Father Malloran, in a feverish delirium, dug through the ruins of Glastonbury’s old church, murmuring forgotten prayers in tongues no one recognized anymore. His fingers bled as he pulled away ancient stones, until he uncovered something: a corroded medallion, buried beneath the shattered altar.
On the medallion, the same symbol: three interwoven claws, etched in primitive lines. As he touched it, Malloran dropped to his knees, his eyes rolling back in their sockets.
He saw.
He saw forests stretching endlessly to the horizon—without men, without names. He saw the creature—or rather, what it once was: a primal spirit of hunt and blood, forged when the earth still screamed in the throes of creation. It was worship that kept it dormant; it was forgetfulness that weakened it. But now, with faith withering and the land defiled by men, it had awakened—ravenous, unbound, merciless.
When the priest returned to the village, his mouth whispered a warning in a rasping tone: “The forest demands payment… and we are in its debt.”
Meanwhile, at the forest’s edge, blue eyes multiplied.
It was no longer just a creature.
It was a rebirth.
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