Claws in the Storm
“You don’t understand.” Iosef’s voice cracked as he leaned over the tavern table, his hands trembling around his mug. “The forest—it’s alive. It watches, waits, and if you’re lucky, it sends her.”
The patrons leaned in closer, the storm outside battering the windows, wind and rain rattling the timbers as though Morgdhav himself strained to hear the tale. Iosef’s gaze flicked toward the glass before he continued.
“I thought I was clever,” he said quickly. “Thought I could save time by cutting through Rindervale. Everyone said the road was safer, sure, but longer. But I was in a hurry. Cart full of silks, horse steady. I figured I’d slip through. Stupid. Should’ve known better.”
He swallowed hard. “Halfway in, the storm hit. Rain like walls of water, thunder shaking the ground. Morgdhav’s hand, I thought. Just weather. But it felt… wrong. Like the storm had eyes.”
“Then they came. Ten of them—bandits. The rain hid their steps until they were on me. They tipped my cart, spilled my goods, pressed steel to my throat. They laughed, said I was just another fool cutting through their wood.”
Iosef’s knuckles whitened on the mug. “I begged. And then… then she stepped out of the storm.”
“She looked small at first. A woman, soaked through, cloak plastered to her skin. You wouldn’t glance at her twice. But her eyes… gold. Not the gold of coin, but of a beast in torchlight. The leader sneered. ‘Turn around, girl, before you get hurt.’”
“She didn’t. She raised her face to the storm—slow, calm. And then the heavens split.”
Iosef’s voice dropped. “Lightning, jagged and white, crashed down. It struck one of the bandits mid-laugh, fusing his sword into the mud. He screamed once and was gone, smoke curling from his chest. The rest froze, staring at her.”
“She answered their fear with a howl. Gods above, it wasn’t human. It was the forest itself, carried on the storm. And from the treeline, they came—wolves, boars, stags with antlers wide, a whole host of beasts, real as you and me. They tore into the bandits, snapping weapons, driving them to the ground. None touched me. Not one.”
“The bandits tried to rally, but the forest turned against them. Vines ripped from the muck, coiling around legs, dragging men screaming into the earth. The storm swallowed their shouts.”
Iosef shivered. “But the leader—he stood. He spat in the mud, raised his blade, and roared, ‘Face me yourself, witch! No storm, no beasts. Just you.’”
“She turned to him. For a heartbeat she was only a woman in the rain. Then her stance dropped low, her eyes blazing gold. Her fingers curled into claws, her teeth lengthened into fangs, the beast pressing just beneath her skin. Not quite woman, not quite animal. Something in-between.”
“The leader charged. She met him head-on, claws shrieking against steel. He swung, cursed, tried to press her back, but she moved like no human ever could—fast, deliberate, each strike an animal’s. He faltered, slipped in the mud, and that was all she needed.”
“She lunged, fangs bared, and sank them deep into his throat. The cry caught in his chest, cut off in a wet gurgle. Blood spilled into the storm, and when she tore free, he collapsed in the muck, eyes wide with prey’s last terror.”
“For a breath she crouched over him, feral and dripping red. Then the beast faded—claws and fangs withdrawing, her body smoothing back into human form. Calm. Steady. The storm hushed around her, as if listening.”
“Her golden eyes lingered on the bandit leader’s body as the wolves she had summoned set upon it, tearing it apart.”
Iosef’s voice softened as he spoke of her next. “When it was over, she walked up to me. Calm, steady, like she hadn’t just brought a storm down on them. She looked me in the eye and asked, ‘Why are you here?’”
“I told her the truth. That I was just passing through, trying to sell my silks. She nodded, said the forest doesn’t begrudge travelers. But then—then she turned to the bandits, still tangled in the vines. Her voice was cold, sharp, like the wind before the rain. ‘The forest remembers,’ she said. ‘If you harm it or those who travel through it again, it will not be kind.’”
He took a deep breath, his trembling hands gripping the table. “She wasn’t just protecting the forest. She was the forest—The Wild’s Child, born of nature itself. You could see it in her eyes; in the way the storm answered her.”
The room fell silent, the only sound the rain against the windows. Iosef’s voice softened further as he spoke his final words.
“When it was over, she crouched beside me. In her hands, she carried… his head. The bandit leader’s. The eyes were still open, rolled back white, the throat torn ragged where her fangs had ended him. She pressed it into my hands and said only, ‘Proof. So they know you speak truth.’ Then she turned away, the wolves at her side, and the storm swallowed her.”
Iosef’s trembling hands moved beneath his cloak. Slowly, he lifted something heavy wrapped in burlap and set it down upon the tavern table. The thud was soft, but it carried like a hammerblow through the silence. He pulled the cloth back.
A severed head stared up at them, mouth slack, skin gray, the neck nothing but ruin.
Gasps rippled through the room. Someone retched. No one spoke.
Iosef’s gaze was distant, his voice low. “If you think of crossing Rindervale, do it with respect. Take only what you need, hunt only what you will eat, and use dead wood for your fires. But if you ever find yourself in trouble—if you’re truly desperate—pray The Wild hears you and sends one of her children to help.”
He pushed back his chair, leaving the grisly trophy where it lay in the candlelight. His last words were barely a whisper:
“Just pray you don’t see her when you’re on the wrong side of the forest’s wrath. Because then? No one’s coming to save you.”
