Fenhyr Moonclaw pressed his paw into the mud near the oak's roots. The print was fresh—two days old, maybe less. He had tracked these loggers for weeks now, learning their routes and counting their tools. Mastering the ancient tracking skills meant reading every broken twig and disturbed stone. His ancestors had passed down this knowledge through generations of wolves. Now twelve men with axes threatened the forest, and only he knew their plans. He lifted his snout and tested the wind. Time to move. The Wolfskull Stone Tower rose ahead through the trees. Its broad base stood firm against the forest floor, and the open archway gaped like a mouth. Above the entrance, a wolf skull watched with empty eyes. This was where his ancestors had learned to read the earth and sky. Fenhyr stepped through the archway and let his eyes adjust to the dim light inside. A wooden table held the tools of his training. He opened the scent kit first, removing each vial and pouch with care. The preserved animal musk filled his nostrils—deer, rabbit, bear, fox. Each scent told a different story about the creature that left it. He needed to know them all, to track any animal through any condition. Next to the kit sat a barometer in its dark frame, leaf carvings running along the wood. The glass face showed falling pressure. Rain would come again soon, and mud would slow the loggers further. Fenhyr closed the kit and studied the barometer one last time. The ancient skills required patience and precision, not just speed. He would master each lesson his ancestors left behind. The loggers had their maps and axes, but he had the forest itself as his teacher. When the time came to protect the ancient groves, he would be ready.