The Price of Survival

"Ugh… my head."

Pain. A dull, pulsing thing that crawled through his body like a slow-burning ember. His nerves were sluggish, his muscles heavy, like he had been crushed under the weight of something vast and merciless.

Salt clung to his tongue. Thick. Overwhelming. It burned in his throat, filled his lungs, left behind the bitter aftertaste of near-drowning.

Water.

His eyes cracked open. The world swam in blinding light, the sky too sharp, too vast. He tried to move, but his limbs refused, sunken into the damp embrace of the sand. Cold waves lapped at his feet, creeping up his legs before slinking back into the sea, as if testing whether he still belonged to it.

He forced himself to breathe. Slow. Measured. Every inhale dragged shards of pain through his ribs. His mind clawed through the haze, trying to piece things together. But there was nothing. Just the crash of the waves, the ceaseless roar of the tide.

A coastline stretched before him—golden, endless. The cliffs in the distance loomed like ancient sentinels, their surfaces cracked and worn from battles with the wind and sea. Vines clung to the rock, dark veins against pale stone. The water, a churning expanse of blue-green, swallowed the horizon, restless and hungry.

For a long moment, he simply lay there. Silent. Still.

Then, his fingers twitched. His breath shuddered.

He was alive.

For now.

He tried to push himself up. Pain flared through his ribs, sharp and unforgiving. He gritted his teeth.

What happened?

His mind was a mess of fragmented memories. A storm? A battle? No—something else.

There was a pause in his thoughts. A terrible, crushing pause.

Eris.

His breath hitched. His pulse spiked.She wasn't here.

"Where is she?"

The words barely left his lips before the panic took hold. He twisted his body, ignoring the way his muscles screamed in protest. His head snapped left, right—desperation clawing at his chest. She had to be here. She had to.

His fingers dug into the wet sand as he forced himself onto his knees. His vision swam, but he didn't care.

"ERIIIIIS!!!"

His voice tore through the coastline, swallowed by the crash of waves. Nothing. No answer. No sign of her.

"F*ck!"

"What the hell am I doing here? And where the f*ck is Eris?"

He put all his remaining strength into pushing himself up.

"Great."

"Alone."

"Soaking wet on this damn coast."

"I don't know where Eris is. I don't know where the hell I am. And I sure as hell don't know what the f*ck I'm supposed to do now."

"F*ck…" again.

Reynar let out a shaky breath, pushing himself up, his legs still unsteady beneath him. Every inch of his body felt heavy, his ribs screaming in protest, but he didn't have time to waste.

Focus.

He forced his mind back to the task at hand. His fingers grazed the sand, the grit rubbing against his skin, grounding him. His eyes scanned the coastline, desperate for something—anything—he could use.

Then, through the haze of pain and confusion, he saw it.

His sword. His axe. Both were half-buried in the sand, just a few feet away from where he had washed ashore.

Relief hit him hard, though his body refused to let him rush toward them. He crawled instead, dragging himself the few feet it took to grip the handles of his weapons.

"At least something's not lost."

Reynar's stomach growled again, a gnawing emptiness that made him painfully aware of how much he needed to find food. But where? He was on some godforsaken beach, with nothing but sand, water, and the sharp, bitter taste of salt still lingering in his mouth.

He pushed himself to his feet, legs wobbly, his sword and axe strapped to his back. His head spun, but he forced himself to keep moving.

The coastline stretched on, but there was something else. A patch of trees, small but densely packed, about a hundred feet from the shore. A faint scent of something—earthy, sweet—wafted through the air. Fruit? It was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.

Reynar stumbled towards the trees, his boots sinking slightly into the wet sand with each step. When he finally reached them, the sight didn't make him feel much better - spindly, thorny trunks twisted at odd angles, their branches dry and sparse. But there, high up among the sparse leaves, was a cluster of small, dark fruit hanging just out of his reach.

"There was no way I was going to climb that."

His ribs still ached with every movement, but there was no choice. He wasn't going to get far without food.

Grabbing a nearby rock, Reynar lifted it, testing its weight. It was heavy enough to do some damage, but light enough to toss.

"Under other circumstances I would have just cut down the tree."

With a grunt, he pulled his arm back, tossing the rock upward at the branch holding the fruit. The impact rattled the tree, but the fruit didn't fall. His next throw was more focused, aimed directly at the base of the branch.

This time, it worked. A few of the fruits dislodged, falling to the ground with a soft thud.

He stumbled over to the fallen fruits, examining them quickly. They were small, but ripe—dark purple, almost black, with a soft sheen on their skin.

"They'll do."

Without hesitation, he grabbed a few and bit into one. It was bitter at first, the taste sharp and unfamiliar, but it filled the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. The texture was thick, almost like an overripe plum, but it was food, and that's all that mattered.

He took more, eating quickly but carefully, as though every bite could be his last. The hunger didn't stop gnawing at him, but with each mouthful, his body felt a little stronger, a little more capable of moving.

Leaning back against the tree, he let out a slow breath. His ribs still ached, his muscles burned, but at least he was alive. The sky stretched above, streaked with deep crimson and smudged violet, as if the world itself had been wounded and left to bleed out into the horizon.

The waves rolled in and out, steady and relentless, their rhythmic crash the only thing filling the silence. For the first time since waking up on this cursed shore, his mind was clear enough to think.

"Did she die?"

The thought was sharp, intrusive. But almost immediately, he scoffed and shook his head.

"No way. She's too annoying for even death to put up with," he muttered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

It was a joke—half-hearted, laced with exhaustion—but he clung to it like a lifeline. Because the alternative? The thought of Eris actually being gone? He wasn't ready to entertain it.

She had to be somewhere. Maybe close. Maybe far. But alive.

His fingers tightened into a fist.

After what felt like hours of chasing dead-end thoughts, he finally made his decision. Sitting here, waiting for answers, wasn't going to get him anywhere.

The night came.

With a sharp breath, Reynar pushed himself up. His legs protested, muscles stiff and aching, but he ignored the discomfort. He slapped both cheeks—once, twice—forcing himself awake, forcing himself ready.

It didn't matter where he was. It didn't matter what lay ahead.

He would keep moving.

Because that's what survivors did.

Reynar took his first step inland, leaving the shoreline behind. His boots sank slightly into the damp sand before finding solid ground. Every movement sent dull pain through his body, but he welcomed it—it meant he was still alive.

The air changed as he walked. The scent of salt faded, replaced by something earthy. The wind was calmer here, rustling through the wild undergrowth. Towering trees loomed ahead, their twisted branches stretching like skeletal hands toward the sky. Thick foliage blocked his view beyond a few steps.

A forest.

Good. That meant shade, maybe even water.

Bad. That meant predators.

His grip tightened around the worn leather handle of his axe, the familiar weight grounding him. It was a small comfort in the face of the unknown.

Step by step, he pushed forward, weaving through the dense greenery. Thorned vines snagged at his clothes, roots jutted from the ground like hidden traps. His movements were careful, calculated. He didn't know this land. That meant one mistake—one misstep—could cost him.

Reynar continued, each step deliberate, each breath measured.

The forest swallowed him whole. The deeper he went, the more the world seemed to shift—twisting, closing in. The air grew stale. Heavy. The thick canopy above devoured what little light remained, shrouding everything in an eerie gloom. Every tree, every shadow, every whisper of wind felt like a watching eye.

Then—movement. A whisper of leaves. A rustling sound, sharp and deliberate.

His grip tightened around the axe. Instinct flared in his gut, old and primal.

Something was out there.

His heartbeat quickened. His breathing slowed. He turned his head slightly, scanning the dark between the trees. The silence was unnatural. The kind that came when even the smallest creatures knew better than to make a sound.

Then came the smell.

Rot.

It hit him like a punch to the gut, thick and suffocating, laced with something coppery and wet.

A growl. Low, guttural, deep enough to vibrate in his bones.

Reynar swallowed hard. His fingers flexed around the axe handle. The presence wasn't just near—it was closing in. Stalking him. The realization sent a cold rush through his veins, every nerve screaming at him to move, to run. But he held his ground.

He was being hunted.

His body moved before his mind could catch up. A step back—too late.

A sudden snap. A branch breaking behind him.

Something massive lunged from the underbrush.

Reynar rolled to the side just in time, the air whistling past his ear as the predator's claws raked the earth where he'd just stood. His heart raced as he scrambled back to his feet, instincts screaming at him to run—but his legs wouldn't move.

Reynar's fingers found the hilt of his sword. The familiar weight of it steadied him, his grip tightening as he drew it from its sheath in a single smooth motion. The axe would be too slow. His instincts screamed for speed, for precision. His sword was a better choice now.

It was large, its body rippling with muscle, a hulking mass of fur and fangs, the size of a bear but with the agility of a predator far deadlier. Its form seemed to shift with the darkness itself, blending seamlessly into the shadows as if it were born from them. The fur was thick, but not entirely natural—its texture almost seemed to absorb the faint moonlight, casting an eerie, otherworldly hue across its body. The creature's eyes glinted in the dark, glowing amber, but they weren't just eyes—they burned with an unnatural, predatory intelligence. It wasn't merely hunting for food—it was a slave to something darker, something ancient, driven by a force beyond its own will. Its elongated fangs were jagged and glistening, and as it moved, its shadow seemed to stretch unnaturally, as if the very darkness it crawled from obeyed its every command. The claws, black as the void itself, scraped against the ground like the whisper of a forgotten curse. Bound to the shadows, it was a predator born from darkness, with a singular, relentless purpose: to capture and consume.

Reynar's mind raced. Fight or flight.

It came at him with terrifying speed. The beast's eyes locked onto his, predatory hunger radiating from every inch of its snarling body. Claws, long and razor-sharp, flashed in the pale moonlight.

The beast lunged, a blur of muscle and fury. No hesitation. No mercy.

Reynar barely reacted in time, slashing upwards with his blade, but the creature was faster. Metal clashed against bone with a deafening screech, but the blow was shallow. The beast's hulking form barely flinched. It howled in pain, rearing back, its body coiling for another strike.

Too fast. Too strong.

Before he could react, the beast was upon him again. Claws raked the air, narrowly missing him by inches. One graze against his arm—sharp pain shot through his body, and he staggered back, struggling to maintain his balance. His heart thudded like a war drum in his chest. Keep moving. Keep fighting.

The predator was relentless, its snarls echoing in the still night air as it circled him. It seemed to anticipate his every move, weaving and darting around his strikes. His sword felt heavy in his hands, the weight of his exhaustion starting to catch up with him. One wrong move.

The beast came again, a blur of gnashing teeth and flashing claws. He swung his sword, barely making contact with its side, but the creature twisted, its massive form twisting out of the way with alarming speed. The cut was shallow—just a scratch.

He gritted his teeth. It's too fast. Too tough.

Reynar's body ached, sweat dripping down his face as he fought to stay on his feet. His strikes felt sluggish, his limbs heavy with fatigue. The beast pressed forward again, and this time it lunged low, aiming for his legs. Reynar barely had time to react, leaping backwards as the claws scraped past his ankles. He hit the ground hard, his sword falling from his grip.

Panic gripped him for a moment, but he forced it down. I'm not dying here.

The beast loomed over him, growling low in its throat, ready to finish him off. Reynar's hands trembled as he scrambled for his sword, barely getting his fingers around the hilt. With a surge of adrenaline, he sprang to his feet, the blade cutting through the air just in time to block a massive claw swipe. The force knocked him back again, pain shooting through his arm as his sword collided with the beast's claw.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring with exhaustion, but the predator was still coming. He wasn't winning. He had to think. What am I missing?

Then, it struck him. The creature wasn't just attacking randomly—it was calculating, patient, waiting for him to make a mistake.

A glimmer of hope surged through him.

The beast lunged again, but this time, Reynard didn't meet it head-on. He sidestepped, feeling the ground give way beneath his feet as he ducked and rolled. The beast's momentum carried it forward—just enough for Reynard to strike. With everything he had left, he swung the sword, aiming for its underbelly.

The blade sank deep, and the beast let out a guttural screech. Blood spilled, hot and dark. It staggered back, fury and fear in its eyes, but it wasn't finished yet. The beast was still alive. Still coming for him.

And Reynard knew it wasn't over. Not yet.

The beast recoiled, its massive chest heaving with each labored breath. Its eyes burned with a primal rage, but there was something else in them now—fear. Blood pooled beneath it, dark and thick, yet it wasn't finished. It bared its teeth, ready to lunge again.

Reynar's body screamed in protest, his limbs shaking with fatigue, but his resolve burned hot. His grip tightened around his sword, his only chance for survival. The beast's breathing grew ragged as it prepared for one final strike.

But this time, Reynard was ready.

He feigned weakness, stumbling backward as though his strength was finally drained. The beast took the bait, charging with a deafening roar, claws raised high. As it lunged, its massive jaws gaping wide to tear him apart, Reynard dropped low, using every ounce of energy to pivot. He sidestepped, just barely avoiding the beast's snapping jaws.

With the predator's back to him, Reynard didn't hesitate. He drove his sword forward, thrusting with all his might, the blade sinking deep into the beast's spine. There was a sickening crack as the sword plunged through muscle and bone. The creature let out a final, agonized howl, its limbs twitching before it crumpled to the ground.

Reynar staggered back, breath coming in ragged gasps, the adrenaline leaving his body as the weight of what had just happened hit him. The beast's body lay motionless, its once ferocious form now still.

He stood over it, chest heaving, blood dripping from his wounds, but alive. The predator that had hunted him was no more.

The night was eerily quiet now. Reynard's sword, covered in the creature's blood, trembled in his hand as he slowly lowered it. He took a moment to catch his breath, his eyes never leaving the beast's lifeless body.

It's over.

He was alive. But barely.

The silence of the forest was broken only by the whispering wind as the moonlight sliced through the trees, cold and distant. He stared down at the hulking corpse, its blood-soaked form painted in stark contrasts of shadow and light. The beast's amber eyes, once filled with primal fury, now stared emptily at the heavens, its hunger silenced by death.

Reynar's chest rose and fell with labored breaths. The adrenaline coursed through his veins, but it was fading—leaving nothing but the bitter aftertaste of survival.

His grip on the sword tightened, knuckles white as the cold steel bit into his palm. His body ached. The shallow cuts, the deep wounds, the tearing of muscle and flesh—they all screamed for attention, but he refused to listen. He'd survive. He always survived.

He wiped his brow, the blood and sweat mixing, leaving behind the sting of raw skin. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips—a hollow thing, sharp and cold—nothing more than a brief acknowledgment that the beast was dead. And yet, there was no satisfaction. No victory. Just the numb understanding of what survival required.

The forest, once alive with the sounds of pursuit, was quiet now. Still. As though it held its breath. It was over.

For now, he was the hunter. The apex. But even that title felt fleeting.

His legs trembled as he staggered away from the beast's carcass, his body heavy with exhaustion. Pain screamed at him from every inch—his ribs crushed from the force of the beast's claws, his shoulder torn wide open, the ragged gash on his cheek a constant reminder of the battle's cost. His pulse thudded in his head, matching the rhythm of his pulse, faster and more erratic with every movement.

Weakness clawed at him, but he couldn't afford it. Not now. Not yet.

The cold fingers of reality were tightening around him, his body betraying him in the way only those who had faced death knew. He wasn't sure how much longer his legs would hold, but that didn't matter. There was no time for weakness. The beast was dead, but the world didn't stop spinning. He had to keep moving.

He took a seat, the ground hard beneath him, and slowly pulled himself together. His eyes, dark and unwavering, flicked from the carcass to his wounds, already starting to stain his clothes with blood. His chest felt tight, each breath a battle as he peeled away the torn fabric from his shoulder. The claw marks were deep—more than a scratch, but not deep enough to be fatal.

Not yet, anyway.

Reynar gritted his teeth as he tied off makeshift bandages with whatever scraps of cloth he had left. The process was quick, but clumsy, a momentary lull in the storm. His hands trembled not from fear, but from the overwhelming weight of the night—of what had come before, and what was still to come.

His mind flickered back to the fight. The feeling of its teeth sinking into his flesh, the beast's claws ripping through him, tearing away pieces of him, but leaving him whole. It was the kind of fight that would break lesser men—but not him. He wasn't done. He would never be done.

His fingers dug into the predator's carcass as he worked quickly, methodically. Skinning it wasn't a clean affair. There was no time for precision or reverence for the creature's life. All that mattered was survival. The tough meat was already stiffening in the night's chill, but it didn't matter. He tore into it with a vicious hunger, a need that twisted his gut and sharpened his senses.

The fire, once an idea, finally caught. His hands, shaky with pain and hunger, moved swiftly to keep it alive, feeding it with dry branches. The flames licked at the air, their warmth fleeting compared to the cold gnawing in his stomach.

Reynar stared into the fire, the flickering shadows dancing like ghosts, mocking him with their warmth. His wounds burned, the rawness of his flesh a reminder that he wasn't untouchable. He wasn't invincible. He was just another predator, fighting to stay at the top.

His stomach growled, an animalistic sound that no amount of pride could silence. His body was demanding. A hunger that nothing could satisfy—no amount of fire, no amount of blood.

With a silent growl, he shoved the meat over the flames, turning it as it cooked, the scent of charred flesh mixing with the stench of the forest. The heat from the fire spread across his body, but it did little to ease the tension coiling in his chest.

His eyes flicked to the wound on his cheek, the sharp pain a constant companion, but it was nothing compared to the burn in his side. Nothing compared to the sensation of his bones creaking under the weight of survival.

He ate, slow and deliberate, each bite a necessary evil. It wasn't food. It wasn't even comfort. It was just fuel, something to keep the beast in him alive, to keep him from collapsing into the cold earth.

And as he sat there, the night closing in around him, he knew the truth. Survival didn't come easy. It never had. And it never would.

The fire crackled, and Reynar's hollow gaze flickered back to the beast's corpse. The shadow of the predator loomed in the back of his mind, but for tonight, he was the hunter.

And that, for now, was enough.

Reynar sat by the fire, exhaustion settling in. His wounds ached, but there was no energy left to tend to them. The night was still, the only sound the crackling flames.

He stared into the fire, the weight of the fight lifting, even if only for a moment. His body screamed for rest, and the pull of sleep was too strong to fight.

Leaning against the tree, he closed his eyes.

And just like that, Reynar drifted into a quiet, uneasy sleep.