A ribbon of cracked asphalt that cut through the wilderness like an old scar. That was the way a desolate road could be described. It wound between skeletal trees and forgotten fields, so empty so silent so deep it felt alive. Snow clung to the edges of the path, though it had melted days ago beneath the unseasonable heat.

It walked slowly, bare feet pressing into the frostbitten ground, leaving no prints behind.

The body it wore was sturdy and deceptively paled-skin human. Facial features still clung to the face, a mask of what once was. But beneath it, the Antlers coiled like a serpent in a hollow log.

The wind whispered faintly through the trees, brushing the thing's matted hair as it moved. It did not shiver. It had not shivered in days.

Time was no longer something it measured as humans did—ticks of a clock, rises of a sun. Days had passed since the fire from the sky tore through the Earth, since the death-things had begun their hunt.

It had watched it all, first from the dark corners of the Rainy Hollow, then from the fringes of the wilderness. It had seen the meteors cut through the heavens like molten claws. Smelled the ash that rained down in their wake, choking the air with the scent of burning forests and seared flesh.

The chaos had been intoxicating at first. Panic sang loudly, the wails of humanity rising like a symphony of prey. It had been drawn to the edges of the fray, observing these newcomers. These Death Angels, as the humans had begun to call them. Though their purpose was alien, their methods were all too familiar: the hunt, the silence, the feast.

Thoughts spiraled as it walked, tangled and fragmented like frost-bitten roots. These creatures were not kin, though they, too, stalked the weak and the loud. No hunger drove them, no desperation for survival. They killed with no madness, and their presence made the world far too quiet.

Too quiet.

It knew hunger in ways no human could fathom, a gnawing emptiness that had become its purpose, its identity. It lived on the edge of starvation, consuming only what was necessary to keep this vessel strong. The boy's body, this flesh it wore, required sustenance, and despite it, its hunger went deeper, reaching into the marrow of existence.

Since the meteors fell, that hunger had grown still. It had prowled the outskirts of cities, tasting the air for fear, for despair, for the fragile, savory aroma of life. And yet, the streets lay empty, the prey gone to ground or already butchered by the new hunters. Even the animals, normally so plentiful, had vanished. The forests were silent; the towns were ghostly.

It detested this quiet.

The Wendigo paused on the road, its head tilting sharply. The treetops shivered in the breeze. A place like this should have been alive with noise. The invasion had scoured it clean. Humanity"s downfall had silenced not just its cities but had stolen the heartbeat of the wild.

Its amber eyes narrowed, and a low noise rumbled deep in its chest, too soft for anything nearby to hear.

It had left the Rainy Hollow days ago, driven by curiosity, by the pull of something new. Its existence had been an endless repetition of hunger and death, its territory marked by the bones of those who dared wander too close.

Now the world was different. The rules of nature were different. The Death Angels had created a silence it did not understand, a world itself had been swallowed by the void.

And there comes also the question of territory.

These invaders were hunters, true, but they were interlopers. They did not respect the unspoken boundaries of predators. They killed indiscriminately, destroying what they did not consume. This was not a feast; it was a desecration. And for the first time in its long, hollow existence, the Wendigo felt something it could almost name:

Resentment.

It resumed its walk, the faint crunch of snow beneath its feet the only sound in the stillness. Pleasant Camp was close, a small human settlement nestled near the border. It had been weeks—months?—since it had ventured into such places, drawn more by curiosity than hunger. It was not a creature of cities, of human nests. It preferred the isolation of the wilderness, the quiet despair of lost travelers and wandering souls.

Except now the wilderness offers little. The Death Angels had claimed it, and the Wendigo's hunger had grown restless.

It would not confront them, at least not yet. There was no need for such haste. The creatures did not hunt it, nor did they seem to notice its presence. Perhaps they could not hear it, or perhaps they mistook it for something akin to themselves. That suited the Wendigo well enough. It had no intention of being prey.

Still, it followed the chaos, drawn to the cities like a moth to flame. It would watch, it would learn. And when the time came, it would decide.

Endless and gray. Somewhere ahead, the ruins of human civilization awaited.

The world had fallen silent. And silence, it thought, was merely an invitation.