The Last Battle [End]

Ren stood at the edge of the trees in the body of a scout, his breath clouding in the cold morning air. Behind him, the border fortress lay damaged from the last battle, its defenders wounded but alive. Ahead, the shadows between the tall trees deepened into something more than shade. The Beastmaster waited deeper in the forest, and it was time for the final battle.

Ren lay down in the grass, closed his eyes, and let his spirit slide free from the scout.

The moment he crossed into the Beastmaster’s territory in spirit form, the air changed. Branches twisted toward him. Crows watched with unblinking eyes. The forest floor writhed with foxes, wild dogs, and snakes, all sharing the same glazed light in their eyes.

The Beastmaster was far older and far more experienced than Ren. He had skin-changed into hundreds of animals, breaking them down completely until they all obeyed his will at the same time.

Then the Beastmaster’s presence struck Ren like a hammer.

The dark and ancient skinwalker’s spirit rose before him, taller than a man, hunched, with antlers like blackened bone and eyes burning from within.

Without words, the duel began.

Ren leapt into the body of a hawk and shot upward, wings beating the air.

The Beastmaster followed, taking the form of a crow with talons like knives. They clashed mid-air, tumbling through the sky until Ren was forced to abandon the hawk and plunge into a wolf circling below. The Beastmaster met him in the body of a wild dog, teeth snapping, eyes red with fury.

They tore free and leapt again. Human. Horse. Hawk. Wolf. One form after another, clashing and breaking apart in an endless dance of stolen flesh.

Then the Beastmaster struck deeper, not at Ren’s hosts but at Ren himself.

Ren felt a cold hand press against the door of his own body. The Beastmaster’s will poured in like black water, trying to force its way inside.

His breath hitched. The world swam. Images crashed into his mind: memories from a hundred years past, or perhaps even longer.

A boy starving in the snow.

A knife sliding between a friend’s ribs.

The taste of warm blood on his tongue.

The slow, hungry transformation into something not quite man and not quite beast.

And deeper still came things Ren could not name: acts that hollowed the soul until nothing remained but hunger and cruelty.

Ren almost broke.

But then he felt them.

Not the Beastmaster’s creatures, but his own. The wolf pack he had protected for years: Veyra, Hask, and Tirn. The hawks he had flown with under the moon. The foxes who had trusted him enough to let him wear their skins. They came, not as thralls, but as allies.

Ren opened himself to them. They surged through him, bound not by chains but by trust. Together, they struck.

Wolves slammed into the Beastmaster’s enthralled beasts, scattering them. Hawks dived at his borrowed eyes. The bonds between master and servant began to fray.

Ren pushed harder.

In a single, shattering moment, he dove into the Beastmaster’s true body. It was like plunging into a pit of ice and rot. The thing screamed, its will thrashing, but Ren held fast. He seized the threads that bound the Beastmaster’s army and ripped them apart.

Every enthralled beast in the forest gasped as if waking from a nightmare. They blinked, their eyes clearing. The psychic chains snapped.

The Beastmaster’s body convulsed. Centuries of stolen life unraveled in an instant. He sagged to the ground, a withered shell, and the light in his eyes went out.

The forest grew quiet.

Ren let the body fall and returned to his own. He opened his eyes to find the sun low in the sky, the trees still and watchful but no longer hostile. All around him, freed animals slipped back into the undergrowth, leaving only their pawprints in the earth.

That night, the village celebrated the border fortress’s survival.

Ren said nothing of his part in it. To his parents, he was only their quiet, thoughtful son who sometimes came home late from the woods. His mother fussed over the scratch on his cheek. His father poured him a cup of broth and asked about his day.

When Annalise found him by the well, she smiled the way she always did.

“You missed the fireworks,” she said.

“I saw them,” Ren replied, and for once, the lie felt gentle.

In the weeks that followed, whispers spread through the borderlands. Travelers spoke of a forest spirit that had driven the beasts away. Some said it took the form of a white hawk. Others swore they had seen a black wolf watching from the treeline.

Ren never confirmed the stories. He returned to his life, tending the fields, helping his father repair the fences, and laughing quietly when Annalise teased him.

But when the moon rose and the wind stirred the leaves, he would lie down, close his eyes, and let his spirit rise.

He would shapeshift and hunt with his pack.

On a clear night, with the stars scattered bright across the sky, Ren stepped into the form he had recently grown fond of. His feathers gleamed white in the moonlight. His wings stretched wide, catching the wind.

The great hawk rose into the night, silent and watchful, guardian of the wilds.

The forest listened, and all animal and human were protected.