Pain woke him.
Not the dull, persistent ache that had become his new normal, but a sharp, radiating fire that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. His left arm felt heavy, swollen, and hot to the touch. He peeled his eyes open. Dawn's grey light filtered into the lean-to, illuminating a dark, ugly stain that had soaked through the makeshift bandage.
Get up. Move. The thought was a command, but his body rebelled. A wave of dizziness washed over him as he tried to sit, his skin clammy with a feverish sweat.
"Warning: Elevated core temperature detected at 38.5 Celsius," SAGE's voice cut through the fog in his mind, clinical and detached. "Signs of localised infection are present in the forearm laceration. Immediate and more effective wound treatment is critical for survival."
Elias gritted his teeth, a low groan escaping his lips. Survival. The word felt like a taunt. He had won the fight, but the bear's parting gift was a war being waged in his own blood.
Slowly, painstakingly, he crawled out of the shelter. The sight of the massive, still carcass was a surreal counterpoint to his own debilitating weakness. With his good right hand, he fed the fire, his movements clumsy and deliberate. He filled his precious pot with water from the spring and set it near the flames, waiting for it to boil. Every action was a trial.
He slumped against the stone heat-wall, breathing heavily, and began the agonising process of unwrapping his arm. The layers of leaf and bark fibre came away sticky with blood and lymph. The wound itself was a ruin. The claw marks were deep, ragged canyons in his flesh, the edges swollen and an angry, inflamed red that spread across his skin. A faint, foul smell rose from it. Nausea churned in his gut.
Just an engineering problem, he told himself, the mantra a fragile shield against panic. A biological system failure. Identify the problem. Implement the solution.
When the water boiled, he poured it into a shallow birch-bark tray he'd made, letting it cool just enough not to scald. Then, using a clean strip of inner bark, he began to clean the gashes. The pain was exquisite. It stole his breath, made black spots dance in his vision. He forced himself to be thorough, flushing away every visible speck of dirt and dried blood.
"SAGE, poultice. Antimicrobial. Anything?" he gasped, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Scanning local flora" the AI replied instantly. "There is a common yarrow, a broad-leafed plant with small white flowers growing near the stream. It contains compounds with known styptic and antimicrobial properties. Crushing the leaves and stems to a paste is the recommended application."
He stumbled to the stream, his vision tunnelling. He found the plant easily, its feathery leaves distinct. He gathered a handful and, back at the fire, used a smooth rock to crush them against another. The green paste was fragrant and slightly bitter. He took a deep breath, then applied it directly to the weeping wounds. It stung with the intensity of pure fire, a clean, sharp agony that made him cry out.
With trembling fingers, he laid fresh, rinsed leaves over the poultice and bound the entire arm tightly with the strongest, cleanest cordage he had. He fashioned a sling from a wide strip of bark fibre, immobilizing the arm against his chest. The throbbing subsided, replaced by the fierce, burning sting of the yarrow. It was an improvement. He hoped.
The rest of the day was a feverish blur. He forced himself to drink boiled water and chew on the last strips of smoked rabbit meat, knowing he needed fuel for the fight his body was waging. He dozed in fitful bursts, waking with a start at every unfamiliar sound, his hand reaching for the bloody hatchet that now lay beside him like a grim companion.
By late afternoon, the fever seemed to break. The shivering subsided, and his mind felt clearer, though a profound weakness remained. He stared at the bear carcass. It lay untouched, a mountain of potential rotting under the sun. The air around it was already thick with the heavy, sweet-sour scent of cooling blood and the hum of insects. A new kind of clock was ticking.
"SAGE, probability of processing that entire thing with one good arm?" he asked, his voice a hoarse croak.
"Low," SAGE stated. "Attempting to process the full carcass before significant spoilage occurs is statistically improbable given your current physical limitations. Triage is recommended. Prioritize the hide, the fat, and the most accessible prime meat cuts."
Logic, cold and sharp. He nodded, pushing himself to his feet. The weight of victory was a crushing burden. He started with the hide. It was a slow, brutal education in one-handed leverage. He used his good hand to wield the knife and his feet to brace the massive limbs, pulling the heavy skin back inch by painstaking inch. The slickness of the fat beneath, the sheer weight of the pelt, and the awkward angles forced by his injury made every cut a new challenge. By dusk, he had only managed to free one large section from the back and a shoulder. It was a pathetic start, but it was a start. He hacked off several slabs of dark meat and thick, white fat, dragging them closer to the fire before collapsing, utterly spent.
The second day blurred into a rhythm of pain and labor. His arm still throbbed, but the swelling had lessened, the angry red receding. He moved with a grim, focused economy. The engineer had taken over, imposing a system on the chaos. He sliced more meat into thin strips, laying them out on a rock in the direct sun. He rigged his smoker again, this time with more care, and set a portion to cure slowly over a cool, dense smoke.
He took the chunks of fat he'd collected and began the slow process of rendering them. His two greenware pots, air-dried and seemingly sturdy, were pressed into service. He couldn't set them directly on the fire, so he reverted to the hot-rock method, dropping glowing stones into the pot filled with fat. A rich, oily smell soon filled the camp as the fat melted down, separating into clear, golden tallow and crispy cracklings. He even managed to stretch the section of hide he'd skinned, pegging it out with sharp sticks. He scraped it as best he could, preparing it for tanning. It was far from perfect, but it was progress. He was a machine of butchery, tired, aching, but adapting.
Night fell again, this time with an unwelcome addition. As Elias sat by the fire, nursing his aching arm and chewing on a piece of fresh jerky, he heard it.
A howl.
It was the sound of an wolf — or something terribly close. Higher-pitched, yes, and raw in a way that made his skin crawl, but familiar enough to stir something primal in the back of his mind. Another answered it, then a third, this one noticeably closer. They were distant, yet the night air carried their calls with chilling clarity, as if the dark itself was listening.
Elias froze, his head snapping up. He slowly built up the fire, feeding it thick branches until it roared, casting a wide, protective circle of light.
"Canine analogues detected at the perimeter of the clearing," SAGE reported. "Multiple individuals."
He could see them now. Not clearly, but as fleeting movements in the deep shadows beyond the firelight. Pairs of eyes, reflecting the flames like malevolent embers, would appear and vanish. They were lean, shadowy creatures, moving with a predatory patience. They were drawn by the undeniable scent of the kill.
His hand tightened on his hatchet. He couldn't fight a pack. Not like this. He was a wounded animal himself, guarding a feast too large to defend. An idea, born of pragmatic desperation, formed in his mind. This wasn't a siege to be won; it was a negotiation.
He took a bundle of less-critical cuts—ribs and tougher shoulder meat—and with his good arm, hurled it as far as he could into the darkness, away from his shelter.
The effect was immediate. The watchers vanished from the perimeter. A flurry of snarling and snapping erupted from where the meat had landed, a brief, violent squabble in the dark. Then, silence. They had taken the offering. They had accepted the toll.
Elias didn't sleep. He sat with his back to the stone wall, hatchet in his lap, and watched the fire, feeding it through the long, tense hours. The howls did not return.
When dawn broke, he saw the price of his peace. The bear carcass was gone. Not entirely, but stripped down to a skeleton of massive, scattered bones, picked clean by a night of furious, efficient scavenging. The forest had claimed its share.
But Elias had claimed his, too. Stretched and drying was a massive sheet of thick hide. Hanging from his smoker were dozens of strips of dark, preserved jerky. And in one of his precious pots, a solid cake of rendered, life-sustaining tallow had cooled.
He had paid the butcher's toll, and he had survived the collection.
He sat by the morning fire, hollow-eyed but alive, the world around him quiet once more. The work was not done. It was never done.