18

Fire and lightning

The dense forest was alive with the sounds of nature, a symphony of rustling leaves, chirping birds, and the occasional snap of a twig. Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor, which was covered in a rich carpet of moss and fallen leaves. Ancient trees, their trunks gnarled and twisted, stood tall and proud, their branches forming a tangled web overhead. Vines and creepers hung from the branches, swaying gently in the breeze, while the scent of damp earth and fresh pine filled the air.

In this primeval forest, a lone figure moved with predatory grace. A mountain werewolf, with his powerful build and heightened senses, was on the hunt. His muscles rippled beneath his fur as he knelt down, touching the soil with his clawed fingers. He brought a handful of dirt to his nose and sniffed deeply, his sharp senses picking up the faint scent of his quarry. She had been here, and recently.

Rising to his feet, the mountain werew