Celeste stared into its unnatural eyes for a moment longer, her breath frozen in her chest. Her fingers gripped the hilts of her daggers tightly, but her legs—shaking, barely holding her weight—begged her to run. So she did.
She turned on her heel and sprinted into the woods, broken roots and low branches cutting at her arms and legs as she darted between the trees. The creature's howl—more of a guttural, strangled groan than anything earthly—echoed behind her. She could hear it crashing through the brush, gaining on her with terrifying speed.
She chanced a look over her shoulder—and regretted it immediately. It was already there. Close enough for her to see the foam dripping from the corner of its mouth, the branch-like antlers rattling as it pounded forward. In a desperate move, she twisted sharply to the left, hoping it wouldn't be able to shift as tightly.
But it did. It arced almost perfectly, claws digging into the forest floor as if it had been hunting her all its life.
Celeste cursed under her breath. "I can't outrun it," she hissed to herself. "I can't even outmaneuver it…"
Her foot caught on a root, and she nearly tumbled, catching herself against a tree trunk with her injured arm. Pain flared, white-hot, up her side. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.
She turned to face the creature again as it slowed its pace, circling her like a predator playing with its food.
Trembling, she raised her daggers, steadying her breathing the best she could. "No one's coming," she whispered. "Nobody's coming to save me. I have to count on myself."
The thing groaned again and lunged. Celeste twisted to the side at the last second, just narrowly avoiding being gored by its antlers. She slashed at it as it passed, but her blade only grazed the tip of its face, cutting shallow and unsatisfying.
"Damn it," she muttered, backing away, resetting her stance. The creature snorted and turned sharply, pacing once again in a wide circle around her.
It charged again. She sidestepped again. Another shallow slash.
And again. And again. The game repeated itself in a brutal rhythm of blood, sweat, and fast footwork. With each exchange, she landed another minor cut—across its neck, its ribs, the side of its face—but none deep enough to stop it.
But she started believing she could win.
"I can do this…" she whispered through gritted teeth. Her legs trembled from the pain. Her left arm ached with every block, and she could feel the dull sting of blood leaking down her side from reopened wounds.
The creature's growl deepened. It was bleeding now—from a dozen cuts—but none had slowed it down. Instead, it seemed to grow more furious, less cautious. It charged again.
Celeste braced herself, preparing to repeat the same sidestep, already shifting her weight.
But the beast was learning. It shifted mid-charge, cutting into the space she was moving into—predicting her dodge—and slammed into her side with full force.
Its jagged antlers tore through the fabric of her shirt and sunk deep into her abdomen. The world dropped out from under her. A horrible pressure overtook her entire midsection, and her breath left her lungs all at once. She couldn't scream.
She felt her back slam against the tree behind her. The creature snarled, pushing harder, twisting its neck to grind its antlers into her flesh.
The agony was like nothing she had ever known. The pressure turned to fire. Her left leg gave out entirely, and she nearly dropped her daggers as her vision blurred, swimming with tears and black spots.
But then something in her snapped—not broke, but flared. She grit her teeth so hard it hurt, and she gripped her dagger tighter.
With a hoarse scream, she drove her blade into the back of its neck. Once. Again. And again.
The creature thrashed violently. Its neck twisted, antlers grinding deeper into her stomach and lower ribs, and she let out a pained shriek. But she didn't stop. She stabbed with everything she had left. Blood—its blood—splashed against her face, hot and sticky. Her right arm moved with desperate strength, carving over and over into the back of the monster's neck.
The creature let out a muffled screech of its own and slammed its head to the side, twisting her more into the tree. She cried out in agony—but didn't stop. Her arm was going numb. Her eyes were soaked with tears. Her entire body screamed for her to collapse, to surrender, to stop. But she didn't.
And eventually, the beast twitched. Then again.
Then it stopped.
It slipped off her, the antlers pulling free from her body with a sickening sound, and crumpled to the ground in a heap. Blood pooled quickly beneath its twisted form.
Celeste stood for a second, breath heaving, eyes wide.
Then her knees gave out, and she slid down the tree.
She sat there in a broken crouch, her blood mingling with the creature's, her dagger still clenched tightly in her hand. Her head tilted back against the bark, her chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged gasps.
Her whole body trembled. Her insides burned. Her vision was starting to dim again.
The pain in her side had dulled—not because it was better, but because her body was growing numb.
Celeste sat slumped at the base of the tree, the blood pooling beneath her, mixing with the soaked soil. Her fingers shook as she raised her hand again, hoping—pleading—that this time the healing spell might work. The green light flickered faintly over her palm, illuminating the smeared blood on her skin.
But it faded just as quickly. It just barely slowed down the healing.
Her chest began to tremble. Her breath caught and hitched, and her teeth clenched as the tears started to fall. At first, they rolled silently down her dirt-stained face. But soon she was weeping—guttural, desperate sobs wracking her broken frame.
"Again…" she choked. "This hell again…"
She slammed her fist into the muddy earth. "Shit! Shit!"
Her voice echoed weakly through the forest.
"Why does it have to happen!? Why does it always fucking happen!?"
She screamed, but it barely reached beyond the trees. Her voice cracked, hoarse from days of surviving, from crying when no one was there to listen.
She stayed like that, hunched over in the dirt, her tears washing into the rain-soaked ground. Eventually, the sobbing slowed. Her breathing was still ragged, but the sounds faded into exhausted silence.
She pushed herself up slowly, groaning as the pain in her side stabbed again like a fresh wound. Her hand pressed tightly to her ribs to keep the worst of it at bay, and she staggered forward.
"What's the reason I even continue…?" she mumbled, staring at the trees that offered no answer. "I don't know…"
Her voice grew hoarse again, her throat raw.
"Is there anyone? Any fucking one?" she said louder, almost pleading now. "Anyone to help me? Just—someone—!"
Only the wind answered her.
But she walked anyway. She didn't even know why. Her feet moved without command. Her body screamed for her to lie down and never get up again, but her legs refused. They moved—out of fear, or instinct, or habit—she didn't know anymore.
She walked for hours. Every step was agony. Her vision blurred often, but she kept moving.
Eventually, trees began to thin, and a road came into view—muddy from the rain, winding slightly down the hill. She stared at it, barely registering what it meant. Soldiers could be on that road. Bandits. Anything. She didn't care.
She stepped onto it.
The rain poured harder now, soaking through the remnants of her clothes. Her left leg dragged behind her, her shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat. Her dagger was still clutched in her hand, but she didn't even feel it anymore.
Then, she stumbled.
Her knees hit the ground hard, splashing in the mud.
She looked up at the sky as the rain drenched her face.
"That's it," she whispered. "I can't move any further."
She collapsed sideways, her cheek pressing into the cold, wet ground. She laughed—a short, broken sound.
"What was all that for…?" she said to no one. "I should've just died in that crash. Let myself bleed out. Let the wolf have me…"
She coughed, weak and wet. "Why did I think I could survive…?"
Her eyelids fluttered. Her body stopped listening to her. The cold crept in faster than she could fight it. And then everything went dark.
Some time later—she didn't know how long—footsteps sloshed through the mud. There were many of them.
A voice groaned, "Ahh, this annoying rain. We should've stayed in the base."
Another chuckled. "Don't complain. At least we got a nice haul from that cart."
More laughter followed. "Yeah, that was a good pull. Substantial loot for sure."
One of them stopped. "Hey… what's that?"
Another man leaned down. "There's someone lying out here."
A pause.
"It's a girl. She looks like she's half-dead."
One man stepped back. "Should we just leave her?"
Then another voice said, more certain, "No. Let's take her to the base."
A scoff. "What are you talking about, Genkil? Why would we do that? She's gonna die anyway. Since when do we help random strangers?"
"I don't know…" Genkil said, staring down at the collapsed figure in the mud. "But that's what Boss did for me. I figure I should pass that on."
The others exchanged glances.
"Do what you want," one of them grumbled. "But don't expect help."
Genkil nodded and crouched beside Celeste. Her face was pale, her lips slightly parted. Blood stained the front of her clothes, and her whole body was caked with filth and dried wounds. She barely seemed alive.
He hooked his arms beneath her and lifted her onto his back.
He adjusted her weight and stood tall. "Let's go," he said. "We'll make it to the base before nightfall."