Hunter lay flat on the forest floor, his back pressed against cold earth, breath coming in harsh, uneven pulls. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles twitched, but his eyes—usually sharp, usually defiant—were fixed on nothing.
Camila knelt beside him, the emergency kit open between her knees. Her fingers trembled as she pulled out gauze, antiseptic, bandages. Blood had already soaked through the torn fabric of Hunter's trousers, dark and sticky, and every time she touched the wound his body reacted before his pride could stop it.
"Hunter," she whispered, forcing steadiness into her voice, "you have to stay still. I'm serious. If you keep tensing like that, you'll reopen it."
He let out a slow, controlled breath through his nose.
"I'm not moving," he muttered. "It just… hurts more than I expected."
Camila swallowed. That alone unsettled her—Hunter admitting pain without barking back.
She cleaned the wound carefully, her sleeve brushing against his skin. His hand twitched.
"Don't," she warned softly.
"I didn't say anything."
"You don't have to," she replied. "Your whole body is arguing with me."
Around them, the remaining students stood scattered in a wide, broken circle. Twelve. Only twelve now. No one said it out loud, but everyone had counted. Again and again.
The bear lay a few meters away, its massive form collapsed like a fallen god. One eye destroyed, fur matted with blood, its sheer size almost unreal in death. Some students stared at it with open awe, others turned away, unable to reconcile survival with what it had cost.
A boy near the edge of the group whispered, his voice thin and brittle,
"It's only the first night… if this is how bad it already is—"
"Don't finish that sentence," another student snapped, though her voice cracked midway.
Camila finished wrapping the bandage, pulling it tight. "You're lucky," she said quietly, more to herself than him. "If it had stepped just a little lower… if your bone had—"
"I know," Hunter interrupted, sharper than he intended. He exhaled and added, more controlled, "I know. I felt it. I thought… for a second, that was it."
She looked at him then. Really looked. His arrogance was stripped bare by exhaustion, by blood loss, by fear he hadn't fully buried yet.
Hunter braced his hands against the ground and forced himself upright. Pain flashed across his face before he crushed it down. He stood slowly, leaning heavily on his spear, breathing hard.
The forest remained silent.
Too silent.
Hunter looked around at them—faces pale, eyes red, bodies trembling. Some were holding each other. Some stood alone, arms wrapped tight around themselves like armor that didn't work anymore.
"That's it?" he said at last, voice rough but loud enough to cut through the quiet. "That's where you stop?"
A girl near the back flinched. "We lost people," she said, stepping forward despite herself. "They're dead. We watched them die."
"And we didn't," Hunter shot back immediately. He turned, pointing at the bear. "That thing tried to wipe us out. It failed."
No one responded. His words hung there, heavy and uncomfortable.
"We eat tonight," he continued, pacing slowly despite the limp. "We rest. And tomorrow we move. You can sit here and mourn forever, or you can decide you're not next."
Camila rose to her feet beside him. She didn't speak, but she didn't pull him back either.
Hunter's voice dropped, dangerous and steady.
"I don't care if you hate me. Fear doesn't get to lead us."
A long silence followed.
Then—hesitant, shaking—a fist lifted into the air.
Another followed.
A sound rose from the group. Not laughter. Not celebration. Something rawer. A cry that said we're still here.
********
Engines died one by one, their echoes swallowed instantly by the trees.
Prince Eden Snowhart stepped out first.
White hair. Emerald eyes. Perfect posture. Five guards moved with him without being told, forming a living wall of steel and discipline. He surveyed the forest like an enemy already condemned.
Behind them, another car door slammed open.
Amia nearly stumbled out, eyes wide as she scanned the trees.
"This is it," she breathed. "This is where the signal cut off."
Nyx crossed her arms, jaw tight. "Then we don't waste time."
But Eden was already walking.
"Don't bother," he said without turning. "You'll only slow us down."
Nyx blinked. "Excuse me?"
Eden stopped just long enough to glance over his shoulder.
"You heard me."
"That's not how this works," Nyx snapped. "We're a team—"
Leon leaned close to Eden, lowering his voice. "Your Highness, perhaps—"
"I said move," Eden barked, already stepping into the forest.
Tim scoffed under his breath. "Must be nice being royalty. You get to act like a complete—"
Silence fell.
Eden turned slowly.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
"Who said that?"
Tim swallowed hard. "I—I was joking."
Two guards struck without hesitation.
"Stop!" James shouted, rushing forward. "That's enough!"
Weapons were raised. Instantly. Effortlessly.
Eden lifted one finger.
The beating stopped.
He walked toward Nyx, stopping inches from her face.
"You are not needed," he said quietly. "Do not follow us."
Nyx's fists clenched so hard her nails cut into her palms. She didn't answer. Couldn't.
Eden turned away.
As they disappeared into the trees, Leon leaned close.
"The plan for Briony," he murmured. "Still active?"
Eden smiled.
"Anyone you see," he said softly, "kill them."
****
Nyx knelt beside Tim, helping him up. "We turn back," she said firmly. "Get reinforcements."
Tim shook his head. "No. If they're alive, they won't last that long. We go now."
Amia wiped her eyes. "Please… please let's just—"
Nyx exhaled sharply. "Fine. But we stick together."
Minutes later, they stopped dead.
At the base of a cliff lay Verena Crowe.
Or what remained of her.
Amia screamed.
The forest stood unmoved.
*******
Fletcher woke with a violent jolt, his body snapping upright as if yanked from drowning.
Cold air tore into his lungs.
Not the ordinary chill of night—but something damp, invasive, wrong. The kind of cold that didn't sit on the skin but crawled beneath it, coiling around bones and thoughts alike.
He blinked.
White.
Endless white.
A thick, unmoving fog pressed in from every direction, swallowing the forest whole. Trees were nothing more than vague, towering shadows—distorted silhouettes that leaned and twisted as though alive, their tops lost somewhere far above. The ground beneath him was wet, spongy, uneven, coated with fallen leaves slick from moisture.
"Hello…?" Fletcher called, his voice sounding wrong—muted, swallowed almost immediately by the fog.
No echo.
No answer.
The silence wasn't empty. It was listening.
He pushed himself to his feet, heart hammering harder with every second. His head throbbed faintly, like he'd been drugged—or dragged through a nightmare and dropped back into his body too quickly.
"Eli?" he tried again, louder now. "Darren? Briony?"
Nothing.
The fog shifted—not drifting naturally, but pulsing, thickening in slow waves. Visibility barely stretched an arm's length. Fletcher could no longer tell which direction he'd come from. Every step felt like it erased the last.
This isn't normal, he thought. Fog doesn't behave like this.
His boots squelched softly as he walked, each step echoing too loudly in his head. The forest smelled wrong too—metallic, damp, faintly sweet, like rotting fruit left too long in the sun.
A low pressure settled in his chest.
Then his foot struck something solid.
He pitched forward, hands slamming into the ground. Pain flared through his palms—but it was what his fingers touched next that froze him completely.
Skin.
Cold.
Too cold.
His breath hitched violently.
"No," he whispered, more plea than word.
With shaking hands, he pushed himself up just enough to see.
A body lay twisted at an unnatural angle, legs bent wrong, clothing torn and darkened with dried blood. The fog clung to her like a shroud, wrapping her form in ghostly white.
Fletcher's stomach dropped.
Slowly—dreading every inch—his eyes traced the figure.
Long hair, matted and stiff.
Familiar clothes.
"Oh God…" His voice cracked. "No, no, no—"
He noticed the carving next.
Deep. Deliberate. Brutal.
Letters gouged into exposed flesh, edges swollen and dark, the message unmistakable even through the blood:
"Desire Is a Debt—And Flesh Always Pays."
The words looked angry. Intentional. Like a signature.
His hands began to shake uncontrollably.
Fletcher forced himself to turn the body, every instinct screaming at him not to.
Her face came into view.
Sienna.
Her eyes were wide open, glassy, staring at nothing. Her mouth hung slightly ajar, as if she'd been caught mid-breath—mid-scream.
Fletcher staggered back, bile rising violently in his throat.
"No…" he choked. "Sienna… please…"
The fog thickened.
It closed ranks around him, swallowing her body again, swallowing his vision, swallowing his sense of direction. For a moment, Fletcher felt utterly disconnected from reality—like the forest had peeled him out of the world and dropped him somewhere else.
Somewhere meant only for him.
His knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground, hands pressed into the dirt, breathing ragged and broken.
"This isn't real," he whispered desperately. "This isn't happening."
But the fog did not answer.
It only crept closer.
And somewhere, deep within the forest, something knew he had seen.
*********