Kealix crouched low on the thick branch, heart pounding so loud he was afraid it might give him away. Below, the pale beasts moved with unnatural stillness, their blank, eyeless faces turned unmistakably toward him.
They couldn't see. He was sure of that. And yet—they knew exactly where he was.
How?
Their heads were angled upward, limbs stilled mid-crawl, grotesque bodies half-curled around the bloodied remains of the wolves. Kealix stared down at them, breath caught somewhere in his throat, unable to look away. They didn't move, didn't shift, didn't make a sound—but he could feel them watching. Not just his body. Him.
His skin crawled. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, but he didn't dare twitch.
They can't see me, he told himself. As long as I stay quiet, as long as I don't move… they can't hear me. And if they can't hear me… they can't find me again. Right?
But even the thought felt thin, fragile—like a lie told in desperation.
He studied them, trying to keep his mind from unraveling.
They were shaped like nightmares.
Long, pale bodies—almost translucent under the canopy's red light—slid across the forest floor like worms dressed in human skin. Their limbs were too thin, too many, bending in angles that didn't make sense. And their mouths…
Kealix's stomach turned.
They had no lips—just wide, gaping mouths stretched too far across their faces. But their teeth were flawless. White. Symmetrical. Almost… human. And somehow, that made it worse. So much worse.
He forced his eyes away from their faces, then froze.
One of them was enormous. At least five times the size of the wolves they'd feasted on earlier. Its torso alone was as wide as the trunk of the pale tree. The thing shifted slightly, its body gliding forward a few inches without a sound, like a shadow crawling across the ground.
Kealix stopped breathing.
His lungs locked up entirely, paralyzed by a wave of dread. He didn't even dare blink. Sweat ran down the side of his face, pooling at his jaw, and still he didn't move.
Don't make a sound. Don't move. Don't let them hear you. If they can't hear you… they'll forget you're here.
But deep down, that voice—the part of him that still clung to logic—was already cracking.
Because if they didn't know he was there… why hadn't they left?
Why were they just… staring?
They had no eyes. Nothing in their faces should have indicated awareness. But Kealix could feel it—something cold and terrible pressing against his chest. Like they were reaching for him, mentally, spiritually, instinctually. Like they were staring straight into his soul.
He didn't know how long he held there. Seconds? Minutes? His entire body screamed with the effort of remaining still. His arms ached from the climb, his legs trembled from exhaustion, and the metallic limb on his left side had already begun to stiffen again. His lungs begged for air.
And still, he didn't move.
Because if he did—he knew—they'd be on him in an instant.
At one point, he realized he'd forgotten to breathe entirely. He gasped in a tiny, silent breath through his nose, careful not to let it shake. Even the sound of his own pulse thudding in his ears made him feel too loud, too exposed.
Why aren't they doing anything? he thought, eyes wide, wild with fear. What are they waiting for?
The pale beasts didn't answer.
They just watched.
Waiting.
Then—they moved.
No warning. No growl. No scream. Just motion. Sudden, violent, inhuman.
The pale beasts surged forward all at once, their limbs blurring in the dim light as they darted toward the base of the tree. Claws scratched and scraped uselessly against the white bark. The trunk was too smooth, too polished for their spindly fingers to find purchase. They skittered, slipped, and slid back down in eerie silence.
Kealix's heart lurched in his chest, but for a brief, shining second… relief bloomed.
Maybe I'm safe after all, he thought, chest heaving quietly. Maybe they can't climb it.
But hope—true hope—was a fragile thing. And his shattered just as quickly as it came.
The creatures didn't stop. They didn't give up. They adapted.
One by one, they began to pile on top of each other. Thin limbs tangled with others, spines twisted grotesquely, bodies bending in unnatural ways to accommodate the formation. It wasn't a climb—it was a construction. A ladder made of pale flesh and squirming limbs, inching ever closer to the top.
To him.
Kealix's body snapped upright before he even registered moving. He spun in place, panic turning his vision into a blur. His eyes darted across the canopy, scanning for anything—anything—that might offer escape.
No, no, no—think. Move. Get out!
"Fuck," he hissed, the word slipping out like a breathless prayer. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
His thoughts came in short bursts, frantic and jagged. I can't stay here. I'll die if I stay. I have to move. I have to—
He grabbed at his deck instinctively, fingers brushing over cards that pulsed faintly with power, but most of them… cold. Dormant. Useless.
"Combat-only," he muttered through gritted teeth. "They only activate in combat—how does that help me now?!"
Then he saw it.
A branch. Farther out from the main trunk. Thick, arched, and—most importantly—connected to another tree. Not this cursed white pillar, but a different one. Its bark darker, older, untouched by the beasts swarming below.
It was a stretch. Literally. He'd have to run, leap, and pray that the arc carried him far enough. But it was a chance.
My only chance.
He bolted.
The branch groaned under his feet as he sprinted along it, leaves whipping past his face. He didn't think—thinking would only slow him down. The monsters below were already halfway up their grotesque tower of bodies, and he could feel them getting closer.
He reached the edge.
And jumped.
The air rushed around him. Time seemed to slow. The other branch loomed ahead, just within reach—
His fingers brushed it.
But his foot didn't land cleanly. The moment his boot hit the wood, it slipped. Bark tore away. His balance vanished. His body pitched forward.
And he fell.
A cry tore from his throat as gravity yanked him toward the forest floor below. He twisted midair, flailing for anything to grab—anything—
There!
Another branch—just below him, a thick one, horizontal and wide enough to stop his fall if he could just—
He reached.
His hands slammed against the bark. His fingers curled—
Slipped.
"Dammit!" he gasped, arms scraping along the wood as he plummeted past. His heart punched against his ribs.
I need something—anything—
And then, something changed.
His left arm—Dying Star—shuddered.
He felt it before he saw it: a surge of heat, a flicker of motion beneath the skin of the metal. Then it shifted. Liquid silver roiled across the surface of the limb, reconfiguring. Compacting. Focusing.
A sharp, metallic hum filled the air.
The arm launched.
A gleaming hook burst forth from his forearm like a spear, trailing a whip-thin cable behind it. It shot upward in a flash of silver, piercing through the air—and latched onto the branch he'd just missed.
The cable jerked taut.
His body stopped mid-fall with a violent snap, dangling in the empty space between the trees, swaying slightly with the momentum.
Kealix gasped, chest heaving. He hung there for a moment, suspended by the miracle of his own body. His eyes wide, disbelieving.
Dying Star had moved.
It saved me.
His arm trembled with the effort of holding him up, but the grip was solid. Secure. It hadn't failed.
A shaky laugh slipped from his lips—half relief, half disbelief.
"Thank you," he whispered to the metal, voice raw. "You're learning."
Or maybe… they both were.
For a breath—a single heartbeat—he felt relief.
Dying Star reeled him upward with a hiss of shifting metal, pulling him toward the branch above. The tension in the cable released at just the right moment, launching him slightly into the air and allowing his boots to land squarely on solid wood. For the first time in what felt like hours, he had footing. A second to breathe.
He turned his head.
The pale beasts were still coming.
Fast.
Closer than before.
Too close.
The relief died as quickly as it had bloomed.
Kealix ran.
He didn't think—he couldn't. Thought would only slow him down. He tore across the branches, leaping from one to the next, hoping the change in elevation, in angle, in anything might slow the pursuit. But he could still feel them behind him—could almost hear the whisper of movement as their slick limbs scraped bark and leaves.
He didn't dare look back again.
Another branch, another leap.
Then—nothing.
A dead end.
The branch ended in midair, no connecting limb, no canopy bridge. Just open space and the distant shimmer of moonlight filtering through the gaps in the trees. The forest below waited like a dark ocean ready to swallow him whole.
Behind him: movement.
Too late to turn back.
Too close to fight.
They were almost on him.
Kealix's chest heaved, lungs dragging in the thick forest air. He looked at his arm—Dying Star, now still and quiet, the metal surface dull under the starlight.
You better work the way I think you do, he thought, sweat dripping into his eyes. He raised the arm, aimed high, and took a breath so deep it ached in his ribs.
Visualize it.
He pictured the transformation again. The grappling hook, the cable, the mechanism that had saved him once before. He needed it to happen. There was no other way.
The metal shifted.
He felt it first—a humming tremor in his forearm, like the limb was awakening from sleep. Then it moved. The lower half of the arm unfolded and reshaped, seamlessly responding to the image in his head.
The grappling hook snapped into place with a satisfying clank.
He fired.
The hook launched into the air, trailing its cable, and caught onto a distant branch—far enough that the beasts would never reach it in time.
Perfect.
He jumped.
The wind howled past him as his body launched through the air like a stone from a sling. His stomach dropped, weightless and suspended. For a brief moment, he felt free—untouchable.
Then everything went wrong.
A sharp snap echoed from his arm. A violent jolt surged up his shoulder. The hook retracted.
The arm reverted.
The grappling hook vanished, reforming back into its default shape mid-air as if the transformation had never happened.
He was thirty meters up.
And falling.
Panic slammed into him like a wave. The air ripped past his ears as the ground rushed up to meet him. Trees blurred past in a kaleidoscope of leaves and moonlight.
Do something! Come on! Anything!
"Fuck!" he shouted, flailing. "Fuck, fuck—Dying Star, don't do this to me!"
The metal limb remained inert, lifeless.
No shifting. No saving.
Only the wind screaming louder than his thoughts.
Is this really how I die?
The question bloomed in his mind, hollow and stunned, as he looked up at the shrinking canopy. His breath caught. The pale beasts were nowhere in sight. The sky stretched wide and uncaring.
Is this it?
Then—
A sound.
A deafening crack.
The forest floor greeted him.
Blackness.
Then—something else.
A presence. Cold, alert, feral. Not just watching. Guarding.
[Your companion Frost is worried about you.]
Kealix wasn't conscious enough to hear the words, but he felt them—like a ripple through a deep, frozen lake. Concern, wrapped in instinct. Loyalty laced with fear. Something paced beside his broken body, low to the ground, snarling in silence.
[Your companion will defend you with its life.]
The shadows around his fallen form shifted. A growl rumbled low and deep, vibrating through the roots and earth. The pale beasts circled the area, cautious now. Something stronger had taken his place—something they could not approach without consequence.
Kealix lay still, bleeding and broken.
But he wasn't alone.
Not yet.