When the bear ambled back into view, its muzzle was smeared with ruby stains. A heavy sadness lingered in its deep-set eyes as if it bore the weight of its actions. It recoiled from the boy, unable to look at him for a moment. As it dipped its colossal head into the still water beside me to cleanse its mouth, droplets cascaded off its thick fur, glistening as they caught the fading light of dusk. The crow that had accompanied it squawked sharply, its wings fluttering nervously, yet it resolutely perched close by, its dark feathers ruffling in the breeze. The bird seemed torn between its instinct to flee and fierce loyalty to stand guard, fully aware of the nearby peril but unwilling to abandon its post, preparing to face its death. The crow's keen, ebony eyes cut through the thick veil of darkness, its penetrating gaze honing in on the hulking form of the bear below. With an innate understanding that seemed almost supernatural, the crow called upon its deep reservoir of sensory knowledge, able to pierce through the external facade and peer into the very souls of creatures, distinguishing between the forces of good and evil.

As the bear raised its massive head, droplets of rain cascaded down its coarse, wet fur, the chill of the storm adding a sombre air to the moment. The crow paused, its glossy feathers settling into stillness, recognizing The bear and reflecting on the bears past encounters throughout its life, examining its soul. There were brief moments of unspoken connection that transcended words, forming a bond of mutual respect.

In that charged instant, the tension that had hung heavy in the air morphed into a profound understanding. They were united by a singular purpose: to rescue the innocent child who had been forsaken, plummeting from the skies like a fleeting star extinguished too soon. As the relentless rain poured down, it felt as if the heavens themselves were mourning the loss of light, each drop a tear shed for the lost soul someone up there was determined to save. The skyline bled into shades of deep crimson, a haunting reflection of the grief woven into the fabric of the dark land we called home. It was only when the bear's solemn gaze shifted - not from arrogance, but from an instinctual yearning to transcend our moment together - that it dared to meet my eyes. A single tear brimming in my eye spilt over as I reached out, burying my face in the softness of the bear's thick, primal fur. In that fragile moment, the tension in the bear's massive form began to fade, as if my presence had washed away some of the burdens it carried. My smile, tentative yet sincere, offered a glimmer of solace, rekindling the bear's will to forget its past and to protect us - two souls who had found their way here, whether by curse or by destiny, just as I had in that moment of kindness. Though my memories remained tangled and elusive, an undeniable certainty lingered within me: we would reunite with the dark wolf once more. As the bear lowered its head, it nudged me onto its back, preventing me from drowning in the murky depths of the marsh. The crow also moved onto my arm, and together we lent strength to one another as we made our way through the marshland and deeper into the forest. It was around noon when we discovered an outcropping near a cave where I would spend my childhood years. I was often unclothed, cold, and feeling abandoned in a small grove by a pond that was frequently visited by fireflies. In a secluded grove cradled by majestic mountains far in the distance, yet I could see each towering peak almost kissed by the sky, stood a cluster of magnificent white oaks. Their gnarled branches stretched upwards, adorned with lush green leaves that shimmered like emeralds in the sunlight. This serene sanctuary harboured a secret, one that lay hidden for many years, waiting patiently for me to uncover its profound mysteries. The air was thick with the aroma of pine and damp earth, and a soft breeze carried the faint sounds of rustling leaves, as if nature itself was guarding the untold stories woven into the fabric of this enchanting landscape a secret i would uncover many years later.

Chapter 3 Every Passing Second

It was nine years after the fateful day I fell from the sky that I first embraced the ancient art of hunting beside my father. As we ventured into the heart of the vibrant, whispering forest, the lush emerald canopy above filtered shafts of golden sunlight, casting intricate patterns on the rich, loamy earth below. In this wild, untamed realm, we spoke not with names, but through gestures and glances; he was simply "the bear," a silent nod to his strength and instinctive freedom.

Surrounded by the symphony of rustling leaves and the distant melodies of the wilderness, animals moved through the underbrush bereft of titles, embodying the raw, unrefined spirit of nature. Can any creature truly flourish if stripped of its freedom, whether confined in a cage at a zoo or shackled within the cold, gray walls of a prison? Names imply ownership, a tether that binds their essence. If I were to name my father, I would call him Valour, for he embodies courage, unwavering strength, and the spirit of the wild that courses through his veins. The crow elegantly settled onto my shoulder, becoming my silent guardian against the world. It struck me that if my shadow were to have a name, it would be "Soul Warder," for she has remained steadfastly by my side since that fateful day of our encounter. In moments of despair, she has transformed her role into that of a provider, delicately plucking bright, succulent berries from the wild and presenting them to me like precious gifts in the dim light of our modest home. Despite the pervasive sense of bleakness that often enveloped me, I also discovered a profound sense of purpose, belonging, and a glimpse of that elusive feeling we call love woven into the fabric of our bond.

Mist drifted across the underbrush like fading breath, and Volos could feel it gathering against his cheeks. His hands, small but coarse from bark and stone work, clutched the crude club he'd carved days prior - wood splintered and bound with jagged slate, a weapon born of instinct, not desire.

Valour moved with quiet precision ahead of him, the great bear's frame half-shadow against dawn. Not a sound escaped him - no growl, no grunt, only the weighted steps of purpose. From time to time, he paused and turned slightly, making sure Volos followed. A gentle nudge of his flank or a shoulder glance was enough. The silence between them spoke louder than any spoken rite.

They had found the herd earlier, upstream. Through carved choke points and reedy barriers of bramble, Valour began to shape the land around their quarry. Every movement was deliberate: a felled branch to channel passage, a dug trench to slow retreat. Over hours, the woods became a cage shaped of intent.

Volos did as asked, copying the gestures, anchoring twigs in loose soil, aligning thorn bushes like sentinels, all the while feeling the weight of the club at his side as if it were watching him.

The trap closed slowly. The forest held its breath.

By sundown, the deer was cornered - muscles taut, legs trembling. It snorted, tossed its head, and stamped at the earth. A gentle wind rustled overhead. From behind, Volos saw the calf. Barely walking, its small frame nestled against the adult's flank, eyes wide with unknowing.

Valour moved beside Volos and stopped. The message was clear. It was time.

Volos stepped forward into the clearing. The dagger had not been chosen this time. Instead, his club swung at his side - not out of readiness, but burden. He eyed the adult deer, heart pounding. Then he saw the calf again.

His chest tightened.

He lowered the club.

Valour stood behind him, unmoving. The silence was thick. The deer fled, the calf stumbling beside it, and the trap unraveled into motion once more.

That night, Volos sat beneath the canopy. Hunger roared in his belly like a second soul. His father offered no food. His mother - the crow - descended, and with quiet precision dropped berries into his palm. Their red juice stained his fingers. He licked them clean, but the pang of starvation remained.

The next day, Valour took him to observe wolves. A pack circled a wounded boar. Each movement was tactful, patient. The hunt was not savagery - it was rhythm. Volos watched as the boar fell. No cruelty. No glory.

Later, they found carrion being picked apart by scavengers. Ants claimed the marrow. Moths threaded the fur. The cycle churned quietly beneath the moss.

Valour didn't judge. He nudged Volos's shoulder again, with a softness that felt like trust, not disappointment.

Volos walked home with the club still at his side, untouched.

That night, the crow settled beside him again. She plucked another handful of berries, but this time hesitated - her black eyes searching his.

Volos took them in silence. He chewed slowly. Hunger still laced his breath. But so did something else: a question.

Was it weakness? Or a refusal to join the rhythm?

Whatever it was, the club remained a burden - and Volos remained unblooded.

And yet, somewhere deep in the forest, the thorns still remembered his pause.