Tareth opened his eyes.
Something cold pressed against his back—moss, wet and breathing. His lungs pulled tight, his ribs sore, breath shallow.
The light above was green. Not sunlight. Filtered. Wrong.
He blinked hard, sat up slowly.
Where... am I?
He rubbed his temple. The forest around him was too quiet—no birds, no wind. Just the hum of green.
Then the pain came.
A sudden pressure behind his eyes—sharp, like something being pressed into place.
He winced. Gritted his teeth.
Then—
You have entered a Dungeon.
Designation: Soryaka’s Hollow.
No prior entries recorded.
Dungeon status: Dormant Bloom.
Objective: Survive, and grow.
Or perish, and be forgotten.
The words weren’t sound. They weren’t even thought.
They just... were. Burned across the inside of his mind like a scar that hadn’t finished forming.
Tareth staggered to his feet, heart pounding.
The archway... it’s gone.
He spun, eyes searching—but there was nothing behind him. Just trees. A wall of green.
No way out.
His mouth went dry.
I’ve entered a dungeon.
Like the stories.
His pulse hammered in his neck. Hands shaking. Breath too loud in his ears.
The forest pressed in from every side—thick, wet, watching.
He took a step back, nearly tripped over a root. The moss squelched underfoot, damp and clinging.
Then—
A sound.
Distant.
Low. Drawn-out.
A howl.
Not a normal wolf’s cry. It was deeper. Slower. Like it was waiting to be answered.
Tareth froze.
His father’s voice came unbidden—calm, steady, like it did when the fire burned low.
Real dungeons don’t let people out, Tareth. The Empire’s tried. For thousand's of years, they’ve sent in scouts, mages, whole armies.
None came back.
Except one.
Ten thousand years ago, they say. A woman. No name, no title. Just a shadow in the oldest records. Walked in alone… walked out different.
Some say the gods erased her name. Said she saw too much.
Others say she was praised as a god herself.
No one knows the truth. Just that no one’s done it since.
Tareth’s hand found the hilt of his sword.
Not comfort.
Just instinct.
And now I’m in one.
Breathe.
Tareth forced the thought through clenched teeth. His fingers had gone white on the hilt. He let go, slowly.
Panicking won’t help.
He scanned the trees. Nothing moved. The air was too still. Like the forest was holding its breath.
I need water. Food.
And I need to stay away from whatever made that sound.
He turned in a slow circle—eyes catching the tilt of the ridges around him, the way the trees curved inward like ribs.
No path. No sun. Just green light and shadows.
He tilted his head back, searching for sky.
It took a moment to register what he was seeing.
Mountains.
Not just one range—a ring. Encircling the entire forest. Jagged. Sheer. So tall their peaks vanished into mist.
Like someone had carved a bowl out of the world and dropped him in it.
No way out that way.
He turned—back toward the howl.
No.
Spun again, heart pounding, and picked the opposite direction.
Away from the sound. Toward the edge. Always toward the edge.
He walked.
Hours, maybe.
The light never changed, not really. Just dimmed, like someone was slowly choking the sky.
The trees thinned, then thickened again. Roots tangled his steps. Branches clawed at his cloak.
His stomach growled. His lips were dry. Every time he swallowed, it felt like bark.
Still—he kept going. One foot, then the next.
Then—
He stopped.
The mountain loomed ahead.
Not near. Here.
A wall of stone rising straight up into mist. Slick with moss. No paths. No handholds.
He stepped closer, placed a hand against the rock.
Cold. Unmoving. Unclimbable.
He backed away a pace, breath catching.
Then—
A howl.
Closer this time.
Too close.
Tareth dropped to a crouch, eyes wide, hand on his sword.
No. No—I walked away. I walked the opposite direction.
The sound faded, swallowed by leaves.
It's in my head. Just nerves. That’s all it is.
He exhaled, slow. Shaky.
I need water. I need food.
One problem at a time.
He rose slowly, eyes still scanning the trees.
Then turned and began walking—this time, along the base of the wall.
There was no path. Just stone to his right and forest to his left. Every few steps, he tripped on roots or slid in the moss. He didn’t know if he was circling the same ridge or if the mountain just never ended.
There was no sun. No stars. No sense of direction.
Where do I even find food? Water?
He stopped. Looked back toward the woods.
Dark. Dense. Watching.
“…shit.”
He muttered it under his breath. Then again, louder. Like saying it gave him the strength to move.
“I have to go into the woods.”
His hand found the hilt of his sword again.
And he stepped in.
The forest swallowed him whole.
He walked for another hour—maybe two.
Then—finally—
A break in the trees.
A lake.
Still. Dark. Edged in smooth rock and thick reeds.
He ran to it.
Dropped to his knees in the mud, hands shaking, and drank—mouth full of cold, sharp-tasting water, not caring what floated in it.
He pulled back from the lake, wiped his mouth, breath ragged.
Food, he thought. I need food.
He turned back into the trees, the lake at his back, and started walking.
Maybe twenty minutes passed—he couldn’t tell. The air felt heavier. The green light was dimming.
Then—
dark.
Instant. Like someone threw a shroud over the sky.
No warning. No sunset. No stars.
Just black. Cold and absolute.
Tareth froze mid-step.
What the hell—
His foot slipped. He hit the ground hard, hands catching against roots. Dirt in his mouth.
He stayed there, gasping. Trying to blink the dark away.
What time is it? What even is time here?
Is the dungeon... choosing?
His heart slammed in his chest.
Then—
A howl.
Then another.
Then three.
All different pitches.
All too close.
Tareth's breath caught.
No. No no no—
I need to hide. I need to disappear.
He scrambled to his feet, moving now. Not running—creeping, one hand brushing tree trunks, the other on his sword.
Then he saw it—just barely. A hollow trunk, half-collapsed, wide enough to crawl into.
He dove in, breath shaking, heart pounding against the bark.
Curled into the dark.
And then—
breath.
Outside.
Heavy. Animal.
One.
Two.
Three.
Just beyond the bark.
He clamped his hand over his mouth.
He pressed his back against the inside of the trunk, knees tucked to his chest, hands shaking.
Outside—snuffling. Low. Wet. Close.
Then—a thud.
A weight pressed against the tree.
Tareth didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
His eyes had adjusted, but there was nothing to see—just the inside of dead bark and the black beyond it.
Another breath.
Then a second, heavier one.
Then a growl.
Low. Bone-deep.
Those aren’t dogs, he thought, terror locking up his spine. Too heavy. Too slow. Too... sure of themselves.
His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, but he didn’t draw it.
What good would it do?
They sound big.
He could hear their claws in the dirt.
Circling.
Sniffing.
Waiting.
Like they know I’m here.
Then—
a howl.
Not like the others.
This one tore through the trees like it didn’t care what heard it.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Deeper. Louder. Wrong.
It didn’t rise—it dropped, like a growl that stretched until it broke the air.
Tareth flinched. The trunk around him vibrated.
That’s not a normal wolf.
That’s not even a big wolf.
That’s... something from a story.
Outside, the others moved.
Fast.
Their paws thudded against the ground as they ran—all of them—away from the tree, toward the sound.
Tareth stayed frozen.
Not because it was safe now.
Because he couldn’t move.
He waited.
Counted the seconds. Then minutes.
Nothing.
Silence.
Then—only then—he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Maybe... maybe I just stay here.
Wait it out. Until it’s light again. If that’s even a thing here.
He curled tighter inside the trunk, arms wrapped around his legs, sword still gripped in one hand.
His heartbeat thudded in his ears.
The dark didn’t ease.
The silence didn’t comfort.
But nothing moved outside anymore.
No breath.
No claws.
No howls.
Just the weight of fear settling in like a second skin.
Tareth’s head dropped against the bark.
Eyes half-closed.
Breath slowing.
Just till morning, he told himself.
Just till light.
And the forest, still listening, said nothing.
----
Tareth woke to silence.
Still dark—darker than it should’ve been. But the green was back. Faint, pale, leaking through the trees like sick light.
His limbs ached. His back was damp. The hollow trunk creaked when he moved, brittle and damp with his breath.
He crawled out slowly.
The forest was waiting.
No sound. No birds. No wind.
But the howls were gone.
He stood, sore and stiff, and scanned the clearing.
Still alive.
He whispered it out loud like it might help make it true.
Then his stomach growled—low and angry.
What do I need?
Tareth stood still in the clearing, hands on his hips, scanning the trees like the answers might be hiding just out of sight.
Shelter. Fire. Water. Food.
He said the words in his head like a checklist. Basic. Obvious. Still too much.
Think, idiot. Think.
A face came to him—John the Hunter, grizzled and quiet, always chewing the same root like it owed him money.
He could almost hear the man’s voice now, dry and direct:
“If you don’t know what you’re doing, don’t guess. You panic, you die. Make a lean-to. Low. Tight. Find bark that peels dry and trees with thick base leaves. Moss means water nearby.”
Then another voice—Serra Nethe, always barefoot, always scribbling plant names when the others weren’t paying attention.
“Look under the thornbushes. That’s where the spinners hide. Spinners mean cool dirt, and cool dirt means roots. Just don’t pull the red ones—they’ll twist your stomach inside out.”
And Lina Harrow, who never raised her voice even when Joren laughed loudest.
He’d teased her once, too. Only once.
“You can weave anything,” she’d said, ignoring the others. “Long as it’s dry and you don’t rush. Vines make better knots than cloth ever will. Even for water.”
She’d handed him a twisted pouch that day. He’d thrown it away on the walk home.
Now he wished he had it.
He moved slow at first.
Everything felt louder than it was—his boots against wet leaves, his breathing, the way his sword brushed branches when he turned. But nothing moved in the trees.
He started scanning for the things John had told them about.
Trees with thick trunks. Low branches. A natural dip in the land.
He found one maybe twenty paces from the hollow tree—a space between two broad roots, half-covered in ferns. One side sloped from the mountain wall, the other ringed with stones.
Shelter goes here, he thought.
If it rains, I’ll need cover. If it doesn’t, I’ll still need a place to rest.
Then came the harder part—the gathering.
He moved through the underbrush, careful to mark his way with small stone stacks like John had taught them. Nothing big. Just enough to point back if panic hit.
That’s when he saw it—thick vine, hanging low, coiled around an old stump.
He reached up, tugged one free, tested the stretch. Strong. Fibrous. Dry enough to bend.
Lina would’ve known how to do this better, he thought, biting down on guilt.
She’d showed him how to thread loops into itself, how to double the twist without snapping it. Her fingers moved like she'd done it a hundred times.
Watch this, she’d said. Even water holds if you tie it tight enough.
He gathered as much vine as he could hold, slung it over his shoulder, and kept moving.
Then—color.
He stopped.
Low to the ground. Blue-leaved bushes. Small berries clustered in the shade. Their color was almost black, but with a pale stem.
He crouched. Reached. Then hesitated.
Serra told me about these.
He tried to remember her exact words.
“Blackfruit stains your tongue and numbs your mouth. Good for pain. Bad if you’re hungry. It tricks you.”
He backed off. Turned his head.
Then—there.
Small flowers with tight yellow cups. Thick green stalks, leaves shaped like forks.
He bent low.
Feverroot. Serra said it grows near still water, in dry patches after rain.
He tugged one loose.
Bitter smell.
He pocketed it, careful.
Might need that.
It took him nearly an hour to build the lean-to.
Longer than it should’ve.
The first two branches snapped.
The third wouldn’t balance right.
But eventually, with moss for bedding and broad leaves layered over the top, he had something. Crude, uneven—but it held.
He crawled under it, breath ragged, and let his back hit the moss.
Still damp.
Still cold.
But his.
He sat up slowly, pulled the vine from his bundle, and began to work.
Lina made it look simple.
Twist. Loop. Tie. Tighten.
But the vines fought back—too stiff, or too slick, or frayed at the ends.
He cursed under his breath when a knot came undone.
Retied it. Tried again.
After the third failure, he stopped.
Rested his head against the wood behind him. Listened.
No wind. No birds.
Just that humming silence again.
That’s when the hunger returned.
Sharp. Cold. Twisting.
He pressed a hand to his stomach.
Then stood.
No choice.
I have to eat.
He left the shelter behind and stepped back into the woods.
As he moved deeper into the underbrush, his hand brushed a thick-stalked plant—wide leaves, red veins, edges jagged like a saw.
He stopped. Looked closer.
This one... Serra called it bloodleaf.
He knelt, turned a leaf over. The back was pale green, almost silver.
She used to smear it on her scraped knees when they practiced climbing. Swore by it.
“Press the pulp into a cut. Slows the bleeding. Burns like hell, but it works.”
He plucked a few leaves, wrapped them tight in moss, and tucked them into his pouch-in-progress.
Not food. But still a kind of survival.
The berries were still there.
Same bush. Same shadowed cluster beneath the thorns. Almost black. Pale stems.
Tareth crouched low, staring at them.
His stomach growled—loud and bitter.
I shouldn’t.
But gods, he was hungry.
He closed his eyes, just for a second—and smelled home.
Bread crisping in the pan. Stew bubbling, thick with root and river herbs. His mother’s voice behind the curtain: “If you burn the broth again, I swear I’ll feed it to the goats.”
He opened his eyes. The forest came back.
And the hunger.
He reached out.
Plucked three.
Hesitated.
Then ate them one by one.
They were bitter. Then sweet. Then bitter again.
His mouth tingled.
Tongue numbed.
And not five minutes later, the pain hit.
He stumbled back toward the lean-to, doubled over, breath catching on dry heaves.
By the time he reached it, he was crawling.
The roof sagged when he rolled under it, but held.
He curled on the moss, sweat cold on his forehead, eyes clamped shut.
Stupid. Stupid. You knew better.
He felt his stomach twist again. His ribs clenched.
He’d eaten worse tasting things before—once dared by the boys to swallow a wild mushroom. Spent a night shaking in the barn.
But this…
This was worse.
He fumbled through the bundle of moss he’d tied earlier, fingers clumsy, vision swimming.
Pulled free the feverroot.
Bitter. Hard to chew. He bit it anyway.
It tasted like mud and iron.
He didn’t know if it would help.
Didn’t care.
He lay still for a while after that, curled under the sagging lean-to, the moss cold against his spine.
At some point, the sharp edge of the nausea dulled. Not gone—just quieter. Enough that the world stopped spinning.
His stomach still churned, but he wasn’t on fire anymore.
So he sat up.
Slow. Careful.
And dragged the twisted vine back into his lap.
I need to get this right.
His fingers worked slower this time. Not from weakness—but from memory. From effort. From need.
Loop. Twist. Pull. Tighten.
Again.
He snapped a frayed end. Started over.
Lina never rushed.
By the third try, it began to hold shape.
Crude. Misshapen. But real.
He stared at it in his lap.
A pouch.
For water. For herbs. For anything that might keep him alive.
He sat back, breathing hard, sweat cold on his neck.
Outside, the light had changed again.
Still green—but lower.
Dimmer.
The sky—what little he could see of it through the canopy—was starting to lose its color.
Not sunset.
Just... less.
The same way it had the day before.
Like something reaching up to smother the light.
Tareth’s jaw clenched.
He remembered the howls. The claws against the bark. The weight outside the hollow.
I’m not going back out there tonight.
He crawled deeper into the lean-to, clutching the pouch to his chest.
Tomorrow—he’d get more water.
Maybe find real food.
Maybe.
But not tonight.
Not again.
He curled in tighter.
And waited for the dark.
----
He woke with a jolt.
Heart pounding.
Breath sharp.
Somewhere out in the trees—a howl.
Distant. But not far enough.
Tareth sat up, head spinning. The lean-to creaked above him.
Still night.
Still dark.
The air was damp again. The moss beneath him cold through his clothes.
He crawled forward, half-blind, and reached just beyond the edge of the shelter.
Found leaves. Loose ferns. A few fallen branches.
Dragged them forward.
Quick. Quiet.
Shoved the greenery into the opening, packed it clumsy and thick, like a scared animal digging its way out of sight.
The howl didn’t come again.
But the silence after felt worse.
He backed into the shelter, curled under the sagging roof, and gripped the pouch like it was a weapon.
Just till morning.
And somehow, sleep returned.
----
Light crept through the leaves a few hours later.
Thin.
Uneven.
But enough.
Tareth blinked up at the soft green ceiling, breath slow, head clearer.
The sickness had passed.
The fear hadn’t.
But he was still here.
He lay there for a while.
Not moving.
Just breathing.
The leaves he’d dragged across the lean-to entrance rustled faintly in the morning draft—if it even was morning. The light here didn’t rise or fall. It just... arrived.
Tareth stared at the roof of green and branch above him.
Day three.
His chest tightened.
Gods...
His parents must be losing their minds.
He pictured his mother pacing, eyes red, hands dusted with flour she hadn’t wiped away. His father silent in the doorway, jaw clenched, boots still muddy from searching the hills.
Would they think he ran?
Would they know?
Tareth swallowed hard.
Nothing he could do now.
Wishing didn’t make bridges. And thinking too long about home only made it hurt worse.
He sat up. Pulled the pouch closer. Adjusted the sword at his hip.
"Focus," he muttered.
Today—he needed more water.
More food.
And answers.
He pushed aside the leaf-curtain and stepped out into the light.
"I'm going to explore."
The woods were quieter than before.
Not safer. Just... waiting.
Tareth moved slow, blade on his back, pouch slung across his shoulder. Every branch that cracked underfoot made him flinch. Every rustle above made his eyes twitch toward the canopy.
It didn’t take long to find the lake again.
Still dark.
Still ringed in reeds.
But the water—
It didn’t move.
Not even a ripple.
Tareth crouched beside it, studying the surface.
Not a breeze. Not a stir.
No insects danced on it. No birds dipped low. Just silence and glass.
He leaned down. Waited.
Nothing.
Not even the faint curl of fog like before.
This water’s wrong now.
He backed away, breath tight.
Then paused.
Wait... he thought, turning toward the trees. Moss holds water. Always damp.
He stepped to the nearest patch, braced one hand against the bark, and squeezed.
Wet.
Cool.
Not much—but enough to wet his lips. Enough to not die.
He worked his way down the tree slowly, wringing another handful into his mouth, then into the pouch. It wasn’t much, but it helped.
Then—a sound.
Not a howl.
Not quite.
More like a low rumble drawn out into the air—haunting. Heavy.
Tareth froze.
Then stood slowly.
Eyes scanning.
Logic screamed to run. To hide. To crawl into another trunk and wait for the dark to pass again.
But something pulled him forward.
Curiosity.
Or something worse.
He stepped carefully—boots landing soft, sword untouched. A bush parted ahead.
And there—
He saw it.
A wolf.
No—not a wolf.
Too big.
Too broad across the shoulders, too long in the jaw. Its fur was mottled with ash and shadow, thick as armor. Its eyes glinted gold beneath the trees.
It sniffed the air.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t need to.
Tareth’s legs locked.
His head throbbed.
Then—a sharp pulse behind his eyes, like a nail driven through both temples.
He staggered.
“Ah—!”
The world twisted.
And above the wolf’s head—
Letters. Faint. Flickering.
Glowing red.
[Wolf – Level 2]
Tareth blinked hard.
His eyes burned.
He grabbed the trunk beside him, heart racing.
What… what is that?
The letters hung in the air like smoke that wouldn’t blow away.
He gasped—
And inside his mind, a whisper curled like ink through water.
???????? ????????????????
Sight beyond the veil.
His breath caught.
His fingers dug into the bark.
The wolf still hadn’t moved.
And the world suddenly felt very, very different.
Boon?
Tareth blinked hard, sweat stinging his eyes.
What the hell is a boon?
No one had ever mentioned anything like this. Not the priest with all his warnings about the Empire’s tests. Not old Thommel, the trader who hoarded books and claimed to know every skill and class that ever existed.
Skills, sure. Classes, sure. But... this?
His gaze flicked back to the wolf.
[Wolf – Level 2]
Still there.
Still watching nothing. Unmoving. Like a statue of breath and teeth.
Tareth’s hand crept to the hilt of his sword.
Could he fight it?
He tried to picture it.
A clean strike. One hit. Just like he practiced behind the barn.
But this thing—
His throat tightened.
This thing isn’t like the wolves near Orden’s Field. This isn’t a scavenger.
It’s a hunter.
It stood too still. Its frame too solid. Muscles beneath fur that rippled when it breathed—slow and steady.
I’m just a boy, he thought. That thing would rip me apart before I even moved.
He backed up a step.
Then another.
His eyes stayed locked on the wolf—but the words above it… they didn’t fade.
They pulsed.
Like they were watching him. Not the other way around.
Crack.
Tareth’s foot hit a branch.
Loud.
Too loud.
The wolf’s head snapped around—eyes locking straight onto him.
It didn’t growl.
Didn’t snarl.
It crouched.
Low.
Slow.
And then—
It moved.
Tareth’s heart slammed into his ribs.
“Oh shit—”
He turned and ran.
Branches whipped his face. Roots snagged at his boots. The forest blurred around him.
Behind him—thudding paws. Fast. Gaining.
His breath came ragged. His legs burned.
It’s too fast. It’s going to catch me—
A fallen log ahead.
He hurdled it, stumbled, kept going.
The growl behind him rose—deep, vicious, close.
He spun.
Sword half-drawn—
I can’t outrun it.
I have to fight.
Tareth’s feet skidded in the moss.
He turned hard, planted himself, both hands on the hilt—
And raised his blade.
The wolf lunged from the brush.
Tareth saw the eyes first—gold and burning.
Then teeth.
Then weight.
He threw himself sideways.
Too slow.
A paw caught him mid-turn—claws raking across his forearm. The pain was sharp, sudden, hot.
He hit the ground hard. Rolled.
Mud filled his mouth.
The wolf circled, low and silent, tail stiff, teeth bared.
Tareth scrambled to his feet, breath coming in ragged gasps.
His sword shook in his grip.
His arm bled.
That thing is fast—too fast.
The wolf growled—deep and hungry.
Then pounced again.
Tareth raised the blade in both hands. Blocked high.
Steel met bone.
Sparks flashed. The force of it knocked him backwards—but he stayed standing.
His arm screamed with pain.
The wolf snarled and lunged again—mouth open.
Those teeth—
If it gets a bite in... I'm dead.
He ducked low, blade swinging wide—cutting across the wolf’s flank.
It yelped. Landed off-balance. Slid in the moss.
Tareth didn’t wait.
He charged.
Blade down, feet moving without thought—instinct, muscle, years of practice behind the barn.
He slashed again—clean across the ribs.
Blood sprayed. The wolf staggered.
It tried to turn, to bite—
But he was already moving.
Pivot, strike, don’t stop now.
The third hit—straight across the throat.
The wolf collapsed.
Breathing once.
Then not at all.
Tareth froze.
Mud on his knees.
Blade dripping.
The forest was quiet.
Then—
[Swordsmanship – Level 2]
[Swordsmanship – Level 3]
The words burned behind his eyes.
Tareth dropped to one knee, panting.
Sweat in his eyes. Blood on his arm. His sword gripped tight.
I killed it.
Not in a story.
Not behind the barn.
I killed it.
His stomach turned. He vomited into the moss. Wiped his mouth. Stared at the wolf.
Big.
Real.
Teeth still bared.
Tareth looked down at his arm.
The gash was long. Red. Still bleeding.
His hand trembled.
“I need to fix this,” he muttered, breath still short. “Now. This is… this is bad.”
He clutched the wound with his other hand. Pressed hard. It stung like fire.
Feveroot. The leaves. I still have some in the lean-to.
He turned toward the forest—then hesitated.
The wolf lay there. Still. The blood dark around it.
His stomach twisted.
Not from sickness this time.
From hunger.
He stared at the body.
Then at his wound.
“I’ll come back,” he whispered. “I have to. I need to eat.”
He took a step—then stopped.
The wolf was glowing.
Faint. Subtle.
Like heat rising from stone.
“What the hell—”
It crumbled.
Not like a body.
Like ash.
Fur to dust. Bone to dust. Gone in seconds.
All that remained—
A small bundle.
Wrapped in thick hide, bound with a cord of vine.
Tareth stepped forward, cautiously.
Knelt.
Inside—
[Raw Wolf Meat ×3]
Each piece was clean. Skinned. Ready to cook.
He stared.
Mouth dry.
Hands shaking.
“What the heck just happened.”
Tareth stared at the bundle.
Still warm.
Still real.
Why did the wolf turn to dust?
Why did it leave this behind?
No one had ever come back from a dungeon. No stories. No records. Just silence.
So how was this even possible?
Is this part of it?
The dungeon itself?
Why?
How?
Who made this place?
His breath came shallow.
And what else did they leave in here with me?
He looked up.
Through the canopy, past the hanging moss and branches—
Mist.
Sky.
But not the real sky.
He began to feel like something was watching him.
Like the forest itself had paused to listen.
Tareth’s skin crawled.
He forced himself to look down.
Shook his head.
“Later,” he whispered. “That’s a problem for later.”
His arm flared with pain again, sharp and hot.
He bent down, scooped up the meat bundle, and turned to look for—
There.
His pouch.
Half-buried in moss, right where he’d dropped it at the start of the fight.
He grabbed it, shook out the leaves, unrolled the top—
No water.
He sighed.
“Of course.”
He stuffed the wolf meat inside anyway, cinched it shut with a shaky tug, and slung it over his shoulder.
Then turned back toward the trees.
Toward his lean-to.
Toward whatever passed for home in this place.
One step.
Then another.
Then he disappeared into the green.
----
The lean-to came into view just as the light began to dim.
Tareth blinked up at the sky—how long had he been gone?
It was later than he realized. The green light was thinner now, fading at the edges like someone was peeling the color off the world.
He ducked into the shelter, dropped his pouch to the side, and slumped against the wall of woven branches.
The adrenaline was gone.
Now it was just pain.
He peeled back the fabric around his arm. The cut was angry—red, puffy at the edges, already crusting. Still bleeding, but slower.
He reached for the pouch of herbs he’d gathered earlier. Feveroot, sure—but also the silver-veined leaves Serra had told him about. For cuts, she’d said. Helps close them. Stops the sting.
He crushed a few leaves between his fingers, smeared the paste across the wound.
It burned.
Hard.
He hissed through his teeth, breath shaking.
“Okay,” he breathed.
He unbuckled his belt. Tugged off one pant leg just below the knee—tore it clean.
Wrapped it tight around the wound.
Bit down on the strap to keep from yelling.
The pressure helped.
Not much.
But enough.
He leaned back, chest rising and falling. The lean-to creaked softly above him in the breeze.
His eyes drifted to the pouch. To the bundle inside.
Food. Real food.
He’d killed a dungeon beast. Not a rabbit. Not a snake.
A monster.
And he was still here.
He laughed. Just once.
Low. Shaky. A little wild.
“I did it,” he whispered.
I fought it. Me.
Me.
Sleep took him before he could say anything else.
But the Hollow was not empty.
And something far above, older than names, had begun to take notice.
