The marshland transitioned gradually—reeds giving way to scrub brush, then to scattered trees that thickened into true woodland. Edric moved with excruciating slowness, placing each foot with deliberate care.

  Birds fluttered through the branches above—small marsh sparrows and larger crows. The normal sounds of a living forest.

  *Good. Nothing's disturbed them recently.*

  He'd hunted like this once before, back on Earth—a special deer trip with his grandfather deep in the Vermont wilderness.

  *"You're not going to sneak," his grandfather had said. "You're going to become part of the landscape. Move like water, not like a man."*

  His initial goal wasn't to find Snargrin—not yet. Finding the beast now, unprepared, would mean death. No, his goal was to learn its territory, to turn Snargrin's home advantage into his own. *First, I make this land my turf.*

  He began searching for useful features: a fallen log to serve as cover, rocks and trees close enough together to hinder a charge but not block arrows.

  Edric examined a promising defensive position when he spotted the first real sign.

  Claw marks on a tree trunk.

  They were massive, gouged deep into the wood.

  Four parallel scores, each as long as Edric's arm—fresh sap still oozed from the deepest cuts.

  His mouth went dry. During his first encounter, Snargrin's size had been obscured by the darkness. These claw marks suggested Snargrin was far larger and stronger than he'd assumed.

  *Stay focused,* he commanded himself. *I'm officially in his territory now.*

  Every movement became deliberate. He kept the wind in his face, ensuring any lingering scent would blow away from where he suspected Snargrin might be.

  More signs appeared as he moved—broken branches at heights no ordinary animal could reach, patches of vegetation trampled flat, scat from a carnivore's diet.

  Edric avoided the most heavily marked areas. Stumbling into Snargrin's actual lair would be fatal.

  Every sound made his pulse spike. The constant anxiety that the monster might find him was overwhelming.

  But as the hours passed, the forest gradually became familiar. Fear gave way to understanding—knowledge of where the beast had been, where it wasn't, and where he could run if he had to.

  Not confidence—just awareness.

  By late afternoon, he'd covered perhaps a quarter-mile radius of forest. Not much territory in absolute terms, but he knew it intimately now.

  Edric chose an observation point on a small rise that overlooked a natural clearing below.

  He settled behind a cluster of moss-covered rocks, arranging leafy branches to further break up his silhouette.

  Edric tested drawing his bow from different shooting positions: lying prone, kneeling, and twisted at awkward angles.

  Edric found himself wanting a rifle as it became clear how much more movement it took to draw his bow.

  During a particularly long stillness, his thoughts drifted to Maryn.

  He forced himself to kill any lingering hope he had of saving the man.

  *I'm not here to rescue Maryn,* Edric admitted. *I'm here to kill the monster that took him.*

  Prioritizing the kill over the rescue made Edric sick, yet he knew it was the only decision that wouldn't end with both of them dead.

  He had no magical escape card this time. Snargrin had already seen his compressed-air trick. That bluff wouldn't work twice.

  His underwater-breathing ability could aid escape if a deep river was nearby, but Snargrin had also seen that trick, and it'd be far less effective in daylight.

  *As long as I keep distance, and stay behind cover, escape is possible,* Edric reasoned. *The moment he closes that gap, I'm finished. Everything depends on keeping him away.*

  Waiting until dusk would make his camouflage more effective, and Snargrin's heavy reliance on scent over sight might give Edric an edge.

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  *I can work with dusk,* he decided. *The darkness just before full nightfall—that's when I'll have my best chance.*

  Edric settled deeper into his hiding spot.

  The light had taken on that peculiar quality of early evening, painting the forest floor in strips of long shadows.

  Edric had been motionless for so long that a small bird had landed on a branch less than three feet from his head, completely unbothered by his presence.

  Then the bird suddenly took flight, startled by something Edric hadn't yet perceived.

  His entire body tensed, every sense sharpening to a razor's edge. His eyes swept the forest beyond, searching for whatever had spooked the bird.

  At first, he saw only shifting shadows. Then the form resolved into something massive, something that made Edric's heart hammer against his ribs despite all his mental preparation.

  Snargrin.

  The demon beast moved with a lazy, confident stride along a game trail perhaps sixty yards below Edric's position. Even at this distance, the creature's size was staggering—easily twice the height of a man at the shoulder, with bulk that made the largest grizzlies from Earth seem small by comparison.

  The missing eye was obvious even from here—a scarred socket on the left side of the enormous head. The remaining eye was sharp, scanning the forest. One ear swiveled constantly, tracking sounds Edric couldn't hear.

  Snargrin paused in the middle of the trail, lifting his head to sniff the air. The long inhalation was audible even at this distance.

  *Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't exist.*

  Edric's hand had drifted toward an arrow in his quiver, but he forced himself to stillness. The range wasn't ideal, and the moment was wrong. Snargrin was expecting him, alert and ready. The beast's posture radiated agitation beneath the veneer of calm.

  There were other signs—the way its tail lashed occasionally, the way it paused to sniff more often than necessary. Small details, but telling.

  *He's frustrated. He expected me to come charging in to save Maryn. Now he's waiting, and he doesn't like it.* Edric thought.

  The observation was encouraging. Patience was working.

  Snargrin continued along the trail, still moving with that deceptive, casual stride. He never looked directly toward Edric's position—the camouflage and scent masking were holding. But Edric didn't dare move.

  The beast paused again, this time turning toward the direction of Larkenshire. Its lone eye narrowed, and a low rumble rose from its chest—not quite a growl, but a sound of deep displeasure.

  After another long moment, Snargrin turned and continued down the trail, disappearing into denser forest. But he didn't go far. Edric could still hear the occasional crack of breaking branches, the glimpse of motion through the trees.

  Knowing where the monster was gave him grim comfort. At least, for the moment, Snargrin was accounted for. That shallow solace solidified his decision: he would shadow Snargrin from a safe distance.

  It was easier than he expected. Snargrin's immense size worked against him in stealth. The creature left obvious traces—broken branches, disturbed undergrowth, deep prints in soft earth. And his lazy, confident stride meant he wasn't currently moving fast.

  Edric moved only when the wind masked him or when Snargrin was distracted by some sound or scent. He used the terrain obsessively, keeping obstacles—fallen logs, thick brush, rises in the ground—between himself and the beast.

  Edric spotted the area with the destroyed trapline Wren had described. The traps themselves weren't visible or obvious—but the place fit her account perfectly. Edric marked it mentally yet gave it a wide berth.

  More intriguing was the pattern of Snargrin's movement in relation to a dense thicket near a toppled oak—a gigantic tree that had fallen long ago, its trunk now smothered in moss and fungi. Snargrin circled back to that area again and again.

  He never strayed far from it and always stayed within sight of that thicket.

  *That's where Maryn would be,* Edric concluded, stomach twisting.

  Edric took note but didn't approach. Getting closer would risk everything, and, in truth, Maryn's exact location didn't matter anymore.

  *I'm sorry, Maryn,* Edric thought. *I can't save you. I can only make sure this doesn't happen to anyone else.*

  The quality of the light changed rapidly—approaching dusk. Shadows lengthened and merged, creating a landscape of darkness broken only by scattered pools of fading light.

  This was the time Edric had been waiting for—the transition between day and night, when visibility dropped but wasn't yet gone. When his camouflage would be most effective, and Snargrin's reliance on smell over sight would matter most.

  But there was a problem: Snargrin was still too alert, still clearly expecting an attack. Every few minutes, he stopped mid-stride and tested the air with long sniffs. His remaining eye swept constantly across the forest, searching for any hint of movement.

  Edric needed to wait longer—needed the beast to relax his guard.

  Snargrin emerged from the thicket again, heading toward the stream. His stride was no longer lazy; it was tense and aggressive.

  *Soon,* Edric thought, watching the massive creature drink from the stream below. *Soon you'll make a mistake.*

  The last hints of sunlight vanished from the sky, and the forest transformed into a realm of shadows.

  Then something shifted. Edric heard slow agitated growls that softly reverberated through the forest.

  Snargrin turned deliberately toward Larkenshire. His stride was no longer part of a patrol—it was purposeful, deliberate. The beast had made a choice.

  *He's done waiting.*

  Edric's heart lurched. Wren might have tried to follow despite his warnings—or Snargrin had simply decided to make good on his implicit threat. If the prey wouldn't come to him, he'd take his frustration out on easier targets.

  Either way would be unacceptable. *No. Not happening.*

  Edric moved swiftly, circling to get behind Snargrin's position. He'd have to make the shot count.

  He reached a good vantage point—a slight rise with a fallen log for cover. The range was acceptable. Snargrin's broad back presented a target as the monster strode decisively toward Larkenshire.

  Edric selected one of the heavy bodkin arrows and carefully uncorked the poison vial with his teeth. The liquid was thick, viscous, coating the arrowhead in a dark sheen. He resealed the vial, secured it, and nocked the poisoned arrow.

  He drew and anchored at his reference mark, the colored knot aligning with the etched sighting marks on the bow. His breathing steadied. The familiar rhythm of his pre-shot ritual calmed his racing pulse.

  He exhaled slowly—then released.