The wolves' patience thinned.
Roald saw it first in their shoulders.
The careful stillness began to tremble with restrained force. Muscles tightened beneath grey fur. One wolf shifted its weight forward, claws pressing into the pine needles.
Another lowered its head.
The circle drew smaller.
Roald backed away until bark pressed against his spine.
There was nowhere else to go.
The lead wolf inhaled slowly, tasting his fear.
Above them—
A branch creaked.
This time it was not subtle.
Every wolf's head snapped upward.
Too late.
A dark shape descended from the canopy — not falling, but controlled. Boots struck a lower branch first, bending it, redirecting momentum. Then the forest floor.
Soft.
Balanced.
Between Roald and the advancing wolf.
She straightened.
For a suspended heartbeat, nothing moved.
She did not look at Roald.
Her attention belonged wholly to the wolves.
Still.
Measured.
The pack hesitated.
They had expected prey.
This was not prey.
One wolf tested forward anyway, lips peeling back to show its teeth.
Her hand slipped briefly to her belt.
A small object — no larger than a walnut — dropped soundlessly into the needles between her and the wolves.
It burst with a muted pop.
Not fire.
Smoke.
A sharp plume of pale grey curled upward, thick and sudden, carrying with it the bitter tang of resin and crushed herbs. The scent was wrong for prey. Wrong for forest.
The wolves recoiled a fraction, startled.
Before they could recover—
From somewhere behind them came the abrupt, guttural snarl of a much larger predator.
Not wolf.
Not dog.
Deeper.
Closer than it should have been.
Several wolves wheeled around instantly, hackles rising.
The sound came again — from the opposite direction this time.
Spacing.
Not echo.
The forest felt populated.
She had not moved far, yet something small in her other hand clicked and whirred softly — a compact device of wood and brass, no larger than her palm. A thin membrane within it vibrated when she pressed it just so, reshaping her breath into something feral and foreign.
The lead wolf faltered, uncertain which threat to read.
She shifted her stance — only slightly.
Yet the adjustment changed the space between them.
Behind the wolves, a separate branch trembled — not from wind.
Their eyes flicked sideways.
Another low, manufactured growl rolled from deeper within the trees.
Doubt spread through the pack.
A younger wolf lunged abruptly, impatience overriding caution.
She moved before Roald fully saw her begin.
A fallen branch lifted from the ground in the same motion as her turn. The strike was sharp and exact — not savage, but decisive. Wood cracked against fur. The wolf yelped and stumbled sideways into another of the pack.
Disruption rippled through the circle.
The small device in her hand gave one final rasping cry — then went still.
She did not chase.
She advanced a single step instead — claiming ground.
The smoke thinned but lingered just enough to blur her outline.
Above them, another branch shifted.
The wolves felt it.
Their ears flattened.
This was no longer a simple hunt.
There was scent where there should not be scent.
Sound where there should not be sound.
Movement that did not align.
The lead wolf backed away slowly.
One by one, the others yielded, retreating between the spruce — not in panic, but in wary concession.
They did not run.
They withdrew.
Grey shapes dissolved into shadow until only stillness remained.
Silence reclaimed the clearing.
The faint scent of smoke faded.
She remained where she stood, branch loose in her hand, the small device now tucked back into her belt, breathing steady.
Only then did she turn.
Up close, she did not look like a specter.
She looked young.
Composed.
And utterly unafraid.
Roald stared at her, tears still wet on his cheeks, chest heaving.
For a moment he seemed unsure whether she was real.
She regarded him briefly — assessing, not unkind — then lifted her gaze toward the canopy once more, as if confirming something unseen had settled.
The forest answered with quiet.
And for the first time since he had run, Roald did not feel alone.
Roald wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve, embarrassed by the tears he had not meant to shed.
She had already shifted her attention away from him.
The branch dropped from her hand without ceremony.
For a moment, she stood listening — not to the boy, but to the forest beyond him. Her head tilted slightly, as though measuring distance through sound alone.
Somewhere far off, a voice carried faintly between the trunks.
"Roald!"
Sir Wilkinson.
Roald's head jerked toward the sound.
"I have to—" he began, then stopped. He wasn't sure what he meant to say.
She was already moving.
Not toward the voice.
Not away from it.
Up.
Her hands found the bark of a nearby spruce with familiarity born of repetition. She climbed without haste, without wasted effort. Boots found knots and shallow ridges invisible to Roald's eye.
Within seconds she had ascended beyond his reach.
He craned his neck.
A shift of branches.
A darker shape folding into darker shadow.
Then nothing distinct at all.
Only the woven ceiling of spruce.
"Roald!"
Closer now.
Roald turned toward the sound, hesitating only once to glance upward again.
If she remained there, she gave no sign.
The forest no longer felt predatory.
But it did not feel empty either.
It felt watched — differently.
"Roald!"
"I'm here!" he shouted back, voice cracking.
He pushed between the trunks toward the sound of Sir Wilkinson's approach. The path he had taken in panic seemed less clear now, but the call guided him.
Behind him, high above and unseen, weight shifted once along a branch.
Measured.
Then stilled.
By the time Sir Wilkinson burst through the trees, breathless and pale with fear, the clearing where the wolves had stood showed only disturbed needles and the faint scuff of paws already fading.
Roald turned to face his mentor.
Above them, the canopy held its secrets.
And somewhere within it, she watched — but did not descend.