The world was cold. A cold that did not forgive, that gnawed at the skin, that seeped into the bones and turned every breath into a cloud of frozen mist.
He ran.
His bare feet struck the frozen ground, the snow packed hard like stone, littered with shards of ice and broken branches. Pain was constant, a fire burning through his nerves, a reminder that he was still alive. But for how much longer? Behind him, the cries of slavers tore through the night, mixed with the mournful howls of ice wolves.
The air was thick with the scent of blood and sweat. Corpses, torn remains, limbs abandoned in the snow. He didn't know how many others had managed to escape. He only knew he wasn't alone. Shadows flickered around him—former prisoners stumbling, fleeing, disappearing into the darkness. Some ran in silence, others screamed their terror before being silenced forever.
They are hunting us.
His heart pounded like a war drum. His throat burned from the dry air, his skin numb from the biting cold. His Primordial Essence was draining with every step, his breath shortening, his muscles crying for mercy.
As long as I can move, I'm not dead.
He leapt over a fallen tree, nearly lost his footing on a patch of ice, and barely caught himself by grabbing onto a gnarled root. His body was light, fast, but exhaustion clung to him like a phantom.
A scream rang out nearby. He risked a glance over his shoulder.
A prisoner had been caught. A tall, gaunt man, ribs visible beneath stretched skin, eyes wild with hope and despair. The slaver who had grabbed him lifted him effortlessly and snapped his neck with a sharp twist, like breaking a twig.
A shiver ran down his spine. He tore his gaze away.
Don't think about it. Just keep moving.
A sound behind him. The whisper of fabric slicing through air. Instinct screamed at him to drop. He obeyed.
An axe cleaved the space where his head had been an instant earlier.
He rolled, felt a sharp rock tear his arm, gritted his teeth, and stumbled back to his feet.
Before him stood a hulking figure clad in thick furs. Weathered skin, eyes filled with madness. To these men, an escaping slave was not just a runaway prisoner—it was stolen property, an insult, a debt of blood that had to be paid immediately.
The man grinned, revealing yellowed, rotting teeth.
"You ran well, boy. But this is the end."
The axe rose. Steel gleamed under the pale starlight.
Shit.
His body was spent. His strength gone. His Primordial Essence, a flickering flame on the verge of being snuffed out. He couldn't win.
A deep, guttural growl rumbled through the night.
The slaver hesitated, his eyes shifting to the side.
A massive shadow emerged from the darkness. Thick grey fur, fangs sharp as frozen daggers, eyes glowing a spectral blue.
An ice wolf.
The predator lunged. The slaver barely had time to turn before the beast clamped its jaws around his shoulder and ripped him from the ground.
A wet, sickening crack. A brief, strangled scream. Then silence.
Blood sprayed across the snow. Hot. Steaming.
He didn't wait to see more. He turned and ran.
His breathing was ragged, every inhale a struggle. Exhaustion weighed him down like iron chains. His Primordial Essence was nearly depleted. He had to hide. Find shelter.
Below him, a frozen stream cut through the landscape, lined with twisted, ancient roots. Summoning the last dregs of his strength, he threw himself into the shadows, rolled beneath a tangled mass of roots, and pressed himself against the frozen earth, teeth clenched to keep from shivering.
Seconds passed.
Then minutes.
Slavers stalked past, their torches casting flickering light through the darkness. He held his breath. He could hear their voices, their curses, their fury.
A runaway slave was a dead slave.
But not tonight.
Not him.
The cold sank into his bones. He held onto the pain.
It was proof that he was still alive.
And as long as he lived, he could fight.