Silas’s thoughts swirled in a storm of uncertainty, his heart hammering as the presence in his mind pressed closer. His Bond—silent, watchful, and now unmistakably afraid.


    Hide.


    The command came soft yet urgent, curling through his thoughts like a whisper on the wind.


    Silas’s breath caught. The Bond knew what the dark meant. It had been there, watching, learning—feeling. The realization unsettled him.


    Then he looked down.


    His stomach lurched. Blood soaked the heavy fabric of his sleeve, pooling thick and dark on the uneven cobblestone. His left arm—mangled. The pain had dulled to a distant throb, shock dulling its edges, but the sight of it twisted his gut.


    And then came the scent.


    Memory struck like a blade. The creature from the orphanage. It had found him by his blood.


    Panic surged. His gaze snapped up, scanning the ruined square. Shelter. He needed to hide. He needed to get rid of the blood.


    Then he saw it.


    The ancient oak in the town center, its gnarled roots clawing into the ground. Nestled within them—a puddle of water. Murky but sizable.


    Cold nights in this town could kill, but he had no choice.


    The sky darkened.


    Time was running out.


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    He staggered forward, pain and exhaustion gnawing at every step. The moment he reached the water, he collapsed beside it, plunging his remaining hand into the puddle, scrubbing desperately at his skin, his armor, his torn clothing.


    Not enough. Too slow.


    Desperation overtook caution.


    With a sharp inhale, he rolled into the puddle, submerging himself as much as the shallow depth allowed. Mud clung to him, water seeping into every tear in his clothing. The cold bit deep, sending shudders through his battered frame.


    But it was working.


    Sputtering, he sat up. The grime had masked the worst of the blood. But was it enough?


    Would it be enough?


    The first howls answered him.


    A chorus of guttural growls, rattling barks, and unearthly coughing sounds rose into the night. The creatures that had destroyed this village—they were stirring.


    Silas turned toward the barracks, toward the armory. But before he could take a step, a shattering screech erupted from inside the building.


    His stomach dropped.


    More cries followed.


    They had already claimed that place. There was no safety there.


    What now?


    His frantic gaze darted around, pulse hammering. Then, a cart.


    It lay on its side, large enough to conceal a thirteen-year-old body beneath its frame.


    He ran. Feet slipping on damp stone, exhaustion threatening to drag him down. But as he neared the cart, another thought slammed into him.


    The cold.


    He remembered the first night—how it had seeped into his bones, numbing him from the inside out. If he simply hid beneath the cart and waited out the night, the chill alone might kill him.


    He had no time.


    Lunging for the nearest overgrown weeds, he tore at them with frenzied hands, pulling up clumps of grass and vines, exposing dirt beneath. It had to be enough. He dug, scraping with bare fingers, carving out a shallow divot.


    Now the cart.


    He had to move it.


    Silas braced against the wooden edge, shoving with everything he had.


    Too heavy. His malnourished frame, his single arm—too weak.


    His chest clenched. The creatures were moving.


    He was out of time.


    Skill.


    The Bond’s voice rippled through his mind. Fear tinged its tone, but there was also certainty.


    Silas didn’t hesitate.


    He focused.


    And the knowledge came immediately.


    Like breathing. Like blinking.


    A faint glow pulsed along his remaining arm. A surge of stored energy rushed through his muscles.


    The cart shifted.


    Grunting, Silas pushed harder, pouring everything into the motion. The wooden frame groaned, tilting—


    Just as it threatened to collapse, he dove beneath it, rolling into the dug-out hollow as the cart slammed down.


    Silence.


    The square remained alive with sound—the guttural cries, the scraping of claws against stone.


    But under the cart, everything was muted.


    Silas lay still, chest heaving, shivering from cold and fear. His breath came in shallow gasps, the scent of damp earth thick in his nose.


    Would they find him? Would they smell him?


    Would this be enough?


    Time passed.


    Minutes. Hours. He didn’t know.


    He was too afraid to sleep.


    But his body ached. His mind swam with exhaustion.


    And slowly, beneath the overturned cart, with the creatures prowling just beyond his reach—


    His eyes drifted shut.