The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. Towering trees, their branches gnarled and twisted, loomed over the narrow trail like silent sentinels. Pale moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting shifting shadows that danced with the wind. Somewhere in the distance, a branch cracked, followed by the whisper of rustling leaves.
Agor Stormborn trudged through the undergrowth, his small hands clutching the rough fabric of his mother's cloak. His breath was shallow, his body trembling with exhaustion, but he dared not complain. Complaints slow the mind and dull the senses, his father always said. And slowing down in the wastelands meant certain death.
His father, Dain Stormborn, moved ahead, his broad frame barely making a sound. Every step was measured, every glance sharp. His hand never strayed far from the rusted blade strapped to his waist. He was the first line of defense if danger struck—and in the wastelands, danger always lurked nearby.
They had fled their home mere weeks ago, yet the horrors of that night still clung to Agor's mind. He could still hear the screams, the desperate cries of those left behind. He clenched his jaw, forcing the memories away. His mother, Lira, must have sensed his distress, because she squeezed his hand, a silent reassurance that he wasn't alone. He tightened his grip. He dared not let go—not now, not ever.
For weeks, they had wandered through the shattered remains of a world devoured by the Enju—spawn of the abyss, creatures whispered of in nightmares. Their arrival had been heralded by a meteor that split the sky, bathing the world in an eerie, sickly green haze. They were not mindless beasts but a plague of flesh and hunger, multiplying without end.
Twisted mockeries of life, the Enju were an amalgamation of reptilian and insectoid horrors. Their muscular limbs carried them with terrifying speed, their sleek, chitinous bodies shifting with unnatural grace. The earth beneath them withered at their touch, leaving behind trails of decay.
Fifty years had passed since the meteor fell, yet Agor had never known a world without the Enju. To him, wastelands and hunger were normal. The silence—broken only by distant, guttural roars—was normal.
But Eaglestone… that was something different. His father spoke of it in hushed tones, a fortress nestled high in the mountains, protected by water and warriors who fought back instead of fleeing. A city that had endured while the rest of the world crumbled. The last stronghold.
"Not far now," Dain murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "If we keep moving, we'll see the mountains by dawn."
Lira adjusted the leather strap of her pack, shifting the meager supplies they had left—dried roots, a strip of salted meat, a single flask of water. They had been rationing desperately. If Eaglestone wasn't real, if it had already fallen… they had nowhere else to go.
Then, the wind shifted.
Dain froze. His grip tightened around his weapon, eyes scanning the trees. Agor held his breath.
At first, there was nothing. Then—a clicking sound.
A sickening, inhuman chittering that sent ice racing through his veins.
Lira inhaled sharply. In one swift motion, she yanked Agor behind her, shielding him with her body.
Dain was already moving.
"Run," he commanded, his voice calm. Too calm. Agor had never heard his father sound that way before.
He turned, and for the first time since their journey began, Dain smiled.
That was when Agor knew.
The trees erupted around them.
A monstrous blur of movement—a flash of green—and suddenly, something crashed into Dain with bone-shattering force. The impact sent him flying, slamming against the trunk of a massive tree. Bark exploded in all directions.
Agor barely had time to scream before his mother grabbed his arm and ran.
Branches clawed at them as they stumbled through the undergrowth. Behind them, the guttural snarls of the Enju filled the air—hunting cries that sent shivers down Agor's spine.
His mind screamed at him to turn back. To help his father. But his feet kept moving, dragged forward by his mother's iron grip.
Then, ahead of them, the trees shifted.
They were surrounded.
"Maama…" Agor's voice trembled. "They're everywhere."
His mother's hands shook as she held him close. "It's okay," she whispered. Tears dripped down her cheeks. "I've got you."
From the shadows, a dozen figures stepped into the moonlight.
Their grotesque forms slithered between the trees—quadrupedal creatures with sleek, green-scaled bodies. Retractable frills quivered along their spines, their shoulder-mounted eyes gleaming like twin lanterns in the dark.
And then she stepped forward.
The Queen.
Taller than the others, she moved with deliberate, eerie grace. Her long, serpentine neck arched as she regarded them with sharp, intelligent eyes. Her exoskeletal body gleamed like polished obsidian, streaked with veins of pulsating green light.
Her vast, bloated body swelled with the weight of life she bore within her. Spindly, clawed appendages dripped with venom, the air around her corroding in its presence. She was beautiful in the way only a nightmare could be.
The lesser Enju growled, waiting for her command.
She tilted her head, then lifted a single clawed hand. A silent decree. She did not need words—her will was law.
The space around Lira distorted.
A crushing force slammed her to the ground. Her breath turned ragged. Bones groaned under invisible weight. She could not move. Could not scream.
Agor lunged toward her, but an unseen force held him back.
His mother was yanked into the air, her body dragged toward the Queen.
Agor screamed.
The Queen's gaze fixed on him.
And suddenly—pain. A force like a hammer struck him, sending him tumbling backward.
The world tilted. Cold splashed against his skin.
The river.
He hit the water hard, his body sinking into the frigid depths. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the Queen's piercing gaze.
And then—nothing.
When Agor came to, his body was trembling. His limbs felt like lead, his head pounding. He lay on something rough—wood, maybe? A raft?
He coughed, water spilling from his mouth. His lungs burned. His vision blurred.
A shadow loomed over him.
"Still breathing, are you?"
The voice was rough, aged, but not unkind.
A man knelt beside him, his face obscured by dawn's dim light. His clothes were tattered, his hands calloused. A blacksmith's hands.
"You're lucky, boy," the man muttered. "Lucky as hell."
Agor tried to speak, but his throat was raw.
The man sighed.
"You're alive. That's all that matters."
But Agor wasn't so sure.
Because when he looked at his shaking hands, he saw something unnatural.
His veins—once pale—were dark. Pulsing. Green.
And deep within his mind, in a place he couldn't quite reach...
Something stirred.
Something was watching.
Something was waiting.