They moved beneath a dying sky.
Clouds churned above, stained violet and gray, heavy with storms not yet broken. The forest below was no longer the same wild Torian had grown up near — this was something older, denser, crueler. The trees rose taller here, their trunks warped and coiled like ropes of petrified muscle. Their roots twisted above the soil like claws clutching the earth.
Torian clung to Skarn's back.
The beast walked with slow, deliberate steps, his claws crunching over twisted leaves and stone. His wings were folded tight against his back now, but even drawn in, they curved above the boy like a canopy of leather and bone.
Torian had fallen silent.
He didn't ask where they were going.
Because he could feel it — the weight in the air, the sharpness of it, the way even the wind hesitated before pushing through these trees. Light barely filtered in now. What did trickle down came in strange, dappled slashes — green where it should be gold, flickering like candlelight through water.
This forest had depth.
Not just in distance.
But in memory.
It had watched ages pass. And it had not forgiven them.
Skarn moved without fear. He sniffed the wind often, pausing now and then to test the earth. His eyes flicked from shadow to shadow. Every few steps, his tail would drag slightly, brushing aside moss or snapping dead branches without effort.
Torian remained on his back, arms clutching the base of Skarn's neck, eyes wide.
He didn't dare speak.
Because he sensed what Skarn did.
They were not alone.
⸻
They crossed a shallow stream, its water black and slow-moving, full of strange petals that drifted without a source. Beyond it, the trees grew thicker. Their bark had strange symbols burned into it — not carved, not painted, but seared by something unnatural.
Spirals.
And faces.
Dozens of warped, stretched faces—like masks molded from smoke.
Torian swallowed.
Skarn slowed.
Then stopped.
His head turned slightly to the right.
A shape moved between the trees.
Not large.
Not loud.
But unmistakably wrong.
Torian barely had time to blink.
The creature stepped into view.
It wasn't a beast.
It was humanoid—tall, thin, wrapped in layers of translucent flesh that pulsed with color like fish scales. Its arms were too long. Its face had no mouth. Just vertical slits where eyes might have been, each glowing faintly with red fire.
It didn't breathe.
It didn't walk.
It floated, slightly above the ground, its limbs swaying in rhythm with something only it could hear.
Torian gripped tighter to Skarn.
"What… is that?"
Skarn didn't answer, of course.
But his breath sharpened.
His stance shifted.
And in one brutal, explosive movement—he lunged.
⸻
Claws tore through the air. The creature turned its head too slow.
It made no sound as Skarn hit it full-force, ramming it backward through a tree. Bark shattered. The trunk split in two. The impact sent a shockwave through the clearing.
Torian held tight as Skarn landed on the other side, turning quickly, wings half-unfolded in warning.
The creature was gone.
Its body hung in pieces from the broken tree.
But there was no blood.
Only a thick, glowing vapor leaking from the wounds, curling like mist around the trunk before evaporating.
And then—the trees screamed.
Not out loud.
But in vibration.
The ground shook. Branches cracked above.
Skarn snarled.
Torian turned—just in time to see three more creatures sliding between the trunks, faster than shadows.
Then five.
Then eight.
All different shapes. Some humanoid. Some crawling. Some pulsing with light that shouldn't exist.
All coming for them.
Skarn's wings flared.
He braced low.
And the fight began.
They came like the forest itself had decided to strike.
The first of the creatures launched forward with speed that shattered the quiet—its limbs splitting into tendrils mid-leap, each tipped with curling bone. Skarn met it with a roar, his claws swinging wide, cleaving it in half in one brutal strike.
Torian held on as the beast beneath him turned into a blur of movement.
Another attacker dropped from the branches above — more serpent than man, with glowing red runes etched into its skin. It screeched as it fell, but Skarn pivoted and caught it mid-air in his jaws, biting down until it folded with a sickening crunch.
Then two more closed in from the sides.
And Skarn moved.
Fast.
Unreal fast.
He ducked, pivoted, slammed his shoulder into one, crushed its spine against a tree, then whipped his tail around and sent the other flying into a jagged pile of stones.
Torian clung tighter, eyes wide, watching it all from the cradle of Skarn's spine. He couldn't see clearly. Only flashes of bloodless kills, streaks of light, bone-white limbs scattering in the leaves.
"Skarn!" he shouted once—not out of fear, but instinct. They were being surrounded.
And Skarn knew it.
He reared up, wings half-open, growling low and deep.
They came again.
More than before.
Some didn't walk. They floated. Twisted lights in human shape. One burst into pale flame when it touched Skarn's shoulder — it hissed against his fur, but didn't burn him. Another split down the middle into six-legged crawlers that latched onto his back legs.
Skarn roared and rolled.
He crushed one under his elbow, bit the other in half with a snap of his jaws. Vines broke. Earth cracked. Trees shook.
But they just kept coming.
The forest pulsed with them now. They moved like it was their home — as if the roots were guiding them, as if the trees themselves were pushing them forward.
Torian ducked as something lunged at him from the side—thin and fast, needle-limbed. It missed him by inches, and Skarn slammed it midair with a backward kick that snapped every bone in its body.
But Torian saw it—
Skarn was tiring.
Not from weakness.
But from sheer numbers.
He was fast. Devastating. A force of nature.
But even a force like him could be drowned by enough waves.
"We have to move!" Torian shouted. "There's too many—!"
Skarn responded the only way he could.
He ran.
⸻
The trees whipped past them in a blur as Skarn tore through the forest, sprinting low, shoulders battering aside undergrowth and root alike. The creatures chased, screeching and clicking and sliding across bark like insects.
A dozen. Maybe more.
Torian crouched low, arms wrapped around the beast's neck, sword still clutched in his left hand though he could barely lift it. He didn't know where Skarn was taking them. Just that he was running toward something.
Then—he saw it.
The earth ahead stopped.
A cliff. Jagged and high. A drop that led into a deep canyon where fog swirled below like a second sky.
"Skarn—!"
The beast didn't slow.
He leapt.
⸻
They fell in silence for a breathless second.
The world dropped away. Air screamed around them. Torian felt his stomach rise into his throat, his body weightless, his soul bracing for the end.
Then—
Wings.
Skarn's wings snapped open, catching the air with a thunderous crack. The drop slowed. The canyon's edge rushed past beneath them. Wind tore at Torian's hair, the beast's fur, their clothes, their fear.
They soared.
Away from the edge.
Away from the creatures.
Across the canyon's width, the far cliff approached—bare, high, sharp.
Skarn beat his wings once, twice more—then banked hard and climbed.
Torian could barely hold on.
But he didn't let go.
Not this time.
⸻
They landed in a skidding crash of claws and wings, dust rising high.
Skarn turned, panting, his body streaked with scratches and bites. One of the glowing creatures had left a spiral-shaped burn across his shoulder. But he still stood. He still roared defiance across the canyon.
On the other side, the creatures gathered.
Dozens now.
But they didn't leap.
They watched.
Silent. Patient.
Like they knew the forest would catch them again.
But for now—they had lost.
Torian slid from Skarn's back, collapsing to one knee.
He looked up at the creature who had saved him—again.
And for the first time, Skarn looked back with something more than instinct.
Something like trust.
They had survived.
The wind had died by the time they made camp.
They didn't speak—Torian because he couldn't, Skarn because he never had to. The flight across the canyon had drained what little strength they had left. Their landing place, a high stone ridge along the canyon's far edge, offered no comfort—but it offered distance. And distance was safety.
The sky was cracked with faint starlight. No moon tonight. Just the hush of air moving between ruined trees and the thin cry of distant birds who hadn't yet learned to fear what the forest had become.
Skarn paced once in a wide circle, sniffing the wind. He checked the drop behind them, the slope before them, and the shadows crawling through the cracks. Satisfied, he sank low and folded his wings over his sides, like a curtain shutting the world out.
Torian didn't sit yet.
He just stood there, in the center of the broken ledge, his chest still rising hard from the chase, his arms scraped and trembling, his fingers curled loosely around the hilt of his father's blade.
He looked down at it.
It was cracked now. Just slightly, a hairline near the guard. A sign of wear. A sign of too much weight for one boy to carry.
He lowered it slowly and let the tip rest on the stone.
Then finally—he dropped to his knees.
The pain came all at once.
Not from the gash across his back. Not from the bruises or exhaustion or fear.
But from stillness.
He wasn't running anymore.
And now, for the first time in what felt like days, he could feel what had been following him this whole time.
Not the creatures.
Not the men.
But the memory.
The crater. The smoke. His father's outstretched hand.
The ribbon in the dirt.
He blinked hard.
No tears came. Just the pressure. The heat behind his eyes. The tightness in his throat.
He curled inward and tried not to make a sound.
⸻
Skarn approached.
Slowly.
He didn't make noise as he moved — no growl, no snort, no heavy step. Just the quiet rhythm of a beast who had learned how to walk without threatening.
Torian didn't look up.
He didn't need to.
He felt the warmth settle beside him. The massive body shift and lay down. One wing curled behind him, almost like a wall. A tail looped just around the edge of the clearing. Then, after a moment of hesitation—
Skarn leaned in.
And pressed his forehead gently to Torian's shoulder.
Torian exhaled, shaking.
And leaned back.
⸻
They said nothing for a long while.
Eventually, Skarn rose again and left for a short time, vanishing into the trees with a few silent strides. Torian waited, curled under the slope of stone where the wind couldn't reach him, eyes half-closed but never fully resting.
The Spiral on his chest had faded again. The glow was gone. But he could still feel it beneath the skin.
Alive.
Waiting.
When Skarn returned, he carried nothing this time—no food, no carcass. Just a wide strip of bark coated in thick, sticky sap and crushed herbs.
He dropped it beside Torian.
And waited.
Torian blinked at it. Then at Skarn.
"…You want me to… wrap myself?"
Skarn didn't answer.
But he did lie back down with a long exhale, as if satisfied the boy would figure it out.
Torian smiled—just barely.
Then began tearing the strip into makeshift bindings.
⸻
The camp was fireless.
They couldn't risk it.
But the night didn't feel cold anymore.
Not with Skarn beside him, curled around the ridge like a fortress.
Not with the Spiral still thrumming faintly in his chest.
Not with the forest silent behind them—for now.
They didn't speak of what came next.
They didn't need to.
For tonight…
They had survived.