Malric crouched low, his bony fingers trailing over faint impressions in the dirt. The figures’ trail was fresh, marked by disturbed leaves and broken twigs leading deeper into the forest. A single fragment of hide snagged on a branch confirmed his direction. His sockets scanned the path ahead, cold and calculating. He moved with deliberate steps, silent except for the faint scrape of his joints.

The forest thickened as he advanced, shadows pressing closer. Each step felt like slipping further into isolation, the quiet enveloping him in a void. His senses—dulled compared to the living—sharpened in focus, amplifying the faint signs that told him he was on the right track. A distant crack of a branch, faint enough to be a whisper, drew his attention. He followed it, his growing hatred flaring briefly before he forced it down.

He stopped when the clearing emerged, his sockets narrowing as he observed the figures’ camp. Crude tents of animal hide leaned against crooked stakes, barely keeping upright. A faint glow from a small fire lit their forms—short, hunched, and rough-skinned. They moved awkwardly, their gestures animated as they argued over a heap of shiny trinkets and scraps of food.

Malric’s hatred surged at the sight of them. They bickered and barked at one another, the noise grating against his hollow being. They were alive. They ate. They hoarded. They were everything he was not, and for that, they disgusted him. Yet, he held back, his sense of self-preservation tempering his fury. He crouched lower, scanning the camp, counting their numbers. Three. One stood by the fire, gnawing on a bone. Another sharpened a crude blade against a rock. The last rummaged through their pile of stolen scraps.

He studied the terrain, noting where the firelight cast long shadows. The forest’s edge offered cover, the flickering light concealing him as he circled the camp. His sockets lingered on a pile of branches near the tents. A plan began to form.

Malric moved with methodical precision, gathering vines from the underbrush and twisting them into a makeshift tripwire. He anchored it between two low-hanging branches near the clearing’s edge. Sharpened stakes, carved from fallen wood, were buried beneath a thin layer of leaves at strategic points. He worked silently, each movement guided by his relentless patience. When his traps were set, he crouched in the shadows, waiting.

The fire crackled, embers rising into the night. The figures remained oblivious, their focus on their squabble. The one sharpening its blade finally rose, moving toward the edge of the clearing to relieve itself. Malric watched, waiting for the figure to return before springing his trap.

The tripwire snapped taut as one figure stumbled over it, falling face-first into the stakes hidden beneath the leaves. A sickening crack echoed through the clearing as the others jumped to their feet, confusion and panic breaking their squabble. Malric surged forward, his rusted blade glinting in the firelight as he slashed at the nearest one.

The enhanced arm granted him power but sapped his energy with each swing. His strikes were methodical, targeting the weak points he remembered from dissecting the previous figure. A blade aimed for the throat. A strike to the chest, where fragile organs might have once protected life. The figures fought back, their crude weapons glancing off his bones, but they were no match for his patience and precision.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The final figure fell, its shriek silenced by a downward strike. Malric stood amidst the aftermath, his sockets scanning the broken forms around him. Their bones were brittle, their flesh insignificant. He knelt by one of the corpses, prying at its limbs. The bones cracked too easily under his grip, their texture too weak to be of any use to him. He dropped the piece with a faint clatter, frustration rising.

His sockets lingered on the fire, the glow reflecting off his blade. These figures, with their petty squabbles and fragile forms, were beneath him. They had offered nothing but fleeting satisfaction, a reminder of his power over the living but no closer to his ultimate purpose.

Malric straightened, his movements slow and deliberate. His gaze shifted to the horizon, where the forest stretched endlessly into the night. There was something better out there, something more worthy of his efforts. These figures had been a distraction, nothing more.

With his blade in hand, he left the clearing behind, stepping back into the darkness. His goal had not changed—it had only grown sharper. He would find what he sought.

Malric crouched low to the ground, the faint glow of his necrotic energy barely illuminating the fresh tracks embedded in the forest soil. Each impression was deep, the edges firm and unbroken. He tilted his head, calculating the weight of the creature that left them. Larger than the figures he had dismantled earlier. The spacing between the tracks indicated long strides, purposeful and swift.

There was more than one. He traced overlapping patterns, noting smaller depressions that ran parallel to the larger ones. Two distinct sizes. Three creatures at most, he determined, the smallest likely moving in tandem with the others. The faint scraping of clawed toes against dirt further clarified the picture. Whatever these beings were, they were likely hunting or traveling with purpose.

Malric’s hollow sockets narrowed, metaphorically speaking, as his hatred bubbled beneath his composure. The living, roaming freely and full of vigor, while he was bound by the frailty of his form. How dare they? His skeletal fingers tightened around the makeshift weapon he carried. He envisioned shattering their forms, stripping them for usable parts. But the anger waned, suppressed by the patience that defined him. No, anger alone would not serve him here.

He straightened, scanning the surrounding area. The forest around him had changed. The dense foliage thinned, and broken branches hung limply from trees, evidence of movement. He tapped the ground lightly with the hilt of his weapon, considering his options. Multiple targets meant an increased risk of failure. His energy reserves, though present, were finite. If these creatures were larger or more dangerous than expected, a direct confrontation might prove fatal.

Still, the potential rewards were tantalizing. A creature of this size might yield stronger bones, a sturdier form. Perhaps even something he had not yet considered. And if not, their deaths would at least satisfy his hatred.

For a moment, Malric paced, dragging his feet against the soil as he debated internally. He could turn back, find easier prey. But the thought of stagnation—of remaining bound to this pitiful shell without growth—filled him with disgust.

No, he decided. Risk was inevitable. Stagnation was death.

He crouched again, his bony frame shifting noiselessly as he began to follow the tracks. The forest around him grew quieter with every step, as if the world itself held its breath. He moved cautiously, studying every broken branch, every scuff in the dirt. His silent gait made him a shadow among shadows, unseen and unheard.

The tracks led him deeper, past twisted trees that loomed like silent sentinels. The canopy above grew denser, allowing only faint beams of moonlight to pierce through. He stopped abruptly, his senses—or what he imagined were his senses—tingling with awareness. A faint sound echoed ahead. A rustle. Movement.

Malric dropped to a crouch, his weapon ready. The tracks veered off to the right, leading toward a thicket of bushes. He approached slowly, his form blending seamlessly into the gloom. The sound grew clearer—a low, guttural noise, followed by the snapping of a branch.

Peering through the underbrush, Malric caught sight of his quarry. Two creatures, both larger than the figures he had faced earlier. One was hunched, its muscular frame covered in thick fur. The second was smaller, wiry, and quick, its movements erratic. A third set of tracks lay ahead but without its owner in sight.

Malric observed them in silence, his earlier calculations playing in his mind. The larger one was the real threat. Its size alone meant brute strength, but its bulk might also make it slower. The smaller one was faster, its movements harder to predict.

He paused, weighing his options. He had only one chance to act, and failure would mean his destruction. Yet as he crouched there, watching the living creatures in their oblivious state, his resolve hardened. He would strike, and he would claim his prize.

With calculated precision, Malric began to close the distance.