The moon rose sharp and white above the skeletal trees, its light slicing the dense forest into fragments of silver and shadow. The wind was thin tonight, not enough to mask the sounds of breathless running — hers. The witch. She moved through the underbrush like a deer with too much intelligence for her own good. But not enough to escape.

The wendigo followed, silent and tall, her elongated limbs brushing frost-covered branches as she weaved through the woods. Humanoid — yes — but wrong in ways that made wolves avoid her path and owls still mid-flight. Her hunger was clawing at her chest. A constant gnawing. It was always there, even in dreams.

Tonight, the hunger chose her. The witch.

There had been something intriguing about the scent the witch left behind. Not fear — not the usual desperation she could smell dripping off most prey. It was... irritated determination. And herbs. Thick curling smoke and something ancient woven through the sweat and adrenaline.

She crouched behind a thick pine, watching as the witch paused, catching her breath near the stream. The wendigo could hear the blood pounding in her neck.

Why am I waiting? She knew she could end it now. One pounce. One slash. One scream. But she hesitated.

She had seen the witch before — not up close — but during the solstice fire three winters ago. Dancing in the glade barefoot. Laughing. She'd looked alive in a way the wendigo had forgotten how to be.

The wendigo licked the back of her teeth. Something stirred under her ribs.

The witch suddenly turned, casting a hand full of bone dust into the air. It shimmered like embers. Her voice, strained and raw from running, chanted a ward under her breath.

The spell hit the wendigo like a wave. Not painful — but... it pushed. She growled low, not from pain, but surprise. She didn't expect this kind of fight. This was not prey. This was power. And now she didn't want to devour her anymore. She wanted to understand her.