Someone was following him.
Durn noticed it first as a feeling. The kind of awareness that has nothing to do with sight or sound, the prickle at the back of the neck that every creature learns to trust. He dismissed it at first. The forest was full of animals, and animals were curious.
But the feeling did not fade.
By the second day, he had confirmed it. The same presence, keeping its distance, matching his pace. Not an animal. Animals moved with purpose, cutting across trails, stopping to drink, wandering off when they lost interest. This presence was patient. It did not stray.
Durn considered his options.
He could confront whoever it was directly. He could lose them in the deep woods. He could circle back and observe them the way they were observing him.
He chose the last.
That evening, instead of making camp in the open, he found a small clearing ringed by ancient trees and thick undergrowth. He settled into the shadows at the edge, and then he shifted.
Bear form was familiar. Comfortable, in a way that humanoid shape could never quite be. His senses sharpened. His patience deepened. He lowered himself to the ground in the shadow of a fallen trunk and became part of the darkness.
And he waited.
The forest settled around him. Night birds called. Insects resumed their chorus. A small rodent emerged from its burrow, sniffed the air, and decided he was not a threat.
He waited.
Near midnight, the forest went still.
Not the silence of Feralas that had troubled him for weeks, a different kind. The animals were not absent. They were listening. Something was coming.
A figure emerged from the treeline on the far side of the clearing.
An elf.
High elf, by the look of him, though travel-worn in a way that spoke of weeks in the wilderness. He moved carefully, stopping every few steps to scan the clearing, his hand resting on something at his belt. He was looking for something.
He was looking for the bear.
Durn watched him circle the clearing, checking shadows, reading the ground. The elf was thorough. He found the spot where Durn had entered the clearing, and he studied it with an intensity that was almost impressive.
Then he looked up.
And looked directly at Durn.
Not at the shadow of the fallen trunk. At the bear within it.
He did not flee. He did not reach for a weapon. He simply stood there, watching, waiting, as if he had all the time in the world.
Durn held still.
The elf did not look away.
Minutes passed. The forest held its breath.
And Durn understood, with a certainty that settled into his bones like cold water, that this elf was not going to leave. He was too curious. Too stubborn. He had come this far, and he would not turn back without seeing what he had followed.
Durn shifted.
The change rolled through him like water over stone — steady, unhurried, inevitable. He rose from the shadows, no longer a bear, and stood in the moonlight as himself.
The elf's eyes widened. Slightly. Barely.
"Ah," he said. "I was wondering."
His voice was calm. Interested. Not afraid.
Durn studied him for a long moment.
"You have been following me," he said. Not a question.
The elf inclined his head. "You are a very unusual bear."
"And you are a very persistent elf."
The elf smiled. It was not a nervous smile. It was the smile of someone who had just found exactly what he was looking for.
"My name is Radiger."
Durn said nothing. He simply waited, the carapace fragments heavy in his pack, the thorn still turning in his mind.