THE WOLF’S CURSE

Chapter 5

Alec

The first thing I notice is the light.

It filters through the thin fabric of the tent, soft and golden, casting everything in a warm, hazy glow. I blink, my eyes heavy with sleep, and stretch, my limbs protesting as I move. Every muscle in my body aches—my shoulders are stiff from the weight of the backpack, my legs sore from hours of hiking over uneven terrain. But it’s a good sore, the kind that reminds me I’ve earned it.

I sit up slowly, wincing as my back pops. The sleeping bag is twisted around me, and I kick it off, the cool morning air biting at my skin. I rub my face, wiping the sleep from my eyes, and run a hand through my messy hair. It’s damp with sweat, sticking to my forehead, and I can still smell the faint scent of campfire smoke clinging to my clothes.

The tent is small, barely big enough for me to stretch out, but it’s cozy in its own way. My backpack sits in the corner, its contents spilling out—a water bottle, a half-empty bag of trail mix, the Tupperware container with Dad’s ashes. I glance at it, the weight of its presence settling over me like a shadow.

I unzip the tent and crawl outside, the cold morning air hitting me like a slap. The forest is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels alive, like it’s holding a secret. The ground is damp with dew, and the trees loom overhead, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my lungs, sharp and clean, and I take a deep breath, letting it ground me.

My boots are where I left them, just outside the tent, and I pull them on, lacing them up tightly. My feet are sore, the blisters from yesterday’s hike already forming, but I ignore the pain. I’ve got miles to cover today, and I can’t afford to slow down.

I stand, stretching my arms over my head, and glance around the campsite. The fire pit is cold, the ashes scattered, and the remnants of last night’s dinner—a can of beans and a piece of jerky—are still sitting on a rock nearby. I should clean up, pack everything away, but for now, I just stand there, taking it all in.

The forest is beautiful in the morning light, the trees glowing gold and green, the air crisp and fresh. But there’s something else, too—a tension, a stillness, like the forest is waiting for something. Or someone.

I shake off the thought, chalking it up to nerves, and start packing up the tent. My movements are slow, deliberate, my mind still foggy with sleep. As I work, I can’t help but think about the dream I had last night—the one about Dad. It’s still fresh in my mind, the way he was shouting, waving his arms, trying to warn me about something. But what?

I pause, my hands stilling on the tent poles, and glance around the campsite. The forest feels different in the daylight, less menacing, but the memory of the dream lingers, a faint unease settling in my chest.

“Just a dream,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head. But the words don’t feel convincing, not when the forest feels so alive, so watchful.

I finish packing up, slinging the backpack over my shoulders, and take one last look at the campsite. The fire pit, the scattered ashes, the empty can of beans—it all feels like a reminder of how alone I am out here.

But that’s the point, isn’t it? To be alone, to face this on my own.

I adjust the straps on my backpack, take a deep breath, and start down the trail. The forest stretches out ahead of me, endless and uncharted, and I can’t shake the feeling that it’s waiting for me.

The trail is rougher today, the ground uneven and littered with rocks and roots that seem determined to trip me up. My legs burn with every step, and my shoulders ache under the weight of the backpack, but I push through it, focusing on the rhythm of my breathing and the sound of my boots crunching over the dirt.

After about half an hour, I stop to catch my breath, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. The air is cooler up here, but the exertion still leaves me damp and sticky. I drop my bag to the ground with a grunt, the weight lifting off my shoulders a relief, even if it’s only temporary.

I crouch down, unzipping the side pocket of my backpack to pull out my phone. The screen lights up, and I open the digital map, my brows furrowing as I trace the red line that marks the trail. The next stop is a small clearing near a ridge, about five miles ahead. It’s not the summit—that’s still a day’s hike away—but it’s a good place to rest for the night.

I zoom in, studying the terrain. The trail winds through a dense section of the forest before opening up near the ridge. It’s steep, but manageable, and the view from the top is supposed to be worth it. Dad would’ve loved it.

The thought of him makes my chest tighten, and I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. The forest is quiet around me, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. But as I stand there, phone in hand, I feel it—a weight, a presence, like eyes boring into the back of my neck.

I look up quickly, my heart skipping a beat. The forest is still, the trees standing tall and silent, their branches swaying gently in the wind. There’s no one there. No movement, no sound, just the endless expanse of green and brown.

“You’re losing it, Alec,” I mutter, shaking my head. My voice sounds too loud in the silence, and I glance around again, half-expecting something to emerge from the shadows. But there’s nothing. Just the trees, the trail, and the faint hum of the wind.

I snort, pushing my phone into my pocket and slinging the backpack over my shoulders. The weight settles back into place, familiar and grounding, and I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the unease.

“Just keep moving,” I tell myself, my voice low but steady.

I start walking again, my boots crunching over the dirt, the rhythm of my steps helping to calm my racing thoughts. But the feeling doesn’t go away. If anything, it grows stronger, a prickling sensation at the back of my neck that makes me want to look over my shoulder every few steps.

I don’t, though. I keep my eyes forward, my focus on the trail ahead. The forest is playing tricks on me, that’s all. It’s the isolation, the silence, the weight of what I’m carrying—both on my back and in my chest.

But as I walk, the feeling lingers, a quiet, persistent whisper in the back of my mind. Someone—or something—is watching me. And it’s only a matter of time before I find out what.