Isla's POV
I wake up screaming.
Strong hands pin my shoulders down—too strong, too rough—and I thrash like a wild animal. My ribs explode with pain but I don't care. I kick and claw and fight because that's what prey does when predators close in.
"Isla! Isla!" A deep voice rumbles my name, but it sounds wrong. Garbled. Like he's trying to speak through a mouthful of rocks.
My eyes snap open. The massive tiger-man hovers over me, his amber eyes wide with concern. Not hunger. Not cruelty.
Concern.
I stop fighting. My chest heaves. Sweat soaks through the fur blankets wrapped around me.
"Bad dream," the tiger-man says slowly in his language. He touches his head, then mimics sleeping. "Bad dream."
I nod shakily. Yes. Bad dream. The warehouse collapsing. Waking up in this nightmare world. Bear-men trying to kill me. Blood everywhere.
Except it wasn't a dream. This is real.
The tiger-man backs away carefully, giving me space. He picks up a wooden bowl and offers it to me. Water. My throat is so dry it hurts to swallow, but I take the bowl with trembling hands and drink.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He tilts his head, confused. Of course. He doesn't speak English.
And I don't speak... whatever language this is.
Panic claws up my throat. I'm stuck in a world of monsters who can't understand me. How am I supposed to survive if I can't even communicate? How can I explain what I need? How can I ask for help?
How can I warn them when danger comes?
The tiger-man watches me with those patient amber eyes. He points at himself and says something that sounds like "Theron." Then he points at me, eyebrows raised in question.
Oh. Names. We're doing names.
I touch my chest. "Isla."
"Is... la?" He struggles with the sounds.
"Isla," I repeat slower. "Is-la."
"Isla." His face lights up like he just discovered fire. "Isla!"
Something warm blooms in my chest. It's just a name. Just two syllables. But it's the first real connection I've made in this terrifying place.
Theron points at himself again. "Theron."
"Theron," I repeat. The name feels strange in my mouth, but I manage it.
He grins—actually grins—showing way too many sharp teeth. But somehow it doesn't scare me. He looks... happy. Proud that I learned his name.
Movement catches my eye. The silver wolf-man stands at the cave entrance, watching us. His ice-blue eyes are unreadable, but something about his posture screams danger. He's covered in dried blood—some of it his, most of it from the bear-men he fought.
He fought for me.
I swallow hard. This wolf killed to protect me. Transformed into something terrifying and powerful, all to keep me alive. Why? He doesn't know me. I'm nothing to him—just a weak human who can't hunt or fight or do anything useful.
The wolf steps forward. Points at himself. "Draven."
His voice is deeper than Theron's, rougher. Like gravel grinding against stone. But he says it clearly, waiting for me to repeat it.
"Draven," I manage.
Something flickers in those cold blue eyes. Satisfaction? Relief? I can't tell.
A shadow passes overhead. I flinch instinctively, but it's just the hawk-man landing gracefully at the cave entrance. His golden feathers catch the dim light as he folds his massive wings. He eyes me with obvious suspicion, like I'm a puzzle he can't figure out.
He doesn't introduce himself. Just crosses his arms and watches.
"Caspian," Draven says, pointing at the hawk. Then he points toward the back of the cave where I see a flash of black scales. "Silas."
The snake-man slides into view, and I have to bite back a gasp. He's huge—easily fifteen feet of pure muscle coiled and deadly. His golden eyes fix on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
"Isla," Silas says my name perfectly on the first try, his voice smooth as silk. He slithers closer, and every instinct screams at me to run.
But I can't run. My ribs won't let me. And even if they did, where would I go? There's nothing out there but more monsters and certain death.
I'm trapped.
"Isla. Draven. Theron. Caspian. Silas." I point at each of them, testing the names. They nod when I get it right, and something that feels almost like hope flutters in my chest.
Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can learn their language. Build communication. Figure out how to survive.
Then I see it through the cave entrance—white flakes falling from the sky.
Snow.
My heart stops. I scramble to my feet despite the screaming pain in my ribs and stumble toward the entrance. Theron tries to catch me, but I push past him. I need to see. Need to confirm what my brain is already screaming.
The mountain peaks are covered in white. Heavy clouds gather on the horizon. The temperature has dropped so much I can see my breath.
Winter is coming.
And these beast-men have no idea what winter means. No stored food beyond rotting meat. No insulated shelter. No warm clothes. No plan.
They're going to die.
We're all going to die.
"No," I whisper. Then louder: "No, no, no!"
I spin to face them, and the four massive predators actually step back from the wild look in my eyes. I point at the snow. Point at the cave. Make shivering motions.
"Cold! Death! We need—" I'm screaming in English, knowing they can't understand, but I can't stop. "Food! Shelter! We need to prepare or we'll all freeze!"
Draven catches my wrists gently but firmly. "Isla. Calm."
But I can't calm down because I just saw our death sentence written in snowflakes.
That's when the howl echoes through the valley. Long and low and filled with menace.
Then another howl answers. And another.
The four beast-men exchange dark glances. Silas hisses something sharp. Caspian's wings flare. Theron moves protectively closer to me.
Draven's eyes glow that terrifying blue again as he stares into the growing darkness.
"What?" I whisper. "What is it?"
He looks at me, and I see it in his face—the same fear I feel.
The bear-men are coming back.
And they've brought friends.