The forest was a cathedral of shadows, its towering trees clawing at the sky, their gnarled roots twisting through the earth like veins of some ancient beast. Light dared not linger here, seeping through the canopy in weak, fleeting shafts, as if afraid to touch the ground. In this vast, indifferent wilderness, a cry pierced the silence—a raw, desperate wail that seemed to mock the stillness. It came from a child, no bigger than a man's hand, sprawled atop an arched root protruding from the damp soil. The infant's four arms—two sprouting from its shoulders, two from its back—flailed wildly, grasping at the air for something, anything, to claim as its own. Jade-green eyes, wide and glistening with tears, blinked against the dimness. The child was alone.
No mother. No father. No echo of warmth in this unforgiving place. The forest swallowed the child's cries, its hollow vastness indifferent to the tiny life within it. The air was heavy with the scent of moss and decay, the ground cold and unyielding beneath the child's fragile form. Each sob grew weaker, the infant's energy draining into the earth. It thrashed, four hands clawing at the root's rough bark, seeking comfort that didn't exist. Then, in a moment of reckless movement, it slipped.
A soft thud broke the forest's hush as the child struck the ground below. A thin line of blood trickled from its forehead, snaking toward a narrow stream nearby. The water, clear and cold, turned crimson for a moment before washing the stain away, as if the child's existence were nothing more than a fleeting ripple. The infant lay face-down in the dirt, its cries silenced too abruptly, a faint hiccup escaping its lips. No movement followed. The forest seemed to exhale, its indifference absolute.
But the silence didn't last. A tremor rippled through the earth, subtle at first, then growing heavier. From the treetops, birds erupted in sharp, frantic chirps—warning calls that sliced through the air. Creatures unseen stirred, their rustles betraying a shared instinct: something was coming. The Olf, a beast of nightmare, emerged from the shadows. Seven feet tall, twelve feet long, its crimson-orange mane gleamed faintly in the filtered light, a stark contrast to its sleek, muscled body. Its eyes, a chilling blend of green and black, held pupils that could dilate to swallow the night or narrow to slits in an instant. Each step shook the ground, its massive paws pressing into the soil with a weight that promised violence. The air thickened with dread, an unspoken certainty that blood would spill tonight.
The Olf's head swung upward, nostrils flaring as it caught the scent of the child's blood. It moved with predatory grace, its long tail sweeping insects from its path. The beast's muscles rippled beneath its fur, each step a declaration of its place atop the forest's food chain. It reached the stream, its enormous head lowering to sniff the spot where the child lay, unmoving. The infant was less than half the size of the Olf's maw, a mere morsel. The beast's pupils dilated, drinking in the faint light as it considered its prey. It leaned closer, jaws parting to reveal teeth sharp enough to sever bone in a single bite.
Then—a rustle. A sharp snap of twigs in the bushes to its right. The Olf froze, its body tensing, front legs bending as if ready to spring. Its head whipped toward the sound, pupils narrowing to pinpricks. The forest held its breath. Moments passed, the tension coiling tighter, but nothing emerged. The Olf's gaze lingered on the bushes, then it moved—slowly at first, then with terrifying speed. The ground shuddered as it lunged, leaving gusts of wind in its wake. A cry echoed, not the child's, but something larger, something caught. The forest swallowed the sound, and the warning calls faded. The hunt was over. For now.
The child remained untouched, its tiny form still against the dirt. The forest settled back into its eerie calm, the birds silent, the air heavy with the scent of rain. Clouds gathered above, blotting out the last traces of light. A soft tip-tap began, then grew into a downpour. Rain cascaded through the canopy, droplets clinging to leaves before falling to the ground. Some landed in the child's open mouth, carrying traces of organic matter—bits of leaf, pollen, life. The water trickled down its throat, stirring its starving body. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep death at bay.
Dawn broke, the rain giving way to a faint glow that slipped through the gaps in the canopy. The child stirred, its jade eyes fluttering open. For the first time, it saw the forest—not as a blur of hunger and fear, but as a vast, untamed world. Towering trees stretched into the sky, their branches entwined like lovers refusing to part. The ground was a tapestry of moss and mud, the stream a silver thread weaving through it. The child's four arms twitched, two reaching out instinctively, two curling protectively around its body. Hunger gnawed at its belly, sharp and insistent, but the forest's beauty held its gaze. It rolled weakly, trying to reach the stream, but its tiny legs lacked the strength. Exhausted, it collapsed, limbs splayed, staring up at the canopy.
A faint mark on the child's back caught the light—a shimmering glyph, unlike anything in the forest. It pulsed once, then faded, unnoticed by the infant. A clue, perhaps, to why it was here, alone, in a world that cared nothing for its survival. But the child knew none of this. It knew only hunger, fear, and the instinct to live.
The earth trembled again. The birds' warnings returned, sharper, more urgent. The child's senses screamed, a primal alarm that needed no words. It rolled, clumsy and desperate, toward a nearby tree, tucking itself behind its gnarled roots. The Olf was back. Its massive form emerged at the stream's edge, sniffing the air where the child had lain. The rain had washed away the scent of blood, leaving no trace. The beast's head swung left, then right, its eyes narrowing in frustration. It lingered, paws pressing craters into the mud, then turned and vanished into the undergrowth.
The child remained curled behind the tree, heart pounding like a drum in its chest. The forest fell silent once more, the warning calls fading into the rustle of leaves. Exhaustion clawed at the infant, its injuries aching—a bruised forehead, a body too weak to move far. Yet it had survived. Twice, the Olf had come, and twice, it had been spared. The child didn't understand why, but it felt the weight of its survival, heavy as the forest itself.
As dusk painted the sky in hues of red and gold, the child drifted into a restless sleep, its four arms curled tightly around itself. The glyph on its back pulsed again, faintly, as if whispering secrets the forest refused to hear. Somewhere in the distance, the Olf's low growl echoed, a reminder that safety was fleeting. The child was alive, but the forest was not done with it yet.