Echoes of pain

Leo barely made it out of the cave before his legs buckled beneath him. He caught himself against the rough stone wall, gasping as fresh waves of pain rolled through his body. His bones ached with an unnatural intensity, as if they were being stretched and reshaped from within.

Every movement sent jolts of fire through his limbs, and his fingers trembled as he gripped his own arms, trying to steady himself. The mist had vanished, but the agony it left behind still burned in his veins. His breathing was ragged, his vision blurred at the edges.

He forced himself to keep moving. Step by step, he stumbled down the rocky path leading away from the cave. The weight of his own body felt foreign, as if he was carrying something heavy beneath his skin. His joints cracked with every step, each pop sending a sharp sting up his spine.

The Spine was silent around him, but in his head, echoes of past voices whispered—low, guttural tones, foreign chants, the sound of weapons clashing. He clenched his teeth, shaking his head violently to clear them, but the memories weren't his own. They belonged to the Urgal.

His stomach churned. He had absorbed something more than just mist back in that cave. Something that didn't belong to him.

A sharp spike of pain flared through his ribs, forcing him to his knees. He let out a hoarse groan, his fingers clawing at the dirt beneath him. His body pulsed with heat, his bones shifting, adjusting. He could feel it—something inside him was different, changing.

The pain wouldn't stop.

Biting down hard, he forced himself up again, sweat dripping down his face despite the cool mountain air. He had to get back to his cabin. He needed rest. Answers. And more than anything, he needed to know what the hell had just happened to him.

Gritting his teeth, Leo pushed forward, ignoring the fire in his bones. One step at a time.

Leo staggered through the forest, every step a battle against the burning pain still coursing through his body. His muscles ached, his joints felt too tight, too foreign—like his own skin no longer fit right. But he forced himself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other, until the familiar sight of his cabin emerged through the trees.

Relief washed over him at the sight of it. He had made it.

Reaching the door, he nearly collapsed against it as he pushed it open. The warmth of the dimly lit interior greeted him, the scent of old wood and ash from the cold hearth a comfort against the madness of the past few hours.

He barely managed to shrug off his pack before stumbling toward his bed. The exhaustion weighing down his limbs was unlike anything he had ever known—deeper than fatigue, heavier than sleep deprivation. His very bones felt tired.

Collapsing onto the straw mattress, he let out a slow breath. His fingers twitched as if grasping for something unseen, his mind still clouded with whispers that weren't his own. But he ignored them, focusing only on the feeling of the furs beneath him, the silence of the cabin, the simple act of breathing.

His eyelids grew heavy, and for the first time since leaving the cave, he let himself succumb to the pull of sleep.

As his consciousness faded, a final thought flickered through his mind.

What have I become?

Leo drifted into the depths of sleep, but it was not a restful slumber. His mind was pulled into something vast, something ancient. The pain in his bones faded, replaced by a rush of sensations not his own.

He stood on a jagged mountain ridge, the scent of pine and blood thick in the cold air. His hands—no, not his hands, massive, clawed hands—clutched a crude axe, the weight of it familiar, comforting. The wind howled through the peaks, carrying with it the distant roar of a predator.

Then the memories truly began.

Flashes of violence. His tribe—his people—clashed with armored soldiers bearing the king's sigil. Swords cut through the air, and steel met flesh. He felt the fire of rage, the desperation to protect his kin, only to watch them fall, one by one. He saw the blood-streaked snow, the final cries of his brothers and sisters as they were slaughtered like animals.

Survive.

The word echoed through his mind, over and over.

The Urgal had fled, wounded, broken, alone. Through the Spine's treacherous cliffs, through the frozen rivers and predator-filled forests, he had survived. He had learned the land, learned which plants numbed pain, which roots could be eaten. He hunted, he fought off wolves and worse, he endured.

Time passed, and he found shelter in the cave. He carved symbols into the walls, whispers of an old magic long forgotten by his kind. He studied, taught himself the ways of the land and the whispers of the world itself.

But there was no escaping solitude.

The years weighed heavily, the memories of the fallen never fading. The rage dulled, replaced with something colder, something patient. He trained his body, strengthened his mind, waiting for the day he could claim vengeance.

But that day never came.

His body failed him before his will ever could. His breath grew weaker, his limbs slower. In his final days, he had sat before the compendium, tracing its pages with a reverence even he didn't fully understand. He had whispered his last words to it, binding his knowledge, his experiences, his very being to the ancient tome.

And then… nothing.

Leo jolted awake, gasping, sweat slicking his skin. His heart pounded, his mind reeling from the flood of emotions—rage, grief, endurance, loss.

The Urgal's life had been cruel, but it had been his.

And now, somehow, a part of it lived on in Leo.