The Run for Survival

I clutch my wand tightly, feeling the cool wood press against my small fingers. The carved patterns along its shaft tingle with a faint warmth—my magic stirring beneath my skin, waiting to be shaped.

The field around me buzzes with tiny sounds: the rustle of the wind through tall grass, the distant twang of Aria’s bowstring, and the occasional plop of dissolving slime. I’m standing in a sea of green that reaches up to my knees, and everything smells like fresh leaves and damp earth.

“Concentrate! Concentrate!” I whisper to myself, furrowing my brow and glaring at the little blue water ball forming at the tip of my wand. It hovers just above the polished wood, wobbly like jelly, and the sunlight makes it shine like a sapphire marble. I bite my lip. I have to do this right—just like Ori said.

“Make it boil,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes and picturing tiny bubbles inside the ball, like when the kitchen kettle starts to hiss.

My arms tremble a bit. The air around my hand grows damp. I scrunch my face and push more magic into it, deeper from my chest, where the heart pulses like a fluttering wing.

Suddenly, the water ball hisses and pops. Little bubbles burst across the surface, turning it fierce and wild.

“There! Just like Ori said!” I nod to myself, heart thumping fast. The ball trembles in the air, steam beginning to rise, and I know it’s ready to burst. I can’t wait too long or I’ll mess it up.

“Now... where is it?” I whisper, eyes darting left and right, scanning the thick grass that sways around me like waves. Each blade glitters under the sun, brushing against my legs.

Then I spot it—a little green slime, barely the size of a fruit basket, wobbling between the blades. It leaves a shiny trail behind, and every now and then, it makes a soft squish-squish sound.

It’s moving slow, but I remember what Ori told me. They only spit acid when they get scared.

“Gotcha,” I say, lifting my wand and squinting. I aim carefully, holding my breath just like Aria taught me, even though she said bows and spells aren’t the same.

“Shoot!” I shout, and the boiling water ball zips forward, spinning like a comet, sunlight flashing off its surface. It hits the slime with a splash.

Hissss!

Steam bursts up in a white puff, and the slime wobbles violently before it starts to dissolve, breaking apart into goo that sinks into the ground.

“Yes!” I squeal, bouncing on my toes, wand held high like a trophy. “Ten more to go!” I turn in a circle, looking around for more slimes, chest puffed out just a little even though my arms already feel a little heavy. I catch my breath, heart still racing.

Far ahead, I spot Aria. She’s climbing a tree like a squirrel, moving fast and smooth. Her bow is slung over her back like always, and her blonde hair shines like gold in the sunlight.

She moves like she’s in one of those storybooks Mama used to read to us—one of those forest heroes with magic eyes and perfect aim.

“What’s she doing up there?” I giggle, watching her climb higher and higher. Maybe she’s trying to spot slimes from up high. Or maybe she just likes pretending she’s in a story. I love when she does that.

Then my eyes drift left, past a patch of shadow where the grass grows thicker, and I see Ori—my brother.

He’s sitting alone, way off in the distance, far from where the fighting is happening. He’s not moving. Just staring out across the field with that look he gets sometimes—like his brain is a million miles away.

“What happened to him?” I wonder out loud. My feet shift in the grass, and my wand lowers. Ori never just sits still like that when there’s work to do. He’s always the one helping, always shouting instructions or yelling at me to stop dancing around when I’m casting.

He looks tired.

Maybe even sad.

I shuffle forward, the grass brushing my knees, and stare a little longer. I want to go to him, to ask him what’s wrong, maybe tell a joke or show him the spell I just did. But... there are still slimes around, and if I let my guard down, one might spit that yucky acid stuff at me.

“Stay focused,” I remind myself, my voice barely a whisper. I try to sound strong. Try to sound like Aria. Like Ori. But the knot in my tummy doesn’t go away.

My eyes keep drifting back to Ori.

He’s always the one telling me to concentrate. But right now, he looks like he’s the one who needs it.

So I walk towards him, wondering why he seems so distracted.

“Five down, still fifteen to go,” I mutter, adjusting my grip on the hilt of my sword. My fingers flex instinctively around the worn leather, still warm from the sun.

The weight of the blade is familiar—comforting—but my shoulders ache just a bit from the repetition. The afternoon sun casts a warm golden glow across the meadow, washing everything in that honey-colored light that makes the world look deceptively peaceful.

A soft breeze dances through the tall grass, brushing against my boots and tugging at the loose strands of hair that escaped my braid.

The scent of crushed leaves, sun-heated soil, and distant pine from the forest edge blends into something nostalgic. Familiar. Almost calming, if not for the job still ahead.

The others are scattered across the field. I can’t see Aria directly, but I know she’s up in a tree somewhere, probably grinning to herself every time one of her wind arrows slices clean through a slime. She always was the show-off type.

And Elara—diligent as ever—is out here treating every slime like it’s a final exam. Her magic flares now and then in soft pulses of blue and white. Little sister doesn’t know how to not take something seriously.

I sigh, letting my breath push out through my nose as I shift my stance and scan the field again.

“I’ll take down a couple more and call it a day,” I think. My hand tightens around the sword’s hilt. Honestly, who would spend an entire afternoon hunting these harmless, jelly-like nuisances? We’ve already cleared most of them—what’s left feels more like busywork than training.

Just then, something flickers at the edge of my vision.

I turn, narrowing my eyes. A lone slime, shimmering faintly with a translucent green hue, sits near the border where the grass thins into the dark line of the forest. It’s tucked in the shadows where sunlight starts to break apart, like a marble dropped between two worlds.

It doesn’t bounce away. Doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t tense up like the others.

I frown. Something about it feels... off. Curious.

I step closer, brushing tall grass aside with the flat of my blade. “Huh,” I mutter, tilting my head.

“Why isn’t it reacting?” I ask the air, watching the creature carefully. Normally, slimes revert into their compact ball form the second they sense a threat. Ready to spit acidic globs or roll away with that weird squeaky sound. But this one just sits there. Still. Quiet. Almost... passive.

I draw my sword fully, the blade catching a flash of light. I hold it out, angling it just slightly in case I need to parry or slice. Still no movement.

“Alright, tough guy, what’s your story?” I say aloud, voice low, almost amused. I lower my blade and crouch beside it, feeling the weight shift in my thighs. The grass is cool against my knees, and the slime’s gelatinous surface gleams faintly.

It quivers—just slightly—but doesn’t change form. Doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t spit.

I reach out. Hesitate. Just for a moment. Then my fingers press gently into its surface.

The texture is strange. Cool. Pliant. Like a living water balloon, slightly sticky but soft. It yields under my touch, jiggling in response like it’s ticklish. It doesn’t even try to move away.

“Interesting,” I whisper, unable to stop the grin forming at the corner of my lips. It’s so ridiculous it’s kind of... cute. I find myself absentmindedly rubbing the top of the creature like I’m petting a dog.

Then—

“Ori! What are you doing?” Elara’s voice rings out across the field, slicing through my quiet moment. I jerk slightly, startled.

I turn my head and spot her a few paces away, hands on her hips, wand still glowing faintly. Her eyes are wide with disbelief, face twisted in that big-sibling-scolding-you look I usually give her.

“Nothing,” I call back, can’t help the playful tone that slips into my voice. “I just found a companion.”

Her face contorts—pure horror mixed with utter frustration. “What are you saying? Kill it already. You can’t keep monsters as pets!” Her warning tone is sharper than her spells, and it cuts straight through the rustling of the grass.

I sigh, glancing back at the slime. It jiggles slightly, like it senses something’s wrong. Like it knows. But it doesn’t move. Doesn’t run. Just sits there, swaying ever so gently in the afternoon breeze.

For a moment, something odd stirs in my chest—a flicker of doubt, or maybe curiosity. What if it isn’t just a mindless creature?

But then Elara’s voice cuts in again, a little louder this time, a little firmer.

“Alright, alright,” I mutter, rising to my feet. My knees crack a little from crouching too long. I give the slime one last pat—gentle, almost apologetic. “Companion or not, rules are rules.”

The air thickens around me with the scent of crushed grass and sap, and I feel the magic in the air shift, like the land is holding its breath. The fleeting moment of wonder is already starting to fade.

Then—

A low, mournful howl slices through the stillness of the forest behind me.

“Awooooo...”

My ears prick up, the sound slicing through the air like a cold knife. A chill ripples down my spine, uninvited and bone-deep.

“Owooooo...” The call echoes again, softer this time—almost like a call and response, distant but deliberate. The wind stirs around me, carrying with it the damp, wild scent of the forest. It’s no longer just a peaceful backdrop. Something’s changed.

I glance sideways at Elara, my eyes searching for her reaction—but before I can even warn her, she’s already gone. Her legs spring into motion, dashing toward the trees with reckless urgency, her curiosity overwhelming her sense like it always does.

“Elara, don’t go in!” I shout, my voice cutting through the hush of the meadow. There’s urgency in it, sharp and desperate—but she doesn’t even pause.

Not for a heartbeat. Her small form vanishes into the treeline, weaving through shadows like a wisp of wind, swallowed whole by the forest’s dense canopy.

“Kids...” I mutter, more to myself than anything, frustration bubbling beneath my skin like boiling water. I curse under my breath and surge forward without hesitation. There’s no time to think. Just move.

The forest wraps around me in an instant. The light dims, filtered through layers of green leaves overhead, and the scent of damp earth and moss clings to everything. Twigs crunch beneath my boots. Branches claw at my arms and shoulders as I push deeper. The world narrows to a tunnel of trees and shadows.

Then—I see her.

Elara crouches low behind a thick bush, her eyes wide and unblinking, locked on something just beyond the clearing. Her breathing is shallow, her body still as stone, and for once, she isn’t speaking. That alone tells me it’s serious.

I slow down, softening my steps, and crouch beside her.

Then I see it too.

My heart clenches, a knot forming tight and fast in my chest. In the clearing ahead lies a small wolf pup. Its fur is a scruffy mix of gray and white, mottled with dirt and trembling slightly with each breath.

It’s curled against the still form of an adult wolf—much larger, its thick coat matted with blood and leaves. The larger wolf is motionless, eyes glazed and lifeless, body stretched awkwardly across the ground. There’s no rise or fall of breath.

The pup nuzzles into the corpse, whimpering faintly. A small, broken sound. It paws at the adult’s chest—an instinctive, hopeless plea for warmth. For comfort. For something that will never return.

“Monsters,” Elara hisses under her breath, and I can feel the surge of magic swell within her. Determination flares in her eyes, bright and dangerous. Her small hands grip her wand tightly, white-knuckled. Already, I can see the shimmering sphere of water forming at its tip. Bigger than usual. Unstable. It’s laced with panic and instinct.

“Don’t!” I shout, my voice sharp but hushed, barely restrained. The word is a warning, a plea, a command.

But it’s too late.

The sound startles the wolf pup. Its head snaps toward us, ears perked, eyes wide—and in that heartbeat of hesitation, Elara lets her spell fly.

The water sphere surges forward with brutal speed, hissing through the air and striking the pup squarely on the left side. The force knocks it sideways, splashing across its face in a burst of hot magic and shock.

The cry it makes—sharp, high-pitched, alive—tears through the clearing and punches me in the gut. It’s not a growl. Not a snarl. It’s pain. It’s grief.

“I hit it! I hit it!” Elara turns to me, eyes sparkling with misplaced pride. There’s excitement in her voice. Like this is still just a game.

“Stop it,” I say. My voice is low and cold now. The weight in my stomach drags everything down—like a stone thrown into a well. I unsheath my sword, the familiar shing of metal sliding free echoing faintly through the trees. The blade catches slivers of filtered light, dull but ready.

“Run, Elara. Now.”

She blinks at me, her joy faltering, confusion washing over her features. “What? But it’s down. It can’t hurt us now,” she says, innocence dripping from every word, every breath.

I grit my teeth, the truth rising in my throat like bile. “You immature brat! Wolves live in packs.” My voice is no longer calm. No longer patient. It’s edged with panic, and the forest answers before she can.

Growls. Low and deep. All around us.

“Grrrr...”

“Rrrr...”

“Grrrr...”

“Rrrr...”

The sounds come from every direction, weaving through the trees like a net. I can’t see them yet—but I feel them. The pressure. The eyes. The weight of threat settling onto my shoulders like iron chains. Each growl twists my gut tighter. My ears strain, turning toward each sound.

I count—out loud, but barely a whisper.

“Four,” I say. My grip tightens on the hilt of my sword. My heart is hammering now, slamming against my ribs. “I can’t handle them with my current skills.”

I glance at Elara, and my stomach drops. Her expression has shifted—gone is the bright spark of triumph. Now her eyes are wide with raw terror, her lips parted in a trembling gasp. She’s frozen for a split second, just like prey under a predator’s gaze.

“Run, and scream,” I order, my voice leaving no room for argument as I shove her toward the narrow village path cutting through the trees. She stumbles at first, but instinct takes over.

Time slows, every heartbeat pounding like thunder in my ears. I pivot, placing myself between her and the growls that crawl closer with every breath. The forest holds its breath with me—branches creaking softly above, leaves shivering beneath a barely-there wind. My fingers tighten around the hilt of my sword. Every inch of my body is braced for what comes next.

The undergrowth behind us crackles—the snapping of twigs and rustling of low branches—and I feel it. The wolves are closing in.

The first pair of glowing eyes emerge from the shadows—amber orbs gleaming like molten gold, fixed with deadly intent. More follow. The low growls swell, vibrating through the cold air, harmonizing with the frantic rhythm of my heartbeat.

“Aaaahhhh!” Elara’s scream splits the silence like lightning through a night sky. She runs. Her small legs pump with everything she has, hair whipping behind her, her breath ragged and fast.

“Help! Help! Uncle Darius, help!” she shouts, her voice shrill, brittle with fear. Her cries bounce off the trees, carried on the wind like a signal flare.

I keep my eyes on her silhouette as she darts between the trees, shrinking with distance. But I can’t relax. Not for a second.

The wolves—coated in ragged fur, muscles rippling beneath their frames—move with terrifying grace. Each step is deliberate, their claws silent on the forest floor. Their eyes don’t blink. They calculate.

One of them peels off, staying behind with the small cub still whimpering beside the dead adult. Its movements are protective, almost mournful. The remaining three surge forward, fangs bared, ears pinned, hunger in their eyes.

The forest around us transforms. No longer a quiet sanctuary—it’s a maze of gnarled roots and looming trunks, as if the very trees want to trap us here. Their shadows stretch long and ominous under the dying light of day.

I move—dodging left, twisting right, narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws that snap at my side. One swipes a claw toward my ribs—I duck, my breath hitching as the wind shifts past my ear. The panting of the wolves grows louder, closer. Hot and primal. They’re too damn close.

Then—Elara stumbles.

Elara foot catches on a twisted root buried beneath a blanket of rotting leaves. She crashes down, a sharp gasp tearing from her lungs. She sprawls forward, hands scraping dirt and bark.

“Elara!”

My shout rips out before I even think. Everything inside me screams to keep running. But I skid to a stop. The tree line—safety—is only a few meters ahead, sunlight spilling onto the grassy plains beyond like a promise. But that doesn’t matter now.

“Damn it! Just a few more meters,” I mutter under my breath. My muscles protest as I pivot hard, chest heaving, legs burning from the sprint. The wolves don’t hesitate. They’re faster now, their formation tightening.

Their growls grow louder, resonating through the trees like a hunting song. They circle in, their eyes locked on Elara—on us. The wind carries the scent of blood and earth, thick and metallic. The temperature drops—or maybe it just feels that way.

I plant my feet, dragging in a breath as I raise my sword between her and the monsters. My stance is defensive, but I can’t stop the slight tremble in my grip. The metal of the blade glints faintly, reflecting the low golden rays of the setting sun that slice through the treetops.

“Come on,” I whisper to myself, barely audible. I need focus. I need control. I need anything.

The lead wolf steps forward, eyes locked with mine. Its ears flatten, and its lips curl back slowly, revealing long, bloodstained teeth. It’s not just a threat. It’s a promise.

The moment stretches, heavy with the weight of a single decision. My sword rises higher, and my shoulders square.

“Elara, when I tell you, run and don’t look back,” I say, forcing my voice to stay firm. Steady. A rock in the storm.

She nods behind me, her small face streaked with dirt and fear, tears threatening to spill.

The growls intensify.

The wolves lower themselves.

The air thickens.

They’re ready to pounce.