Dawn found them tense, hollow-stomached, and stretched to their limits. Every breath felt heavier than the last; hunger was no longer an inconvenience—it was pressure, urgency. A silent ache that clouded thought.
Adrián rose to his feet, sweeping his gaze across the exhausted faces of his group. Twenty escorts, seven archaeologists, Nara, and himself. All of them holding their breath, muscles tight, waiting for the order that would inevitably come.
"We need food," he said firmly. "Now. Does anyone know how to hunt—or find something that won't kill us?"
A brief silence followed, thick with anticipation. Then Morales—broad-shouldered, days of stubble on his jaw, eyes sharp—stepped forward.
"Sir, several of us have worked jungle and mountain terrain. This isn't that… but the basic rules still apply."
Rivas crouched, sniffing the damp earth.
"Water's close. The land slopes east. Where there's water… there's life. And food."
Álvarez, sharp-eyed and methodical, traced disturbed grass with his fingers.
"Something moved through here at dawn," he said, frowning. "Doesn't walk like a human. Not like a normal animal either. But it travels in a pack."
Adrián nodded quickly. There was no panic in their voices—only professional caution. It gave him a sliver of reassurance.
"Good," he ordered. "Teams of three. No one fires unless it's unavoidable. We don't know how this ecosystem reacts."
Morales lifted a long branch and split it with a sharpened stone.
"Improvised spears first. Fire, if we can manage it. And nobody eats anything without testing it." He glanced at Nara. "In any world, the pretty stuff is usually poisonous."
A nervous laugh rippled through a few of the escorts. The fear was still there—but now it was contained, channeled.
They moved slowly. Every crack beneath their boots tightened muscles and stole breath. The air was humid and heavy; each inhale carried the scent of scorched earth and sweet metal.
"Listen," Rivas whispered suddenly.
A rhythmic sound pulsed between the trees. Not a roar. Not birdsong. Something else.
"This isn't a jungle," he muttered. "Everything here watches before it strikes."
Adrián clenched his jaw. For the first time since arriving, he understood clearly: they weren't defenseless—but they weren't prepared either.
"We learn fast," he said quietly. "Or we don't learn at all."
The forest answered with a distant crack, almost like a sigh. As if accepting the challenge… or recording it.
Hunger drove every step, every breath. Adrián assessed quickly: weapons ready, escorts alert—but still no food. That had to change.
"Two bullets for whatever we hunt. No warning shots. Only the target."
Morales and Álvarez moved with surgical precision. Track. Aim. Fire. Retrieve. Survival logic overrode wonder: the forest watched them, alive—but they were faster, calculating.
In a mist-covered clearing, a pair of dark-furred rabbits with strangely luminous eyes darted between giant ferns. Not ordinary—but edible.
"There," Morales whispered.
Two sharp shots. Two rabbits down. No admiration for their iridescent beauty. Only hunger.
Adrián watched the bodies, then the sky beginning to open. His escorts lit an improvised fire. The smell of cooking meat blended with Eldoria's metallic, damp air.
Each bite was relief—and unease. Hunger made it delicious. The surroundings reminded them they were not home. Every shifting shadow, every snapping twig, whispered the same warning: eating here was a risk.
"I never thought something so simple… could feel like a luxury," Nara murmured.
Adrián didn't answer. He studied the scene—alert escorts, flickering fire, a forest that seemed to breathe around them. Survival wasn't heroic. It was brutal, practical… necessary.
After regaining strength, they pushed deeper into the woods, each step a calculation between fear and curiosity. The terrain shifted. The air vibrated faintly. Every shadow felt observant—judging.
Hours later, they spotted a settlement: rudimentary houses of wood and stone, thatched roofs reinforced with clay. Domesticated animals with strange traits—glowing eyes, iridescent fur—moved inside crude pens.
The inhabitants—men, women, children—wore stitched hides as cloaks and coats, carrying knives, axes, bows. Their faces, hardened by survival, reflected suspicion and vigilance. Every gaze measured the newcomers.
Adrián tried to communicate, but the language was an impenetrable wall. Gestures weren't enough.
"Easy," Nara whispered. "They don't know who we are. Or where we came from."
Some villagers raised bows and spears. Others barked incomprehensible warnings.
"Keep distance," Adrián said quietly. "Observe first. Learn before we act."
The village leader—a tall man in a bear-skin coat, scars visible along his arms—stepped forward. His intelligent, cautious eyes evaluated them. Fear and curiosity flickered there: they were as foreign to him as Eldoria was to them.
The message was immediate and clear: adaptation would not be simple. Food, shelter, safety… everything depended on their ability to read this new world.
As the sun dipped, vulnerability deepened. Eldoria tested not only their bodies—but their minds.
The war horn shattered the air with a piercing cry.
Women and children ducked or ran for cover. Men seized axes, spears, bows. The villagers moved in sync—an improvised army, ancient and lethal.
"Open fire!" Adrián shouted, aiming toward the forest where massive shadows emerged through the mist.
Minotaurs.
Human torsos, bull heads, sharpened horns, eyes glowing like embers. Each step shook the earth. Each roar rattled bone.
Morales took position behind a fallen cart and fired first. One minotaur fell—but the horde did not slow. Álvarez covered the rear, calculating each shot. The archaeologists scrambled behind houses, building makeshift barricades from wood and stone.
Herrera fell first, struck by a claw that sent him sprawling into the brush. His final scream was swallowed by the thunder of roars. Castillo tried to reach him—but a minotaur burst through a wooden door and hurled him aside. His bow clattered uselessly to the ground.
Nara fired with trembling hands, covering a child trapped between fleeing adults. Every bullet was survival. Every movement, a matter of seconds. Her heart pounded so violently she thought she could hear it over the chaos.
"Fall back!" Adrián shouted, weaving between escorts and villagers, signaling commands.
The battle turned savage. A minotaur lunged at Morales; he dodged, fired—but a claw tore into his shoulder. Blood sprayed. He stayed on his feet.
Varela went down while shielding the archaeologists. His comrades dragged him clear—but Eldoria did not forgive mistakes.
In the chaos, a minotaur charged straight for Nara. Adrián reacted instinctively, firing into its skull. The beast dropped—but more came.
Seven fell before the horde finally withdrew: three archaeologists. Four escorts.
Seven bodies lay scattered in mud and mist.
The villagers fought with grim efficiency—spears, arrows, coordinated cries marking advance and retreat. Every fallen minotaur seemed to summon another from the treeline.
When it was over, smoke and blood hung thick in the air.
Nara knelt beside Herrera's body, a tear cutting through the grime on her face.
"I never thought something so simple… could hurt this much," she whispered.
"We survived," Adrián said firmly, though tension coiled beneath his voice. "We learn fast—or we don't learn at all."
The forest surrounded them—silent, aware.
Fourteen survivors regrouped, coated in dust, blood, adrenaline. Night would bring more danger.
"Shelter first," Adrián murmured. "Then everything else."
Meanwhile, in the North
The northern wind blew cold across Eldoria's plains as the group reached the crossroads of the old Imperial road.
There, they parted ways.
Adrián and the others marched south in search of safer lands. Kael turned north without looking back. Where maps blurred, someone had to walk.
Two days later, the wind carried him a different sound.
A scream.
Kael ran toward it, cutting through dark pines into a clearing. A silver-haired young woman stumbled backward, cornered by two shadow wolves. She held a ceremonial knife—useless against winter beasts.
Kael drew his blade.
One wolf leapt. His sword traced a short, precise arc. The creature dissolved into black smoke before it hit the ground. The second growled, hesitated… and retreated into the trees.
Silence returned.
The young woman dropped to her knees, trembling.
"I thought…" She couldn't finish.
Kael extended his hand.
"It's over."
Up close, he saw her clothing was too delicate for the cold, embroidered with ancient symbols.
"I'm Kael."
"Lyra," she said. "Granddaughter of the Guardian of Helior Lake Sanctuary."
He recognized the name. Not a place for lone travelers.
"I'll escort you."
She didn't argue.
Night transformed the landscape. Mist-covered mountains rose around a frozen lake reflecting the moon like an unmoving mirror. On its shore stood a white-stone sanctuary defying time.
An old man waited.
"Lyra…" he murmured, leaning on his staff.
She ran to him.
The man studied Kael in silence—the sword, the posture, the calm.
"I am Arkhavel, Guardian of Helior. The North does not forget its debts."
Kael inclined his head.
"I ask only for shelter."
That night, wind battered the sanctuary walls while firelight flickered.
"The North stirs," Arkhavel said quietly. "Creatures long asleep awaken. The ancient gates are beginning to respond."
Lyra looked at Kael, uneasy.
He watched the flames without answering.
He knew he had not arrived by chance.
Beyond the mountains, the northern wind kept moving…
as if another will had already set events into motion.