He awoke in pain.

  Not with a gasp.

  Not with clarity.

  But with the slow, grinding sensation of breath forcing its way back into lungs that felt like they didn’t remember how to use it.

  His chest ached.

  His limbs didn’t respond.

  The weight of his own body felt foreign—like it belonged to someone else.

  There was pain. Everywhere. A dull throb in his ribs. A sharp pressure behind his eyes. His side burned. His leg was tight and swollen. Breathing felt like drawing air through cloth.

  And yet—

  It didn’t hurt as much as it should have.

  That realization came slowly, like a strange echo in the back of his mind. He was wounded. Badly. That much was obvious. But the pain was blunted, muted beneath something unnatural. It should’ve been worse.

  Much worse.

  He cracked his eyes open.

  Light burned.

  Gray sky filtered through canopy above—wet leaves and pale mist drifting in the windless air. The scent of earth filled his lungs: moss, decay, something sharp and sterile beneath it all. His vision wavered.

  He turned his head.

  The effort sent a wave of nausea up his spine.

  His body responded sluggishly. Muscles stuttered with delay. His breath caught—

  And then he saw it.

  The creature.

  Sitting no more than six feet away. Perfectly still. Perfectly silent.

  Its body was sleek—canine in shape, but not natural. Not familiar. Its fur was black as pitch, smooth and wet but untouched by mud. Its limbs were long, jointed strangely. Its head was too angular. Its ears were high and alert. Its eyes—

  Amber. Intelligent. Watching.

  Elias tensed.

  His body wanted to recoil, but it didn’t have the strength. His hand twitched toward his belt, toward the knife that wasn’t there. His heart stammered in his chest.

  The thing didn’t move.

  Didn’t growl.

  Didn’t blink.

  It only watched.

  For a moment, confusion clouded everything. Nothing made sense. He remembered... running? A storm? Something in the woods. Something wrong.

  His breathing quickened. Sweat rolled down his temple.

  There had been—something.

  A child.

  The thought stabbed through the haze like a blade.

  The pod.

  The boy.

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  The—

  The bear.

  It crashed over him all at once.

  The charge. The roar. The knife in his hand. The wet impact. Pain like lightning. Then cold. The ground. His own blood.

  He had fallen.

  He had—

  He blinked hard, eyes burning, throat dry.

  And the creature still hadn’t moved.

  Still there.

  Still watching.

  But now, as he looked at it again, he realized something.

  It wasn’t surprised to see him alive.

  In fact, it almost looked like it had been waiting.

  He closed his eyes again, breath shaking.

  It came back in a single, staggering truth:

  It had saved him.

  He tried to speak.

  The breath came, but the voice didn’t.

  His throat was too dry. His chest too weak. The sound caught halfway out—raw, hoarse, useless.

  The creature’s ears twitched.

  It didn’t approach.

  Didn’t retreat.

  It simply tilted its head—just slightly—and continued watching, as if assessing whether the attempt meant he was truly conscious… or simply drifting at the surface.

  Elias closed his mouth and swallowed.

  Even that was exhausting.

  He drifted in and out after that. Hours, maybe days. It was hard to tell. But in the fragments of time when his eyes opened, when his thoughts returned enough to hold shape, he saw it—

  The creature.

  Always nearby.

  Never sleeping.

  For four days, it stayed within a few steps of him and the cradle.

  It brought him food—roots, chewed soft and left beside him, wrapped in wet leaves. Bitter. Fibrous. Not something he’d ever consider eating, but when he had enough strength to chew, he did.

  It brought water—held in hollowed bark strips, damp moss pressed beneath to filter out sediment.

  And it did it all with those hands.

  They looked like paws at a glance—pads and claws and thick fur—but when he really studied them, they were not canine. Each limb ended in five curved digits that could splay wide or compress into narrow hooks. They weren’t hands, not truly, but they functioned like hands—capable of wrapping, balancing, gripping, tearing.

  Animalistic. Deliberate.

  He watched it dig into the base of a tree with one claw, pull up a dark-rooted vine, sniff it once, then begin stripping it into edible lengths using the hooked curve of its inner digit and the serrated edge of its upper claw. Not fast. Not elegant. But practiced.

  And it never rested.

  Not once.

  Its movements slowed as the days wore on. Its steps grew heavier. At night, its head would lower just slightly—but never completely. Its body would coil around the pod where the child slept, then unwind again when the wind shifted or Elias stirred.

  It was tired.

  He could see it now.

  Exhaustion laced every motion, visible in the way its limbs hung just a little lower, in the delay between breaths. It wasn't limping—but it was favoring a rear leg now. Its sleek fur had lost some of its shine.

  It was burning itself out.

  And for what?

  Him?

  The thought sat heavy in his gut as the last of the root passed down his throat.

  By the fifth morning, he could feel strength returning—not much, but enough to test the weight of his body.

  He waited until the creature stepped just beyond his reach, pawing at something near a fallen log.

  Elias pushed his hand against the trunk of the tree he’d been leaning against for days.

  His fingers shook.

  His palm slipped once—then held.

  He grit his teeth, jaw clenched against the sharp flare that ignited in his ribs as he pulled himself up.

  His legs trembled beneath him.

  The bark dug into his skin.

  He rose—slow, hunched, one step at a time—until he stood upright for the first time since the bear had tried to rip him open.

  The world tilted.

  His vision dimmed.

  But he stayed upright.

  He looked down at the creature.

  Still watching.

  Still waiting.

  And now—for the first time—

  Looking up.

  He stood for a minute to gather his strength the best he could in that moment.

  Unsteady. Trembling. Every breath felt like glass scraping the inside of his ribs.

  But he managed to keep standing.

  And he looked past the creature, toward the shape partially buried in the earth just beyond them both—the pod.

  The place where the boy had been.

  Was still, maybe.

  He couldn’t see him from where he stood, but he knew. Every instinct told him the child was there.

  Alive.

  Because this thing had kept him that way.

  Elias took a step.

  The creature tensed.

  Its head lowered. Ears back. Muscles rippled beneath its strange black coat. It didn’t bare its teeth. Didn’t growl. But it moved—fast and precise—placing itself directly between him and the pod.

  Elias stopped.

  The message was clear.

  It had saved him.

  It had fed him.

  But this—the child—was something else entirely.

  Elias swallowed hard. The ache in his legs pulsed with each heartbeat, hot and deep. He didn’t blame it for the hesitation.

  He lowered himself slowly, just to one knee, the way he had that first day in the clearing.

  The movement sent a line of pain down his spine and into his hip. His thigh screamed in protest. His hand gripped the side of the tree for support. But he held.

  The same posture.

  The same open gesture.

  He raised his right hand.

  Palm open.

  Fingers spread.

  A message without words.

  Not a claim.

  Not a demand.

  A request.

  The creature didn’t move at first.

  It stared at him—head cocked slightly, eyes bright and unreadable.

  Then, after a long breath—

  It stepped forward.

  Not fast.

  Cautious.

  Its long snout lowered toward his hand.

  Elias held still.

  Then he felt it—the cool, damp press of fur and skin. The creature’s snout nudged softly into his palm. Not a shove. Not a warning.

  Something else.

  It paused there.

  Then gently, almost with hesitation, took his hand in its mouth.

  The teeth were sharp. He could feel them against his skin—controlled, deliberate pressure. The bite never broke the skin.

  Then, it pulled.

  Weakly.

  Just enough to coax him forward.

  Then released.

  And turned.

  Elias closed his hand, gripping it into a trembling fist, and pressed it against his own knee.

  He took a breath.

  And pushed.

  The pain was staggering.

  His shoulder blazed. His side gave a sharp crack. His leg nearly collapsed under him.

  But it didn’t.

  He stood again.

  Swaying. Breathless.

  The creature waited.

  Then led him—step by step—toward the pod.

  He followed.

  When they reached it, the creature stopped just to the side, as though making space. Elias leaned into the rim of the cradle and peered in.

  And there he was.

  The boy.

  Sleeping.

  Breathing.

  His chest rose and fell with slow rhythm, one arm curled beneath his chin, wrapped in ferns and softened cloth.

  Elias reached out.

  One hand. Gentle. Shaking.

  He didn’t touch him—just wanted to be close. To see for himself that the child was real. That this wasn’t just something he’d imagined.

  And then—

  The creature growled.

  Low. Deep.

  Instinctual.

  Elias froze.

  The sound stopped as suddenly as it had come.

  He looked at the creature.

  And saw it do something strange.

  It looked down.

  Not away. Not up.

  Down.

  As if recognizing what it had done.

  As if surprised by it.

  As if sorry.

  Elias let out a slow breath and pulled his hand back, resting it instead on the rim of the pod.

  He didn’t speak.

  Didn’t need to.

  They both understood.

  Some things still had to be earned.