Maximus Jones had chased the beast for nine days, and he still did not know where it lived. He wanted proof. Not a story, not a footprint washed out by rain, but a living creature dragged back from Tartary's forbidden region. That proof would end the mocking. It would also end him, if he kept guessing. Three trails had cost him three freezing nights. His maps showed nothing. His pack showed less. He was down to hard bread and a compass that spun in these hills like a scared bird. His wolf pressed against his leg and growled at the trees. Maximus rested a hand on the animal's grey neck. "I know," he said. "We're lost." The wolf had followed him into every dead end without complaint. That loyalty was the only thing he had left to waste, and he refused to waste it on another wrong direction. Smoke saved him. Thin and grey, it rose past a ridge of towering redwoods and drooping willows, two kinds of trees tangled together like old friends. Maximus climbed toward it. He found an old man at a small fire, wrapped in fringed hide, a feathered headdress bright against the grey woods. A carved cane leaned by his knee. The wolf stopped growling and sat. "You hunt the thing that walks like a man," the old man said. He did not look up. "I have watched you circle it for three days." Maximus knelt at the fire. "Chief Hawk Eye?" He had heard the name in the last village. They said the old chief knew the forest's monsters better than the forest knew itself. "Then you know where it went." "I know where it does not want to be found." Hawk Eye poked the coals. "Boys chase it and freeze. Their mothers thank me for the bones I bring home." "I'm not a boy," Maximus said. "And I'm not leaving without it." The chief studied him a long moment. He seemed to weigh the wolf, the ruined maps, the cracked lips. Then he drew a shape in the ash with one finger. A creek. A split rock. A ruined cabin swallowed by strange growth. "The half-man sleeps near the empty house," Hawk Eye said. "Follow the water down, past the split stone. You will smell the plants before you see the walls. Everything grows wrong there. Even ghosts." He looked up. "Men go to that cabin. They do not come out the same." Maximus stared at the ash map until he had it by heart. For nine days he had walked blind. Now he had a direction, a landmark, a name for the place. He stood and pulled his pack tight. The wolf rose with him, ears forward. "Thank you," Maximus said. Hawk Eye did not smile. "Do not thank me yet. You wanted to stop wandering." He nodded toward the dark trees below. "Now you know exactly where to die."

Maximus followed the water down for two days. Hawk Eye's map lived in his head, but his pack was empty. The last hard bread had gone yesterday. His hands shook. His coat had split at the shoulder, and cold air slid in with every step. The split rock still lay somewhere ahead. He knew he would not reach it. Not like this. The wolf walked slow beside him, ribs showing under grey fur. Smoke saved him again. A thin grey curl rose past the trees. Maximus stumbled toward it and found an old log cabin, its timber walls stacked and weathered, its stone chimney breathing steady heat. Someone lived here. Someone with food and a fire. He nearly wept. He knocked. No one answered. He pushed the door. The room was warm and empty. A pot of stew hung over low coals. Dried meat swung from the rafters. Wool blankets sat folded on a bunk. Maximus's stomach cramped at the smell. This was theft, and he did not care. He ate first. Then he stuffed his pack with meat, filled a skin with broth, and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. His hands stopped shaking. For the first time in days, warmth reached his bones. He stepped outside to fill his water skin. Behind the cabin stood a small privy shed, its boards worn smooth and grey. Beside it rose a boulder. Maximus stopped. The stone was covered in carvings. Painted figures marched across its face. Birds. Wolves. And tall shaggy men with long arms and low heads. Half-man shapes. The same beast Hawk Eye had drawn in the ash. Maximus reached out and touched the cold marks. Whoever built this cabin knew the creature. Maybe they hunted it. Maybe they worshipped it. The carvings were old, but the fire inside was fresh. A branch cracked in the trees. Maximus turned. Something stood at the tree line. It was tall, broad, and covered in dark fur. Its shoulders rose above his head. Its face was flat and wrong, part man, part ape, watching him with pale eyes. It did not move. It only breathed, slow and huge, steam rolling from its mouth. The wolf pressed low against Maximus's legs and did not growl. It whined. Maximus's throat went dry. He had spent nine days chasing proof. Now the proof stood forty feet away, alive, and he had no rope, no cage, no plan. He had only a stolen blanket and a full belly. The creature took one step forward. The ground shook under its foot. Maximus backed toward the cabin door. He would live tonight. He had food, warmth, and shelter. But he had walked straight into the beast's own ground, and the beast had seen him first. He pulled the door shut and slid the bolt. Through the small window, the shape stood in the falling dark, still watching the cabin. Waiting.

The beast struck the wall. Timber cracked. Maximus stumbled back from the window as dust fell from the rafters. He needed a plan, but the old cabin gave him no time. Another blow landed. A log shifted in its notch. The wolf backed into a corner and pressed flat against the floor. Maximus grabbed the stolen blanket and looked for a weapon, a hole, anything. He found a knife on the shelf. Small. Useless against that thing. The wall buckled again. Light showed through a widening seam. He pressed his hands to the boards, and the wood gave under his weight. The chimney breathed steady heat beside him. He thought of the carved boulder outside, the painted half-man shapes, the birds and wolves marching across old stone. Someone here had lived with this beast. Someone had known how. A voice cut through the pounding. "Move to the back wall. Now." A girl crouched at the window slit, brown ponytail swinging, binoculars bouncing at her chest. She wore a fishing vest with a dozen pockets. She had watched him, he realized, the way Hawk Eye had watched him. She reached through the gap and shoved a small tin at his hands. "Smoke starter. It hates fire more than it wants you." "Who are you?" Maximus said. "Aliyah. Talk later." She jerked her chin at the failing wall. "That stew you stole? That was mine." The beast hit the corner. Two logs tore loose and daylight poured in. A huge arm reached through, fur wet and dark, fingers spread. Maximus threw himself sideways. He pried the lid off the tin. Inside sat dry moss and flint. His hands shook, but he struck the flint against the knife and caught a spark. The moss flared. He pushed the burning clump into the coals, then scooped a flaming stick from the hearth and jammed it at the reaching arm. Fur caught. The beast screamed, a sound too high for its size, and yanked back through the broken wall. The whole cabin groaned. "Out the front," Aliyah said. "While it's blind with pain." Maximus ran. The wolf shot past his legs. They burst through the door into cold air. Behind them the beast beat at its own smoking arm near the split logs. Maximus did not stop until they reached the tree line, where two giant redwoods rose beside a curtain of willow branches. Aliyah crouched behind a trunk and raised her binoculars at the wrecked cabin. "It won't chase into open ground. Not yet." Maximus caught his breath. He had lost his shelter, his warmth, his fire. But he was alive, and he was no longer alone. He looked at the girl watching the beast so calmly. "You know how to find it," he said. Aliyah lowered the binoculars. "I know how to get close. Getting proof out alive is your problem."