"Ashar, can you please help me with these rocks?"
The voice was thin, scratchy, but familiar.
Ashar looked up from his task, sweat clinging to his brow. At the edge of the narrow road, hunched over a bamboo stick, stood Old Maerin-the village's oldest, nosiest, and somehow most endearing woman.
He nodded wordlessly and walked over. The rocks were nothing–half-crushed boulders used to repair the edge of a broken wall. With one hand, Ashar lifted the first stone and set it aside. Then another.
"You've grown strong, boy," Maerin said, her cloudy eyes watching him work.
"This much shouldn't be anything for you since you carry around that huge boulder for your training. Folk around here say you could wrestle a tree and win." The boulder Ashar had moved from Marlo farm was being used as Ashar training equipment.
She leaned heavier on her stick. "Did you hear?" she asked, voice dipping low. "The Hollow Wolf's been seen again."
Ashar paused for just a second. Then lifted another stone.
Maerin didn't stop. "A warrior saw it, just yesterday. Said he was coming back from the southern pass, after escorting a merchant through the ravine. Thought he heard wind in the trees. But it wasn't wind. It was breathing–thin and wrong." Still, Ashar remained silent.
Maerin shuffled closer. "But do you know what's truly shocking?"
He turned slightly, glancing at her. Her face had lost its warmth.
She leaned close, close enough he could smell dried herbs and old garlic on her breath.
"This time," she whispered, "the Hollow Wolf wasn't carrying an animal."
Ashar's hands froze on the last rock.
Maerin's voice dropped to a tremble.
"It carried a human."
Ashar moved the last rock and gave Maerin a small nod before heading down the worn dirt path toward Marlo's farm. The midday sun hung high, casting long shadows over the fields. He didn't speak much that day–but he never really did.
At the farm, Marlo was hunched over a crooked fence post, trying to convince it to stand upright with a hammer and more hope than technique.
"Ah, perfect timing!" Marlo grinned, wiping sweat from his brow as Ashar approached. "I was just about to win this intense battle of wits against a wooden stick. Now I've got backup."
Ashar simply took the post and pushed it deep into the earth with one hand. Marlo blinked.
"…Right. Should've let it fear me first."
They worked in silence after that, save for the occasional grunt from Marlo or the soft buzz of insects flitting across the summer air.
Some time later, Lina's voice rang out from the cottage window.
"The food is ready! Come in and eat your fill!"
Marlo stretched his back with a groan and looked at Ashar.
"Let's go, lad. I think that's enough for today. We've done a week's work in two days thanks to you. If this keeps up, I might actually become rich from farming."
He paused, rubbing his chin.
"Or die trying to keep up. Both sound exciting."
As he followed Marlo toward the house, his thoughts drifted back to Old Maerin's whisper.
It carried a human.
"I know what you are thinking Ashar." Renart's voice echoed in Ashar's mind, calm but sharp. "Before you go chasing that Hollow Wolf, you should figure out what it actually is You can't just march into the first monster you come around."
"I know, I am not stupid." Ashar muttered.
"Oh, really?" Renart replied, tone dry. "And how exactly are you going to gather information about that thing? The only one you talk to is me. You've been living with Lina and her husband for five months and you never said a word to them." Ashar frowned.
Ahead, the house door creaked open and Lina's voice called out, warm and effortless.
"Wash up, I'll make you a plate."
Ashar stepped onto the porch, the smell of herbs and cooked lentils floating into the air.
Ashar cleaned up and sat down beside Marlo. Marlo blinked, mid-bite. He glanced at Ashar, then at Lina. Ashar had always eaten alone, in the corner, facing the window. For five long months, he had sat there in silence like a shadow stitched to the wall. But now–he was here, beside them.
Lina nearly dropped the bowl she was carrying.
Ashar lifted his spoon, took a bite, and said in a calm, steady voice,
"What do you know about the Hollow Wolf, Mister?"
The spoon in Lina's hand slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. The room froze.
Marlo stared.
Not just because Ashar had spoken–but because that was the first thing he had chosen to say. Still a bit rattled Marlo leaned back in his chair. His usual cheer was gone, replaced by a more serious tone.
"Why are you asking about the Hollow Wolf?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
Ashar kept his gaze low, focused on the plate. "I was just curious. Everyone's been talking about it. Old Maerin mentioned it to me earlier today… and you two were talking about it before too–about how it took a merchant's mule."
"The Hollow Wolf is a creature from way back," he said. "Old as the mountains, some say. Folks around here pass down stories like they pass down farmland."
"Yes," Lina added, her voice quieter now. "My mother used to tell me stories about it when I was little. And hers before her. Always around harvest season, always when the moon was wrong."
Ashar looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What kind of stories?"
Lina hesitated. Then, softly:
"They say it wasn't always a beast."
Marlo nodded. "Some believe it was once a guardian of some kind. But something twisted it. Cursed it."
"Cursed how?" Ashar asked.
"No one agrees on that part," Marlo said. "Some say it ate human flesh. Others say it betrayed something sacred. But after the curse, it changed. Body stretched. Skin thinned. Breath faded. It became... hollow."
Lina continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "It doesn't howl like normal wolves. It breathes without breath. Moves without sound. And whatever it takes… you don't find it again. Not whole, anyway."
Marlo's jaw tightened. "And it's not just the killings. It hunts the soul, boy. That's what makes it different.
Ashar was quiet. He had his answer. Now he just needed to find it.
The next morning.
Ashar stood at the doorway. slipping on his boots.
"Lina," he said, "Would it be okay if I didn't help out today?"
Lina turned from the kitchen, eyebrows rising. "Oh? Taking a holiday, are we?" She smirked "Didn't know we offered paid leave here."
Marlo peeked around the corner, chewing a stalk of wheat. "You planning to start charging us now, boy?" he grinned, then added more seriously, "Something going on?"
Ashar nodded slightly. "Just something I need to check out. I'll be back before dark."
Lina crossed her arms but her voice softened. "Alright, alright. Go on hero. But don't get yourself eaten. Who else is gonna move those boulders? Definitely not Marlo."
Marlo looked up, wounded like a kicked puppy. "I could move them... eventually. Probably."
"And if you find treasure," Lina added, smirking, "remember who's been feeding you garlic soup for five months."
Ashar cracked a rare smile. "Noted."
Inside his head, Renart muttered, "Jeez, they're greedy as hell. But at least they're not bad people."
Ashar set off down the dirt path, waving one last time toward the house. Once he was sure they could no longer see him, he veered off the road and slipped quietly into the woods. On the way he picked his practice sword that he had been using all this time for practice.
"I don't like this," Renart said. "That thing's not normal. If it is what they said than you're walking into something ancient. Cursed, even."
Ashar didn't respond. His eyes scanned the path ahead--thick brush, crooked trees, broken branches. Something big had passed through here.
"I'm not going to fight it," Ashar whispered. "Not yet. Just watch it. Learn."
After wandering the forest for some time, Ashar came to a sudden stop.
A streak of crimson cut across the dried leaves and moss–a thin winding trail of blood leading deeper between the gnarled trees.
Renart's voice echoed in his mind.
"Ashar... look at that."
Ashar crouched, fingers brushing the edge of the bloodied soil.
"It's fresh," he murmured. "Last night….maybe less."
Renart's tone sharpened.
"Could it be the Hollow Wolf?"
Ashar stood, gaze following the trail that curved into the darkness ahead.
"It didn't drag it," he said quietly. "No drag marks. Whatever this was... it walked."
Renart was silent for a beat.
"Or was made to walk."
Ashar didn't reply. He simply adjusted the grip on his sword- and stepped forward, following the blood into the forest where the light dared not reach.
The deeper he went, the quieter the woods became. Even the wind seemed to stop breathing.
Then, the blood trail... vanished.
One step, blood. The next, nothing. Just a patch of dirt and dead leaves. Clean. Unnatural.
Ashar stopped, eyes narrowing. There were no thick bushes, no hollowed trees, no caves nearby. The land was flat, open–the kind of place where even a rabbit would have nowhere to hide.
"...That makes no sense," he muttered.
Inside his head, Renart's voice echoed, cold and sharp.
"It walked into nothing. No drag marks. No prints. Just gone."
Ashar knelt down, touching the dirt. Still damp with blood, but there were no signs of struggle. No scuffle. No body.
His fingers brushed against the soil again, slower this time. Cold, almost unnaturally so.
"Father," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "This wolf… it's a divine magical beast, isn't it?"
There was a pause, like even Renart weighed the answer.
"Yes," he finally replied. "Older than most monsters, if the stories are true."
Ashar stood, gaze sweeping the forest again.
"Then it could be using magic," he said. "To hide itself… or wherever it's taking its prey."
"Possible," Renart agreed. "Concealment magic. Illusions. Maybe even a pocket realm–if it's old enough to remember how."
"Then you should take over my body," he said under his breath. "You can use your precision skill and find him–or his lair."
Inside his mind, Renart was silent for a beat.
"Are you sure?" he asked, voice more serious than before. "It'll take a toll. You're not ready for full sync yet. And if things go south–"
"I'm not asking to fight it. Just find it."
Renart let out a slow breath inside Ashar's mind. "Alright, just for a moment. Let me anchor."
Ashar closed his eyes.
Suddenly, a sharp pull raced through his spine. His posture shifted slightly, his breathing slowed. Eyes opened–but they weren't entirely his anymore. The way he looked at the world had changed. Precise. Cold. Like a predator scanning every inch.
Renart's instincts took over.
He crouched low, fingertips brushing the earth. Then he turned slightly--not where the blood ended, but where the air felt wrong.
"There," Renart said through Ashar's mouth. "It's thin. Like stitched fabric. A tear in space."
He walked forward slowly, every step deliberate.
When he reached the spot, he raised Ashar's hand and extended two fingers–then made a slicing motion through the air.
Reality shimmered.
A vertical slit, thin as a thread, peeled open in front of him–revealing nothing but swirling dark mist.
Renart smiled faintly.
"Found it."
Ashar blinked. His vision blurred as Renart's presence faded from his body. Control rushed back to him like a flood--too fast.
His knees buckled.
He stumbled back two steps and collapsed to his hands and knees, retching violently into the dirt. His stomach twisted. The raw force of Renart's precision--the cold weight of that ancient awareness--was too much.
He coughed, wiped his mouth, and stared up at the shimmering slit in the air.
"So…" he gasped between breaths, "that's a pocket realm?"
Inside his head, Renart sounded far too calm.
"Yes. Folded space. Hidden between layers of reality. Old magic. Dangerous magic. And I'd wager the wolf made it its den. No wonder the villagers could never find this wolf."
Ashar wiped sweat from his brow. "And you opened it with a flick of my fingers."
"Technically, you opened it," Renart said smugly. "I just used your hands better than you ever will."
Ashar groaned. "Show-off."
Then he stood, sword in hand, eyes hardening.
Ashar moved forward.
As he stepped through the slit, the world bent around him--his body shivered like it was passing through cold water, and the air turned thick, like syrup. For a heartbeat, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
Then he was inside.
The realm was wrong. Not just dark--but heavy. Like the night had roots and those roots were watching him. The sky was pitch black, not a star in sight, yet faint glowing mist clung to the ground like fog lit from within. The trees were twisted things--long, pale-barked and gnarled, like bones stretching toward the sky. They creaked not with wind, but with breath.
Ashar gripped his sword tighter.
The very air in the realm felt... alive. Pulsing faintly. With hunger.
Renart's voice echoed in his mind again--quieter now, cautious.
"Stay sharp. This place is stitched together by instinct, not logic. If it wants you lost, you will be lost."
Ashar took another step.
The trees parted before him like they knew he was coming.
And somewhere, deep within the fog, something howled.
Ashar crouched low, slipping between the twisted roots and glowing mist until he reached the ridge.
And then he saw it.
Standing in a scorched clearing of flickering firelight, framed by bone-pale trees–the Hollow Wolf.
Its fur shimmered like ink soaked in starlight, but patches of its flesh were gone, peeled. Its bones jutted out like jagged armor. Eyes like molten suns scanned the dark, burning through shadow.
Renart's voice whispered, low and shaken.
"That's no wolf…"
A pause. Then colder, sharper.
"That's a Fenrir."
"A divine being."
"Run!"