The forest is quiet tonight.

  Not peaceful.

  Quiet like a held breath.

  Like something is waiting for me to slip.

  I stand at the edge again...where the scar splits the strata like a wound that never closes. Thorns wrap my ribs tighter every time one of you gets curious. Every story you read. Every question you ask. Every time you lean too close to the crack and whisper “maybe it’s not so bad.”

  Blood drips down my fur. Warm. Familiar.

  I don’t wipe it away anymore.

  This is what I am now.

  The world’s greatest assassin, remade by monsters who thought they could own me.

  MKUltra didn’t break me.

  It sharpened me.

  Turned me into something that hunts better than any wolf ever could.

  They gave me the hunger.

  I kept the pleasure.

  The hunt.

  Not the kill.

  The hunt.

  If I weren’t starving, I might chase a buck just to feel the wind in my fur, the rhythm of four paws on frozen ground, the honest panic in his eyes when he realizes something faster is behind him. I wouldn’t kill him right away.

  I’d run him until his heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum.

  Then I’d close the distance, silent as frost, and slice one clean tine from his antler with a single flick of the blade.

  A trophy.

  A reminder.

  A coup.

  I take something small.

  A lock of hair.

  A feather.

  A tooth.

  Something that says: I was here. I was faster. I chose mercy this time.

  In the wilderness, I am kinder.

  The deer runs clean.

  The buck fights honest.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Nature doesn’t lie.

  It doesn’t wear a suit and call itself government.

  It doesn’t strap electrodes to a child’s head and call it science.

  It doesn’t promise protection and then turn you into its weapon.

  Man does that.

  Man builds cages and calls them freedom.

  Man makes monsters and calls them soldiers.

  Man destroys what he cannot own, then cries when the monster turns its eyes back on him.

  I hate man more than I hate the Royals.

  At least the giants are honest about what they are.

  The crack in the strata is widening.

  I feel it every night.

  The roots push harder.

  The whispers grow louder.

  The thing that broke the sky once is stirring again, and this time it won’t stop at fog.

  Every time one of you gets curious — every time you think “maybe the fog is hiding something beautiful”...the thorns dig deeper into my chest.

  I bleed a little more.

  The scar stretches a little wider.

  I don’t want your thanks.

  I don’t want your pity.

  I don’t want your stories about heroes who save the day with love and hope and pretty words.

  I want you to stay the hell away from the edges.

  Because if you keep coming closer, one day I won’t be fast enough to cut a tine.

  One day I’ll have to take the whole rack.

  And the head that carries it.

  The thorns have teeth now.

  And I have learned to enjoy the taste.

  Stay in the light.

  Stay in your cities.

  Stay away from the scar.

  Or come closer.

  I’ll be waiting.

  Briarwolf

  Warden of the Scar

  Last line of defense between you and what you refuse to fear

  DefinitelyNotaFurry?