The Hunter's Curse

Thorne tracked his prey through the twisted undergrowth, his senses heightened by the curse that bound him. Every shadow held a potential threat, every sound a warning. He had been hunting for so long that he could barely remember what it felt like to be free.

The creature he pursued was ancient, a remnant of the old world that refused to die. It had killed three villagers before Thorne picked up its trail. Now, deep in the heart of the forsaken forest, he was closing in.

But as he moved through the darkness, Thorne felt the familiar pull of the curse. It whispered to him, urged him forward, fed on his determination. He was no longer sure where the hunter ended and the curse began. Were these his choices, or was he merely a puppet dancing on strings of shadow?

The creature's lair lay ahead, marked by bones and the stench of death. Thorne readied his weapons, knowing that this hunt, like all the others, would only bring temporary relief. The curse would never let him rest. It would never let him be free.