If you kill a wolf, beware of its spirit.

Popular saying of the Thousand Kingdoms.

The stars were conspicuous by their absence on that dark and gentle night. The fire burned unabashedly, spitting sparks in faint crackles of burnt splinters. Derren belched and found that his breath smelled fishy, just as he had suspected. In the end, the big guy had been right, in a way. He hadn't gotten half a penny for the catch. He had preferred to be satiated, and it is common knowledge that no one is satiated with a halfpenny, so he felt lucky.

He waited for a while, listening to the crackling of the campfire and the rustling of the leaves that the arrival of autumn was beginning to shrivel. He thought about the traps he would have to prepare to catch a monster he had never seen before. He thought about where the other hunters were already. They had disembarked the day before, but Derren had postponed the trip to Drengs. The bald one, the toasted one and the asparagus had left together. Derren could not imagine a more unbearable journey.

He traveled alone. Since his early days as a hunter, solitude was his best companion. Solitude did not demand boring conversations or oppressive silences. She did not ask for explanations when plans were changed. She didn't eat, she didn't get sick, she didn't straggle, she didn't snore, she didn't die and she didn't need to be buried. Loneliness never betrayed him. There was no better companion, then, than loneliness. Let's say something about Trip Derren: he was a lonely guy.

When the campfire was completely extinguished, turning into a mass of gray ash, the hunter put his things in the shelter of his old pack and started to walk in the night light. Towards the mouth of the forest. Towards the sinister hooting of an owl, lord and master of the oak grove. Towards the chilling howls of the wild wolves, masters of the night. Towards the north.

Hunting at night has always been easier for him. During the day, preys are hard to find, they hide and remain lazy in their various shelters. But when the moon begins to streak across the sky, the forest awakens: the crickets chirp, the wolves howl, the trees rustle. Yes, to Derren the woods had always seemed more alive at night. When prey came to him without him having to bother looking for it. It was enough to listen and be patient. It was enough to smell the meat. It was enough to expose himself and wait.

The forest oozed a humid air. The ground consisted of a mixture of mud and leaf litter where his boots sank slightly with each step. Footprints. Broken leaves. Traces. Derren knew the other hunters had passed that way. And it didn't even take him bending down to identify the tracks of a lone boar. It would surely die shortly, for it was autumn when these animals fought to establish their domain. Derren would have liked to give it a more honorable death, but he had already eaten and there was no time to hunt wild boar.

As he made his way through the dense heart of the oak grove, the trunks grew thicker, the branches appeared taller, and the roots sprouting from the earth arched along a barely visible path. The wind stirred the foliage and swayed the branches slightly. Crickets chorused to an indefatigable solo owl that owned the vast territory. Derren was not neglecting his hearing, and had not heard the howls of the wolves for some time. It would have been a worrying sign for anyone.

Derren could take on a wild wolf with his eyes closed. Two. Even three if he opened one eye. But he had no desire to face a pack. Yet he felt them. He knew that every step he took brought him closer to them. That they were waiting for him. That they stalked him from the darkness. He wrinkled his nose. He still didn't smell like wolves, in fact, he smelled human.

A small clearing opened up before him. The faint crunching of twigs under his boots suddenly mingled with the buzzing of flies. The smell was stronger. Human. There was no doubt about it. His footsteps stopped in front of the corpse. It was the big guy. He couldn't tell by his face, for he no longer looked like one at all, but hhe could tell by his stature and the torn rags that had once been the noble doublet of a hunter. Defeated by a pack of wolves, what would have become of the other two?

Grunts. There was no turning back now. They were coming closer. Slowly. He felt them. Now he did. He smelled them. He smelled skin. Of hair. Of mud. Of forest. Derren reached behind his back and gripped the handle of his catana. Still. Mute. Alert.

Seconds of tension followed. Seconds in which the seeds of adrenaline began to sprout from deep inside him. That inevitable tingle that he loved so much. That which had kept him alive ever since he began his wanderings as a hunter. He could hear the dry leaves cracking with the predators' footsteps. He counted eight. And Derren could count even up to three thousand. "Three thousand silver shields."

Suddenly, a shadow rushed at him. The metallic sound vented in his ear as he drew his weapon. Quick as lightning, Derren lunged to the left as he launched a diagonal thrust. The helienum sank into the wolf's body as if it were an egg custard. Without letting go of the saber, the hunter leapt as he spun on himself. Two pairs of furious eyes were diving at him head–on. He heard another wolf approaching from the side. Three against one. He'd gotten out of worse jams. Drawing a one hundred and eighty degree turn, the catana sliced off the heads of the two animals and Derren rolled in the mud and pools of blood of his two victims.

Realizing that it had bitten the air, the wolf that had attacked from the side skidded and its paws ran back towards the hunter. Exactly as he expected. He didn't even pay attention to it, it was an almost unconscious blow. The catana skewered the animal through the belly as it tracked down the remaining four. The prey howled shrilly. Derren withdrew the blade and grabbed the creature by the scruff of the neck.

It was dark brown, with a black snout and sharp, yellowish jaws. It was not particularly large. And at the time it did not strike him as at all fierce or threatening. Its wood–colored eyes seemed to plead, and the sound it emitted resembled the whimpering of a puppy.

“Tell them to get lost!” he roared in the middle of the night.

The animal howled in a sort of wolfish cry. Blood gushed from its wounded belly. It would die.

He heard how the other four creatures slipped back into the tangle of vegetation, moving away with haste and discretion. Satisfied, the hunter smiled. He released the wounded wolf. It fell at his feet and lay on its side, resting on its own blood.

In other times, Derren would have saved him. He would have stitched the wound with bone and gut and applied some improvised concoction from whatever he had on hand in the woods. But not anymore. He could also have cut his throat and shortened his suffering. But no more.

Let's say something about Trip Derren: he had no mercy for his prey. Not anymore. That's why he left him there, dying next to the corpse of the hunter he had killed.