Epilogue

A tale was often told by the locals who lived in and around the Northern Woods. To outsiders it was little more than a fireside myth, but to the people of the region it was a story they would swear upon their lives - warm, strange, and beloved.

The locals insisted that their reduction in livestock losses had skyrocketed over the past months, and they claimed to have proof. Outsiders, of course, blamed environmental factors, better weather, or simple coincidence. The villagers’ explanation - that an Amarok, a Great Wolf of legend, had taken to protecting its territory - was too outlandish to believe. Especially since the very same Amarok had long been accused of devouring livestock and unwary travelers.

But then came the rumor that a hunter had tamed the monster.

When the villagers insisted - adamant, unwincing - that the tale was true, people began to listen.

Even so, no one knew the full story. No one except a shepherd: a teenage boy who spent most of his life herding sheep far from the settlements. His voice was soft, but his story never wavered. He told them that the Great Wolf had been grievously wounded by a Kowhao, a dangerous forest spirit whispered about in the old legends. That a lone hunter had found the dying creature. That the Wolf had taken the form of a beautiful woman and offered herself to him, and he had rescued her instead.

He spoke of how the hunter, without realizing it, had completed the Amarok’s mating ritual and become her husband. She, in turn, became his wife. The two of them protected the land together, feeding on each other’s touch, living in bliss until the Kowhao returned - terribly angry.

“And then?” they asked breathlessly. “What happened after they fought it?”

The shepherd had fallen silent, eyes distant.
When pressed, he only shrugged.

But then he spoke again, quietly: the Amarok that had been accused of harming their settlements was never the true culprit. That guilt belonged to the Kowhao.

“Then,” the villagers asked, “if the livestock have stopped disappearing… does that mean the Kowhao is dead?”

The shepherd shook his head.
“I do not know,” he said. “For I am not the hunter, and I am not the Amarok. I am but a shepherd.”

Rumors spread rapidly. Some claimed the boy was a prophet - how else could he know so much? Others scoffed, calling him a fraud, accusing him of weaving stories for attention. His once-peaceful life became tangled with interrogations and demands for answers he did not have.

But each time, he only shook his head.
“I don’t tell lies. I have nothing to gain by lying.”

His accusers barked back in fury.
“Nothing? With enough fame, you could escape this worthless life! You could change everything! Do not insult us with this meekness!”

The boy lifted his head slowly, disappointment dimming his eyes.
“I have not made up anything. I am not a storyteller. I am only repeating what I have heard.”

“Then who told you these untruths?” they pressed, eager for a scapegoat.

The shepherd looked toward the horizon.

“A woman, scantily clad in animal pelts, with long silver hair and grey eyes… and a man bundled in many layers with a large rifle on his back.”

He pointed at the treeline.
“They came from the forest. I had never seen them before. When I asked who they were, they told me their story… and said they were leaving to see the human world.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I believe they were the hunter and the Amarok. If you hurry, you may still catch them.”

His words - instantly, inexplicably accepted - triggered a nation-wide search. But nothing was found. No tracks. No trace. No wandering pair.

When the searchers returned to question him again, he only shrugged.

“Perhaps they have returned to the forest. I do not know. For I am not the hunter, and I am not the Amarok. I am but a shepherd.”

A wolf’s howl echoed suddenly across the land - deep, cold, ancient. A chill swept through the interrogators, sharp enough to pierce their coats. They fled in a panic.

The shepherd watched their retreating forms with narrowed eyes. The sheep, normally docile, huddled at the far edge of the field, refusing to approach. He glanced down at his chest - at the perfectly round hole piercing through it, hidden by clothing, as if a bullet had passed cleanly through. No blood. No wound. Just emptiness.

When the last of the villagers vanished from sight, he turned toward the forest. From his sleeves, from his collar, from the shadows under his clothes, black tendrils drifted and curled like smoke.

He walked into the trees.

And was never seen again.