Ronan trudged along the dirt path. The forest was quiet. Too quiet. His boots scuffed against stray pebbles, sending them rolling into the underbrush.
No birds chirped in the trees, and no insects buzzed in the foliage.
Okay. Something felt wrong. Very wrong.
Ronan frowned, reaching for the sword at his waist. His hand also brushed against the small object in his pocket. The crystal was light, but it pulsed with power.
Ronan had no need to use it. Not yet, at least.
He should scout his surroundings before continuing. Veering towards the edge of the trail, Ronan's foot hovered over the grass.
A chill went down his spine—every instinct screamed danger.
He reeled back, heart racing.
Gods, what was that?
Ronan looked at the grass closely. Seemed like ordinary grass. But for a moment, had he seen the blades... quiver?
Right. Don't step on the damned grass. Got it.
Ronan crept forward cautiously. The path curved ahead, disappearing behind a thick copse. Sweat beaded on his brow. His hand never left the hilt of his sword.
"Hello?" a voice called out. "Is someone there?"
From behind the bend, an elf stumbled into view. Her silver hair was matted with leaves, her clothes torn and muddy. She clutched her side, grimacing.
"Oh, thank the gods," she gasped. "Please, I need help."
Ronan didn't move. "What happened?"
"Bandits," she wheezed. "Attacked our caravan. I... I'm the only one who escaped."
She took a halting step forward, and Ronan tensed.
"Stay where you are," he ordered.
"Please, I'm injured. I just need—"
"I said stay there."
She froze, lower lip quivering. "You don't understand. There's something in these woods. Something terrible. We need to leave."
Ronan's gaze flicked to the grass at her feet. It remained still.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Laera," she replied. "Please, we don't have time for—"
"Show me your wound."
"…What?"
"Your injury. Let me see it."
"It's... it's not that bad, really. I just—"
In a fluid motion, Ronan drew his sword. "Show me. Now."
Laera's face contorted. The facade crumbled.
"Clever little morsel."
Ronan smirked. "Guess your acting's not as sharp as—"
The elf's skin erupted. Countless hungry maws ripped open across her body, gnashing teeth glinting in the light. She lurched towards him, unnaturally fast.
"WHAT THE HELL!?"
Ronan instinctively pivoted, driving his boot into the creature's chest. A sickening crunch filled the air as teeth shredded leather.
Pain exploded through his foot.
Ronan tumbled backwards, hitting the ground hard. He rolled, putting more distance between himself and the nightmarish creature.
His body came to rest on soft grass.
Grass?
Shit.
Realization struck as the ground beneath him stirred. Blades of grass trembled, unfurling into rows of horrifying, tiny maws. They latched onto his clothes, his skin, tearing and pulling.
Ronan thrashed, ripping himself from the ground's grasp. Blood welled from countless small wounds. He scrambled to his feet, sword slashing wildly at the deadly grass.
Ronan staggered back onto the path, chest heaving. The elf-thing rose, lurching upright in jerky motions. The countless maws marring its features seemed to have snapped shut, making the creature look almost normal now.
Breathe. Stay steady. Stay calm.
A pebble skittered across the path behind him.
Ronan whirled around. Three humans stood blocking the way he had come. Clad in simple tunics, they brandished crude swords and clubs.
"Bandits, huh? Let me guess—you're with her?"
The tallest bandit's mouth split into multiple wide, grinning mouths.
"We were bandits. Now we are one."
"…What in the gods' names are you?"
The elf and the bandits paused at Ronan's question, thinking. Then spoke.
"We are the Maw."
Ronan's eyes darted between his adversaries. The not-elf to his front, the not-bandits at his back. Trapped.
No way forward. No way back.
"What do you want?"
Their faces tore open into masses of gnashing teeth.
"Everything."
They lunged, and Ronan reached an obvious conclusion: it would be easier to get past one unarmed elf rather than three armed bandits.
He dove, aiming to slip past the elf-thing. A searing pain raked across his back—the maws on the creature's hand had latched onto him, the teeth sinking into flesh.
Ronan roared, twisting mid-motion. He brought his sword around in a wide arc, smashing the flat of the blade against the elf's midsection. The impact sent it tumbling off the path with a shriek of rage and hunger.
Ronan didn't wait. He sprinted down the trail.
The chase was on.
Don't touch the grass; don't stop running; and don't look back.
He could hear them closing in behind him. He could hear their pursuit.
Ahead, the path forked. Left or right?
Right was always right… right?
The ground sloped upward. Ronan's pace slowed. He ran.
Ronan heard more footsteps behind him. Too many footsteps for four legs. So he ran.
Sweat stung Ronan's eyes. His body screamed in protest. And still, he ran.
The path twisted sharply. Ronan skidded unsteadily, losing his balance. An oak tree stood in his trajectory. Its bark shredded open to greet him, revealing thousands of ravenous maws.
Ronan's eyes widened in horror.
Stab!
He plunged his sword into the trunk, pushing against the blade to stop his momentum. The tree wailed in fury. Ronan's shoulder was wrenched painfully as he stopped mere inches from the expectant teeth.
He tugged at the hilt, but the sword was lodged firmly in the writhing wood.
Damn it. No time.
Ronan released his grip and sprinted onward, leaving his weapon behind and the oak snapping furiously at empty air.
The path grew steeper and rocks jutted from the earth. It became harder to run.
His lungs burned. His legs burned. Still, he pushed on.
The trees thinned. A roar filled his ears—was that water?
He burst from the treeline. Ronan stood at a cliff's edge, a raging river far below.
Dead end.
Ronan finally looked back. The forest shook with hunger, no longer feigning normalcy. Every tree, every blade of grass was covered in gaping, hungry cavities. The Maw's puppets were nowhere in sight.
Good, at least he'd gained some ground on his pursuers.
Small victories.
Ronan slipped his hand into his pockets. There, a smooth—almost round—crystal, untouched by the horrors he had experienced. It was pure, crystallized mana. It was energy so dense, so potent, it could level an entire village.
Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. And if this isn't desperate, he didn't know what was.
Oh. This was also going to be damn expensive.
The crystal left his pocket. Ronan closed his eyes, focusing internally. He took the neutral mana and willed upon it pure, unbridled destruction. Only in one direction though. Hopefully.
He never tried this before, but… first time's the charm, isn't it?
The footsteps were louder now.
Ronan's eyes flew open. The Maw had arrived.
The elf-horror stepped forward. "Nowhere left to run, little morsel."
Its companions also stepped into the open. The bandits, and maybe a hundred other humanoid figures.
"Who said anything about running?"
Ronan thrust his arm forward, channeling everything into the orb of pure destruction.
"You're hungry, right?"
A deafening crack split the air. The orb exploded.
"Eat this."
Raw, uncontrolled power erupted from Ronan's hand. A wave of pure annihilation surged forward, tearing through the Maw's puppets, tearing through trees, tearing through everything.
But the force... it was immense. Too powerful.
Ronan felt himself launched backwards by the sheer magnitude of the blast. The Maw above screamed its rage and agony, and the river below roared ferociously as it rushed up to meet him.
He was wrong—turns out right wasn't always right after all.
Impact. Darkness.
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