A terrifying mix of paralysis and a desperate urge to survive seized him. One part of him screamed to drop the dagger and hide under the hay. The other, sharper part, forced him to grip the hilt tighter.
"I have to do it." He thought of the charred ruins of his home. I survived the fire. I cannot die here, now. I cannot let this thing win.
He focused entirely on Balvan's back—the only shield and source of hope he had. He relied entirely on the warrior's quiet confidence.
His fear wasn't just of death; it was the terror of a complete loss of control, realizing his life now depended on a split-second act of violence he was utterly unprepared for, performed in the pitch-dark shadows cast by the ominous Eclipsed Moon.
He held the dagger, his hand trembling so violently that the tiny blade rattled softly against his thumb.
The deep, low growling outside abruptly stopped, replaced by a momentary, heavy stillness.
Balvan tensed, recognizing the sound of a beast preparing to charge.
