18. Bloody Trail

Hound—

Who had been running tirelessly, slowed to a halt, his gaze locked on the Raiders as they ceased their pursuit of his fleeing Tribesmen.

Every muscle tensed, his senses sharpened—he watched them, wary and vigilant.

Though he took the moment to steady his breath, his nerves remained on edge.

His Blood Instinct screamed in warning, pulsing danger with every heartbeat, every movement.

Step by cautious step, he advanced toward the Raiders, his body coiled for battle, his mind braced for violence.

But the Raiders, now aware of his new status, only glared at him with contempt.

A mere slave—favored by Lady Rose?

It was unforgivable.

Yet what could their jealousy achieve?

Not even they had been worthy of her recognition.

And the bitterest sting?

This child, once a slave, had been adopted, while none of them had ever earned so much as a glance of approval from her.

"What are you doing here, kid?" one Raider sneered.

"Come to save your Tribesmen?"

Hound remained silent, his crimson eyes burning as he advanced with slow, deliberate steps—every muscle coiled to strike at the slightest provocation.

The Raiders felt the malice in his glare, yet they dismissed him as no real threat.

Their true concern lay with the Hungers—those twisted creatures lurking deep in the forest, now chasing the escaped Tribesmen into the cursed depths of the Bone Orchard.

"Too late, kid," one Raider taunted, a cruel smirk twisting his lips.

"They're already in their graves."

As Hound closed the distance, he realized something: the Raiders weren't looking for a fight. 

His eyes scanned the darkness, sharpened vision piercing the night as faint moonlight spilled through the trees.

At first glance, the towering canopy seemed heavy with strange, bulbous fruit—but as his focus sharpened, the grim truth unveiled itself.

Not fruit.

Bones.

A grotesque harvest of scattered remains, skulls dangling like gruesome ornaments from the gnarled branches.

Thick vines coiled around them, like a thread through the skeletal fragments as if the acacia-like trees had claimed their victims.

The trunks themselves were stained a deep, unsettling crimson—was it blood, or the oozing sap of some bleeding tree.

Yet something far more terrible lurked among those gnarled branches—unnoticed to the naked eyes, but laid bare before his Blood Instinct.

He could see them now—the pulsing veins beneath their hides, the slow rhythm of their predatory patience.

Creatures of the night.

Crouched on all fours, dozens of them, clinging to the shadows like living nightmares.

They did not stir, did not breathe too loudly—only waited, silent and still, for foolish souls to wander deeper into the abyss of the Bone Orchard.

Hound clenched his jaw and strode forward—

—straight toward the waiting horrors of the Bone Orchard.

The Raiders watched, their lips curling into cruel grins.

"Don't stop him," one jeered.

"Let's see what scraps they leave of him by dawn."

With callous laughter, they turned away, dismissing the lone child marching toward certain doom—all for the slim chance of saving those already lost.

…

The Tribesmen staggered to a halt, their lungs burning, their legs leaden with exhaustion.

They found themselves trapped on a narrow dirt path, confined on both sides by towering, gnarled trees that resembled twisted acacias—except these were no ordinary trees.

The air hung thick with the metallic scent of old blood and damp earth, and as their eyes adjusted to the gloom, the true nightmare revealed itself.

Rusted blades jutted from the ground like the broken teeth of some long-dead beast.

Shredded garments—some still clinging to skeletal remains—fluttered like ghostly banners in the faint, sickly breeze.

Above them, the branches sagged under the weight of their grotesque bounty: bones, yellowed with age, dangled from thick vines like gruesome fruit. Skulls stared down with hollow sockets, their silent grins mocking the living who dared trespass here.

A shudder raced through the Tribesmen, their breath hitching as the sheer weight of the horror pressed down on them.

At the center of the group, the last surviving women and children clung to one another, their faces streaked with dirt and terror.

The few warriors still standing—Kanaz among them—formed a protective ring around them, weapons trembling in sweat-slicked hands.

The Tribe Leader, his face lined with exhaustion and grim resolve, forced his breathing to steady as he scanned the darkness.

Every rustle of leaves, every creak of bending branches sent a fresh wave of tension through the group.

But the night was merciless.

The moon's pale light, already weakened by thick clouds, was further choked out by the dense canopy above.

Their vision, though sharpened by desperation, could not pierce the blackness completely.

They did not see the shapes moving just beyond the tree line—the glint of eyes, unblinking and hungry, tracking their every move.

Breaths came in ragged gasps.

Muscles screamed for rest.

Yet, amidst the suffocating dread, one small relief emerged: the arrows had stopped. The Raiders' pursuit had ended.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Now, only the Hungers remained.

"STAND GUARD!" The Tribe Leader's voice tore through the stillness, raw with command. "PROTECT OUR PEOPLE! HOLD THE LINE!"

The warriors braced, their backs to the huddled women and children, weapons raised against the encroaching dark.

The trees seemed to lean in closer, the bones above rattling softly, as if in anticipation.

The true hunt was only just beginning.

…

With every step deeper into the Bone Orchard, Hound felt his vision burn—a searing pain that welled up until thick, crimson blood began trickling from his eyes.

The blood ran in stream down his cheeks, steaming in the cold night air, his irises glowing like hellfire in the abyssal dark.

The Blood Instinct screamed within him, a ringing of warning and agony, but he pressed forward.

Then he saw it—

—the trail.

Not just blood.

Their blood.

Drops, smears, then great blood splashes painting the roots and leaves, still fresh enough to glisten.

His people's blood.

His family's.

Each crimson streak a silent scream, each splatter a testament to desperation.

The scent coiled into his nostrils—iron and salt and the sour tang of fear—until it was all he could taste.