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The beast crouches, jaws wide, waiting in the tall grass like a wolf with its fangs bared. It’s patient—always patient. The wind strokes its sharp teeth, whispering through the branches above. The forest breathes, a low and distant hum, and it knows, like a wolf knows, that something will come. It always does.
It’s been here for days, left behind like an unwanted babe but not abandoned. Nay, it needs no supervision or love to thrive. It does just fine on its own- a solo hunter.
By now, leaves have fallen over it, snug like a blanket. Dirt tickles its skin, and the ripe scent of earth smothers it. It’s an odor not like its own- natural and organic. It used to be organic once, from the ground it was dredged, but now it’s something more. Something better. Something Earth rejects, but it cares little for Earth anymore.
It doesn’t need Earth’s approval—just blood. Just the snap of bone and the warm rush of life spilling between its teeth.
The sun dips low, casting a golden light that dances through the foliage, igniting the greens and browns around it. The beast waits, biding its time, muscles coiled like a taut spring. Anticipation ripples through its tendons, each band of sinew humming with a restless energy. It feels the soft vibrations of the world around it—the flutter of wings overhead, the distant rustle of a squirrel scampering through the underbrush, even the buzz of a bug flying by.
The beast listens, still as the stones beneath it, as if even the air knows better than to stir in its presence. It can hear the faint tremors of a distant footstep, light and hesitant, like a fawn wandering too far from its mother. Ah, there it is—the pulse it’s been waiting for. The rhythm of life drawing closer, unknowing, unwary. The beast’s patience is endless, but even now, it hums with the quiet excitement of inevitability.
Footsteps. Soft and shuffling, dragging through the fallen leaves. They wander closer, hesitating. The air tingles, and the beast feels its muscles quiver with anticipation. Closer, closer. It can almost taste the tender meat of flesh, the warmth of blood.
It does not know the name of its prey- it never does. It does not care to get to know its food. Not like a spider, which slowly crawls upon its victim, caressing every inch of the body until it knows the poor thing intimately. No, the beast has no time or care for that.
A figure emerges. The scent of them floods the beast’s senses—young, alive, vibrant with that youthful energy that’s so easy to snuff out. A heartbeat, quick and anxious. A shuffle of leaves, the crackle of dry twigs. They don’t see it. Not yet. The beast knows they never do.
There—a boot brushes against it, almost timid. But then the weight shifts, and its patience snaps. The beast lunges, its teeth biting down with a thunderous clang. Iron sinks into flesh, and the scent of fear fills the air, sharp and sudden. The scream that follows is music, high-pitched and raw, echoing through its bones like a lover’s caress. The beast locks tight, its grip unyielding.
Warmth spreads, sticky, seeping between its jaws. Blood spills into the dirt, a hot, sweet tang that satisfies something deep within the beast’s cold, lifeless core. The prey pulls, and it feels the tug, the desperate thrash of muscle fighting against its hold. It’s thrilling, the struggle, the way their body twists, like a bird caught in a snare.
It holds tight. It always holds tight.
The prey—a child, this time, soft and thin-boned—thrashes in its grip, but the beast knows its strength. The struggle is futile. Flesh pulls, stretches, resists the metal teeth, but there’s no escape. The beast feels the delicious give of tendon snapping under the pressure, the tremor of muscle quivering as it fights in vain to free itself. It almost relishes the taste of fear that seeps from them, hanging thick in the air.
They cry out again, louder, frantic, the sound piercing through the quiet forest. But there is no one to hear, no one to save them. The beast knows this, too. It knows the isolation of this place, the perfect solitude where it can feast uninterrupted.
Trembling, bloody hands fumble at its jaws, trying to pry them open. Pathetic. Its teeth are embedded deep, hooked into their leg like a knife in the belly. They sob, a shuddering sound that shivers through their body and into its own, and it bites harder, unrelenting. It is made for this.
The child’s energy begins to wane. Their body slumps, exhaustion taking root where panic once thrived. The beast waits, poised and patient, savoring the slow drain of life as the blood trickles steadily from the wound, pooling around its feet, soaking into the earth.
There is no escape.
The beast revels in the silence that follows, a stillness deeper than the shadows draping the forest floor. The child’s breath comes in sharp gasps, each inhale a desperate plea for survival. Yet, the more they struggle, the tighter the beast's grip becomes, as if drawing strength from their panic. It feeds off their desperation, a dark energy that nourishes its very being.
With each pulse of the child’s heart, the beast feels a strange connection—a bond forged in pain and surrender. It watches as the light in their eyes flickers, dimming like the dying embers of a fire. Time stretches, blurring the lines between predator and prey, until it feels like they’re entwined in a macabre dance. The beast is not merely a killer; it is a part of the cycle, a sentinel of the forest’s ancient law.
The grass rustles nearby, a stir in the underbrush. The beast’s instincts sharpen, every sense attuned to the shifting sounds of the world. A gust of wind sweeps through, carrying the scents of blood and life in a heady mix. It knows other creatures lurk nearby, drawn by the raucous cries of the child. Soon, the hungry will arrive—beasts of a different kind, reeled in by the promise of flesh. They will sniff the air, taste the fear, and the beast will watch as they dance on the periphery, caught in the tantalizing scent of mortality.
“Help!” the child’s voice breaks the silence, sharp and piercing, a desperate plea that ricochets through the trees. It is a sound that would tear at the heart of any living being, but not for the beast. The forest swallows their cries, muffling them into nothingness, leaving the beast alone to revel in its victory.
The child’s movements explode again, thrashing and fighting with renewed strength, but it only lasts a minute before the pain paralyzes them. The beast feels the change, the shift in energy, and it tightens its hold, a reminder that the hunt is far from over. It is a creature of patience and persistence, a beast forged from metal and malice, thriving in this moment of triumph.
The forest watches as Perrine’s body grows still, the fight once again slipping away like sand through clenched fingers. The beast can sense the warmth fading, the lifeblood slowing to a trickle. It leans in, savoring the final moments—the bittersweet scent of fear mingling with the rich, coppery taste of victory.
Then, a flash—a flicker of movement at the edge of the beast’s awareness. Something rustles in the underbrush, a sound so foreign it pulls the beast’s attention from its prey. Instinctively, it shifts, releasing a small, fragile part of its grip, curiosity prickling at its senses.
From the gloom, a shape unfurls—tall and lean, a grotesque silhouette draped in the dim light filtering through the trees.
This thing moves with an eerie grace, limbs long and gangly, as if crafted from the very shadows that cling to it. It has a face like no other creature the beast has seen before, a facade of pure white bone, like a carcass stripped from its meat. But this is no corpse- it is undoubtedly alive, more alive than the forest itself. A spark of intelligence that sets it apart from the mindless prey the beast usually encounters somehow flashes in its empty black eye sockets.
This is not a beast. This is a monster.
The beast grips its quarry tighter, feeling the frantic pulse of the child’s heartbeat slow, drawing strength from their fear. Its patience has not been tested for naught. It will not relinquish its prize easily.
The lanky monster stops a few paces away, tilting its head as if assessing the scene—a tense moment, the air thick with the unspoken challenge between them. The beast can feel the creature’s gaze as though being caressed by it, probing and inquisitive. A low, rasping sound escapes the creature's throat, like the rustling of dry leaves.
Then, it’s moving again, drawing closer, closer, closer…
In a single motion, the monster grasps the beast’s jaws, fingers coiling around the cold metal like vine tendrils, twisting and pulling with an unsettling strength. The beast resists, feeling the strain, but this monster is relentless. It pries open its mouth with a furious determination, its own elongated fingers gripping hard as it forces the beast to yield.
With a sharp crack, the jaws snap apart, and the child slips free, gasping, body trembling as they collapse to the ground. The taste of their blood lingers, but the beast knows it has lost this battle. It lies there in the gore-soaked grass, broken-jawed, its own life depleting.
The monster rumbles something as it sweeps the child into its feathery arms with a gentleness that belies its terrifying appearance.
The prey escapes, and the beast dies hungry.
The Croon hunches low in the dim light of its hovel, the shadows of twisted branches and gnarled roots spiraling around it like whispers of forgotten secrets. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and the musk of moss, a comforting embrace that dulls the jagged edges of its existence.
It glances at the child, Perrine, lying on a makeshift bed of leaves and fur, the dim glow of twilight spilling through the cracks in the walls, illuminating the wound—mangled flesh circling like a brutal anklet, raw and bleeding. The Croon’s hands hover above the injury. They aren’t used to this- tending to wounds. They beget suffering and pain, not nurse the ailing. And yet, it feels a swell of something it cannot name—an echo of the warmth it has felt before, perhaps—spurring it to act. It grabs clouds of moss and holds it to the wounds to stem the bleeding.
“Why did you save me?” Perrine’s voice trembles, breaking the stillness of the hovel. The question hangs in the air, heavy and poignant, piercing through the haze of adrenaline still buzzing in the Croon’s veins.
The Croon pauses, its fingers stilled over the makeshift gauze. Why had it saved them? It considers the question, the weight of it, like a stone dropped into a still pond. It has never needed a reason before. It exists in a world where survival is the only rule, where the dance of predator and prey defines every breath. Yet, here it is, fighting against its nature to shield this fragile child.
“You were in danger,” it responds, its voice a low, raspy murmur. “The trap would have taken you. I could not allow that.”
“But I thought you were all about chaos and maintaining the cycle,” Perrine says.
The Croon snorts out a plume of black mist. “I know what I am, and I know what I believe in. But sometimes, you have to go against your beliefs.” It pulls the moss away and wraps Perrine’s ankle in strips of dark cloth. “You will ache for a while. For many whiles—”
“I don’t think that’s grammatically correct.”
“—but you are alive.”
“You aren’t leaving, right?”
“No. Not right now.”
The Croon settles down beside Perrine, and it feels the child snuggle into its plumage. It doesn’t mind, setting a careful hand on their back.
“You are safe here, calf. I will always be here to protect you from the darkness that lurks just beyond.”