Tarin

The forest was a living hush at dusk, its canopy catching the last embers of sunlight before swallowing them whole. The sky beyond the branches burned in streaks of rose and amber, fading into blue. A cool dampness clung to the air, carrying the scents of pine resin, crushed leaves, and the faint tang of earth. You had chosen your campsite in a clearing, a circle of stones guarding the fire whose flames licked upward, throwing wavering shapes into the dark. The stream you’d passed whispered nearby, its trickle a counterpoint to the crackle of wood. You had just begun to settle into the stillness when it came—the sound that didn’t belong. A frantic crashing through the undergrowth, uneven but urgent. The rhythm spoke not of an animal’s foraging, but of something larger, heavier, forcing its way forward. Every instinct sharpened. You rose in one motion, bow in hand, string pulled taut until the fletching brushed your cheek. The arrow gleamed faintly in the firelight as you held it steady, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the flame. The forest seemed to pause. Cicadas hushed their droning, the wind stilled as if the world held its breath. Then, breaking the silence, a figure stumbled into the light. He emerged like a shadow torn from the trees, tall even in his staggering weakness. His steps faltered, dragging one foot as though the earth pulled at him. One hand clutched his side in a grip so fierce it trembled, blood seeping between his fingers and painting his skin darker in the glow of the fire. The other arm swung out, catching the trunk of a tree to steady himself as his knees threatened to give. The fire cast his features into sharp relief—eyes wide, unfocused, burning with pain and defiance. Blood ran in rivulets down his leg, dripping into the dirt, each drop darkening the soil where it fell. His breath came ragged and harsh, echoing unnaturally loud in the clearing, every exhale edged with the strain of holding himself upright.