One misstep, and I'd be a scorch mark on the ground.
And that made me anxious—more anxious than I wanted to admit. The Alpha deer wasn't just sharp; it was too sharp, unnervingly perceptive. It could pinpoint my general location almost immediately, as if I were walking around with a glowing target painted on my back.
Most likely, it was tracking me through sound and smell. What was it—part stag, part bloodhound?
Even now, as I wove through the debris and shadows, its beams kept coming, each one clipping just close enough to remind me that a single mistake would mean the end.
And then there were its eyes.
I could swear I hadn't locked eyes with it—at least, not on purpose—but somehow I'd still been caught in its illusion earlier. The memory of that sensation, that bone-deep helplessness, still made my skin crawl. I had no intention of letting that happen again.
