Matt wakes in his tent, drenched in sweat, shaken by a relentless fever. His food supplies are gone. Outside, the barren landscape stretches endlessly, crushed under the heat. The searing pain in his wounded thigh pulls a groan from his lips. Every second reminds him that he is alone, lost, and no one is coming.
He looks up at the stars. A veil of sorrow blurs his vision. Ken... Sébastien... Isabella... Are you thinking of me? Are you even still alive?
In a final spark of lucidity, Matt activates his logbook and records a message:
"I don’t know if you will ever hear this. But I love you. Thank you... for everything. I'm sorry."
He breaks down in sobs. He manages to fall asleep until, suddenly, a piercing noise wakes him. An arrow rips through the tent, embedding itself just inches from his head.
He jumps up, staggering, his heart pounding violently. Before him, a figure emerges from the twilight shadows.
A Shivenar.
Tall. Lithe. Her features are both human and deeply alien. Her slender hands bear an elongated middle finger, and her feet have only two clawed toes. Her piercing blue eyes glow with a cold intensity.
She speaks. Her language flows like a foreign river—melodic, sharp, impossible to grasp.
"Va ku’smo, naa Varu’tesh segon’s ka va Matal, ikiska’ mi va ta Segun’ ko."
Matt panics. He thinks this is the end. He grabs his flare gun and fires into the air. The flare explodes in a silent flash.
The Shivenar screams, visibly furious. The follicles behind her ears and patches of her skin turn red. Her eyes blaze with contained rage—but she does not kill him. Instead, she grabs him roughly and throws him onto her mount.
The creature bolts forward. Matt, feverish and disoriented, clings on desperately. He falls twice, hits the ground hard, nearly passes out. But the Shivenar does not stop.
Then, suddenly, she softens. She offers him herbs. Wary, Matt hesitates… then chews them. Warmth spreads through his chest, the pain eases, his mind clears.
As he regains some strength, he secretly attempts to cut his bindings with his Swiss knife. But then—
Lances rain down around them.
More creatures emerge from the jungle: Drakomites. Their skins are covered in dark scales. Massive. Intimidating. They surround the Shivenar and Matt.
They speak too, but Matt understands nothing. He hears guttural laughter. Mockery. Then the Drakomites attack. The Shivenar retaliates—swift, precise. But there are too many.
They surround her. Bind her.
Then they take her mount. And Matt along with it.
The procession moves slowly, the Drakomites leading the mount along a river lined with tall grasses. The sun is relentless, the water glimmering like a mirage. The Shivenar, still bound, mutters in her guttural tongue—her voice filled with anger and wounded dignity.
A Drakomite approaches her. Too close. He tilts his head and murmurs something in her ear—an intimate, foul, threatening tone.
Before he can pull away, the Shivenar reacts.
Lightning-fast.
She tears his ear off with savage force. The Drakomite lets out a beastly scream and, in blind rage, orders her release. They hoist her up like a sack of refuse and toss her into the river.
A dull splash. Then silence.
Matt watches, frozen. She struggles in the water, caught in the current, sinking beneath the surface. She is drowning. And Matt, without understanding why, without even thinking—acts.
He shreds his bindings, fueled by the herbs he had eaten, grabs his pistol, and fires. Three quick, precise shots. Then, in a blink, he detonates a smoke grenade. A dense gray cloud erupts, throwing the Drakomites into confusion.
Then he runs. He runs and dives.
The water is ice-cold. His vision blurs. But he swims—madly, desperately—until he reaches her. His arms slip under hers, dragging her to the riverbank, gasping, trembling.
She is limp. He shakes her, shouts, tries to wake her. Her eyelids flutter, then she opens her eyes—confused, panicked.
She finally breathes.
Matt looks at her. Shivering. Her slender frame is wracked with uncontrollable tremors. He pulls off his soaked jacket and offers it to her. She takes it, wordlessly. Her fingers trace the fabric hesitantly.
Their gazes lock. And in the Shivenar’s eyes, for the first time… He sees no anger. No menace.
Only human fear. Fragile.
He sits beside her, breathless.
He doesn’t know if she will return the life he just saved.
He doesn’t even know if she is capable of it.
But right now, that doesn’t matter.
He waits. Silent. Just there.
Then, she murmurs, "Uvari' temene."
Matt doesn’t understand what it means. But he hopes it’s something good.
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