The air became a sudden, sickening silence after the guttural bellowing, broken only by the rasp of his own frantic breath. He stared, chest heaving, at the enormous, steaming corpse of the bear. Even in death, its massive body radiated astonishing heat, and the cold air immediately snatched the rising vapor from the crimson flow that poured from the deep gash in its flank. The battle was over, but his blood still sang with adrenaline. Slumping into the deep snow, he allowed himself a moment of raw, exhausted glory.

  The immediate need for survival quickly superseded awe. He drew his bayonet, the steel cold against his palm, and set to the grim, necessary work. The bear’s skin—thick, dark, and a perfect trophy—was the first to be shorn, vital insulation against the bitter cold. This was followed by the careful butchery of the meat. He wondered, with a practical pang of hunger, just how palatable the flesh of a beast so formidable would be. He didn't touch the deer beast meat.

  The sky was darkening when he finally strapped his bloody burden and turned toward his distant shelter. But a flash of white, stark against the dark pines, stopped him. Penetrating the bear, the majestic horn of the giant deer that had been the unpredictable key to his victory caught his eye. Could that magnificent tine, the very instrument that delivered the killing blow, be of some use?

  The frozen forest had settled into a profound, oppressive quiet. The crunch of snow beneath his boots as he walked toward the skull seemed deafening, and the bear's final, rattling gasp still echoed in his mind. His fingers, slick with frozen blood and bear grease, heaved himself through the bear's massive body, reaching the head and gripping the long straight spiral horn, a perfect resemblance of a unicorn’s horn. It was a spectacular thing, beautifully soaked in bear's blood. There was a little crack in the horn right in the upper part; its length was taller than his forearm. He began to cut the crack to remove the top section. The horn was sturdy; it took longer than he expected.

  CRACK. The top part of the horn fell. Rolling the segment experimentally in his grip, he recognized its deadly potential—natural armor and inherent sharpness, a weapon forged by the wild itself. He climbed down and sat, working his knife carefully at the base, scraping away the last stubborn strands of sinew and gristle. The majestic horn now wore a coat of the bear’s dark blood, amplifying its primal beauty. Feeling a subtle, softer spot in the dense bone on the middle of the base, a stroke of inspiration hit him. He drove the spike of a solid, frozen wooden branch deep into the void, sinking it until the makeshift handle and the spiral horn looked undeniably like a crude, beautiful sword—a drill sword.

  He swung the drill sword, familiarizing himself with it, making sure the stick was set fast. The weather started to get more fierce. He cut a strip of the bear's skin and rolled it on the hilt of the sword, then tucked the weapon behind his coat and covered himself with the rest of the hide.

  He knew nothing of the deer-like beast, save that it was a creature as majestic, and now as instrumental, as the bear it helped fell. With the new weapon secured, exhaustion finally claimed precedence. His stomach rumbled, a fierce, empty sound. He turned his back on the silent battlefield, every step toward his shelter driven by the promise of fire and the long-awaited, hard-won meal.

  A hush of frozen air hung over the clearing, where a grotesque tableau of death was etched into the fresh snow. Four figures, bundled in heavy furs and branded with the stylized Dragonbloods sigil—a winged serpent coiling around a sword—stood surveying the scene: a massive, dead bear lying beside a ripped-open deer.

  The group's leader, Lyven, a towering man with sun-bleached hair and a perpetually irritated frown, broke the tense silence. "Someone got to the 'Ravmor' before us? Damn it."

  Mira, a sharp-faced brunette, scoffed, pointing at the carnage. "Come on, look at this. They probably just killed each other."

  But Ella, the third member, a woman with keen, silver eyes and hair the color of spun moonlight, knelt by the beast’s head. She ran a gloved finger over the deep gash above its shoulder, then flipped its massive paw to reveal a puncture wound.

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  "No," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "It was done by a human. There's a blade mark here on the paw, and the primary wound around the body looks like a focus-strike from a stone projectile, or maybe a crude, powerful dart." She paused, analyzing the placement of the bodies. "The Mosrel (deer) was probably killed by the Ravmor first."

  Riadle, a dark-skinned man whose armor clinked with impatience, threw his hands up. "Wow, really? I can't believe some other group snagged our bounty! I thought the town guild didn't have any strong men to kill a 'Ravmor' this big. Then why the hell were we asked to take this job?"

  I don't think it was done by a group, but by a single person, Ella thought, her gaze tracing the precise, almost surgical nature of the cuts and the underhand tactics, looking at the stones used in the fight.

  Riadle groaned dramatically. "So what do we do, leader? We took the job, came all the way from the second City, and look at this! The guild screwed us, boss!" He whined, looking to Lyven for direction.

  Lyven eyed the bear, then grinned—a cruel, calculating expression that never reached his eyes. "What do you think? The heart is still intact—the most important part of the beast. That's the real reward; the proof for the Guild and the town. So, no reward for whoever did this. They won't believe them without the bear's heart." He straightened his coat. "I say we take the reward."

  "By 'take the reward,' you mean we tell the guild we killed the bear, right?" Ella asked, her features hardening.

  Lyven gave a sly, predatory chuckle. "Yup."

  "So, everyone on board?" Lyven scanned the group.

  "Free money, boss," Mira replied instantly, shrugging off any moral qualm.

  "Well, it kinda hurts my pride that someone beat us to it, but why not? Finder's keepers, they say, right?" Riadle chimed in, eager for the coin and sharing a smirk with Mira.

  "And you, Ella?"

  Ella rose, dusting the snow from her trousers. Her gaze held Lyven’s, cold as the winter air. "I don't like this. Since when did the proud Dragonbloods become common grave robbers, Lyven? It's against my morals."

  "Hmm... Fine, if you're going to be so sanctimonious," Lyven sneered, his tone dismissing her ethics. "But we are a group. And as your leader, I say we vote. And as you see, it’s three versus one." He motioned to Riadle. "Cut the heart."

  "Yes, Boss!" Riadle replied enthusiastically, drawing a wickedly curved gutting knife.

  "What about the Mosrel? It's one of the 'High beasts' too," Mira asked.

  "True, but while the heart is the important part of the Ravmor, the horn is for the Mosrel—especially the tip," Lyven said, pointing to the deer. "As you can see, one horn is missing, and the other is missing a part—the important part."

  A huge sigh of disappointment fell upon their faces.

  "Seriously, guys?" Unhappy and morally conflicted, Ella pushed away from the grisly scene. While the others busied themselves with the grotesque task of carving the trophy, she began to scout the surroundings, determined to find the skilled, unseen person who had accomplished this feat.

  Crunch... crunch...

  The sound of approaching footsteps in the fresh snow, passing quickly and lightly, snapped Karl's head up mid-preparation. "Another beast?" he whispered to himself. "Come later. I've had enough entertainment today." His voice quieted to a mumble.

  The footsteps paused just at the edge of Karl's shelter, close to where the bear’s faded blood trail—mostly obscured now by the falling snow—disappeared. Ella, however, had already taken a different path, circling wide near a great, hollow oak tree. Due to the heavy snow cover burying most of the ground, and smoke from the fire passing harmlessly through the towering hollow tree, she missed the hidden entrance and continued her loop, failing to locate the bear killer. Ella’s voice echoed through the crisp forest air, sharp with frustration. "I'm not here to cause trouble! My group found the Ravmor's body, and I'd rather speak with the person who actually killed it than play along with those fools back there!"

  Silence answered her. The only sound was the faint, mournful groan of the wind through the pines. Disappointed, the young woman—a flash of determined color against the endless snow—turned and retreated, rejoining her group.

  Meanwhile, nestled deep in the forest's quiet heart, Karl, the true slayer, started cooking. First, he extinguished the flames, leaving charcoal dusting the ashes. He placed the cut meat, steak-sized, directly on the coals. Cooking slowly, flipping and waiting, he prepared most of the meat, leaving some for morning, and started to feast. The first bite of the juicy meat was so tender he stopped chewing; he felt something he couldn't describe. His face, mostly unreadable, broke into an expression of pure satiation. He devoured the rest of the meal, momentarily forgetting his dire situation. After a month stranded in this strange forest in a strange world, he had a proper meal for the first time. The bear's meat was so rich and delicious; the massive meal settled his powerful, exhausted body into a deep sleep that lasted through the long night.