Page 11

11

SEREN

T he jungle presses close, humid and thick, vines hanging low as if listening. The pulsing glow of the flora casts a ghostly shimmer against my skin, marking my passage like a trail for unseen things.

I should be afraid.

I am not.

I move deeper, the weight of Nagaland at my back, its great stronghold now a distant shape against the cliffs. I do not run. Running means desperation, means fear, and I refuse to be hunted. Not by him. Not by this place.

This is not about escape.

This is about proving I still can.

That my body does not belong to Xirath, that his claim over me in the arena was only words, spoken to protect me from his kind, from their laws, from whatever rules dictate this world of beasts.

But words do not make me his.

The jungle shifts around me, alive in a way I have never felt before.

The vines hum softly, charged with magic that does not belong to me, but does not reject me either.

A sharp pulse in my ribs tells me I am not alone.

I stop. Listen.

Something moves.

Not a beast. Something bigger.

The sound is subtle, a presence shifting through the dense foliage, careful, deliberate.

Predators.

My fingers tighten around the dagger hidden at my hip.

The glow of the jungle is not enough to reveal them yet, but I can feel them drawing closer.

Waiting.

Testing me.

A prickle runs along the base of my spine, a whisper of instinct screaming run.

I do not listen.

The shadows break.

Figures step into the glow of the vines, tall, broad, their bodies armored in thick leather and plated steel.

Minotaurs.

Jalith’s mercenaries.

The breath in my throat locks into place, my pulse a hammering thing inside my ribs.

I take a slow step back, my grip tightening on the blade.

The largest one, a brute of blackened horns and jagged scars across his chest tilts his head as he studies me.

"He was right," he rumbles, his voice like crushed stone.

He.

I do not let the word settle.

"Where is your master, little human?" he continues, taking a step forward, the weight of him shifting the very earth.

I bare my teeth. "I don’t have one."

The second one laughs, a low, grinding sound that sets my skin crawling. "No?" He flicks his gaze along my body, not with lust, but with something worse. Calculation.

They are deciding if I am worth the trouble of dragging back.

They are deciding how much fight I have in me.

I let the silence stretch, let the tension tighten between us.

Then I strike.

The blade flashes, aiming for the throat of the closest one, but he is faster than he looks.

A brutal block of his arm knocks me sideways, my feet skidding over damp moss as I twist, barely managing to dodge the next blow.

I move again, fast, precise, but they are stronger. Bigger.

There are three of them.

The first one lunges, his massive arm swinging like a club. I duck, spinning beneath him, but the second grabs my wrist before I can land the next strike.

The dagger is wrenched from my grip, sent spinning into the jungle.

My ribs explode in pain as the third mercenary slams an elbow into my side, sending me staggering backward, breath ragged.

Still, I do not fall.

Still, I do not break. But my chances of surviving this are shrinking.

I need to run.

They are not interested in killing me.

They want to take me back.

I will not go back.

I force my body to move, twisting free just as the first one lunges again.

This time, I do not fight.

I run.

The jungle stretches before me, vast and endless, a tangled thing of darkened paths and glowing trails.

I sprint, dodging thick roots, leaping over broken logs. The ground shifts beneath me, unsteady, as if the jungle itself is warning me of every wrong step.

The mercenaries are close.

A roar erupts behind me, they have lost patience.

They will not chase forever.

They will bring me down.

A snarl rips from my throat as I push harder, my body a thing of burning muscle and raw will.

I will not be taken.

I will not be caged.

But the jungle is a cruel thing.

The moment my foot catches on an unseen root, my body collides with the ground.

The impact knocks the air out of me, my vision swimming from the force of it.

The first one is already on me.

His massive hand grabs my arm, yanking me up, his grip tight like iron.

His mouth curls into something amused, something victorious.

“Done running?”

A flicker of white-hot fury slams through me.

I twist, throwing my full weight into a vicious kick straight to his knee.

It lands.

He staggers, a growl ripping from him, and I use the moment to wrench myself free.

But the second one is already there.

A fist catches my stomach, sending me gasping to my knees.

The jungle seems to pulse, as if holding its breath.

I claw at the ground, forcing my body to rise, but they are done playing.

The first mercenary steps closer, rolling his shoulders, looming like a titan over a broken thing.

He reaches down, hand closing around my throat.

Is this the end for me?