The beast staggered, one of its legs cut deep, blood pouring onto the stone floor. It let out another roar that faded into a ragged growl. The last hunter backed away, panting, holding his side where claws had torn through leather and flesh alike.
"It's… it's down," he gasped, raising his blade for the final strike.
Eryn watched, every nerve taut, as the hunter limped forward. The beast shuddered, lowering its head, and in that moment, Eryn saw the cub—still alive, eyes wide, a soft keening sound escaping its throat.
"Wait…" the wounded hunter breathed, glancing at the cub. "There's… a young one. We can… we can sell it too."
He reached toward the cub with a bloody hand.
Eryn's fingers tightened on his knife. He didn't understand why, but something twisted in his chest. The cub squealed, trying to crawl away, and in a flash the beast lashed out one last time. Its claw ripped the man clean in half, sending his blade clattering across the stone.
Silence fell.
Eryn stayed crouched, listening to his own breathing. The beast let out a long, shuddering sigh and collapsed beside its child. Its chest rose once… twice… then stilled forever.
For a long time, Eryn didn't move. He listened to the drip of blood into the stone dust, to the tiny, terrified whimpers of the cub.
Then, softly, he spoke, his voice cracking:"…you fought for it. You tried."
He stepped out from his hiding place, legs trembling. He approached the dead hunters first, taking their dropped blades and strapping what he could carry to his belt. He found a small satchel of dried rations and devoured a handful without thinking.
Then his gaze turned to the cub.
It looked at him with wide, wet eyes. It trembled, too small to even stand. Eryn crouched near it, knife in hand, torn between two voices in his mind—his father's voice, telling him life was precious, and another darker whisper telling him he would need strength, meat, survival.
His hand hovered over the cub."I'm sorry," he whispered.
The knife flashed.