Hollow Echoes

Rustle. Snap. Hiss.

Leaves brushed against leather as boots pressed silently into damp soil. A heavy mist clung to the underbrush, curling around tree roots like curious fingers. In the dim morning light, four hunters crept through the towering blue-leaf trees at the edge of the Crevtowood, their breaths quiet and controlled.

Gilian crouched low, bow drawn, eyes narrowed as he peered through a narrow opening in the foliage. Just ahead, barely visible through the drifting fog, stood the prize they'd been tracking for hours—three Big Cockatrices.

Large, chicken-like creatures with iridescent feathers and long, reptilian tails, they pecked and strutted near a mossy ravine. One let out a deep, guttural croak, its sharp talons clicking against the stone. Their frilled crests pulsed slightly—a warning to anything that dared get too close.

Gilian's heart pounded.

Behind him, Arvan whispered, "You sure you can hit it clean this time?"

Gilian didn't turn. "Just don't trip on a root and ruin the plan."

To their left, Herman, Gilian's father, crouched beside Cren. Both seasoned hunters, they studied the two larger cockatrices farther up the slope. Herman made a small hand signal—Split. Now.

Gilian nodded. He and Arvan peeled off toward their target, moving like shadows through the brush. They stopped beneath the twisted roots of a fallen tree, just within range. The air felt thick, every sound magnified by the fog's hush.

"I'll hit the shoulder," Gilian murmured. "When it flinches, you move in."

Arvan rolled his shoulders. "Better not miss."

Twang!

The arrow cut through the mist and struck the cockatrice just below the head. It shrieked and stumbled, wings flaring wide.

Arvan burst from cover, dagger flashing in the gloom.

"Kreeeeeeh!"

The beast hissed and lunged, its beak snapping toward him. Gilian fired again, an arrow thudding into the ground just in front of its feet. The sudden obstruction made the cockatrice jerk back, confused for a split second.

That was all Arvan needed.

With a yell, he drove the dagger into its neck. The cockatrice spasmed and crumpled, twitching once before going still.

Arvan stood over it, breathing hard. "Told you my dagger's finish it."

"Your dagger," Gilian huffed, "would be halfway through the bird's guts if I hadn't stopped it from escaping."

"Still missed the vital."

"Still got the kill."

They strung the bird up by its talons, letting the blood drain into the earth, as per hunting practice. The location wasn't far from the rendezvous tree—all four of them had agreed on it before the hunt. Nearby, rustling and faint thuds told them Herman and Cren were handling the other cockatrices.

But the forest wasn't still.

Gilian exhaled slowly. "Not a bad hunt."

Arvan leaned against a tree, tossing a twig into the brush. "You know, I bet your dad got both of theirs before Cren even drew his knife."

"Probably." Gilian smiled faintly.

CRASH!

A heavy, distant impact echoed through the trees.

Both boys froze.

"That… wasn't our side," Arvan said slowly. "That came from behind us."

"Which means it's not Cren or Dad." Gilian's brows furrowed.

They looked at each other.

"Check it?"

"Check it."

Before leaving, Gilian tied a strip of cloth to the hanging cockatrice and set a branch trap nearby—a signal to Herman or Cren that they'd moved, and a warning in case of danger.

Creeping low, they headed toward the source of the noise. The trees here were denser, the mist heavier. Birds had gone quiet. Even the wind held its breath.

Ten minutes passed.

Then, voices—no, whimpers.

"Over there," Gilian whispered, pointing to a grove of broken trees.

The clearing beyond looked like a battlefield. Uprooted roots. Shattered bark. Blood.

Lots of blood.

And in the center...

A Grove Beary.

Far larger than any beary Gilian had seen—almost the size of a wagon. Its fur was matted with blood, and its torso...

Split in half.

But still moving.

Its front legs clawed at the earth, dragging its broken body forward. Its jaw opened and closed as it gnawed on something limp.

Gilian's stomach turned.

A girl.

Or what was left of her—an adventurer, by the look of her half-shredded robes. The Grove Beary chewed slowly, mindlessly, like a dog gnawing on old leather.

To the right, a man with a sword and a young woman in mage's robes stood frozen in horror. The man bled heavily, one leg twisted unnaturally. The mage clutched her staff, trembling. Her left leg was gone below the knee, torn off as if bitten.

Arvan crouched low, eyes wide. "That's… impossible. That thing should be dead."

"It is dead," Gilian said, his voice trembling. "It's cut in half."

"And it's still eating."

Then they saw him.

Behind the beary.

A man—no, what used to be a man.

His chest was caved in. Bones shattered. His neck bent sideways.

But he was moving.

Dragging himself across the ground.

Toward the others.

Gilian gasped. "There's… more than one."

Movement shimmered in the corner of his eye.

Beyond the broken trees stood two more Grove Beary.

Bleeding.

Wounded.

Breathing.

Alive?

No—wrong.

Their heads twitched at unnatural angles. Their eyes were pale and wide. Blood dripped from their gaping maws.

"What do we do?" Arvan whispered. "We can't fight that. Not all of them."

"Retreat. Fast. Quiet."

Gilian Suggested with a low yet trembling voice.