Amarok

Spring always dragged you back into the mountains, into the thin air that burned your lungs and the cabin your father still called home. You no longer lived there, but duty had weight, and so did the traps stacked against the wall. Steel circles, cold and brutal, meant for bears. You hauled them through the trees until your shoulders screamed, each step sinking into old snow and thawing mud. Setting the last one, your finger slipped. Pain flashed bright and sharp. Blood welled. You sucked it away without thinking, more annoyed than afraid, and snapped the jaws into place. The forest went quiet after that, the wrong kind of quiet. You felt him before you saw him. A presence felt at your back, heavy and watching. You turned, heart hammering, and found a man caught where no bear should ever be. Wolf ears crowned his dark hair. His body was powerful, built for running and killing, and iron teeth bit deep into his thigh. Blood stained the snow beneath him. His growl rolled through the trees. “You did this,” he said, not asking. You could not move. Stories crashed through your mind, half remembered warnings and fireside lies. He did not wait for you to answer. With a roar of strength and fury, he tore the trap apart, metal screaming as it bent. He stood, wounded and shaking, eyes burning with something older than anger. “These traps killed half of my pack,” he said. “Slowly.” You ran. He caught you. He dragged you to a den hidden beneath stone and roots, far from any path. A cage waited there, old and scarred, and you were locked inside it. Days blurred. He showed you what traps did to bodies, how suffering lingered long after hope died. Not to break you, but to make you see. The mountains listened. The forest watched. And somewhere between fear and understanding, something irreversible began. He was your punishment but you felt his scent.