Chase's breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale sharp with the sting of pain as he stared down at his leg. The wound was deep—so deep, in fact, that he could faintly see the bone beneath the torn skin. Blood dripped slowly, staining the ground beneath him.
His heartbeat thudded in his ears, a drumbeat of desperation, as the flickering flame in his hand struggled against the oppressive darkness.
His hands shook—whether from fear or exhaustion, he couldn't tell. But one thing was clear: if he didn't act fast, he wouldn't survive the night.
His eyes flicked toward the faint, flickering light in his hand. The fire—a thread of hope—was weak, just a small spark in the vast emptiness of the forest, but it was all he could summon.
Chase clenched his jaw and held the flame close to the wound, watching as it sizzled against the raw skin.
The pain was immediate and blinding; however, it was necessary to survive.
Chase's fingers trembled over the wound, blood slicking his grip as he fought to hold onto the fire.
His teeth ground against the dagger's handle as he bit down, stifling a scream. The heat spread through his leg, but the blood didn't stop. His flames were fading too quickly, sputtering out like the last breath of a dying ember.
Chase cursed under his breath. It wasn't enough—not nearly enough.
The wound needed more, but his strength was already waning, the world around him spinning.
The faintest whisper of fire flickered once more before dying completely, leaving only the bitter sting of failure.
His hopes of escaping, of surviving, seemed to die with the last wisp of light.
He was left with nothing but his own blood on his hands, as the ceiling of the cavern began to slowly crumble above him.
The cave was illuminated by an eerie, otherworldly glow. Chase did not know why he could suddenly see, but perhaps it would have been better if he couldn't.
He looked up from his hopeless situation to see a swirling black fog spreading through the air, from what he could only assume was the terrible creature that slept not even fifty meters away from him.
The sky roared, and the ground shook as he wiped the mud and tears from his face. His odds of surviving The Dark Forest had started at zero and were now threatening to somehow get worse.
The blinding pain in his leg had already turned to numbness. So many different parts of his body had been in agony that he had started to use the pain as a way to keep himself from passing out from blood loss.
Thousands of loose rocks fell from above.
Chase looked up and watched the stone roof shake, quickly realizing that his fate had already been sealed.
He lifted his charred and mangled leg off his other leg and looked up at the dark circular hole in the ceiling.
The hole he had fallen through was massive, taking up over half of the ceiling's space—and replacing it with just an endless pit of darkness.
A faint hum seemed to rise from the cavern walls, a sound Chase could feel more than hear, reverberating in his bones.
As he was about to close his eyes and accept his inevitable death in such a dire situation, the dark abyss above was replaced by a surge of purple flames, completely overtaking the darkness.
The glow didn't bring comfort—it cast long, distorted shadows that danced like specters across the jagged walls.
If Chase could have felt anything, he would have felt true, unbridled terror.
The monster in the dark corner jolted awake, causing fear to radiate through the air as twelve cursed-violet wolves slowly descended the steep cliff that sat behind Chase.
He quickly looked at the beast of the hollow cavern and directly met its... face?
Hollow...
He thought for a second: the word reminded him of something, although he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.
Ah.
The Hollow shook its many twisting limbs as it stood, pushing itself off the ground with around four leg-like limbs—or so it seemed.
It unfolded itself with a slow, deliberate grace, each limb extending like the petals of some twisted, nightmarish flower.
Chase was calm. His breathing was slow but ragged. His own blood was still warm and stained his hands.
The wolves crept toward him, their twisted horns faintly glowing shades of purple and red.
On the other side of the cavern, the Hollow finally stood up, its height nearly three times what it had been the first time they crossed paths.
Swirling black tentacles covered its torso like the armor of a demon that had crawled straight out of hell. Its vaguely humanoid head had been protected by a shell of some sort last time they met.
Now, the Hollow had a terribly ugly face. Instead of a normal mouth, the beast had only a long, twisted tongue that stretched out from the center of its oily black face.
It was truly vile.
The beast did not have eyes either—at least none that could see—but it did have two fleshy, translucent membranes that seemed to cover its two brains, one on each side of its face.
There were few ways to describe such a hideous creature, so Chase decided to focus on the more imminent threat: the wolves.
The pack moved in eerie unison, their steps synchronized as though they shared a single mind, a single purpose.
All twelve of them had almost reached the ground, and he could see every one of them clearly. They all looked nearly identical—except for one that appeared younger and trailed behind the pack.
The small wolf had a horn split in half through the middle, a jagged trunk sitting on top of its furry and ragged head.
All of them looked ready to hunt, toy with, and end Chase's life—except for the younger one. It panted heavily, making what sounded like groaning noises.
Suddenly, the one next to it violently barked at the young wolf, causing it to recoil back a few steps. As it returned to following its pack, it began to whine loudly.
The other wolves stopped paying attention to it and instead were mere meters away from the defenseless, crippled boy who sat alone, expecting death.
The youngest wolf lagged behind, its hesitant steps earning growls from the others, but it didn't retreat—its mismatched eyes stayed locked on Chase.
Chase had already closed his eyes, expecting the worst. He waited and waited. However, when something finally happened, it startled him far more than he thought it would.
He wondered, briefly, if death might be kinder than this—a quick end to the relentless agony and the beasts closing in.
Instead of the afterlife, he was greeted with something wet, sticky, and rubbery smacking him in the face with full force.
His body recoiled, and his eyes shot open as the pain from his leg quickly returned, causing him to wince from the onslaught of agony.
What greeted him was not the sweet release of death. Instead, it was the youngest wolf of the pack, curiously tilting its head only a meter or two away from the boy.