After washing ashore, Rey's body ached with every breath. His once-human limbs had been stitched and twisted with monstrous tissue—gifts from Vladis meant to keep him alive, not make him strong.
The land was dry and corrupted. A haze clung to the air like an infection. Bones jutted from the ground like warnings. And yet… he moved.
Hours passed. Days maybe. Then he saw it—a four-legged beast, hunched like a giant wolf with scales instead of fur and a single curved horn. It sniffed the air as it drank from a murky pool.
Rey stayed hidden at first, then slowly crawled forward, dragging his broken legs behind him. His hands trembled as he pulled some dried fruit from a pouch he'd stolen during his escape.
He tossed the fruit forward.
The beast snarled. It sniffed. It chewed. Then… silence.
Rey threw more.
The creature stepped closer. Its eyes locked with his—red and full of instinct.
And then it bent low, allowing him to climb.
He had a ride.
—
With great effort, Rey climbed onto the creature's back. He pointed toward the bloody river in the east.
The beast obeyed.
They moved alongside the river for hours, maybe longer, Rey barely conscious. Until they reached a massive ridge. Beyond it stood a towering mountain range, black and ancient, cloaked in dying mist.
But Rey didn't care about the mountain.
He looked west.
The sun didn't exist in the Abyss, but something in the air—some primal instinct—told him: the west held answers.
He turned the beast's head.
"West," he whispered. "We go west."
The beast let out a low growl of approval.
And so began a new journey—not of survival, but of silent vengeance.
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