Elohims wrath

Arne just finished setting up the last tent, brushing the snow from his hands and surveying the clearing where they'd made camp. This place held a quiet, heavy nostalgia for him. It was here, years ago, that he had made his first kill—his first successful hunt. He remembered the thrill, the rush of adrenaline as he took down his first animal, a memory that had stayed with him through every hunt since. For a moment, he let himself sink into the memory, feeling the pull of familiarity in the cold night air.

"Hey, Arne!" Arvid's voice cut through his thoughts. "Come give me a hand with this food bag, will you? Olaf went off to help with the firewood."

Arne nodded, snapping back to the present. He grabbed the rope of the large food bag and, with a practiced motion, started to climb a sturdy tree on the edge of the clearing. The forest around them was growing dark, though night had not fully fallen. The light was dim, and the snow-laden branches weighed heavy, forming an intricate network of dark, sagging shapes that shifted in the faint wind. Shadows crept across the untouched snow, hiding whatever might lie beyond.

As Arne secured the rope around a sturdy branch, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. It was subtle just the barest hint of something thin and dark sliding past his peripheral vision, near a boulder about thirty meters into the trees. The shape was strange, like a thick rope, floating unnaturally about a meter off the ground before vanishing behind the treeline.

He froze, his muscles instinctively tensing. His heartbeat quickened as he scanned the shadows, but he realized with a jolt that his spear was back in camp, near the tents on the opposite side of the clearing. He took a steadying breath, then jumped down from the tree, landing softly in the snow next to Arvid.

Arvid, ever perceptive, sensed Arne's tension immediately. He, too, scanned the darkened forest, his seasoned eyes searching the treeline with the practiced patience of a hunter. The silence around them was complete, with only the faint rustle of branches in the wind disturbing the stillness.

Then, at the far edge of the clearing, two figures emerged from the darkness, their shapes barely discernible in the low light. Arne tensed, instinctively placing a hand on the handgun Mikkel had given him. He didn't want to use it, not unless he had to, but he was ready to draw it if needed.

The two figures moved closer, and as they entered the clearing, the tension lifted. It was only Olaf and Bjorn, returning with their arms loaded with firewood.

"Huh," Arvid chuckled softly, catching Arne's sigh of relief. "Those two scared you, did they?"

Arne shook his head, letting out a short, humorless laugh. "I swear I saw something by that boulder, something strange. I thought... Well, I'm not sure what I thought. Sorry, Arvid."

Arvid patted him on the shoulder, his smile easy but his eyes serious as he looked back toward the trees. "Best to keep our senses sharp. Whatever's out here, we need to be ready. You know the forest can play tricks on us, especially at night."

Arne nodded, casting one last glance toward the boulder where he'd seen the strange shape. The forest had returned to its quiet, undisturbed self, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching them from just beyond the trees. For now, though, he had to let it go. The night was only beginning, and their journey had barely started.

Some time had passed since Olaf and Bjorn had returned with firewood, and now Mikkel sat alone, his back to the fire, watching over the camp as the others slept in their tents. The tents formed a protective circle around the fire at the center, their shadows dancing in the flickering light. Mikkel had carefully set up a perimeter of thin branches and twigs just beyond the camp, each one strategically placed to act as a primitive alarm—if anything or anyone tried to enter their circle, the snap of branches would sound the alert.

The night was thick and silent, save for the soft crackling of the fire and the steady pulse of his own heartbeat. Above, the sky was obscured by the dense canopy, and no stars shone through the dark veil of branches. Mikkel could barely make out the edges of the forest, which seemed to press in closer as the hours stretched on. He glanced at the outer edge of the clearing repeatedly, each time half-expecting to see something move just beyond his line of sight.

The only break in the silence came from an owl, its low, haunting call echoing from the direction they had come from, as if it had followed them all the way from Altera. The owl's voice filled the void, a mournful, persistent sound that seemed to carry an ominous weight. Its song punctuated the quiet, never giving Mikkel a moment of peace. Each time the owl called, a shiver ran through him, and he found himself listening even more intently, alert to every rustle, every faint creak of the branches overhead.

Finally, it was Arne's turn to take over the watch. Mikkel exhaled a sigh of relief as he moved toward Arne's tent. The night had been long, and he felt the exhaustion clawing at him. He quietly unzipped Arne's tent flap, peering inside, but was taken aback when he found Arne kneeling, spear in hand, his eyes wide and alert, fixed on Mikkel with an unsettling intensity.

"What is it, Arne?" Mikkel whispered, his voice barely breaking the silence.

Arne's response was immediate, his voice low and tense. "Haven't you heard the branches breaking?"

Mikkel frowned, glancing over his shoulder. "No. What do you mean?"

Arne didn't answer. Instead, he brushed past Mikkel, stepping out of the tent and re-zipping it with quick, precise movements. He raised his spear and pointed, his gaze hard and unblinking. "There. Look just past Arvid's tent."

Mikkel followed the line of Arne's spear, his eyes landing on a small area just behind Arvid's tent where three branches lay snapped cleanly in half, the jagged wood stark against the dark snow. He felt a prickle of unease creep down his spine. He had been sitting facing that direction for hours, yet he hadn't noticed anyone—or anything—approaching.

"That... owl," Mikkel muttered under his breath, his voice trailing off. Had he been so distracted by the owl's haunting call that he'd missed something moving right at the edge of camp?

Arne's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his spear. "You heard an owl?"

Mikkel nodded slowly, the realization settling in. But as he met Arne's gaze, he saw something else—a cold look, a shadow of disbelief.

"I haven't heard any owl, Mikkel." Arne's voice was barely more than a whisper. He took a step back, his shoulders tense, his stance guarded. The firelight flickered, casting shadows across his face. They were enclosed, cut off from whatever lay in the darkness beyond, unable to see more than a few feet past the fire's light.

Arne's voice broke the silence again, low and urgent. "Go back inside the tent. Protect Tobias and Elin. I'll stand guard from here."

Mikkel hesitated, a chill settling in his bones that had nothing to do with the cold night air. He wanted to question Arne further, to make sense of the strange unease gnawing at him. But the look on Arne's face was resolute, unyielding.

With a reluctant nod, Mikkel turned and slipped into Arne's tent, crouching beside Tobias and Elin as he adjusted his grip on his small handgun. Outside, he could hear Arne's footsteps moving in a slow, deliberate circle around the camp, each step sounding like a muted heartbeat against the snow. The night had closed in around them, and Mikkel couldn't shake the feeling that they were no longer alone—that the forest itself was watching, waiting.

The owl's call echoed once more in the distance, a hollow, haunting sound that seemed to carry a warning.