Many years ago, shortly after his father had returned from a meeting with one of the elders, he told Calder the story of when he first tried to hunt a dire wolf. Calder had been a boy then, sitting cross-legged on the rough wooden floor near the hearth, his wide eyes fixed on his father’s face as the firelight danced across his weathered features.
The story began long before Calder was born when his father was still a youth, not yet old enough to be considered a man by the village’s rites. The region had been gripped by famine, a cruel and unrelenting season that stripped the land of its lush bounty. Crops failed, livestock withered, and the forests, usually teeming with life, grew barren. Desperation hung heavy over the village as the people prayed and prayed for salvation, but their pleas seemed to fall on deaf ears.
Like many hunters and trappers at the time, Calder’s father spent almost every waking moment in the forest, scouring the barren woods for anything that could stave off hunger. Traps were set along every known trail, their bait crude but hopeful, and his bowstring grew worn from constant use. Each day began with the same hopeful expression and ended in frustration more often than not, as the once-teeming forest yielded little more than silence.
It was during one of those bleak hunts that Calder’s father first encountered the strange tracks. They were massive, impossibly large for any wolf he had ever seen. The snow was pressed deep beneath the weight of the creature, and the trail wove through places no man would dare tread for fear of awakening things that never be disturbed. At first, he thought it might be the result of a starving animal dragging itself through the woods. But as the days went on and the tracks appeared more frequently, he couldn’t deny the truth.
The beast was real.
Rumors had already begun to swirl by then—whispers of scrawny livestock vanishing in the night, strange howls carried on the wind, and a darkness that seemed to follow the beast wherever it roamed. People spoke of its black fur blending seamlessly with the shadows, of eyes that burned like coals in the darkness. Some even claimed to have seen it at the edge of the village, watching silently before retreating into the trees.
Though none were aware of it at the time, what they were dealing with was a dire wolf—a beast not native to the Dragonback Mountains but the southern wastelands. Bred by the orcs for war, dire wolves were living weapons, their strength and ferocity unmatched by any natural predator. Wherever a dire wolf was seen, a Warband was often close behind, using the beasts to strike fear into their enemies and to devastate settlements in their path.
Whenever he was told this story, Calder’s father would tell him how he assumed the beast had been separated from its warband at some point. Perhaps it had been wounded and left behind, or maybe the famine had driven it farther north in search of prey. Whatever the case, the dire wolf had claimed the forests of the Dragonback Mountains as its new territory, and it defended that claim with ruthless efficiency.
No creature was safe—not the scrawniest of deer nor the stealthiest fox. Even the bears, mighty as they were, fled the moment its scent reached them. It was as if the forest itself had bowed to the wolf, its usual order shattered by the predator’s arrival. Hunters who ventured too far into the woods found themselves stalked, their trails crossed by enormous paw prints that served as both a warning and a challenge. Some turned back, unwilling to risk their lives. Others disappeared entirely, swallowed by the shadow that now ruled the forest.
The fear of the wolf grew with each passing week. Livestock vanished, hunters failed to return, and the forest’s bounty—already sparse from the famine—became unattainable. The village teetered on the edge of collapse, its people too afraid to enter the woods and too hungry to stay away. Tales of the beast spread beyond the mountains, reaching neighboring settlements and eventually catching the attention of the local lord.
The lord, pragmatic and concerned for his domain, decided the wolf’s reign had to end. The disappearances were bad enough, but the disruption of the region’s already fragile economy threatened to undermine his control. He issued a proclamation, offering a reward of more coins than most villagers would see in their lifetimes to anyone who could bring him the beast’s head.
Word spread quickly, and soon, hunters and trappers from across the land arrived, drawn by the promise of riches. The lord assembled them in his hall, a group of hardened men and women armed with bows, spears, and traps of iron and steel. Each carried the scars of countless hunts, their reputations enough to silence even the rowdiest of taverns.
For weeks, they combed the woods, their traps laid and their arrows loosed. Some claimed to have seen the wolf, its massive form darting between the trees like a shadow. Others swore they heard its howls in the dead of night, so close they felt its breath on their necks.
One by one, the hunters began to disappear, their tracks ending abruptly in the snow, their fates swallowed by the forest’s shadows. Those who returned often did so in silence, their faces pale and haunted, refusing to speak of what they had seen. They would linger in the village only briefly before vanishing, slipping away in the dead of night as if fleeing from memories too terrible to endure.
Eventually, only Calder’s father remained.
The forest was his second home, a place he had learned to navigate with a hunter’s intuition honed by years of experience. But as he ventured deeper, following the massive tracks through the snow, he quickly realized that this was unlike any hunt he had ever undertaken. The air grew heavier, the trees closer, their twisted branches forming jagged shapes against the pale light of the overcast sky. The usual sounds of the forest—birds, wind, the occasional snap of twigs—were conspicuously absent. The silence pressed against his ears, unnerving in its completeness.
For days, he tracked the beast. The prints in the snow were staggeringly large, each step pressed deep into the frozen ground. At night, he would hear the distant, bone-chilling howls, echoing through the forest like a ghost’s wail. It wasn’t just the wolf he was hunting; it was as if the forest itself had turned against him, conspiring to make every step more perilous, every sound a warning.
And then he saw it.
The dire wolf stood in a clearing, its massive form silhouetted against the snow-covered ground. Its black fur seemed to drink in the light, its ember-like eyes glowing with a terrible intelligence. It didn’t move, didn’t snarl or growl. It simply watched him, as if it had been waiting, as if this moment had been inevitable.
Calder’s father froze, his breath caught in his throat. He had always considered himself a capable hunter, confident in his skills and instincts. But at that moment, staring into the eyes of the beast, he felt small—insignificant against the raw power that stood before him. The dire wolf’s burning gaze seemed to pierce straight through him, as if weighing his worth, deciding whether he was predator or prey.
And then, without a sound, the wolf turned away.
Its massive form moved with an eerie grace, vanishing into the shadowy depths of the forest as if it had never been there. Calder’s father stood rooted to the spot, his bow trembling in his hands. He didn’t follow it—didn’t dare. The encounter left him shaken, his pride and courage stripped bare. It was only when the distant howls faded into silence that he realized he had been holding his breath.
When he finally returned to the village, his hands still trembling and his words faltering, he told the elders what had happened. The dire wolf was gone, vanished into the woods just as abruptly as it had appeared. In the days that followed, the hunters ventured cautiously back into the forest and found no further signs of the beast. The tracks disappeared, the howls stopped, and the shadows that had loomed so large over the village began to recede.
Soon after, the famine broke. The snow melted, revealing fields of new growth, and the forest once again teemed with life. Game returned to the woods, crops sprouted in the fields, and the villagers slowly began to rebuild what they had lost. To many, it felt like the end of a long and punishing test—a blessing from Dialos after a season of suffering.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
But the story of the dire wolf, the so-called "king of the woods," was not so easily forgotten. It became a legend, a tale whispered around hearths and shared in hushed tones. Parents told their children to stay away from the forest at night, warning that the king might return to snatch them away if they wandered too far.
Now, standing face-to-face with the dire wolf, Calder felt that same fear coursing through his veins, as if the legend itself had sprung to life before him. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, his chest tightening with the primal instinct to flee. His eyes remained locked with the wolves, those burning embers of intelligence and malice that seemed to pierce through him, rooting him in place.
The beast was enormous, its hulking frame taut with coiled power. Every muscle rippled beneath its midnight-black fur, its form both beautiful and terrifying. The thick strands of saliva that dripped from its bared fangs gleamed faintly in the dim light, a stark contrast to the darkness that seemed to radiate from it. The low growl rumbling in its throat was more than a sound—it was a vibration that Calder felt in his very bones.
Calder’s mind raced as the weight of the moment crushed down on him. He was screwed. Completely, utterly screwed. No amount of skill with a bow or training from his father had prepared him for this—a beast from nightmares, a force of nature that couldn’t be stopped. His hands twitched toward his bow, but it was far too late.
The wolf lunged.
It was a blur of black fur and gleaming fangs, faster than Calder could react. Its massive weight slammed into him like a battering ram, knocking the air from his lungs as he was thrown backward. He hit the ground hard, the icy snow biting into his skin as the wolf’s claws tore into his chest. Pain exploded through him, sharp and immediate, and his vision blurred as he tried to scramble away.
The wolf didn’t give him a chance. It was on him again in an instant, its jaws clamping down on his arm with bone-crushing force. Calder screamed as the pain shot through him, raw and searing. The beast shook its head violently, lifting him off the ground like a ragdoll before flinging him into the air. He hit the base of a tree with a sickening thud, the impact knocking the bow from his shoulder and leaving him gasping for breath.
Blood soaked the snow beneath him as he struggled to push himself up, his limbs trembling and weak. The wolf stalked toward him, its growl low and menacing, its burning eyes locked onto his. Each step it took was deliberate as if savoring the moment. Calder tried to crawl away, his fingers digging into the snow, but the beast was on him again before he could move more than a few feet.
Its jaws tore into his side this time, ripping through flesh with horrifying ease. Calder’s screams echoed through the forest, but there was no one to hear them. The wolf flung him again, sending him sprawling across the clearing. He landed in a heap, his vision dimming as blood pooled around him, staining the pristine snow.
Lying in the snow, Calder felt the cold seep into his bones, numbing the pain that wracked his body. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle as his blood soaked the ground beneath him. He stared up at the dark canopy of trees, waiting for the wolf to finish him. This was it—his end. He had failed.
Lying in the snow, Calder felt the cold seep into his bones, numbing the pain that wracked his body. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle as his blood soaked the ground beneath him. He stared up at the dark canopy of trees, waiting for the wolf to finish him. This was it—his end. He had failed.
As the wolf drew closer, its hulking frame blocking out what little light filtered through the trees, time seemed to slow. Each crunch of snow beneath its massive paws was deafening, each growl vibrating through Calder’s battered chest. His thoughts drifted, slipping away from the cold, the pain, and the wolf to something else entirely: his life.
It hadn’t been a bad life, Calder thought, his lips curling into the faintest hint of a smile. He had worked hard, helped those in need, and stood by his friends. Otto, with his boundless energy and endless grin, would probably call him a fool for getting into this situation. Calder could almost hear his friend’s voice, laughing and chastising him in equal measure. He had been a good friend, hadn’t he? He had tried, at least.
His father’s face flickered in his mind, stern but proud, the lines on his weathered skin deepened by years spent in the woods. Calder wondered if his father, his ancestors, were watching now. Were they waiting, standing in the great halls of their forebears, ready to welcome him? Or were they shaking their heads in disappointment, seeing their bloodline snuffed out in the snow?
The thought brought a strange sense of calm. Maybe this was how it was meant to end, here in the forest, beneath the trees he had known all his life. Maybe he’d done enough.
The wolf growled, louder now, and the sound snapped Calder back to the present. It was close, its ember-like eyes locked onto him, its teeth bared in a snarl. He braced himself, waiting for the inevitable when a glint of light caught his eye.
The pin.
It lay in the snow beside him, half-buried in the crimson-stained frost. The double-headed eagle stared back at him, its steel edges dulled by time but unyielding, unbroken. The sight of it seemed to cut through the haze of pain and despair clouding Calder’s mind.
His bloodied fingers twitched, reaching toward it, brushing against the cold steel. The memory of his father’s stories filled his mind: tales of hunts that seemed impossible, of victories snatched from the jaws of defeat. Calder could almost hear his father’s voice, steady and sure. “We don’t lay down, Calder. Not for beasts, not for men. We fight. Until the end.”
The beast loomed above him, its massive jaws parting, revealing rows of jagged teeth glistening with blood and saliva. Its breath was hot against his face, rank and suffocating, as it lowered its head toward his neck, ready to deliver the killing blow.
Calder’s hand tightened into a fist around the pin, the steel biting into his palm as his muscles tensed. For a brief moment, he clung to the symbol of his father, drawing strength from the memory of the man who had taught him everything he knew. But as the wolf’s shadow swallowed him whole, he let it go, the pin slipping from his grasp and disappearing into the blood-stained snow.
His other hand moved with agonizing slowness, trembling as it slipped into his pocket. The leather hilt of the skinning knife met his fingers, and he clutched it desperately, his heart pounding in his chest. As the dire wolf was a few centimeters away from tearing his throat, Calder finally acted.
With a burst of defiance, Calder’s hand shot from his pocket, the knife glinting faintly in the dim light. Time seemed to freeze as he thrust upward, aiming for the soft, vulnerable flesh of the beast’s neck. The blade met resistance, sliding through sinew and muscle with a sickening squelch.
Dark, viscous blood erupted from the wound, spilling onto Calder’s face and chest in a scalding torrent. The wolf recoiled, a deafening howl of pain tearing through the forest. Its massive form twisted and thrashed, claws raking the ground as it stumbled backward, blood spraying in arcs across the snow.
Calder struggled to push himself up, his vision swimming, his body trembling with exhaustion and agony. The knife remained clenched in his hand, slick with the beast’s blood. He staggered to his feet, his breaths coming in shallow gasps as he faced the dire wolf. The beast’s ember-like eyes burned with fury, its growls now mixed with guttural snarls as it clawed at the gash in its neck.
It wasn’t done—not yet. And neither was he. Calder steadied himself, ignoring the searing pain coursing through his body. His lips curled into a defiant snarl, his fingers tightening around the knife as the wolf crouched low, its muscles coiling for another attack. If he were to die, he would go out fighting with his ancestors bearing witness.
“Come on,” Calder rasped, his voice raw but filled with resolve. “Let’s finish this.”
With a final, thunderous roar, both man and beast lunged at each other as the shadows consumed them, the only witness being the stark white moon hanging low in the sky.
***
The morning air was cold and still, the pale light of the rising sun casting long shadows over the village. A crowd had gathered at its edge, a restless sea of faces bundled in furs and cloaks. Almost all the hunters had returned, their catches displayed before the chief and elders.
Most of the kills were modest—rabbits, a few lean foxes, one scraggly boar. Dietrich stood smugly by the massive elk his men had claimed, its antlers towering over him like a crown. His crossbow hung casually from his shoulder, its polished wood gleaming in the morning light. He exchanged pleasantries with the elders, confident his prize would remain unmatched.
But one hunter was still unaccounted for: Calder.
Otto stood at the back of the crowd, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His worry deepened with each passing moment. Calder wasn’t just a skilled hunter—he was cautious and experienced. He would’ve been back by now. The thought of his friend lying injured—or worse—gnawed at Otto’s gut.
Before he could approach the chief to request a search party, a sharp gasp cut through the murmurs of the crowd. It was followed by another, then another until a wave of horrified whispers rippled through the villagers. Otto’s brow furrowed as he turned toward the commotion.
At the edge of the forest, a figure staggered into view.
It was Calder—or what was left of him.
Gasps turned to shrieks as Calder stumbled closer, his steps uneven, his body barely holding together. His clothing was in tatters, hanging in blood-soaked shreds from his mutilated frame. Flesh dangled in jagged strips from his arms and legs, revealing raw muscle beneath. His face was a grotesque mask of gore, his scalp torn open to expose patches of bone. Blood poured from his wounds, bubbling from his cracked lips with each labored breath.
Under his right arm, he clutched his severed left limb, the jagged stump of his shoulder tied off with strips of cloth. In his remaining hand, he carried a heart—a massive, black organ, grotesquely swollen and slick with blood. It was larger than his head, its surface glistening in the pale light.
The villagers recoiled, some fainting outright, others turning away or clutching their children to shield them from the sight. Otto’s heart dropped into his stomach as he watched his friend stumble forward, his legs buckling with every step. Calder’s lips moved, his voice a broken whisper.
“I... I did it,” Calder muttered, the words tumbling out in a frantic, incoherent stream. “Ancestors be praised I did it. I did it. I did it. I did it.”
The heart slipped from his grasp, landing in the snow with a wet thud. Blood spattered the ground as Calder wavered, his knees giving out. A final gush of blood erupted from the gash on his head as he collapsed, crumpling into the crimson-stained snow. Otto didn't hesitate for even a moment, pushing through the crowd as his friend's name was screamed to open sky above.
“CALDER!!!”