A Brisk Walk Through Hell…Alone

The echoes of chaos had faded into a haunting stillness. Tristan stood alone in the darkness, his breath shallow and his limbs stiff with exhaustion. His mind wavered from being awake for so long—the violent uproar of a night that had torn his world apart—but he forced himself to remain upright, gripping a low-hanging branch for balance. The oppressive darkness of night enveloped him, thick and impenetrable, while the ancient forest stretched endlessly in every direction. Deformed trees and tangled undergrowth formed a labyrinth.

The clearing was gone. The others were gone.

In an instant, the attack had shattered everything. Tristan and the survivors had been scattered like leaves in a storm. Now, as he scanned the darkness, he realized with a deep, sinking dread that he had no idea who had made it out. Had anyone else survived? 

The forest around him was unnervingly silent—a silence that felt as if the very world were holding its breath. Every sound he made—his careful footing on soft, damp soil, the rustling of fabric in his soaked cloak—seemed stretched in the stillness. With each cautious step forward, Tristan noted the remains of their desperate flight: broken branches, churned-up mud, and dark stains on the ground that might have been mud… or blood. Every detail whispered a grim story of violence and loss.

Right now he was alone. And he was possibly still being hunted.

Tristan's eyes darted from tree to tree, trying to penetrate the pure darkness for any sign of movement. The creature that had torn through their camp had not vanished; it was still out there, lurking unseen and waiting. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he recalled the night's unspeakable terror—the relentless scraping in the undergrowth, the guttural sounds that had haunted his every step.

 Now, the evidence was there: fresh claw marks gouged into the bark of a massive oak, their jagged edges still glistening with sap. The marks confirmed his worst fear: something had been here, and it might still be stalking him.

A sudden gust of wind rustled the leaves overhead, carrying with it the odor of damp earth mixed with a faint, rotting scent that made his stomach churn. Every instinct screamed at him to move quietly, to vanish into the darkness, yet he knew that even silence might not keep the creature at bay.

Then, in the edge of his vision, something moved—a flicker of motion, pale and fleeting, slipping between the trunks of ancient trees. Tristan whipped his head toward the sight; for a moment, he thought he caught sight of a lean, almost spectral figure. The shape was so brief and indistinct that when he turned fully, it was gone. His heart pounded harder, and a bead of sweat traced a cold line down his face. 

Tristan advanced deeper into the forest. Every step was measured. He forced himself to follow the trail of evidence—a narrow track marked by broken branches and disturbed soil—hoping it might lead him to a sign of the others or at least reveal more of the horror that had overtaken the night.

As he moved along the narrow, muddy path, the oppressive silence was broken only by his labored breathing and the occasional drip of water from the dense canopy above. His eyes fell upon a particularly gruesome sight: yet another tree scarred with deep, fresh claw marks. The wounds in the bark were oozing dark sap that mixed with the earth beneath. 

A foul stench, stronger than before, wafted toward him, and his stomach churned in objection. He followed the odor until he reached a small, moonlit patch where the ground was disturbed—scraped clean of leaves and dotted with the remnants of torn fabric. There, on the soggy earth, lay a discarded scrap of cloth, its edges frayed and stained with blood. Tristan knelt and picked it up, his fingers trembling. The fabric was coarse, and it bore a mark he did not recognize—a symbol or perhaps just the chaotic result of a struggle. Whatever its origin, it confirmed that whatever had been hunting them was not done yet.

His mind raced with thoughts of the survivors. Where had they gone? Had they been picked off one by one? What about Roderick? The quiet was oppressive, and every rustle in the darkness made his pulse race. Forced by a mixture of dread and the desperate need for answers, Tristan decided to follow the faint trail deeper into the forest.

For what felt like hours, he wandered through the endless, twisted maze of trees. Every shadow seemed to hide an enemy, every creak and whisper. At times, he dared to call out softly.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" 

but the forest answered only with silence and the sound of his echo. He wondered if the creature had claimed everyone and if he was doomed to wander these woods alone.

Then, as he rounded a particularly gnarled copse of trees, Tristan's eyes caught slight movement in the feeble light—a shape that did not belong. There, lying against the base of an ancient, sprawling tree, was a man. At first, Tristan's heart leaped with a desperate hope that he might have found another survivor.

But as he approached, a grim reality became unmistakable