The bells had stopped ringing long before he started running. Beneath a full moon that hung like a watchful eye over the ruined castle, the Carver tore through the dead forest with his lantern held high, its flame unspooling behind him in a ribbon of fire. His cloak snapped in the wind, torn by branches and teeth, while fallen leaves and snow kicked up around his boots. Behind him came the pack — black wolves crowned with antlers, eyes burning yellow, jaws open in a hunt that had lasted since dusk. The old bells lay scattered and silent in the frost, their warnings already too late. He did not run from fear, but from duty. Every step he took carved the flame deeper into the night, a burning line meant to hold the beasts back from the valley below. The wolves lunged, their breath fogging in the cold, but the fire curled and struck like a living thing, forcing them to veer and snarl. Ahead, the broken stone bridge promised a narrow escape, if his legs and his light could hold for one more stretch. The Carver gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on the lantern, and ran straight into the dark — carrying the last flame between the world of men and the things that hunted it.