There. A Glinthorn. Its hide, a patchwork of obsidian plates and jagged bone spurs, shimmered with moisture. It grazed on luminous moss, its massive head sweeping back and forth. The creature was a walking fortress, notorious for its explosive charges and unforgiving power. Elias needed meat. Real meat. The lean hares and ground-runners offered little sustenance for his burgeoning Feral strength. A Glinthorn kill meant days of eating, vital energy for whatever lay ahead. He had studied them in Echoes of Aethel. Their blind spots. Their tell-tale snort before a charge. Their surprisingly vulnerable underbelly, exposed only when they reared, or when distracted by a feint. His Feral senses hummed. The tang of Glinthorn musk. The crunch of foliage under its colossal weight. The distant cry of a raptor, warning of something else. He ignored it. Focus. He gripped his crude spear, its stone tip painstakingly flaked and lashed with sinew. Not ideal for piercing Glinthorn hide, but he had a plan. He had to be quick. Silent. And deadly. He moved, a shadow among shadows. Each footfall was placed with deliberate care, avoiding snapping twigs, sinking into soft earth. The Glinthorn’s grazing brought it closer to the edge of a shallow ravine – his chosen ambush point. Its broad back blocked the setting sun, casting Elias in deep twilight. A snap. Too loud. A dried leaf under his bare heel. The Glinthorn froze. Its head snapped up, nostrils flaring. A guttural growl vibrated from its throat. Its small, intelligent eyes scanned the jungle. Elias froze. His heart hammered. His Feral instincts screamed *danger*. The creature was a force of nature. He remembered game lessons: *never engage a Glinthorn head-on unless absolutely necessary.* The Glinthorn snorted, then lowered its head, resuming its slow graze. It was a test. A bluff. Elias knew the game. He waited. Minutes stretched. The Glinthorn edged closer to the ravine. Elias held his breath. He calculated the distance, the angle, the force needed. When the creature was at the very brink, its massive weight shifting as it considered stepping down into the dip, Elias launched himself. A primal roar tore from his throat – a pure Feral challenge. It was meant to startle, to force a reaction. The Glinthorn bellowed, a sound that shook the trees. It spun, its head lowering for a charge. But Elias was already in motion. He didn’t run from the charge. He ran *into* it. He dove, not at the Glinthorn, but beneath its thrashing legs, a blur of muscle and intent. The ground vibrated. A bone spur grazed his scalp, drawing a line of fire. He ignored the pain. He rolled, coming up against the Glinthorn’s flank. It was a brief window. The beast was off balance, confused by the unexpected maneuver. Its armored plates were too tough. Elias aimed for the soft flesh where the massive front leg met the torso. A flicker of exposed vulnerability. He plunged the spear, not with brute force, but with a precise, twisting motion, targeting the joint. The Glinthorn shrieked, a sound of agony and rage. It bucked, its powerful leg kicking out. Elias held on, muscles straining, his Feral grip like iron. The spear shaft splintered, but the tip bit deep. Blood, hot and steaming, gushed over his arm. The beast thrashed, trying to crush him against its side. Elias saw his opportunity. The Glinthorn’s balance was gone. It was too close to the ravine. He pushed. A surge of desperate strength. He hauled on the spear embedded in its leg, twisting it further, screaming his own Feral battle cry. The Glinthorn roared, stumbling, its massive frame toppling. It crashed into the ravine with a sickening crack, a geyser of dust and broken branches. Silence. Then, a low, pained groan from the pit. Elias lay gasping, chest heaving, every muscle screaming. His spear was ruined, but the Glinthorn was down. He had done it. --- The butchering was a brutal, bloody affair. The Glinthorn was enormous, its hide thick, its muscle dense. Elias worked methodically, his stone knife growing dull quickly. He’d need to re-sharpen, or find new flint. The Feral hunger was a constant, gnawing presence, even with the bounty laid out before him. He harvested the choicest cuts, the organs, the thick hide. The setting sun painted the jungle in streaks of orange and purple. Predators would be drawn to this scent soon. He needed to be gone. As he worked, his Feral nose twitched. An unusual scent. Not blood. Not decay. Something else. Something earthy, mineral-like, but with a faint, almost metallic tang. He paused, knife mid-cut. He scanned the immediate surroundings. The ravine itself, a jagged scar in the landscape. And then, he saw it. Half-obscured by a fallen vine-choked tree, an opening in the ravine wall. Not natural. Intrigued, Elias dragged a few cuts of meat with him, leaving the rest for the inevitable scavengers. His stomach grumbled its protest, but his curiosity, his human intellect, outweighed the immediate need for food. He approached the opening cautiously. It was a jagged fissure, but the edges were too sharp, too even in places. A dark maw leading into the earth. The metallic scent was stronger here, mixed with a deeper, drier smell. He squeezed through the narrow entrance. The air inside was cool, still, carrying the scent of damp stone and something ancient. His Feral eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. The tunnel opened into a small chamber. Smooth walls. Unnatural. This was no mere cave. It was a structure. Crude, yet clearly man-made. Or rather, *Feral*-made. Scratches on the stone walls formed intricate, angular patterns – not pictograms, but complex geometric designs. Lines, dots, symbols Elias didn’t recognize. They pulsed with a strange, faint luminescence in the deep shadows. He ran a hand over a wall. The stone was cold, polished by time. He saw niches, carved into the rock, holding fragments of what looked like primitive tools – a hand-axe with a remarkably refined edge, bone needles, even a small, oddly shaped pendant of polished river stone. These were not the rough, utilitarian tools he’d seen used by other Ferals. These were crafted with intent, with skill. There was a story here, a forgotten past. Could Ferals have once possessed such craft? Or was this from an even older species? He knelt, examining the patterns on the floor, etched deep. Then he heard it. A whisper. Not the wind. Not the rustle of leaves outside. It came from deeper within the chamber. A soft scrape, followed by a guttural click. Then another. And another. Sounds that were undeniably intelligent, undeniably *humanoid*. Elias froze. His Feral senses flared, overriding his curiosity. The scent of other Ferals. Multiple. Close. He was not alone. The air grew heavy, electric. A low growl rumbled, not from Elias, but from the darkness beyond the far wall. It was deep, resonant, and hungry. The symbols on the walls seemed to glow brighter, reflecting something unseen. Elias scrambled backward, his mind racing. He had walked into a den. An occupied den. And whatever was in there, knew he was here. He could feel eyes on him. More than one pair. A snort. A hiss. The light from the ravine mouth seemed to dim, swallowed by the rising terror. He gripped the stone fragment he’d picked up, a poor substitute for a spear. He was trapped. A new growl, much closer, echoed through the chamber, colder and more deliberate. It was a challenge. And it was approaching fast.

The Haunt