Zayan woke up the next morning to a deep, bone-deep ache that consumed every muscle in his body. His bruises throbbed with every shallow breath, and his limbs felt as though they had been replaced with lead. He groaned softly, his head tilting toward the wooden beams of the hut’s ceiling. The faint glow of morning sunlight seeped through the curtained window, tracing thin golden lines on the dusty floor. For a fleeting moment, he wanted nothing more than to surrender to the warmth of his blanket, to drift back into the oblivion of sleep and escape the endless torment of his days.
But Sayk’s voice echoed in his mind, sharp and unforgiving: “If you fail to adapt, you will not survive.”
The words struck like a lash, jolting him from his reverie. Survive. That singular word carried the weight of everything. It bore down on him like an immutable law, unyielding and cruel. Survival wasn’t just a goal—it was a demand. The village, the elder, Aimes, and even the forest itself all seemed to whisper the same harsh truth. The world offered no reprieve for the weak.
Nearly two weeks had passed since Aimes had begun his brutal regimen, tearing Zayan down to rebuild him piece by piece. The days bled together in a haze of pain and exhaustion. Dawn brought endless drills and relentless sparring. Afternoons were reserved for running—10 kilometers without pause, no matter how his lungs burned or his legs threatened to collapse. By evening, his body was a canvas of fresh bruises and cuts, his spirit frayed and fragile. Each night, he crawled back to his cot, clinging to the thinnest thread of resolve.
The villagers had stopped looking at him with pity or curiosity. Their gazes now held something sharper: doubt, suspicion, and the faintest glimmer of disdain. Whispers followed him wherever he went. “He’s too slow to improve.” “The boy’s weakness will doom us.” “The elder claimed he was our savior, but...” Some voices were low, almost conspiratorial. Others were loud enough for him to hear clearly. Their words cut deeper than any blade, but he could do nothing but endure.
Groaning, Zayan swung his legs off the cot. Pain shot through his knees as he stood, and for a moment, the world spun. He steadied himself with a deep breath before shuffling toward the window. Sliding the curtains aside, he peered out at the village. The clanging of hammers mingled with the distant hum of voices. Smoke coiled upward from the smithy at the village’s edge, merging with the pale morning sky.
There was no escape. Not from the villagers’ judgment, nor from Aimes’ unyielding expectations.
“Training,” he muttered bitterly. The word itself had become a curse, a relentless shadow that haunted his waking hours.
He moved to the clay basin in the corner of the room and splashed cold water onto his face. The shock cleared the fog from his mind, though it did little to ease the exhaustion. Staring at his reflection in the polished metal mirror, he barely recognized himself. Dark circles framed his sunken eyes, his skin pale and stretched thin. Yet, amidst the weariness, a flicker of something new glinted in his gaze: determination. He would endure. He had to.
The knock on the door came moments later, sharp and impatient. “Move, boy,” Aimes barked, his voice like gravel. “The day won’t wait for your laziness. Or have you finally given up?”
The words stung, but Zayan forced himself to reply. “I’m coming.” His voice lacked conviction, but he didn’t care. There was no point in arguing.
When he stepped outside, Aimes was waiting. The man’s presence was as imposing as ever. Though shorter than Zayan, his broad frame and unyielding demeanor made him seem like a force of nature. His expression was unreadable, his sharp eyes scanning Zayan as though weighing him against some unseen measure.
“Still dragging yourself out of bed,” Aimes muttered, his tone laced with disdain. “Pathetic. If you can’t even rise on time, it’s a miracle you made it out of that cursed forest alive.”
Zayan clenched his jaw but said nothing. He couldn’t argue. His survival in the giant forest had been a matter of luck, not skill. The truth of it burned, but denial would only make him weaker.
They ran to the edge of the village in silence, Zayan struggling to match Aimes’ steady pace. The familiar training grounds gave way to the dense shadows of a smaller forest. Zayan stopped, panting heavily, and looked at Aimes with confusion. “Why here? Why not… the usual drills?”
Aimes’ voice was as cold as ever. “To test your survival. Follow me.” Without another word, he disappeared into the trees.
Zayan hesitated before trudging after him. The forest’s canopy swallowed the sunlight, casting the world in muted greens and grays. The air was thick, humid, and heavy with the scent of damp earth. Shadows danced between the trees, their movements unsettlingly fluid.
“Mark the trees,” Aimes commanded, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. “The forest is unforgiving to those who wander blindly.”
Zayan nodded, carving rough marks into the bark of key trees as they moved deeper into the woods. The task seemed simple enough, but the further they ventured, the more disoriented he became. The forest felt alive, its presence oppressive and watchful. Branches clawed at his tunic, roots seemed to rise intentionally to trip him, and the faint rustling of unseen creatures kept his nerves on edge.
Suddenly, Aimes raised a hand, stopping abruptly. Zayan’s heart leapt to his throat. “What is it?” he whispered, his voice trembling.
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Aimes didn’t reply immediately. His gaze swept the dense underbrush, his body tense. Finally, he muttered, “The forest is speaking. Listen.”
The words sent a chill down Zayan’s spine. He strained his ears, trying to pick up on whatever Aimes had noticed. The silence pressed in around him, suffocating and absolute. Then, faintly, he heard it—a soft rustle, the crack of a twig, the almost imperceptible sound of something moving just beyond his line of sight.
“Stay calm,” Aimes said, his voice low but firm. “Fear clouds your senses. Focus.”
Easier said than done, Zayan thought bitterly, but he forced himself to obey. He followed Aimes deeper into the forest, his every step measured and deliberate. The training exercises grew progressively more difficult, each one designed to push him to his limits. Aimes offered no guidance, only cold observations and cryptic advice.
Finally, they stopped in a small clearing. Aimes turned to Zayan, his expression unreadable. “You’ll navigate your way back. Alone.”
Panic surged through Zayan. “What? You’re leaving me here?”
Aimes’ gaze was unrelenting. “Find your marks. Find your way. If you can’t, then you’ll die. The forest doesn’t care.”
Before Zayan could protest, Aimes vanished into the trees, leaving him alone. The silence pressed in once more, heavier than ever. Zayan took a deep breath, forcing his trembling hands to steady. He glanced at the marks he had left and began retracing his path.
The forest seemed to shift as he moved, its layout twisting subtly to confuse him. His marks were there, but they felt wrong, as though they had been placed by someone else. Doubt gnawed at him. Was he going in circles? Was he imagining things?
A sharp sound to his left froze him in place. A low, dragging scrape followed, like claws against wood. His pulse quickened as he scanned the shadows, gripping his makeshift staff tightly. The presence he had felt earlier was back, closer now.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it—a shape moving between the trees. It was massive, its hulking form bending the shifting light around it. Too large to be a man, yet disturbingly humanoid in its movement. Its distorted outline flickered as if it were barely tethered to the world, its presence unnatural. Zayan’s stomach dropped as the shape paused, its head turning toward him with an unnerving deliberation. Two faint points of light—eyes—glimmered like distant stars in the darkness, cold and unblinking.
A chill gripped Zayan’s spine. For a heartbeat, the world stood still. Neither he nor the thing moved, locked in a silent standoff. Then, with horrifying speed, the shadow exploded forward, its movements impossibly fluid and predatory.
Run.
The command roared through Zayan’s mind, and he obeyed instinctively. He spun on his heel, adrenaline detonating in his veins as he sprinted toward a narrow break in the foliage. Branches lashed at his face, the underbrush clawing at his legs as if the forest itself sought to ensnare him. Behind him, the sound of pursuit grew louder—an awful, dragging scrape punctuated by guttural snarls.
“Aimes!” Zayan’s voice cracked with panic as he screamed into the void. He had no direction, no plan, only the primal need to escape. Trees blurred past him, their twisted trunks merging into a tunnel of oppressive green and shadow. His lungs burned, and his legs screamed for relief, but he pushed onward, the terror behind him driving him forward.
His foot caught on an exposed root, and he tumbled forward with a sickening thud. Pain shot through his shoulder, radiating outward like fire, but he barely registered it. Scrambling to his feet, Zayan clutched his makeshift staff, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. The dragging sound had stopped.
The forest was deathly silent. Zayan backed himself against a tree, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the staff with trembling hands. His eyes darted frantically from shadow to shadow, each movement in the periphery sending a fresh wave of panic crashing over him.
And then, as if it had never been, the points of light—those haunting eyes—vanished.
Zayan remained frozen, every muscle in his body taut and screaming for release. The silence stretched, oppressive and suffocating, until the faintest whispers of birdsong broke through the stillness. His knees gave out, and he slid to the forest floor, his chest heaving as the terror began to ebb.
From the shadows, a familiar voice rang out, calm and unyielding. “Took you long enough to listen.”
Zayan’s head snapped toward the sound. Aimes stepped into view, his figure unnervingly composed. It was as though the forest’s chaos had never touched him.
“What was that?” Zayan gasped, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Aimes didn’t answer immediately. He gazed into the shadows where the thing had been, his expression unreadable. “This forest has its tests. It reveals what you fear and forces you to confront it.” His eyes flicked back to Zayan, piercing and unrelenting. “You survived. Barely. But remember this: fear can keep you alive, but only if you master it.”
The words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. Zayan’s hands still trembled, but somewhere deep within, a flicker of resolve began to take root.
Survive.
The journey back to the village was agonizingly slow. Each step felt heavier than the last, exhaustion weighing down Zayan’s every movement. His mind churned with unanswered questions and lingering dread. The thing he had seen—its eyes, its form—haunted his thoughts. What was it? Why had Aimes said nothing beforehand? Had the encounter been deliberate?
Aimes moved ahead with his characteristic silence, unbothered by the darkening forest. His calmness grated against Zayan’s frayed nerves, but he lacked the strength to question it. By the time the village fires came into view, their faint glow against the night sky, Zayan felt as though he were held together by willpower alone.
Villagers bustled about, their figures illuminated by flickering torchlight. To them, it was an ordinary evening. To Zayan, the safety of the village felt almost surreal, a fragile sanctuary against the horrors of the forest.
Aimes stopped at the edge of the village and turned to Zayan. His face was impassive, but his words carried weight. “Tomorrow, we train again. Rest tonight. You’ll need it.”
Zayan nodded weakly, unable to muster a response. Aimes lingered for a moment, then strode off toward his home, leaving Zayan alone with his thoughts.
As Zayan made his way to Sayk’s hut, he barely registered the familiar paths. His body moved on autopilot, his mind replaying the events of the day in an endless loop. The terror of the chase, the haunting silence, Aimes’ cryptic words—all of it gnawed at him.
When Terul stepped into his path, Zayan’s exhaustion nearly overwhelmed him. The man’s smirk and mocking tone cut through the haze, but Zayan found he lacked the energy to argue. He muttered a quiet retort and brushed past, Terul’s cold warning lingering in his mind: Survival isn’t enough.
Finally, Zayan collapsed onto his cot, his body too drained to do anything but sink into its rough embrace. The word echoed through his thoughts, quieter now but no less insistent.
Survive.