Date: September 10, 540, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The last glimmer of the sun, like a molten copper coin, faded behind the crests of the hills, and a thick, almost tangible blue settled over the forest. The air, once filled with warmth and the scent of pine needles, cooled rapidly, forcing Dur to huddle in his worn cloak. He sat, leaning against the rough trunk of an old spruce, trying to light a fire. His hands trembled with fatigue and unfamiliar work—starting a fire without Ulvia's help or Kaedan's confident movements turned out to be much harder than he'd anticipated. The silence around him thickened, not quiet and peaceful, but ringing and wary, as if the forest itself were holding its breath and waiting.
Thoughts of his friends washed over him in waves of longing. Where was Kaedan now? Surely he had already found a safe shelter in the north. Ulvia, probably, had made her bed among the roots of some friendly tree. And Gil... with her mind, she'd likely already found food and shelter. And here he was, alone, with trembling hands and an empty stomach, and this thought burned him from within more fiercely than the failed fire.
Suddenly, a sound tore through the silence. Quiet, but distinct. A dry twig snapped somewhere twenty paces away, in the deep shadow of young pines. Dur froze, his heart pounding in his throat, loud and uneven. He peered into the blue gloom, but saw only a jumble of shadows that seemed alive and hostile. "A fox," he tried to convince himself, "or a badger. Just an animal, it's more afraid of me than I am of it." But instinct whispered otherwise.
From behind a trunk, she emerged. A gray shadow against the gray twilight forest. First, he saw only a pair of cold, phosphorescent points in the half-light—eyes. Then the outline took shape: a stocky, lean body, a lowered head, pointed ears pricked forward warily. A wolf. It wasn't huge, but its hungry thinness made it vicious and quick. The fur on its withers was bristled, and its lips curled back slightly, baring white fangs.
Dur's breath caught. The whole world narrowed to this beast, to these two burning points. He slowly, very slowly, reached for his club—a simple, thick branch he'd picked up earlier. His movements were wooden, paralyzed by fear.
The wolf didn't growl. It took a step, then another, sizing up the prey. Its gaze lacked malice; it held only the cold, predatory expediency of hunger. This was hunger walking on four legs.
Panic, sharp and uncontrollable, hit Dur. He jumped up, gripping the club, and screamed. It wasn't a battle cry, but a high-pitched, almost childish shriek of terror. "Go away!" he rasped, waving the stick in front of him.
The scream and sudden movement were the signal. The wolf tensed and lunged. It wasn't an attack, but a lightning-fast pounce. Dur instinctively recoiled, swung the club, but the blow met empty air. The beast dodged with virtuoso skill and sank its teeth into his left leg, just above the ankle.
The pain was blinding, white-hot. Dur screamed again, this time in pain and fury. He brought the club down on the beast's back with all his might. There was a dull thud, the wolf yelped, but didn't release its jaws; instead, it clamped down harder, shaking its head, tearing at the muscle. Dur felt warm blood flooding his leg, felt sinews crunch under the pressure of teeth. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground, the wolf on top of him.
The smell of animal fur, blood, and hot breath filled his nostrils. Red spots danced before his eyes. He hit the wolf on the flank, on the head, but the blows were weak, helpless. The beast, releasing his leg, lunged for his throat. Dur managed to throw his arm up, and sharp fangs sank into his forearm. He felt the teeth scraping against bone.
In desperation, he tried to push the muzzle away, but his strength was rapidly leaving him with his blood. The world began to blur, sounds reaching him as if through cotton wool. Above him, he saw the starry sky, cold and indifferent, and burning yellow eyes, filled with the single purpose of killing him.
His thoughts grew confused. He saw Kaedan's face, stern and focused. Heard Ulvia's laughter. Saw Gil's intelligent, attentive gaze. Their oath. "A Better World..." he whispered, and in that whisper was all the bitterness of failure. He hadn't even lasted a day. He was dying here, in the dirt, at the paws of the first beast he met, never knowing what was out there, in the East.
His hand unclenched. The club fell from his weakening fingers. The last thing he felt before darkness consumed him was the weight of the wolf's paw on his chest and its wet, hot breath on his face. He no longer felt fear, only a chilling, all-consuming, shameful disappointment. He had lost.