Chapter 4: The Breaking Point

The tension in the pack had grown unbearable.For days, the Great Jagras had watched, waiting for a sign—something to explain what was happening to its pack. The infected ones were still among them, moving as if they belonged, but the others had begun to distance themselves. The air in the den was thick with unease.The two infected Jagras had not worsened, but they had not improved either. They followed the pack as they always had, but their steps were slightly delayed, their reactions dulled. They hesitated before feeding, moved too carefully when they should have fought for scraps.The pack had always moved as one, their coordination sharpened over countless hunts. But now, an invisible fracture had formed. When the Great Jagras led them forward, some packmates instinctively shifted their positions to avoid brushing too close to the infected ones. The smallest members of the group, once eager to jostle for favor, now lingered at the edges, their bodies lowered in uncertainty.Something had to give.And then, it did.The moment came in the night, when the forest was alive with distant sounds. A cry from a bird overhead, the scuttling of smaller creatures in the undergrowth—usual things, things the pack had never feared.But the infected ones reacted differently.At the sharp caw of a bird, one of them jerked unnaturally, head snapping up as if hearing something the others could not. The motion was stiff, wrong. The nearest uninfected Jagras flinched back, a warning growl bubbling in its throat. The others reacted to the noise, heads turning, tails twitching.And then, the infected one spoke.It was not speech, not as humans understood it, but it was a sound—a twisted, garbled imitation of their natural calls. A low, uneven growl, stretched too long, too forced.It was calling.The pack went still.Then, the second infected Jagras moved. Its body tensed, and then it lunged—not with the wild speed of a hunter, but with a deliberate, unshaking purpose. Its jaws opened, but it did not aim to bite. Instead, something wet and glistening flickered from beneath its tongue, reaching for the nearest packmate.The targeted Jagras shrieked and scrambled back, crashing into another as panic swept through the group. The Great Jagras roared, its deep snarl shaking the trees. The pack erupted into movement—some snapping at the infected ones, others recoiling in fear.The infected did not flee.They advanced.No longer moving at the pack's pace, no longer hesitating. They pressed forward, their movements alien, unnatural. More than a fight, it was an attempt to spread.The Great Jagras was done waiting.It surged forward, slamming its bulk into the nearest infected, sending it skidding across the dirt. The other howled, its body twisting unnaturally as it tried to recover. The pack followed their leader's command without question. They snapped, clawed, shoved—driving the infected back, forcing them away.The forest echoed with the sounds of struggle.And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the infected ones stopped.For a moment, they simply stood there, panting, eyes glinting in the dim light. Their bodies swayed slightly, but they did not charge again. They only watched.Then, they turned.Without another sound, they vanished into the undergrowth.The pack did not chase.They stood among the scattered leaves, sides heaving, eyes still locked on the place where the infected had disappeared. The Great Jagras remained at the front, its claws digging into the earth, its massive frame still tense with the urge to fight.The infected had lost.But they had not run.They had retreated.And that meant they would return.