Cael's vision blurred with smoke and blood. His mother's scream, the snap of splintering wood, the wet roar of the monster — all still echoed in his ears, an unrelenting chorus of horror. He crawled through the rubble of Eldhollow, every movement burning in his bruised muscles, every breath tasting of ash and fire.
He pushed himself upright, legs trembling beneath him. The village lay in ruin, familiar streets twisted into a maze of splintered boards and smoldering beams. Shadows danced in the firelight, flickering across faces that weren't there, faces of those he had lost — his mother, his friends, the children he had watched grow.
A scream tore through the haze, and instinct drove him forward. His feet moved before his mind could catch up, dodging broken rooftops, leaping over fallen carts. He ran because he had to. He ran because hatred — sharp, hot, and unyielding — demanded it. Survival was the only thing left.
Everywhere he looked, death lingered. Small creatures, drawn by the scent of blood and chaos, skittered through the ruins. Shadow horrors, twisted remnants of the Blight, slithered along burned beams and broken walls, hungry for any life left behind. Cael ducked behind a toppled cart as one lunged past, claws scraping stone inches from his hand. His heart hammered; his lungs burned; his legs quivered with exhaustion, but he did not stop.
The cliffs loomed ahead, a jagged line of stone and wind. He scrambled toward them, slipping in ash and blood, barely keeping upright. His mind flashed again to his mother, her eyes wide with terror, pushing him out of the way. The image burned into him, a knife twisting in his chest, fueling every step, every desperate leap over debris. Hatred had become the pulse in his veins, driving him faster than fear alone could.
Hours — or perhaps minutes — passed, though time had no meaning here. Heat, exhaustion, hunger, pain — they all melded into a single, sharp focus: move, survive, live. He stumbled over a broken fence, landing hard against the jagged stones of the cliffs, his vision swimming with smoke, blood, and hallucinations of faces he could never save.
And then, in the haze of his staggering, he saw them. Figures moving cautiously through the ruins — not monsters, not villagers, but humans. Clad in armor, armed, disciplined. Hunters.
They were headed to Eldhollow, weapons drawn, scanning for the predator that had devastated the village. Cael froze, unsure whether to call out, to hide, or to collapse where he stood. His body refused any choice. It had nothing left.
A misstep sent him sprawling across the charred cobblestones. One of the hunters glanced toward him, eyes narrowing, but before words could be spoken, before recognition could form, his knees buckled. Pain, exhaustion, grief — all converged into one sharp, irresistible tide. His vision darkened, and the world slipped away.
The roar of the monster was distant now, a fading shadow in the periphery of consciousness. The cries, the flames, the ruins — all melted into black.
And in the haze, only the pulse of hatred remained, faint but relentless, a spark that refused to die.