He still lay on the ground, still damp, slowly and progressively losing heat. Eden managed to hear that scream coming from afar, deep within the dense forest.
—Mielchor?... friend... —he murmured, barely conscious, his eyelids heavy as stone, his mind a dark room where thoughts stumbled over furniture.
Another scream echoed in the distance. The sound pierced through his confusion like a spear, stirring something inside his head that still resisted giving in.
—Mielchor... —he repeated, this time with a little more strength.
He pressed his hands against the wet earth and pushed. His muscles responded with a silent cry, a sharp pain running through his back as if invisible claws were digging into his bones. Still, he forced himself to twist onto one knee, trembling, trying to rise. He stretched his arm to his side and grabbed one of the backpack straps, which had been cut.
The attempt was useless: his leg gave way and he fell again, palms striking the ground with a dry thud.
He took a deep breath, planted his hands again, and pushed once more. Every movement was a battle. Then he remembered that feeling of lightness, the time he had managed to concentrate mana into his arm. So, unsteady, he closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and tried to recreate that moment. He searched for his mana with his mind, groping blindly in the dark, imagining it flowing through every fiber of his body. He called. He begged.
Nothing.Not a spark, not a hint of relief. Only silence and the pulse pounding in his temples.
—What did I expect? This isn't a fairy tale... —he spat through his teeth, a bitter grimace that was at once mockery and resignation, as he tried to take a step—. Of course, no magic... just mana. Which is the same as saying I'm still alive, I guess.
That phrase, bitter as it sounded, sparked something within him. A strange, almost instinctive push: no magic, just bruised pride.
He scrambled upright. His leg barely obeyed, as if still trapped by fear. His entire body begged him to give up, but he didn't listen. He took a few unsteady steps toward a nearby tree and grabbed onto a thick vine. He fixed his gaze in the direction of the scream and, without thinking further, tried to move forward.
He tried to jog, but it lasted barely two steps. The pain spread like fire under his skin, forcing him to stop. He bent over, hands on his knees, as the burning eased slowly. Still, he didn't stop. He resumed his march, clumsy but determined. Something inside him—a pang, an echo of worry for his friend—demanded he hurry.
He gradually picked up speed, dragging the pain with every step, until he broke into another unsteady jog. But that too soon faltered: he stumbled, fell to his knees, palms scraping against the wet earth.
He straightened with a growl. He held his breath, gritted his teeth, and dug his fingers into the branches, moss, and bark of a tree to pull himself up again. Once on his feet, he clenched his fists, took the deepest breath he could, and launched himself into a run.This time, in his mind, there was only one idea, a single thought: nothing would stop him.
He jogged, walked, crawled, slid, jumped; he tore through roots, branches, and underbrush in a forest he didn't know, so dense that barely any light passed through. Every time his body threatened to give up, he forced himself forward. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't heroic. It was dirty, clumsy, teeth gritted... but he didn't fall.
The scream came again, closer this time. With every step, his focus sharpened, first on the echo, then on the name that followed it.
—Mielchor! Friend! —he shouted, and spotting his silhouette among the roots, he surged forward as if his soul itself were pushing him—. By Aurel... I'm so glad you're okay —he panted, sliding to his side.
Mielchor, throat knotted and eyes glistening with tears, let out a sound that seemed to mix relief with sobs. He muttered something unintelligible, broken words choked by emotion and lack of air, but his expression said it all.
—Why did you go so far? —A hint of laughter, relief, and mild reproach, as he instinctively reached for his dagger. But the emptiness at his belt reminded him it had vanished when Pom'r appeared—. Damn it! —he growled, cursing immediately—. These things have thorns!
The roots, sensing the intrusion, writhed as if alive. They tightened around the small, scaled body, driving their spines into the flesh until some scales gave way. Mielchor shrieked in pain, breathing ragged, body trembling.
Eden froze for a moment. Then he looked down at his own hands, scratched, covered in dirt and small traces of blood slowly seeping out. He scanned around for anything, anything that could help. Only leaves, stones, and damp soil.
—Come on... come on, you're not winning against me too —he muttered, grabbing handfuls of leaves in each hand, wrapping the roots to shield himself somewhat from the thorns.
He pulled with all his strength. The roots resisted. The harder he pulled, the tighter they grew. Pain shot up his arms, leaves tore, thorns pierced his skin, yet he didn't stop. Sweat blurred his vision, his breathing became a roar, and still he continued.
—Come on, damn it! —he roared, and with one final heave, the roots gave way with a wet crack.
Mielchor fell toward him, trembling, struggling to breathe. Eden caught him before he hit the ground and hugged him without thinking. The small creature looked up at him, eyes full of tears, his usual broken babbling spilling out.
—It doesn't matter... —he said in a hoarse voice, closer to a whisper than an answer—. What matters is that I have you, friend.
Mielchor let out a small chirp, something between a sob and a laugh. Eden exhaled wearily, resting his forehead against his.
The wind carried that sigh away, traveling far, until it was lost among the trees and distant paths.
Moments earlier, the group still waited in silence, with that same sharp anticipation that precedes a storm.
Grumblin had gone ahead of everyone on his own to gather firewood, returning shortly afterward to the makeshift resting area—before Mielchor's clumsy capture—with an enormous load of logs. He had brought enough wood to keep multiple fires crackling for several nights. The pile towered above his head, swaying like a weary tower struggling under its own weight.
—Vairon! Big guy! Can you give me a hand, friend? —he called out, as the stack wobbled, threatening to collapse.
Vairon lifted his gaze from the back step of the wagon—that small wooden ledge where he often rested—and nodded without a word. A man of few syllables, but with heavy, deliberate steps. He stood, walked over to Grumblin, and with a single motion, lifted part of the load with his large hands.
Together they moved toward the clearing where the group had set up their temporary refuge. There, between the rocks where Alaric sat and the sunny corner where the Felyne dozed peacefully, they dropped the mountain of logs. The dull thud echoed like a small thunderclap.
—Grum! Stop wasting time and come help me find the spices —Gundar shouted from inside one of the wagons.
—I'm coming! —Grumblin called back, stretching the "o" in his words as he shook dust from his hands and brushed off bits of wood from his clothes—. What exactly are we looking for? —he asked, stepping inside and starting to move stacked boxes and sacks.
—Pepper, snisk, salt, and southern cloves —Gundar replied, bringing a small sack to his nose to sniff it—. This is snisk —he said, passing it to his left hand and taking another with his right. He sniffed again and frowned—. No… I don't know what this is.
Grumblin rummaged through the boxes until he found a sack of dark powder and lifted it triumphantly.
—Pepper! —he exclaimed, looking into the sack filled with black and brownish powder.
—That's not pepper. It's amid. Smell it.
Grumblin brought it to his nose, inhaled, and nodded reluctantly.
—You're right —he murmured, tying the sack with a firm knot and putting it back in the box before moving on to another.
Look —he called, pointing to a box—, take this one outside. I'll get the other. I think all the spices are between these two.
The air inside the wagon smelled of old wood and mixed spices.
The two brothers climbed down from the wagon, each carrying a wooden box almost half their size. Practical—or perhaps just reckless—they made a small jump to land, sending a cloud of dust rising and slowly dispersing into the dry air.
—Brother, where should I put it? —Grumblin asked, his thick fingers sliding along the edge of the box. They were close to the area where they would prepare the meal.
Gundar stepped forward and dropped his load without hesitation. The impact raised a thin layer of dust.
—Leave it behind that one —he indicated, pointing to the box he had just set down.
Grumblin advanced unsteadily, holding the weight only by the friction of his hands against the sides. He bent and slid the box into place carefully. Then he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and lifted his gaze.
—Huh? —he murmured, looking around. His eyes scanned from the wagons, where the Krovaxid ate in noisy groups, to the dusty path they had arrived on—. And Eden and his little lizard? I could have sworn I saw them before coming for the spices.
—They probably went back to sleep in the wagon —the Felyne replied, stretching lazily over a pile of flattened ferns.
A few steps away, Alaric was busy with a cloth and several dark green glass jars at his side. He had been cleaning and oiling his foil for hours, with the meticulous calm of someone who enjoys the ritual.
—Ah, of course! —he said with a tongue click before laughing—. No, Velkari sent him to get firewood —he pointed at the Felyne with the tip of his foil.
Velkari stared at him for a moment in silence before letting out a low growl and muttering under his breath.
—Fine! —he huffed, raising his voice—. I told the brat to go get firewood, and the damn lizard followed him. And now what? They were bothering me. —His tone turned mocking, almost sing-song—. And you, little pest! You're supposed to cover me! Aren't we companions? —He shot Alaric a look full of suspicion.
—He sang on his own, did you see? —the swordsman replied with a faint smile, sheathing his foil and pulling out a pair of throwing knives from under his cloak.
—Where… did they send him? —Grumblin asked, slower, as if something in the air made him uneasy.
Silence fell like a blanket. Alaric and Velkari glanced at each other, each waiting for the other to speak first. They knew a single wrong word could sink them both.
But before the tension could stretch too long, Alaric spoke, feigning nonchalance:
—The furry one told him to go through the forest… —he paused, glancing around as if seeking a point in the landscape to anchor his lie—. That way. Yes, that way. —He pointed to the path that disappeared between the trees, just where they had entered.
—Traitor! —Velkari roared, leaping toward him with claws extended.
—Tallus —Alaric raised his hand.
Alaric didn't even look up. He just waved his right hand with the ease of someone flicking away a drop of water… and with the brushing of his fingers' knuckles, splashes of water flew out like waves. The liquid struck the Felyne, sending him to the ground with a splash that stained his white fur.
Grumblin frowned and ran a hand through the back of his neck, exhaling a short sigh.
—We're… outside the protections —he said, voice slower than usual, tinged with irritation—. And if we keep this up, we'll soon attract trouble.
—And… this is Tharn wolf territory, deeper in the forest —Alaric said, clearing his throat in a low, almost restrained tone.
—You two —he looked at them sternly, scolding with his gaze—, and I, will go find him. Did you hear me? —Grumblin turned toward where Gundar and the elf were cooking—. Brother, I'll be back in a moment —he called.
Gundar, wiping his hands with a rag stained with juices and spices, had been listening to the exchange.
—No. I'll go find the boy too. Those wolves are treacherous… and worse during breeding season —he said, placing the rag on the table before stepping around it.
He passed under the shadow of the tree where Vairon sat. The man held something between his hands: a fine black silk thread slipped through his fingers. He remained still, as if meditating, or as if stillness itself held him.
—Will you stay and watch things? —Gundar asked, pointing toward Cecilia—. I don't trust that drunk with anything —he rolled his eyes in annoyance.
—I'll accompany them —Vairon replied, putting away what he held before rising calmly—. It's my responsibility; I was the one who invited the boy.
—Good! Let's go —Grumblin shouted, arriving from the wagons. He carried two wooden shields covered in tanned leather, and in his hands, a pair of black leather gloves reinforced with steel on the knuckles.
Cecilia had stopped paying attention to her task. Noticing the commotion, she lifted her gaze and began listening to her companions.The red, lean meat was set aside, and with a soft sigh she spoke:
—You're not going to leave me here alone… are you? —she said, a hint of concern in her voice.
No one answered at first. Alaric and the others headed toward the forest, except for Vairon, who remained a few steps behind.
—Put the things away, you'll catch up later —he said, finishing adjusting his black gloves. Without another word, he followed the group.
Cecilia, left with unfinished words, could only shout after them:—How can you leave a lady alone!
Grumbling, she gathered things with quick, clumsy movements, slamming each object onto the ground or the table. The aromas spread through the air: pepper with its earthy bite and snisk, sweet and almost hypnotic, subtle enough to draw near, but not so much as to overwhelm.
In the distance, among the trees, the forest had once again fallen silent.
Mielchor's scales had already stopped bleeding. He and Eden walked among enormous trunks, bark of a dark brown—deep, but not enough to reach black. The branches sat higher than usual, or at least higher than what was normal for the forest near the Alabard wards.
Still frightened, Mielchor clung to his friend's leg, slowing every step.
"Let go of my leg already," Eden said, trying to sound casual, though one of his hands still trembled. "It's over, buddy."He gave him a soft smile.
Mielchor stopped and shook his head, letting out a faint, melancholic:"Kuh… kuh…"
Eeden bent down to reach him, but a spike of pain shot through his back. With a tired gesture, he stroked the little lizard's head and straightened up again.
"Come on, walk," he said, giving him a small sideways nudge with the sole of his foot.
The pain crawled back through his body, persistent, forcing him to slow down."You have a good sense of smell?" he asked, staring at the ground covered in damp leaves.
Mielchor shook his head again.
"I don't remember which way we came…" Eden muttered to himself.
They walked on without noticing when it began.
The fog—slow and dense, like a drop of water that rots wood over time—spread once more between the trees. By the time they realized it was there, it had already wrapped around them completely.
Eden stopped. His pulse trembled in his hands, and his legs began to hesitate. He looked around: the mist, thick as smoke in a sealed room, barely let him see a few meters ahead.
"We should go back the way we came… right?" he murmured, looking down at Mielchor, hoping that a simple nod would give him back some calm.
Mielchor didn't answer. He lifted his head, tense, turning from side to side as if searching for something invisible in the fog. Eden noticed the shift—something in his friend had gone from alert to terrified.
The forest had been silent for a while now.No insects, no birdsongs, not even leaves brushing.Just emptiness.A silence so heavy it felt like it had weight.
Something cracked within the fog.
Mielchor spun toward the sound. Another crack followed—clearer, a dry branch snapping.Then another, farther away.
"Let's go," Eden whispered. "Quick."
They both began moving, careful, forcing each step so the ground wouldn't betray them. The fog tightened with every meter. Only their heartbeats remained, pounding in their ears like a drum marking fear.
The nightmare wasn't over.
Then, hoofbeats thundered.The sound, muffled by the mist, came and vanished so fast they couldn't tell from where.
A tremor climbed up Eden's legs—he didn't know if it was the ground shaking or his own body.Nothing.Only an echo bouncing between the trees.
A wet sound broke the silence: something heavy settling into the mud.Then, a low, wet, dragging growl.From one spot, right behind them.
The fog parted with a hot, harsh breath.The breath of something big.Very close.
Eden and Mielchor turned at the same time, jumping back. Eden raised his arms instinctively; Mielchor curled behind him.
A glint in the fog. Fangs.Steam billowed from a massive maw just before it sank into his flesh.
The teeth punched through his bracer and sank into his left forearm with a wet snap.The world shrank into a single instant of stabbing pain.
The fog vanished at once, revealing the Tharn wolf: as tall as Eden, covered in dark gray fur, with glassy eyes that seemed to shine from within.
Eden opened his mouth, but no scream came. Just a rough sound—half breath, half fear.The rest stayed trapped in his throat, as if panic had hands.
The Tharn twisted its jaw.The bracer gave with a sharp tear of leather, and the fangs slid out—cutting and ripping flesh as they withdrew.Blood burst forth in hot, sticky streams, dyeing the mud beneath them.
No scream this time.Only Eden's teeth grinding together and a strangled gasp that sounded more like a growl than human pain.
The wolf spat the bracer out with a dry jerk.The wet sound that followed was worse than the pain.
Eden staggered back; air slammed into his lungs. He pressed his wounded forearm to his chest with his good hand, feeling blood leak between his fingers. He couldn't stop it. Couldn't even understand how there could be so much heat spilling out.
The world became noise and heat.Everything spun.Every breath was a blow; every blink, a stab behind his eyes.Pain didn't just cloud his thoughts—it devoured them.
He tried to think, but his mind went blank.He couldn't.Even if he wanted to.
The wolf turned its head. Its muzzle dripped; its fangs gleamed with fresh blood. It growled—a deep sound that rattled his bones—and leaped again.
Mielchor planted himself. His cheeks puffed. Small flames slipped between his teeth, and even so, he spat a fireball that roared like a shattered torch.
It didn't stop the Tharn, but it made it turn, blinded for an instant.Only a few seconds.
"Run!" Eden shouted.Or thought he did.What came out was a broken, guttural sound—a mix of pant and roar.
Mielchor inhaled again. His cheeks swelled to the limit. His eyes trembled, tearful, as he exhaled smoke—thick curtains that unfolded like black tongues through the mist. They swallowed the monster. They swallowed them.
Eden blinked, dizzy. Everything felt distant, as if his body wasn't his anymore.But instinct forced him to move.
No direction.Only movement.
The forest swallowed them. Shadows seemed to shift. The branches rose higher; the trees closed in. Behind them, the Tharn roared, its weight snapping roots.
Eden spotted a low branch—the closest they'd find.He pushed Mielchor toward it.
"Climb!"
The little lizard tried, but slipped. Eden, with a groan that tore air and blood from his lungs, lifted him with his good arm. The motion made him scream—or maybe the forest screamed with him.
He felt his back split open again, as if fire ran from his shoulder blade down to his hip.
"The rope!" he gasped.
His fingers trembled so hard he could barely handle the buckles on his pack. The rope slipped once, fell, but he caught it. Threw it upward. Mielchor hooked it and tied a sloppy knot.
Eeden pulled. He wrapped the rope around his good wrist. The wounded arm didn't respond.
Heat climbed up his neck, pulse frantic, air cutting his lungs.He pulled again. Climbed.
Every movement was a stab of fire.Every attempt, a burn running down his back.The rope turned red.
The Tharn roared below, striking the trunk. Claws carved grooves into the wood.
Eden kept climbing. His vision blurred. Blood slid down his chin. The pain drifted far away, as if his body could no longer record more.Only noise.Only heat.
At last, he reached the branch and collapsed against the trunk. His chest rose and fell with spasms. Every breath was a broken whistle. The rope hung below, stained, dripping.
Silence returned.But not peace.A hollow that hummed in his ears.The metallic smell filled his throat.
Eden looked at his forearm. The flesh was open. The fang marks seemed to pulse with their own heartbeat. Blood still slipped out—slow, stubborn threads.
Relief vanished as fast as it came.Only fear remained.And the certainty that the bleeding wouldn't stop.
Eden stayed still. His body shook, but not from cold.He needed to think—even if thinking hurt.
He inhaled slowly. Air burned his lungs.Exhaled.
"All right…" he whispered, more to himself than to Mielchor."Climb onto another branch," he said in a faint voice.
He forced himself to move. Reached down with his right arm; leaning forward made the pain pulse again. He grabbed the rope clumsily—his fingers felt like someone else's. He pressed it to his wounded forearm, trying to wrap it tight, with anger, with everything he had left.
Contact made him scream.
Pain speared through him. His body clenched. His veins trembled; blood kept flowing, soaking the rope before sealing it. He tried again—teeth clenched, breathing broken.
He leaned against the trunk, the back of his head resting on the wood, staring upward.
"I can't…" he said in a barely human voice.The tone cracked—became a sob."I can't… I can't, Mielchor…"
The little dragon watched him from a higher branch. Wet eyes, chest trembling. He panted in short bursts, each one shaking.
His arm burned. Veins throbbed with every heartbeat.
He clenched his teeth. Lifted the rope again. Tried. The pain was no longer a scream—just a buzzing, an echo burrowing inside his skull.
With clumsy, desperate movements, he wrapped it around his forearm. The leather of his right bracer stained a deep red.
The third turn was unbearable: Eden let out a hoarse bellow, so raw it seemed torn from the bottom of his throat—a sound he didn't even recognize as his own.
Cold sweat mixed with blood, seeping into the wound, making it burn hotter.But he didn't stop.
He kept tightening until his fingers cramped, until he felt his forearm vanish inside the pain. He secured the knot with his good hand—every movement a silent plea.
When he finally finished, the arm hung stiff at his side. The rope bit into his skin, burning as if he held a coal between his hands.The blood still flowed, but in drops.
Eden slumped against the trunk, gasping. His vision blurred; the edges of everything turned black. Still, he managed a faint smile—a trembling grimace, made more of exhaustion than relief.
"Honey‑lover… come here…" he murmured, almost voiceless.
Mielchor climbed down a little, body curled. With tears that never fully fell, he rested his head against Eden's chest and tried to hug him with his short limbs. He felt the coldness of his friend.
The forest kept silent beside them.The wolf waited out of sight, watching, patient.
Only the slow drip of blood onto leaves could be heard.
"I'm not dying yet," he rasped, returning the hug with his right arm. He lifted the left, making the bleeding slow.How did all this happen? he thought.Yes… my fault, he answered.
Mielchor broke into tears, clinging even tighter to his friend.