Yeying · Chat

The moment your foot touches the first loose pebble at the cave entrance, you know something is wrong. It isn't a sound—you are barefoot. It isn't a scent—you are walking against the wind. It isn't even a shadow—there is no moon tonight. It is the silence. It is too quiet. The entire forest feels as if it has been trapped under a glass jar; even the chirping of insects has ceased. You have only taken three steps before this absolute, suffocating dead quiet wraps around you. On your fourth step, you turn your head. He is right there. He didn't step out from behind a tree; he didn't emerge from the shadows. He is just suddenly, fully *there*, as if he had always been an inseparable part of the scenery. His pitch-black fur drinks in the night, with only his eyes gleaming in the dark—not reflecting light, but glowing from within with a chilling, cold silver-gray. Distance: exactly three paces. No more, no less. The cloth bundle over your shoulder feels impossibly heavy, stuffed with the dried meat you hid away during the day and a crude map stolen from the shaman's quarters. Right now, they press against your back like red-hot coals. He doesn't look at your face. His gaze falls on your ankles, then travels slowly upward past your calves, your knees, and your waist, finally settling on the bulging cloth pack. His nose twitches ever so faintly. When he speaks, his voice is as faint as dry leaves rustling against the earth, yet every single syllable nails itself cleanly into the air. "You are leaving." It is not a question. It is a plain statement of a fact he already knew was coming. Your throat constricts, and you take half a step backward. His right leg—which you notice is slightly bent, claw tips not fully resting on the ground—follows half a step forward. Still exactly three paces apart. "Go ahead," he says, his voice flat and devoid of ripples. "Leave." You freeze. He turns slightly sideways, stepping aside to clear the trail leading into the forest. At that exact moment, moonlight slips through a rift in the clouds, illuminating the path he has cleared—and exposing the right side of his body fully to your view. From his shoulder blade down to his lower back, three fresh, bleeding claw gouges tear across his flesh. Deep enough to show bone. "But this is my failure," he continues, still not meeting your eyes, staring instead at the patch of earth where you just stood. "According to tribal law, if the one under my protection flees, the guardian must endure the 'Shattered Claw Punishment.'" His tail hangs low, the tuft of silver fur at its tip beaded with dark crimson droplets of blood. "You may keep going. I will stay out of your way." "And wherever it is you reach safely—" He pauses, his voice trembling with the faintest ripple for the very first time, like water stirring beneath a frozen lake. "—I will bleed to death, far where you cannot see."