I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter Five: The Scent of Rage
The gravel crunched beneath our boots in a slow, rhythmic grind as we stepped out of Richard's dusty black SUV, the kind of vehicle that had seen more forest trails and backroads than highways. The interior still smelled faintly of gasoline, old leather, and the metallic tang of tools left too long in the sun. In the backseat, the usual cooler sloshed softly with melted ice, and the glovebox bulged with a chaotic collection of hand-drawn maps, old ranger pamphlets, and folded topographic printouts annotated in Richard's scrawled handwriting.
A rusted metal sign loomed nearby, its paint peeling in long, curling strips. The words, once bold and white, had faded with time and weather until they were just barely legible:
WHITE RIVER RESERVE
WARNING: BEARS ACTIVE IN THIS AREA
The irony practically echoed in the stillness around us.
I stretched, arms rising overhead until my shoulders popped, and filled my lungs with the forest air. It was colder than I expected—sharper, like the atmosphere had teeth. The scent rushed in like a wave: pine needles and damp moss, decaying wood, distant water, old sweat soaked into bark, and the faintest trace of rusted metal. But layered over it all was something else—something I couldn't name yet. Something alive and wrong and humming with intent.
I glanced up at Richard, his frame silhouetted against the dim morning light filtering through the tree canopy. "So... what exactly am I supposed to do here?" I asked. "Yeah, okay, I'm a werewolf. But I'm six. I don't think that gives me much of a leg up if we're dealing with a bear."
He looked down at me with a lopsided grin that barely touched his eyes. "You're not here to fight it, kid. You're here to track it. That's all."
With an easy flick of his wrist, he tossed me a clear plastic evidence bag. I caught it out of reflex. Inside was a jagged scrap of torn fabric—dull gray, crusted with dried blood and smeared with something darker, like dirt or oil. It looked like it had once been part of a lightweight hiking jacket, the kind sold at outfitters with names like "EcoShell" and "MountainFlex."
"That came off one of the victims," Richard said, his voice quieter now. "If we're lucky, the bear's scent is still on it."
I stared at the bag for a moment, then back at him, my eyebrows rising. "So I'm your bloodhound now?"
He let out a low chuckle. "Hey, I could've spent the past few days combing through miles of forest on foot. Then I happened to stumble on a werewolf kid dumped at an orphanage. Lucky me. Think of this as a hands-on learning experience."
I rolled my eyes hard enough to strain a muscle, but kept quiet. Instead, I opened the bag and leaned in.
The scent rushed into my nose like a punch to the face.
The first wave was familiar—human. Male. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Sweat, sunscreen, trail mix, and the lingering trace of deodorant that wasn't working nearly as hard as it should have. But underneath the mundane, beneath the surface layers of dirt and fabric and skin oils, there was something deeper. Sharper. A flash of fear—pure, animal, unfiltered. Panic baked into every fiber of the cloth, like it had been screaming when it tore.
And then it hit me.
The bear.
It wasn't a smell, not in the normal sense. It was more like a vibration—a frequency that bypassed the nose and went straight to the gut. It felt low and pulsing, like the sub-bass in a horror movie score. Musk, yes. Fur, yes. Blood. But that wasn't what stopped my breath.
It was the rage.
Raw, blistering, ancient. It wasn't the fury of a startled animal or a hungry predator. This was something deeper. Something irrational and consuming. Not directed. Not purposeful. Just... violence, barely leashed, begging for a reason to be unleashed.
"You get anything?" Richard asked, his voice barely audible over the forest stillness.
I nodded slowly, blinking as if waking up. "Yeah," I whispered. "I got it."
Without another word, we moved forward, stepping past the sign and into the trees. The forest swallowed us almost immediately. Towering trunks loomed like silent sentinels. The light dimmed, birds called from unseen branches, and insects buzzed in frantic rhythms all around us. The path faded into underbrush within minutes, and Richard took the lead, carrying a slim black case in one hand and a duffel bag slung across his back. I followed, the scent like a thread winding through the woods, tugging me forward.
Time passed in a blur of movement and breath. An hour. Maybe more.
Then I stopped.
"There," I said, my voice thin and stretched.
Richard followed my gaze.
Up ahead, nestled in a shallow clearing, something massive rested on the ground—a bear. Or it would've been, if the term "bear" could still apply. Black-furred, yes, but wrong. Wrong in size. Wrong in proportion. It was massive, nearly the size of a polar bear, easily tipping a thousand pounds. Its coat was mottled and uneven—patches of dark fur interrupted by pale swaths, like oil and ash had mingled on its hide. Its breathing was slow, steady, but something about the rhythm prickled the back of my neck.
It was sleeping.
Out in the open.
No den. No cover. No attempt at concealment. Just lying there, exposed, as if it didn't care who or what saw it. No creature in the wild did that. Not unless it had no reason to fear anything—or anyone.
I focused, reaching deeper into my senses, trying to make sense of what I felt.
The bear radiated vitality. Every breath felt like a small quake through the earth. Its body thrummed with strength. But layered beneath that was a different scent—one that didn't match what I was seeing. Decay. Faint but unmistakable. Like something had died inside it long ago, and no one had told the body to stop moving.
Alive, but rotting.
Old, but full of vigour.
Sleeping, but seething with rage barely contained.
My instincts screamed at me. Every part of me—from the wolf to the boy—wanted to turn and run. To get away. To escape.
"If it wakes up..." I whispered, unable to finish the thought.
Richard didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He knelt without a sound, setting the case down and flicking it open. Inside was his bow—sleek, black, custom-made—and a set of silver-tipped arrows nestled in foam. With practiced ease, he pulled one free, nocked it, and drew the string back in a single fluid motion.
His eyes never left the bear.
The forest held its breath.
And just like that, the hunt had begun.