Veyrath lingered in the shadows of the ravine, his crimson eyes fixed on the distant glow of the humans' torches. They had fled, but they would return.
They always did.
Even after the massacre—**after watching their own comrades betray and butcher each other in blind terror—**they would come back. Not for revenge.
For survival.
This world did not allow the weak to cower for long. If they did not hunt him, they would be hunted in turn.
That was the law of the wastes.
But Veyrath did not fear them.
He would not wait for war to reach his doorstep.
He would drag it into the shadows and bleed them dry.
The night stretched long and empty, broken only by the wind howling through the jagged spires of stone. Veyrath moved silently, his form a whisper in the darkness.
His wounds still ached, but he ignored them. Pain was a lesson, not a weakness.
He needed more power. More essence. More kills.
So he hunted.
Not openly. Not like before.
Not yet.
He stalked the edges of the human patrol routes, watching their movements, learning their weaknesses.
He found the scouts first.
They were always the first to die.
Two figures moved through the wastes, lightly armed, cautious. They did not walk in the open but slithered between the rocks, eyes darting to every shadow.
They were afraid.
Good.
Veyrath tracked them from above, stepping carefully along the jagged cliffs. He was patient. He let them think they were safe.
One of them—a young woman with a short sword—stopped to check their bearings.
A mistake.
Veyrath dropped down.
Shadow Step.
A flicker of darkness—and he was behind her.
The first strike pierced her spine.
The second slashed her throat.
Her partner barely had time to turn before a clawed hand crushed his windpipe.
No screams.
No struggle.
Only silence.
+2 kills.
Veyrath did not stop.
By the time the sun began to rise, he had taken three more.
One alone in the night, warming his hands by a dying fire.
Another stupid enough to separate from his group to relieve himself behind a rock.
The last one never even saw him coming.
Their bodies were never found.
Their comrades would search, call their names, wait for their return.
But no answers would come.
And the fear would fester.
By the next night, they had changed tactics.
Veyrath watched from the darkness as Brakar gathered his forces.
The humans no longer moved in small groups.
They traveled in packs now—tight formations, torches high, weapons drawn.
They had realized the truth.
They were not hunting a beast.
They were being hunted.
Brakar barked orders, his voice strained, anger masking the unease creeping into his tone.
"No one moves alone! We travel in squads of five—stay in formation! Keep your lights high—he won't strike if he can't separate you!"
He was learning.
A shame.
It would not save them.
The night stretched on.
Veyrath followed the humans from a distance, watching, waiting.
He did not attack.
Not yet.
Instead, he let exhaustion sink into their bones.
He let the darkness coil around them.
He let the wind whisper threats in their ears, turning every flickering shadow into a phantom of death.
By the time midnight came, they were already on edge.
And that was when he struck.
A single torch, snuffed out.
One moment it burned, flickering in the night.
The next, only darkness remained.
The humans stopped.
Turned.
Their hands tightened on their weapons. Eyes darted, scanning the emptiness.
The silence stretched.
Then—a distant sound.
A whisper.
A mangled voice in the wind.
"…Where are you?"
One of their own.
A voice they recognized.
But it was wrong.
Warped. Twisted.
It came from the shadows.
The humans tensed. No one was supposed to be out there.
Brakar raised his sword.
"Formation! Shields up!"
But it was already too late.
Veyrath did not need to kill them all.
He only needed to break them.
Fear was an infection.
A slow disease that rotted the mind.
One of the humans—**a younger one, trembling, breath coming too fast—**lost control first.
He turned, sprinting toward the torchlight.
Toward safety.
But he never reached it.
A shape moved in the darkness.
Something fast. Something silent.
Something waiting.
Veyrath's claws took him in the throat.
The others only saw **a flicker of movement—**a flash of steel, a spurt of blood—and he was gone.
The humans froze.
Then—the screams.
The formation shattered.
Panic overrode discipline.
One man ran. Then another.
Some tried to hold. Others followed instinct—fleeing blindly into the night, torches abandoned, orders forgotten.
They ran in different directions.
They ran alone.
And that was the end of them.
Veyrath did not need to fight a battle.
He only needed to pick off the stragglers.
And so, he did.
One by one.
Until only Brakar remained.
Brakar stood alone in the wastes, his sword trembling in his hands.
Around him, the corpses of his men.
Around him, only silence.
His breath came ragged, his mind screaming at him to run—to flee from the thing that had devoured his forces in the dark.
But where could he go?
Veyrath wasn't chasing him.
He was watching.
Waiting.
Brakar's grip tightened.
"…Come out, then."
Silence.
"Come out and face me, you coward!"
Nothing.
Brakar's hands shook.
He wasn't afraid of fighting.
He was afraid of being ignored.
Of being nothing more than prey.
Then, at last, a voice.
"No."
A whisper from the darkness.
"I want you to run."
Brakar's breath hitched.
"I want them to know what you saw."
His body tensed.
"I want them to know what's coming."
Brakar ran.