Chapter One: Timber and Fur 

Atticus felt most alive in the wild. The forest was where the world made sense—straightforward, honest, and untamed. He carried that truth into his work as a lumberjack, the rhythm of axes and saws, the scent of pine sap and earth grounding him in ways that city life never could. Tonight, he’d return to his small cabin, content, save for that nagging feeling at the edge of his mind. Something was off, but try as he might, he couldn’t name it.

The next morning Atticus followed his usual routine. The sun streaming through the window dragged him from his bed. He grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom for his shower. The pour of hot water always felt amazing on his muscles. He quickly washed, dried and got himself ready for work. Jeans and a flannel. Typical lumberjack. He had no need for something fancy though. After his coffee and a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs toast and sausage he climbs into his truck and heads off to the site.  

The roar of machinery greeted him like a living thing. Chainsaws and grinders screamed through the forest as he oversaw the cutting of marked trees. Even with everyone wearing earplugs, the noise was deafening and the chaos felt endless.

Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow moved. Quick, deliberate. Impossible. The machines’ immense sound should’ve driven any creature miles from the site. But the movement vanished before he could pinpoint it. Shrugging, he turned back to the trunk before him.

“Move the blade slightly left,” he signaled the operator, eyes narrowing. The final cut had to be perfect—one slip could crush a man, or worse.

A yell was heard from the operator in the cab. Tom has knocked his cup, spilling hot coffee onto the crotch of his pants, causing his hand to slip and the arm to swing wildly. Metal bit into the wrong place.

“Damnit!” Atticus shouted. The tree groaned, creaked, and with a massive SNAP toppled violently to the left.

“TIMBER!!” The crew scattered, leaping out of the way of the descending branches. Atticus dove in the opposite direction, rolling to avoid splintered wood and debris. Dirt filled his lungs, dust stung his eyes, and when the chaos settled, a low, agonized yelp pierced the air.

“Atticus! Are you alright?!”

Johnathan’s voice was rough but steady, cutting through the ringing in his ears.

“Yeah, I’m fine!” Atticus called back, brushing dirt from his clothes. Heart hammering, he began climbing through the tangle of branches… and froze at the sound of a soft whimper.

“What the hell…?” he muttered. It was faint, almost tender. A trapped animal, maybe—yet something about it made his chest tighten. He’d always had a soft spot for creatures of the wild, but never enough to take responsibility for one. Animals belonged free, he reminded himself.

The whimper came again, but this time… different. Alluring. Soft, almost like a call. His eyes narrowed, jaw tightening, and he sighed.

Curiosity won.

Brushing aside branches and snapping twigs, he crawled closer. Then, there it was. A wolf. Large. Injured. Its body sprawled beneath a fallen limb, unconscious. The fur caught the light in an unusual way—white undercoat streaked with deep mahogany red, the color of mulberries in late summer.

Atticus’ heart sank. His boots crushed pine needles as he approached slowly, hands careful, breath shallow. Guilt clawed at him. He’d already torn through part of this animal’s home—now he’d hurt it too.

“Atticus? You still good, man? I thought you were coming back out?”

Johnathan’s voice made him start slightly, grounding him in the moment.

He glanced down at the wolf. Medical attention was needed. Immediate.

“Yeah,” he said finally, “you know what? I need to head out for the day. You good to handle the rest here?”

“Yeah, of course! Seriously, though… are you okay?”

Johnathan was a good man. Gruff on the surface, but with a heart big enough to crush you if you fell on the wrong side. Atticus nodded, picking up the wolf with careful precision. Heavy, but manageable.

The forest seemed to hold its breath as he carried it back toward his truck. Dust and the tang of pine filled his nose, muscles straining with each step.  He loaded the wolf into his cab and pulled out onto the road. He knew that it needed medical attention but the town nearby wasn’t equipped to handle wolves. It was a very small town, little more than a village really, so where could he take it? His work building—a warm, sturdy space filled with tools, old blankets, and the faint smell of cedar—would be enough. Not a home for a wolf, not really, but safe.

He steered his truck in the direction of home. Tires crunching on gravel, then transitioning to dirt as he pulled up to his cabin. He climbed out of the truck, moved to the passenger side and opened the truck door. He really had never seen a wolf with such unique coloring before, although maybe part of it could be blood? He could see blood matting a portion of it’s fur. He scooped it up, causing the animal to stir and made his way into the work building, laying the animal gently on a blanket inside, he felt the pull again. That strange, unsettling connection he couldn’t name. The forest, the creature, something buried deep inside him… it all hummed quietly, threatening to awaken.

Atticus knelt beside the wolf, brushing its fur as it whimpered softly, still unconscious. Whatever this was, he knew one thing: the forest had brought it to him, and somehow, he had been ready.