Skit's breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his small body aching from shallow cuts and bruises.
His arms shook from exertion, his grip tightening around the crude knife in his hand. Across from him, nestled in the undergrowth, was the thief—a creature he had thought weak, too cowardly to hunt, a mere scavenger.
So why was he the one bleeding?
Its body melted into the trees, scales like rough bark, as if the forest itself had spat it out.
Its flickering green eyes darted between the leaves, never staying still, shifting like restless flames.
It had no scent, no breath he could hear—just the rasping flick of a forked tongue, tasting him, tracking him.
Skit swallowed down panic. He had lunged before, confident, reckless. It had cost him.
The creature had barely needed effort to throw him aside, its hind legs propelling it forward in bursts too fast for him to follow.
It had raked its claws across his ribs, sending him tumbling into the dirt. Even now, dull pain pulsed beneath his skin, but he forced himself to stand.
He had made a mistake.
Why doesn't it hunt? It's strong, fast—it can hunt. Why steal?
He barely dodged another swipe, the clawed forelimbs striking bark where he had been standing a heartbeat ago.
Then, as he scrambled back, another thought surfaced. A memory—the short goblin, Vrik, dragging its limbs awkwardly, shuddering, playing weak.
A trick.
This thing wasn't weak. It didn't steal because it had to.
It stole because it wanted to.
The realization sent a shiver down his spine, but there was no time to think.
The lizard lunged, its mouth gaping wide. Skit threw himself aside, barely avoiding the snap of powerful jaws.
His body rolled against rough dirt and tangled roots, pain lancing through his side. He couldn't overpower it. Couldn't kill it head-on. It was bigger, faster, stronger.
Skit scrambled up, eyes darting. The trees. The roots. The dirt.
The next time the creature lunged, he was already moving. He twisted, forcing it to follow. He weaved between the roots of trees, darting beneath low branches where its bulk struggled.
The forest was thick, tangled—he could use that. The beast coiled its tail around a trunk, using it for balance, but he forced it into tighter spaces. He dove into the undergrowth, forcing it to strike blindly.
The first small victory came when he kicked up dirt into its shifting eyes.
The lizard shrieked, thrashing as its vision blurred.
The second, when it lunged too hard and cracked its jaw against a low-hanging branch.
The third, when his knife finally struck flesh—a shallow cut along the side of its mouth.
But it wasn't enough.
Hiss—!
The creature let out a rasping, dry hiss. No sound of pain. Just irritation.
He tried to move, but his legs faltered. His chest burned. The creature, though wounded, was still strong.
And now, it was learning. Adjusting. Its movements tightened, its patience growing thin. A shudder ran through him as he felt the shift in the air—a change in the hunt.
Then it struck.
The air whistled, it seemed to snap in half.
A blur of movement—too fast to react.
SWOOSH—!
Something heavy, gnarled like twisted roots, slammed into his side. Not claws. Not fangs. The thief's tail.
A solid mass of muscle and bark-like scales, swinging like a battering ram.
The impact ripped the breath from his lungs. a powerful force slamming into Skit's side with bone-shattering force.
His body crumpled, his ribs creaking with the pressure, his breath yanked from his lungs in a brutal rush. His world twisted as the blow sent him hurtling toward a nearby tree.
The rough bark of the trunk dug into his already battered flesh, the sensation like fire as his body scraped across it.
His back hit first, slamming into the rough surface of the tree with a sickening crack, the sound lost beneath the rush of pain that exploded in his chest.
His vision blurred for a second, a burst of white-hot agony flashing through his skull.
He couldn't breathe. His limbs were heavy, sluggish, as though they didn't belong to him. He managed to gasp, a strangled noise, and tried to catch his breath, but the air was thick and heavy in his lungs.
Before he could process what was happening, the force of the strike sent him careening to the ground. He hit the earth with a jarring thud, his knees buckling and his body crumpling into the dirt.
His knife slipped from his fingers, burying itself in the dirt beside him.
His limbs refused to move, his vision darkening at the edges. His body was screaming, but there was no strength left to answer it.
Above him, the thief loomed. Even now, it blended into the trees, its jagged outline shifting, its green eyes flickering like restless leaves.
Its forked tongue flicked out, tasting his weakness.
Tasting victory.
Then—
BOOM!—CRACK—!
A booming sound followed by a deafening crack.
The forest itself seemed to shudder.
A shriek tore through the air—high, sharp, filled with something Skit had never heard from the thief before.
Fear.
Then—
CRUSH—!
A sickening crunch, followed by the wet squelch of something heavy caving in. The Barkscale Stalker let out a strangled noise—half-screech, half-choke—before it was cut short.
No cry followed. No struggle. No final, desperate scream.
Nothing.
A hollow, suffocating silence. A void where something should be but no longer was.
His vision blurred, his body barely responding. He could only make out shadows—something moved in a red and black blur, faster than even the thief.
A powerful impact. A final, strangled cry.
And then— crushing silence.
The thief was gone.
Skit's heart pounded in his chest, weak and erratic. His instincts screamed at him, but his body refused to obey. His limbs felt like they belonged to someone else, unresponsive, distant.
His mind slipping away like water through cracked fingers.
But even as darkness pulled at him, something burned at the edge of his senses.
A shape loomed above him, massive, its form shifting against the dimming sky. Not a tree. Not a beast he knew.
Through the haze, through the dark creeping into his mind, he felt it—red eyes, staring down at him.
A shiver crawled up his spine.
It moved closer, slow, deliberate, like it had all the time in the world.
The air around it felt heavier, wrong, like the forest itself held its breath.
His instincts screamed, but his body refused to obey. His limbs were too heavy, his thoughts leaving.
His fingers twitched. Felt something in the dirt. Rough. Familiar.
Knife.
A shuddering breath. Blood filled his mouth, thick and iron-heavy. His vision blurred, but instinct burned through the haze. The primal need—the only thing left.
Survive.
His body moved before thought. A wild, unthinking lunge, a final act of defiance. The blade struck flesh—
Clink—!
The jolt ran up his arm. Like hitting stone. The blade barely scratched.
The figure grunted—not in pain, but in surprise.
A chuckle followed. Deep. Rough. Amused. It echoed through the trees, through the silence, through the creeping edges of Skit's consciousness.
Skit barely heard it, his world tilting, his senses slipping through his grasp like water through broken fingers.
The red eyes remained, watching. Unblinking. Unmoved.
And then—
Darkness reached for him.
His vision collapsed inward, his thoughts scattering into the void.
The weight of exhaustion, of pain, of fear, finally pulled him under.
And as the world slipped away, the last thing he felt was the ground, cold and unyielding beneath him—just like the flesh he had tried to pierce.
.........
UPCOMING NEXT - CHAPTER 7 - The Scent of Blood.
.........
GLOSSARY -:-
[1] Barkscale Stalker — A stealthy ambush predator that blends seamlessly with tree bark, its rough scales providing near-perfect camouflage. Nearly invisible when still, it waits patiently before striking with sharp claws and powerful hind legs. Despite its lean build, it is an efficient hunter, using a flicking forked tongue to detect prey. Territorial and opportunistic, it stalks intruders and scavenges kills. Drawn to disturbed earth, it uncovers hidden food with ease. Known as "the horror of the trees," it is rarely seen—only noticed when it's too late.