Night pressed down heavier than the last. The canopy blotted out the moon, leaving only the dull glow of the campfire as a fragile shield against the shadows. No one trusted the firelight, though—it only carved the dark into deeper pockets where things could hide.
The students sat in a tight ring, weapons close, eyes darting at every sound. The silence was unbearable, pierced now and then by a distant scream that didn't belong to any bird.
A boy named Soren snapped, voice shaking, "We're being hunted. I can feel it."
"Shut up," Callen hissed, but his knuckles were white around his blade.
Paranoia was a disease, and it was spreading. Each whispered argument added to the air's weight.
Eryndor sat apart from the group, sharpening his knife slowly. Sparks jumped from the whetstone, the sound cutting through the silence. He didn't look up, but he listened. Every shift of breath. Every shuffle of boots. Even among allies, suspicion gnawed. One wrong move and they'll break.
Lyanna sat near him, hugging her knees. She whispered, "They're cracking, Eryndor. If something comes now…"
He kept his eyes on the blade. "Then half of them won't survive the first charge."
Her lips pressed tight, but she didn't argue. She knew he was right.
And then it came.
The ground rumbled first, faint at the edge of hearing. A deep vibration that worked its way through roots, stone, marrow. The fire snapped violently, flames bending as if sucked toward the forest's depths.
"What was that?" Soren whispered, voice cracking.
The rumble grew. Heavy footfalls, shaking dirt loose from branches. The forest went quiet—dead quiet, as though every living thing had fled.
Then the trees split open.
It stepped into the clearing—a monster towering over them, twice the size of a carriage. Its hide shimmered like obsidian, but its body writhed with shifting lines of red light beneath the surface, veins glowing as if molten fire flowed within. Its head resembled a warped stag's skull, jagged horns twisting into unnatural spirals. When it opened its jaws, the heat of its breath rolled over the camp.
A Molten Horror.
The students broke instantly. Screams, blades dropped, some bolted for the trees.
Eryndor rose slowly, knife still in hand, though it looked laughably small against the beast. His heart thundered, but his face was calm. "Perfect test."
The Horror roared, the ground cracking beneath its steps as it charged. Fire spilled from its body, heat slamming against them like a wave.
Lyanna grabbed her bow, firing arrow after arrow, but the shafts burned to ash mid-flight. "It's resisting!" she shouted.
Eryndor lunged forward, electricity sparking across his skin. He activated Lightning Step, his body flickering in bursts of speed. The beast's claws tore the ground where he had stood, soil exploding. He leapt, driving his charged fist into its ribs. Crackling Palm.
The blow detonated, sparks scattering—but the Horror barely flinched. Its molten veins pulsed brighter, and it swung its horn, catching him mid-air.
The impact tore the breath from his lungs. He crashed into the dirt, rolling until the taste of iron filled his mouth. His vision blurred—but he pushed up, blood dripping down his chin.
So strong… this is nothing like the stalkers.
The Horror reared back, molten light pooling in its chest. The ground glowed, fissures cracking beneath its hooves.
Eryndor's body screamed with pain, but he braced himself. "Fine. If that's what it takes…"
The Eightfold Flow awakened within him, every technique he'd drilled weaving together, instinct humming like a second heartbeat. His aura flared—not steady, not yet mastered, but raw and fierce.
Electric arcs leapt from his fists as he prepared to charge again.
This time, he wasn't thinking about survival. He was thinking about victory.
The Horror bellowed, the night exploding in fire and ash—
And Eryndor met it head-on.