Feylin's feet pounded the forest floor, the trees blurring together as he fled. The darkness seemed to thicken, like a living entity wrapping around him. He stumbled, his side burning with pain, but he pushed on, driven by a primal fear.
The creature's scream still echoed in his mind, a chilling reminder of what pursued him. He didn't dare look back, fearing he'd see it gaining on him. The trees seemed to loom closer, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching for him.
He didn't know how long he ran, but eventually his legs gave out, and he collapsed onto a bed of leaves. Gasping for air, he listened, his heart pounding in his ears. The forest was silent, except for the distant hooting of owls and the rustling of leaves.
Feylin's gaze adjusted to the darkness, and he took stock of his surroundings. He was in a small clearing, surrounded by towering trees. The moon was hidden, but a faint glow filtered through the canopy, casting eerie shadows.
He tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness washed over him. He stumbled, catching himself on a tree trunk. His side throbbed, and he winced, feeling wetness seep through his tunic. He lifted his shirt, and his stomach churned. The creature's claws had sliced deep, the wound oozing blood.
Feylin swallowed hard, trying to stay focused. He needed to find shelter, to tend to his wound. He scanned his surroundings, spotting a dark shape in the distance. It looked like a cave, or maybe an old hollow tree.
With a surge of determination, he pushed off from the tree and stumbled towards the shape. It was a hollowed-out log, partially hidden by underbrush. He crawled inside, collapsing onto the dry earth.
As he lay there, the sounds of the forest seemed to fade, replaced by the pounding of his heart. He was alone, lost, and injured. But he was alive.
The memories crashed over Feylin like a wave, bringing both comfort and anguish. His mother's warm smile, her gentle voice, and the sparkle in her eyes as she told him stories of brave warriors, mythical creatures, and ancient magic. He recalled the tales of the Nephilim, those fallen beings of immense power, rumored to walk the earth in the shadows.
Feylin's mind replayed her words, "The Nephilim are creatures of darkness, Feylin. They thirst for power, for life, and for chaos. They're said to be the offspring of gods and mortals, corrupted by their own ambition."
He remembered the way she'd weave intricate tales of heroes battling these monstrous beings, of magic wielders shaping the world with their will. But now, those stories seemed... different. The creature that killed her, it was one of those Nephilim. The glowing eyes, the twisted form... it all fit the descriptions she'd given him.
Feylin's grip on the earth floor tightened, his fingers digging into the dirt. A mix of emotions swirled inside him – grief, anger, determination. His mother had taught him about these monsters, and now she was gone. But he'd remembered.
He pushed himself up, wincing at the pain in his side. The weight of it all crashed down on Feylin. The chief's wise words, the laughter of the kids he used to chase around the village, the elderly's tales of old times, and the street performers' vibrant shows... all gone. Reduced to memories, like his mother.
He sat there, his back against the log's rough interior, and let the tears come. He wept for his mother, for the village, for the life he'd known. The pain in his side throbbed in time with his sobs, but he barely felt it. The ache in his heart was too overwhelming.
Feylin's white hair was matted with dirt and tears as he cried out, his voice lost in the darkness. He screamed his mother's name, hoping someone, anything, would answer. But there was only silence.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed him. He curled up, his body shaking with sobs, and let sleep take him. The shadows outside seemed to creep closer, but they didn't touch him. Not yet.
In his dreams, his mother's voice whispered stories of bravery, of vengeance, of surviving the darkness. And Feylin's grip on his pain tightened, his resolve hardening.