Elthraa

  You move, boy. Your body weaves through the emerald maze, a beast of hunger, of foolish conviction. The sack upon your shoulder bulges with plunder—mushrooms plucked from shadowed roots, vermin snatched from branches, their warm bodies cooling in death’s quiet grip. You kill, you gather, you feed. It is not for yourself. It is never for yourself.

  Cherry told you to stop. To cease your dream, your reckless devouring, your mess. Fool that she is—does she not see? If you must take, you must also give. And so, you decide to bring them offerings, your hands stained with the wild’s sacrifice.

  But ah, Zett, you are a creature of impulse. This is no mere act of atonement. It is instinct, unshackled.

  You wade into the river. A fish moves, sleek and silver, a bolt of life surging against the stream. You lunge, muscles igniting, hands closing around its thrashing body. The struggle is brief; your grip tightens, and it stills. Another. And another. Until the sack strains with your quarry.

  Then—stillness.

  Your eyes lift.

  Across the water, a beast stands, its great bulk half-submerged, paws swiping through the shallows in pursuit of its own meal.

  A bear.

  You watch it. It watches nothing but the river, oblivious to your presence, too enraptured by its own hunger to acknowledge yours.

  For a moment, your mind stirs. Could I?

  You could not.

  But you do not listen, Zett. You never listen.

  A grin carves its way across your face, teeth bared in reckless delight.

  And then you run.

  The bear does not see you at first. It does not expect such madness. But as you close the distance, its head jerks up—too te. Your fist meets its face with the force of a fighter unchained.

  Flesh upon fur.

  A foolish act.

  The bear rears, its eyes igniting with fury, its roar a sound that shatters the world. The air trembles, the trees shudder, the river recoils.

  Then beast swipes.

  You remember Vortex, the way he would weave through phantom strikes, fists cutting the air like bdes. You mimic him, and drop low, the instinct buried within your bones guiding you beneath its wrath.

  And yet, the wild is no training ground. A fish leaps—panicked, oblivious—and its tail sps your face.

  You slip and the river cims you.

  You thrash, the current dragging you, spinning you into chaos. Ahead, the bear lunges, undeterred by the water’s grasp. It swims toward you, its hunger now eclipsed by fury.

  You will not lose.

  A boulder rises from the river’s heart, slick with moss and time. You reach, fingers cwing at its surface. The world narrows to this moment—this single struggle. Your arms burn, your breath vanishes, but you pull. And then—you rise.

  The bear surges forward, teeth gleaming, death in its eyes.

  Your gaze shifts. A tree looms nearby, its form a ruin—half-wrecked, half-standing, its trunk fractured by age and storm.

  Could you throw it?

  You could not.

  But you don't heed logic.

  Your fingers press against the bark, muscles tensing, willing the impossible. It does not move.

  Above, the sky groans.

  A storm stirs, unseen until now. The heavens gather their fury, clouds thickening, whispering their warning.

  The bear climbs. Cws scrape against stone, its massive form ascending toward you, hunger and rage entwined in its every motion.

  The tree will not move.

  But the storm has other pns.

  A crack of light. A roar not of beast, but of sky.

  Lightning descends.

  The tree does not resist. It breaks, falls, finds its mark.

  The bear does not roar again.

  The air shudders with the scent of scorched bark, of something greater at work than mere coincidence.

  Ah, Zett. Not only are you a creature of madness, but of favor.

  But even the chosen are mortal.

  Your body falls. The ground rises to meet you, and the world fades before your mind can grasp what has occurred.

  The storm rumbles above, murmuring secrets to those who can listen.

  And you—

  You do not hear.