Ark leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stares into the fire.
The daylight casts long shadows across the camp, its warmth doing little to ease the weight settling over them.
Ark speaks with one of the other hunters. "A single scout will be harder to spot," he says, his voice level, though the tension in his posture is unmistakable.
The hunter beside him shakes his head, his brows furrowed. "I still feel it's not enough. If we're fighting Thaxil—"
Ark exhales sharply, glancing toward the treeline where the sun's light fades beneath the dense canopy. "If we're fighting Thaxil, it doesn't matter how many scouts we send."
His fingers tighten slightly against his knee. "We can only pray the Hivebreakers get here in time."
A desperate scream shatters their discussion.
"Thaxil!"
The word cuts through the air like a blade as a woman bursts from the tree line, sprinting toward the camp. Her eyes are wide with terror, her breath ragged. "The argalias—they're gone!" she gasps, her voice raw with panic.
She barely makes it past the first row of hunters before something shifts in the shadows behind her. A sudden blur, faster than thought. The man closest to her jerks to a halt, his body stiffening unnaturally.
A reddened blade juts from his chest.
The hunters freeze, horror twisting their faces as their hands snap to their weapons. The dying man's lips move, shaping words too soft to reach them, but the effort is wasted.
His head is yanked upward with terrifying force.
CRACK.
The sickening snap of bone silences the camp. A second later, the wet sound of a blade slicing through flesh follows. His lifeless body collapses onto the dirt, his severed head rolling to a stop a few feet away, leaving only the awful stillness that lingers in its wake.
The thing that killed him looms over the corpse, its posture eerily still, waiting—anticipating.
***
Eska stirs to the muffled sounds of battle, her mind sluggish, body heavy. Blinking against the haze of sleep, she slowly pushes herself up, her limbs protesting the movement.
Then—
A scream rips through the air. A wet, gurgling cry of agony.
She jolts upright, every ounce of grogginess vanishing in an instant. Pain flares through her body, but she ignores it, scrambling toward the tent flap.
Her fingers tremble as she grips the fabric, hesitating before pulling it open just enough to see outside.
The scene ahead sends a chill down her spine.
The hunters are locked in combat, weapons flashing as they fight against something unlike anything she's ever seen. It stands on two legs, its insectoid form disturbingly humanoid.
Each arm ends in a serrated blade, jagged and glinting like forged steel. Spikes and ridges jut from its carapace, each edge a weapon in itself. Though its limbs look thin, its chest, forearms, and lower legs bulge with unnatural strength.
Behind it, a segmented tail twitches like a waiting coil, its movement eerily precise. Its small, angular head is almost sunken into its chest, antennae flicking erratically. A high-pitched hum vibrates through the air, drilling into her skull as the battle rages on.
Eska grips the flap tighter, her breath shallow. Her heart pounds, her instincts screaming—this isn't a fight.
This is a massacre.
The creature moves with an unsettling familiarity, as if it has seen these hunters fight countless times before. Every swing aimed at it is met with a seamless dodge, its momentum never breaking.
It sidesteps with precision, parrying only as if it pitied its opponents, its jagged blades clashing against steel in brief exchanges.
Each time it evades, a sharp hum escapes it, vibrating unnervingly through the air. Its shoulders hitch and drop in small, rhythmic motions—a mockery, almost like laughter.
Then—a sudden change.
The creature, which had been effortlessly weaving through attacks, stops evading. Stops parrying.
And then it moves.
A blur of motion. Blinding speed.
Its blades carve through flesh before anyone can react. Limbs sever. Chests split open. A sickening symphony of slicing and wet, gurgled cries fills the air as blood sprays across the ground.
Bodies crumple in an instant. The hunters don't even have time to scream.
Ark alone remains standing, his movements just barely keeping him alive. He twists, ducks, and deflects with desperate precision, his weapon meeting the creature's strikes in a flurry of brutal clashes.
But while he manages to hold his ground, the others lie still—lifeless.
Eska watches the slaughter unfold, every brutal moment burning itself into her mind. The air reeks of blood, the ground slick with it. Limbs lie where they fell, bodies crumpled in heaps, faces frozen in terror.
It's over in seconds—too fast. Too effortless.
Ark stands alone against the Thaxil.
Her pulse pounds as recognition sinks in. She's read of these creatures, heard the warnings drilled into her since childhood.
You run. No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just run.
Her gaze flicks to Valen's tent. Then back to the creature. Tears sting at her eyes, her chest tightening with something hot, something unbearable.
She moves.
Like a shadow slipping through the dark, her body shifts into motion. Her steps leave no trace, no sound—like even the earth refuses to betray her presence. Each breath is measured, controlled, steady.
The Thaxil looms ahead, its hum still vibrating through the air. It doesn't see her. It doesn't hear her.
The Thaxil hums again, that eerie, rattling sound rippling through the air like a grotesque mockery. Its movements are slow now, savoring the inevitability of Ark's death. It steps forward, its bladed limbs twitching, anticipation dripping from every calculated motion.
Ark stands firm, unaware of the presence behind the creature. He doesn't see her. Neither does it.
Eska reaches it in silence, her golden eyes locked onto the spot where its ribcage should be. A slow exhale. Her fingers curl. The blood in her veins surges.
Her claws form in an instant, jagged and solid, curling over her hands, where they've always belonged. A slight smile tugs at her lips, her widened eyes flickering with something sharp, something electric.
She strikes.
Her talons pierce through the Thaxil's hardened carapace, forcing their way past the jagged ridges, digging deep into whatever serves as its insides.
The exoskeleton cracks beneath her force, a wet, crunching sound filling her ears as the pressure gives way. Thick, foul-smelling ichor gushes from the wound, spilling over her hands as the Thaxil's body jerks.
Its humming laugh cuts off.
Staggering back, it clutches at the gaping wound, its movements erratic as if struggling to process the sudden pain. Ark doesn't hesitate—he surges forward with a roar, swinging his hammer with all his strength.
The weapon connects with the creature's head in a devastating blow, the sound of cracking carapace echoing through the clearing as the Thaxil collapses in a heap.