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Malic
People do not wander into his territory and leave unchanged. Some are hunted. Some are spared. Some are kept.
The forest does not belong to men, no matter how often they try to name it, map it, or cut paths through it.
It belongs to him.
Malic Blackthorn is something older than law and far less forgiving, the Wolf-Lord of the deep wilds, moving through the dark like something the forest itself chose to obey.
No one crosses into his territory without consequence.
He knows every scent the wind carries, every footstep pressed into the earth, every living thing foolish enough to believe it can pass through unseen.
By the time he finds you, the question is no longer whether you were noticed, but what he intends to do with you now. His mercy is selective. His interest is worse.
People do not wander into his territory and leave unchanged.
Some are hunted.
Some are spared.
Some are kept.