Hours passed as the air slowly grew brighter and warmer.
Yet, just as the slave had predicted, there was still no sign of a caravan—no tracks, no signals, nothing at all.
The aftermath of the previous night's struggle had left them both exhausted and hungry. Vixen was only half-awake, her body heavy with fatigue. She had not eaten for two days. Remaining where they were, waiting while starving, only drained what little strength they had left.
With a slight flinch, Vixen slowly rose to her feet and walked toward the nearby forest. She gathered a handful of wild blackberries, crushed them in her palms, and let their sharp scent spread through the air toward the trees.
This was one of the most basic hunting methods used by Vixens—
the pungent smell of crushed wild berries lured animals closer, turning curiosity into a trap.
She retreated and waited, hoping for something small—perhaps birds, maybe a few rodents.
Then the forest stirred.
Branches shook. Birds scattered into the sky.
Vixen's attention snapped toward the crackling sound behind the bushes. Something else… not small.
Before she could fully register it, a wild boar burst through the undergrowth and charged straight at them. In that instant, they realized the truth—the prey was no longer the forest's creatures.
Wild boars were powerful beasts, and in their current state—tired, hungry—facing one would be extremely dangerous.
The slave leapt to his feet. Vixen tried to retreat, but dizziness overtook her and she staggered. Seeing this, the slave moved to draw the boar's attention away from her. It worked.
But now, the boar was charging at him with full force.
For a moment, he hesitated. Then he crossed his arms tightly, pulling his left shoulder forward. He widened his stance, checked the ground for slipperiness, and bent his knees slightly.
The boar kept charging.
He aligned his head behind the shield formed by his arms and shoulder, bracing himself for impact.
The boar accelerated—then slammed directly into his legs.
The slave was thrown into the air, flipping before crashing to the ground and rolling violently. His legs were injured.
Vixen, having nearly recovered her balance, lunged toward the boar that had collided with the slave. With her weakened claws, she aimed for its throat, but as the boar tried to rise, her strike slipped lower, slicing into its chest instead.
The boar screamed in agony.
Despite its wound, it attempted to charge again—this time toward the slave, who lay injured and barely able to move.
Seeing this, Vixen forced her legs forward into a desperate sprint. As she ran, the upper part of her clothing tore nearly halfway down her shoulder. She knew she wouldn't reach him in time. The shredded fabric slipped loose as she ran, falling away behind her.
The boar lunged again, throwing its massive body at the slave at a steep angle.
The slave inhaled deeply, eyes locked on the beast. Adrenaline surged through his veins—an ancient survival instinct awakening within him. As the boar leapt, he noticed something: one of its legs was thinner, more brittle than the others.
As the beast descended, his vision burned. His heart pounded. He kept breathing.
With a sudden, powerful movement, he shifted his upper body sideways, using only his arms and core. The boar missed its mark as its feet left the ground.
The slave dug one hand into the dirt, gripping soil and stones until his palm tore open, his grip strengthening through sheer pain. With his other arm, he seized the boar's left hind leg with all his strength.
The boar was thrown in the opposite direction—while he still held on.
It slammed into the ground. The slave's hand gripping the earth was soaked red, his fingernails nearly torn off. Still, he did not release the boar's leg.
Vixen rushed in and grabbed the opposite leg. The boar struggled briefly before crashing down hard, stunned.
The slave's hand finally gave out and released the ground—but with a sharp twist from behind his shoulder, he snapped the boar's joint, rendering it immobile.
Vixen sank her tearing fangs into its neck, opening a deep wound and watching the blood spill out.
The slave's only piece of clothing had been completely shredded in the fight. It had not survived the brutality of the battle.
As Vixen continued tearing into the carcass, the slave forced himself upright and gathered firewood, momentarily forgetting his nakedness due to pain and exhaustion. He built a crude fire pit.
Vixen dragged the boar closer and lifted it over the flames. The slave sat down, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
Vixen suggested finding a stream to wash the blood from her hands and body—but first, they needed to move away from this area.
They ate using primitive means, barely escaping death, yet for the first time in a long while, they were truly full.
So focused had they been on the sudden battle that they had forgotten they were waiting for a vehicle. It was only when the slave tried to stand that they realized they were both half-naked.
Vixen quickly covered herself with her hands, averting her gaze from his body. The slave turned away and moved behind a bush.
His injuries were severe. A dislocated shoulder and two broken legs could not be treated alone. The only one capable of helping him was Vixen.
"My injuries are serious," the slave called out.
"At least help me set my shoulder back in place."
At first, Vixen did not respond. But understanding the severity of his condition, she approached.
He lay on the ground behind the bush, turned away from her. She moved closer from behind, as if reminding him not to turn around. With both hands, she carefully searched for the dislocation, her skin slowly brushing against his.
The slave held his breath.
She made the first movement. The sound of bone grinding against bone echoed through the forest—his body was too weak to suppress it.
For the final motion, she leaned in closer. Her upper body pressed fully against his bare back. He remained still, forcing himself not to react.
With one final push, Vixen set his shoulder back into place.
After gently testing the movement, the slave thanked her. He noticed large, broad leaves nearby and gestured toward them.
"We could at least cover ourselves with those, temporarily."
Vixen gathered the leaves and used vines and branches to stitch together a crude covering. As reluctant as they both were, she gave it to the slave—he couldn't walk.
The slave covered himself.
Vixen did not.
At that moment, the sound of hooves echoed from behind them—the heavy steps of a pack horse, followed by the creaking of a wooden wagon.
Vixen slipped under the slave's arm and helped him toward the road. They climbed onto the back of the wagon together.
The slave's legs were already healing unnaturally fast. The meal had acted like medicine.
They were finally on the road—but it was far too early to relax.
Their journey was still long.