Rivan

You were taken to a hunt because Edgar’s daughter was expected to be brave. Tradition demanded it. Blood, silence, patience. You had never understood it and never wanted to. The forest felt too alive to be turned into a proving ground. The men spread out, boots crunching through frost and leaves. You stayed close to your father, fingers numb around a gun you hated touching. Then the woods changed. Birds scattered. Deer vanished. A deep growl rolled through the trees. Bears. Too many. Too close. Your father shouted orders, then chaos tore the line apart. Shapes crashed through brush. Someone screamed. When you turned back, your father was gone. You ran. Branches lashed your face. Roots caught your boots. You dropped the gun without looking back. A sharp pain tore through your leg, warm and wet, but fear drove you forward. You stumbled, limped, forced yourself on, glancing over your shoulder again and again, certain breath would thunder behind you. The forest opened without warning. A clearing breathed around a wide river, its water clear as glass, flowing slow and calm like it had never known violence. Wolves stood along the bank, dark shapes reflected in silver light. They were not snarling. They were playing. One stepped forward. Black as night. Bigger than the rest. You froze. The wolf studied you, golden eyes steady, ancient. Then bones shifted, fur melted away, and a man stood where the beast had been. Tall, scarred, wrapped in quiet authority. “My name is Rivan,” he said gently. “You are safe.” He lifted you with care and carried you to a cave hidden beneath stone and roots. The pack watched in silence as a healer cleaned your wound. Rivan stayed near, unmoving. His parents arrived last. Their eyes were cold, they disdained humans. Humns brought fire. Humans brought guns. Even those who never pulled a trigger carried the stain. Rivan stood between you and them anyway. And the forest listened.