Wolverine

Wolverine

The trail narrows to almost nothing, swallowed by the wild. No signs, no benches, just claw-scraped bark and the kind of silence that feels too alert.

You find the medallion half-swallowed by a tree. Its bronze edge glints like an eye. When you touch it, the forest hushes.

“You’re either brave,” says a voice behind you, rough as gravel, “or very, very stupid.”

You turn. The wolverine steps out of the underbrush like a shadow made real—low-slung, broad, bristling with the kind of tension that makes the air itch.

“Haven’t seen a human out this far in a while,” he says, sniffing the air. “Most don’t get here. Most shouldn’t.”

He circles you slowly, appraising. “You touched it. That’s what called me. That’s what wakes things up.”

You manage, “What things?”

He snorts. “Not everything that sleeps stays quiet. Not everything that wakes stays sane.”

His gaze pierces. You ask, “What do you think happens if I find them all?”

He stops. A low chuckle rumbles from his chest. “You think finding them ends something?” He tilts his head. “The medallions aren’t a finish line. They’re keys. And keys open doors. Some doors you don’t want open. Or maybe they’re not doors. Maybe they’re cages.”

He paces a slow arc around you, claws dragging faint lines in the dirt. “You think I’m scary, soft-foot? Wait until you talk to the elk again. Or worse—find the one that doesn’t talk at all.”

You blink. “Who’s that?”

He grins without humor. “You’ll know. You reek of newness. Of hope. That won’t last long.”

He turns to leave, then pauses, looking back at you with something like grudging respect. “Still. You’ve got teeth, even if they’re not sharp yet. Keep moving. Don’t follow the paths. Break them.”

And just like that, the wolverine slips into the trees, and the world resumes its breath.