As the sun dipped below the horizon, darkness swept across the Borderlands with an unsettling swiftness. Any man would swear that time moved differently here.

Art had spent the better part of an hour moving as quickly and quietly as he could through the forest, constantly feeling dwarfed by its sheer enormity.

The towering, mangled trunks cast long shadows, each one twisting and contorting as the howling wind shunted the canopy high above.

Sporadic noises burst through the silence, making him jump every time. At first, he thought he would adapt to them, perhaps not flinch at every sound, but he could not.

His mind raced through the possibilities. None of the creatures he knew made sounds like these.

Memories surfaced—Professor Margrave’s Beasts and Beyond class, the lectures he had slept through. None of them had prepared him for this.

He was definitely regretting his wilful negligence now. However, the thought that all the knowledge in the world would not help him here gnawed at him incessantly.

Art looked up at the moon for a moment, once again thinking of the stories his mother used to tell him—how she would run her hands through his hair, twirling it around her fingertips and whisking him away from his nightmares.

Deep down, he was beginning to understand that the beasts in those stories were not so imaginary after all. Out here in the wilderness, distant from any semblance of advanced society, he wondered how she had been so accurate in her depictions of this place.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She must have been here before. There's no other explanation. But people don’t just go to the Borderlands—what reason would a duchess have for travelling to the farthest corners of the wild?

The thoughts continued as he fell into a rhythm of careful, methodical movements, trying his best to remain undetected by whatever he suspected to be out there.

Tears welled up in his eyes, not just from fear, but from the thought of his mother’s face twisted in grief upon hearing of his demise. No doubt Jorin would relish the news and flaunt it in her face. Just for a moment, he imagined Jorin sneering, whispering in her ear. You’ll give me another.

Before, I would have said he was not capable of such a thing. But now… I don’t know anymore.

The tears faded quickly, replaced by something colder. The fear was still there, clawing at his chest, but beneath it, something sharper was taking root. A quiet, creeping certainty.

Jorin would not win.

On that night, far from any shred of humanity, Art made himself a promise. His voice was barely a whisper, lost to the wind.

"I will kill him for this. No matter how long it takes me, I will drive a blade through his heart."

He stopped moving. The weight of what he had just spoken settled onto his shoulders. The thought should have frightened him, but it did not.

Once, he might have hesitated. Might have told himself he wasn’t capable of such things. But hesitation had never saved him before.

The forest pressed in around him, the wind shifting through the canopy like a low, knowing murmur. He stood there for a long moment, listening.

The wind changed.

Art stiffened as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Something was moving, no, charging. He didn't know how he knew, just that it was coming, and that he had barely a second to react.

He turned just as the trees behind him exploded apart. Something vast surged forward, sleek and dark, pulling the night in around it