The creature leapt.
A blur of white and green fur launched through the air like a thunderbolt.
Millet didn't think.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't even scream.
His body moved on its own, flinging itself sideways into a haphazard roll — not graceful, not trained — like a falling donkey flailing for the ground. Snow burst around him as he hit the icy trail, tumbling once, then twice, his limbs flailing to keep momentum.
He didn't look back.
Didn't wait.
The moment his feet caught the ground, he pushed off, staggering into a full run up the mountain path.
Behind him—
A deafening crash.
The monster slammed into the wall Millet had just dodged beside, its enormous frame crumpling into stone with a sound like an avalanche. Chunks of rock exploded from the cliff, bouncing off the path and falling into the mist below.
The world shook.
Millet ran.
The air cut into his face like razors. His breath tore from his lungs in steaming bursts. Every step felt like climbing through a nightmare — frost crunching beneath his feet, fear pounding in his head like war drums.
Then he heard it.
The sound of rocks shifting.
Then claws.
Then something massive, rising to its feet.
It's following me.
Millet didn't dare look back.
But he didn't need to.
A second later, he heard the thud — a footfall heavy enough to make the trail shudder.
And another.
Then a snarl.
Then a roar — not loud, not sharp, but wet. A low, guttural growl that vibrated in his chest and turned his legs to jelly.
Then pain.
The world blurred.
Something — huge, solid, and fast — smashed into Millet's back like a charging bull. His entire body lurched forward, thrown like a doll through the snow. His vision spun.
White sky. White stone. Spinning.
He hit the ground hard — ribs first, chest slamming into the frozen trail. Snow exploded around him. A sickening jolt rattled his spine.
The pain was immediate. Everywhere.
His lungs felt crushed. His arms wouldn't move right. His whole body screamed.
But somehow…
Somehow, he didn't pass out.
He didn't die.
He was breathing — ragged, pained — but alive.
He forced himself up.
One hand. Then the other. Knees shaking. Legs buckling.
His body was crying for stillness.
But something was different.
He could feel it — deep inside the tremble of his arms, the ache of his spine, the heat that hadn't been there before.
Stronger.
Not normal.
Not the body he remembered having.
He had no time to question it.
Behind him, snow crunched.
The monster was coming.
Millet staggered forward, slipping, catching himself, forcing his legs to move even when they didn't want to. His eyes darted across the ground — frantic, searching.
Anything.
Anything I can use.
No swords.
No knives.
Not even a stick.
Just rocks and ice and a pathway barely holding together.
Am I going to die here?
The question rang through his skull.
Before I even understand what's happening?
Before I find out who I am? Where I am?
The creature's breath was close now. Hot. Rotten. It blew across the back of Millet's neck like steam from a furnace.
He didn't turn around.
He ran.
Feet sliding. Arms pumping.
Snow and ice bit into his shoes, slipping with every step. But still he pushed.
Dodging.
Swerving.
Pure panic guiding his movement.
And somehow, someway — the creature kept missing.
Swipes just over his head.
Trunk-like tusks barely grazing his side.
It should've killed him already.
But it didn't.
And then… he noticed something.
It wasn't following him.
It was following the sound.
It wasn't watching.
Its movements weren't exact. They were delayed, off, guessing.
It was like it didn't see him.
It was listening.
But Millet hadn't fully understood yet.
He was just running.
Then — a crack.
A rock whistling through the air.
His head snapped up.
Too late.
BOOM.
A boulder, flung from the creature's arm, collided with the trail in front of him. He leapt, trying to clear it — but he wasn't fast enough.
The edge of the boulder slammed into his ribs.
Then his back hit the cliff wall.
Hard.
A sick, wet noise filled his ears — like meat slapping against stone.
The pain hit a moment later.
Sharp. Deep. Fire across his side.
He slid down the wall, coughing once — then again — and a splash of blood burst from his mouth, splattering onto the snow.
His vision blurred.
The creature was coming.
Slow.
Massive.
Steady footfalls.
No rush.
It knew he couldn't move.
Millet's hand clenched into the snow. His vision swam, full of red and white and the slowly approaching death.
No…
Not yet…
His body was shivering — not from cold, but from fear and exhaustion.
Then, something changed.
A flicker of movement.
From the corner of his eye—
Something.