The trees pressed in tighter. The air hung still, like a held breath. Even the wind refused to enter this part of the Darkzone.
Ryliegh slowed his steps.
He wasn't alone.
It wasn't instinct — it was certainty. The kind that knights learned young, when noise meant death. The kind that told you when something knew you were there.
He drew his longsword slowly, carefully. No sound. He didn't raise his shield — not yet.
The thing came from the left.
Fast.
Low to the ground.
It moved like a beast but sounded like nothing. No footfall. No hiss. Just the creak of a limb snapping too sharply, the whisper of flesh brushing bark.
Ryliegh pivoted just in time.
It lunged.
He caught it midair with his shield, metal ringing with the force of impact. Claws scraped across the steel — long, yellowed, more fingernail than bone, leaving thick gouges in the iron.
He pushed back hard.
The creature hit the ground and rolled, limbs twitching. It was taller than he expected — lean, stretched, skin like lizard hide stretched over a starved frame. No armor. No tools. Just talons and teeth it didn't use.
It didn't have eyes.
Its face was almost human — the shape of a jaw, a nose — but smooth, eyeless, with slits where nostrils twitched at the scent of him. Its mouth didn't open.
Yet.
Ryliegh didn't wait.
He struck.
The longsword hit the thing's forearm as it raised a crooked hand to block. Bone cracked. It fell back with unnatural grace — not pain, not panic — just adjustment.
Then it charged again.
It leapt sideways off a tree trunk like a spider, claws aimed for his throat. Ryliegh stepped into it, swinging low.
The blade caught its leg mid-air. It shrieked — a sound like metal bent too far — as it crashed into the ground, leg nearly severed.
Still, it stood.
Bleeding black ichor, stumbling, it lunged one last time — blindly, desperately.
This time, Ryliegh met it with the edge, not the flat.
The sword slid in beneath its chin and out through the top of its head with a wet, snapping resistance. The creature spasmed once, then collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs and silence.
He stood over it, breathing hard.
Its blood steamed in the cold air. He knelt, examining the body.
Four fingers. Nails like blades.
Two massive, clawed toes. One backward heel-toe.
No eyes.
It wasn't hunting with sight. It was smelling him. Or feeling his breath. Movement. Heartbeat.
He stood and wiped the blade on its leathery skin.
Then he kept walking.
If one had found him, more would follow.
The Darkzone was awake.
And it was hungry.