Micro fiction is a wonderful format. It definitely puts handcuffs on the writer, but that’s also a good thing. It forces me, as an author, to be economical with my word choice. While I enjoy flexing my narrative muscles when working on a book, the limitations of two hundred and fifty or even a thousand words make you consider every line carefully. These constraints let me focus on telling a complete tale without the burden of an overly complicated plots, which is perfect for stories like this one.
Deep in an ancient forest, the mist curls around any intruder like breath clawing at them. The trees remember everything they witness. This isn’t a story about power—it’s about balance. In this tale, a primal tension simmers just beneath the soil, and dominance will be tested.
Both seek solitude. What they find instead may reshape the balance between them. This is a story about restraint, hierarchy, and the quiet threat of magic in a world where shifters walk among tangled roots and ancient laws still hold weight. Read the opening below—and if you want to see how the confrontation resolves, the full piece awaits behind the veil.
Come, sit down, and allow me to give you a mini-escape—and kindle your imagination.
As his paws sank into the soft earth, Garrus’s massive, borrowed frame stilled as his head swept the clearing. While the cool mist clung to his fur, each breath pulled in layered scents of pine, damp earth, and distant prey. He was far from his territory, but the solitude contained its own pull.
A sharp wind shift carried a fresh scent. He’d found a shifter from the wolf tribe. His muscles tightened. Slowly, he ducked behind a moss‑covered boulder, finding a lone wolf with amber eyes that narrowed to slits. The wolf’s hackles rose, prompting Garrus to answer with a deep, rolling growl.
The space between the pair shrank without either moving. This contest of wills was more important than either teeth or claws. The wolf lowered its head, ready to strike while Garrus’s claws dug furrows.
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