Volk trudged through the darkness of the cave, his massive frame moving silently, deliberately, step by step.
The oppressive quiet wrapped around him like a heavy shroud, broken only by the faint echo of his boots pressing into the dirt.
His mind was alight with focus, his crimson eyes scanning every inch of the cavern's winding passages. He was heading back toward the trail his horde had worked so hard to obscure.
Why?
Because Volk knew something his horde didn't.
The harpies would eventually piece the trail together, would follow it relentlessly, driven by their leader's resolve.
His earlier words to his horde had been a calculated lie—a temporary salve to calm their weary, bleeding bodies. "They won't find us."
But Volk knew better.
They would come.
The gnawing certainty burned in his chest like a coal, and so he took it upon himself to turn predator. If the harpies wanted blood, he would give them war.
