These lands felt more cursed than enchanted. From the river of blood to the endless stretch of crimson trees, Sarge was growing sick of the color red. What was the purpose of this place? Some kind of limbo? A realm built for torment and decay? He didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Still, he wandered on, searching for logic or meaning amid the twisted rocks and alien flora. His brow was knotted in a scowl of frustration when a voice cut through the silence. He froze, ears swiveling toward the sound, gauging the threat. For better or worse, he moved to investigate.

His steps were slow, measured, each one placed with care to avoid the whispering undergrowth that might betray him. Then he saw him: a wolf, dark as soot and ash. Sarge observed from the shadows, catching the iron tang of dried blood on the air. Injured? That seemed to be the theme around here.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, watching as the strange wolf seemed lost in thought, studying himself. Sarge knew better than to get involved. He didn’t want to. But in this bizarre place, curiosity had claws.

Oi.

The word snapped from him like a twig, neither friendly nor hostile, just a sound that demanded acknowledgment.