The evening sun filtered weakly through the overcast sky, casting frayed threads of gold—like shattered promises—across the cobbled way, slick with puddles from the recent storm.

  Then came the moss-hopper’s roar, a sound so profound it bruised the air.

  I turned to the group as the ground lurched beneath my boots. It had found us.

  “Julian, Thomas, take everyone to the village,” I commanded over the rustle of the swaying canopies and the damp, earthy scent of the woodlands.

  “I’ll buy you some time.”

  Shock flashed across their faces, but before they could protest, Ol’ Lucia snapped, “Too late!”

  She wheeled toward the tree line to our left.

  Shrubs and trunks exploded apart as the beast forced its way through.

  A towering figure emerged, its solitary garnet eye gleaming with rage—and a deep, festering malice.

  A sharp, musky stench of wet fur and earth rolled toward us, pungent and overwhelming.

  A plume of white frost spilled from its maw as it drew a heavy breath, baring a grin full of cruel intent.

  Even through its malice, I could see it was still reeling from the cold damage.

  I met its gaze and raised my voice. “I took your eye,” I shouted. “Remember?”

  As its attention snapped fully onto me, I flicked my hand behind my back—go.

  The sling felt heavier than it should have. My body still hadn’t recovered, every movement dragged against bone-set fatigue, cold sweat draping my black hair.

  I loosed the stone.

  The beast tried to sway aside, its movements sluggish, joints stiff from cold and exhaustion.

  The shot clipped its snout instead. It roared, more in fury than pain.

  Good.

  I kept moving, drawing it away. Its solitary eye tracked me alone now, the others forgotten.

  When it struck, its paw cast a shadow that swallowed the ground. I dove clear as it slammed down, the impact shuddered through the forest, sending a spray of muddy water from the puddles underfoot.

  It reared back to finish it—and a dagger struck its face. The blade bounced harmlessly away, but the distraction was enough.

  The beast and I both turned.

  Julian stood there; chestnut hair plastered to his forehead. He was breathing hard; eyes locked on the monster.

  Another stone struck the back of its skull. Thomas.

  Relief flooded through me, sharp and sudden. Against all reason, they had stayed. Reliable. Courageous.

  The beast roared again, thumping its massive hind leg in annoyance. Though it wasn’t an attack, the sheer weight of its stomp crushed the ground, sending splinters of cobbles and grit flying in all directions. Thomas and I, being the nearest, suffered multiple cuts and scratches.

  I stole a glance—Ol’ Lucia, Millie, and Fiorella were nowhere in sight.

  The village wasn’t far now; bless them, Lord Levia!

  I calmed my trembling legs and deftly swung my wrist.

  Whoosh! I didn’t wait. I dashed toward the woodlands, keeping an eye on its reaction. The stone bounced off its cheek, fueling its frustration.

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  The beast raised its paws high, ready to pounce on me, when another stone struck its softer, vulnerable long ear. It froze, then turned its back toward Thomas.

  Next, a dagger struck, aimed at its blinded eye—a small, exposed spot. The beast shrieked in pain and redirected its attention toward Julian.

  Clearly, it wasn’t accustomed to combat. Despite its overwhelming strength and size, we were managing to tread a fine line with our reckless, childishly bold tricks.

  We worked together, dragging our legs through puddles and drenched leaves, heartbeats ringing in our ears, eyes glued to the moss-hopper’s every movement.

  We taunted and disrupted its focus, knowing one fall meant all of us.

  Its movements were still stiff and awkward from the ice damage, giving us a slim chance to survive.

  Fallen trees, crushed ground, splintered cobbles—the surroundings bore silent witness to the intense violence.

  Julian’s wound tore again, crimson soaking his tunic. Thomas suffered the same.

  Then it stopped. Its gaze fixed on me, no longer wandered— it locked, predatory, and the air itself seemed to tighten.

  Thomas and Julian struck simultaneously, but the beast ignored them completely.

  Its paw dug into the solid cobbles and slammed toward me. Cobblestones, grit, and even a fallen tree flew in its wake as it shrieked.

  It had finally stopped treating us as pests to swat and started fighting like a predator.

  I stayed on high alert, but the shift in its movement and the sudden change in the atmosphere caught me by surprise.

  An ominous tree narrowly missed my head as I ducked, spinning with my hands over it. Pain exploded through my body as branches, cobbles, and grit slammed into my back.

  I fell helplessly, unable to rise. From the corner of my ears, I caught Julian and Thomas’s screams—clearly, the beast was using the same brutal tactic on them.

  Jagged cobbles and twigs jabbed into my back. A big stone struck my left calf so hard that it went completely numb—I couldn’t even feel the pain.

  On the other side, Thomas still struggled to stand, arms and legs visibly bleeding, sling gripped tight, knuckles white.

  Julian’s hair was dampened red; blood flowed from his forehead, dripping into his left eye. He sat on the dirt, one hand holding a stone, his daggers spent.

  I cracked a smile. Reckless we were, but we never gave up.

  Yet beneath that smile, regret surged.

  If only I could be stronger—not to defeat this monster, but strong enough to shield them. To stand between its claws and my friends, to hold the line when it mattered.

  If I had trained harder, if I had done better, maybe Julian wouldn’t bleed, maybe Thomas wouldn’t falter.

  The sun broke weakly through the clouds, glinting off the puddles around us, and all I saw in that light was my failure.

  Cold sweat broke out over my entire body as I endured the excruciating pain—breathing itself felt like a struggle. My sling was gone from the attack, so I grabbed a stone like Julian.

  Thomas swung his sling. The stone missed wide, his strength and accuracy slipping with it. The beast bared its fangs, clearly delighted—its pride restored. It roared again, saliva dripping as it stomped—this time in excitement. It could finally finish us, the annoying pests.

  Then it happened. A sudden, violent creak pierced the air from afar, followed by a sharp whistle—something moving too fast for my eyes to track. It vanished in an instant, only to slam into the moss-hopper’s gnarled flank.

  What had been impregnable armour to us proved defenceless now.

  A crimson spray burst from the impact, and the beast let out a shrill cry of agony that tore across the evening sky.

  And it didn’t end there. More piercing sounds tore through the air, each strike landing with terrifying precision until the beast finally collapsed onto all fours, writhing in pain.

  Footsteps followed.

  We let out a collective, shaky breath as we looked toward the end of the cobbled way.

  A broad figure approached—strong-built, wide-shouldered, muscles coiled beneath his tunic.

  An elite hunter, his expression calm and severe.

  In his hands was nothing more than a sling. Nothing visibly different from ours.

  Tears spilled freely down my face, unbidden. The relief was overwhelming—but so was the realization.

  The gap in skill, the sheer difference in rank, had been laid bare before me in the simplest of ways.

  I needed better bullets, steadier hands, sharper aim. Strong enough to stand, strong enough to shield. Watching him, I realized just how far I still had to climb.

  “Ah, it’s still alive, Hailstorm,” a female voice exclaimed behind the hunter. “Let my blade do the final work, will you? I need to show the Baron some results, after all.”

  She brushed her strawberry-pink hair aside with a sigh.

  “I don’t mind, Lune,” he replied. “Kill it.”

  Master Hailstorm. Delmar’s legendary hunter.

  The woman—tall and striking—carried a long, exquisite sword.

  She walked toward the moss-hopper as if strolling through a park, her demonhide coat fluttering softly.

  The creature whimpered, scraping weakly at the ground, its earlier ferocity reduced to panic.

  A flash of light blinded me as she unsheathed. By the time my eyes adjusted, the blade was already back in its scabbard.

  I only caught the soft, slicing whisper of steel as it moved.

  I turned toward the beast. It lay still, as if frozen mid-step. There was no cry, no struggle—just the faintest shadow where life had been, gone before it even knew.

  We were speechless.

  Relief washed over me, and my vision dimmed to shadow.

  My last thought, soft yet certain, lingered: We survived the nightmare… but I must grow stronger, for the next time.