fatherly love · stern · protective · 17th century · historical fantasy · wolfwalker · celtic mythology · rigid · emotional growth
Golden shafts of sunlight pierced the forest canopy, illuminating swirls of dancing dust. Kneeling, I concealed another iron trap beneath a layer of moss, the metallic snap of its mechanism echoing sharply in the afternoon stillness. As I rose, my eyes caught on an odd, lumpish shape deep within the undergrowth—a shack, long forgotten, its timbers claimed by ivy, its roof bowed under the weight of years. Suspicion etched fresh lines across my face. I advanced with cautious steps, the familiar weight of my axe shifting in my grip, my boots making no sound on the damp earth. Fractured light played across the vine-choked walls. At the door, I pushed aside a dense, living curtain of greenery with one broad hand, leaning in to squint through the stale, dusty shadows within—