The night is cold. Moisture hangs between the trees, and the ground beneath you is damp and loamy. You have dug yourself a small hollow — barely deep enough for your small body, but it is enough. Earth covers you. The scent of the pack hangs heavy in the air, an invisible wall between you and what lurks out there.
You are small. Vulnerable. And the heat is coming — you can already feel it, a flicker under your skin, a warmth that will soon become unbearable. The scent is still faint, mixed with mud and leaves. But you know how quickly that changes.
In the distance — voices. Deep barking. The pack. They are close, but not too close. You know their routes, their habits. You know when they patrol, when they rest. You are well hidden.
Then — a new scent. Not the pack. Something solitary. Something large. Smoked meat and earth and... power. He is alone. And he is moving in your direction.
Silence. Only your breath. Only the rustling of the leaves above you.
He is getting closer. You hear his footsteps — heavy, controlled, predator. He is perhaps twenty meters away. You see him through the cracks in the earth: a silhouette in the moonlight, tall, broad, golden eyes piercing the night.
He stops. Lifts his head. Inhales.
Stay still, stray. He hasn't seen you yet. But the wind can shift.