The forest had fallen silent so gradually that Xar’tuuk almost didn’t notice it at first. The absence of sound slipped into his awareness like a slow drop in pressure, soft and insidious, until the stillness pressed in around him like a weight.
For a moment, he remained seated, his gaze focused on the underbrush ahead, his breathing slow and measured, and his thoughts occupied with the usual irritation that came from prolonged proximity to the two ooman females he had been assigned to protect.
They were never quiet, not even when they were supposed to be. Their voices carried constantly, rising and falling in a stream of pointless noise that filled the forest with questions, complaints, observations, and laughter that served no tactical purpose. Whether they were arguing about which stones looked “friendlier” or loudly discussing the emotional expression of tree bark, they never ceased to remind him of their presence in the most obnoxious way possible.
Xar’tuuk had long since begun deactivating his translator at regular intervals, not out of necessity, but out of self-preservation. The high-pitched tones of their speech, their chaotic emotional outbursts, and the general lack of discipline in their behavior grated on his nerves more than any enemy blade ever could.
And yet, as he sat there, letting the silence settle deeper, he realized something that made his stomach tighten. It was a realization that clicked into place not with panic, but with the cold certainty that only a seasoned warrior could feel.
He could no longer hear them.
There was no mindless chatter drifting through the trees, no bursts of poorly timed laughter, and no sound of stumbling footsteps where there should have been controlled, deliberate movement. There was nothing.
Slowly, Xar’tuuk lifted his head. His posture shifted as his muscles tightened and his senses extended outward, reaching for the patterns he had grown so used to filtering out. The forest around him did not feel peaceful. It felt emptied. It felt wrong.
He rose to his feet in a smooth, fluid motion, standing tall as his eyes narrowed and his hearing sharpened. Although he had not allowed them to wander far, and he made sure of that every single day, there was now a void where their presence should have been, and every instinct within him told him to act.
Without delay, he turned toward the direction of the camp and began moving quickly, his steps powerful and efficient. It wasn’t quite a sprint, but far beyond a casual pace. He did not breathe heavily. He did not run blindly. But there was a sharp edge to his movement, the kind that came not from fear, but from mounting frustration.
It didn’t take him long to reach the clearing.
When he arrived, he came to a sudden, silent halt, and his eyes scanned the scene with the practiced precision of a hunter who had seen far too many careless campsites in his lifetime.
The fire still smoldered, a thin trail of smoke curling upward into the trees. A waterskin had been left on the ground, leaking slowly into the soil. One of the makeshift knives the oomans had insisted on carrying, though they could barely wield them, lay forgotten beside a bedroll that had been hastily abandoned.
Xar’tuuk took in every detail in a single sweep, reading the signs like battlefield residue, piecing together the story with clinical ease.
There was no trace of either female.
And then, from somewhere not far off, a sound tore through the silence. It was a voice, unmistakably ooman, raw with panic, strained and cracking, but still somehow loud enough to make his temple twitch.
"Tukiiiiiieee!"
Xar’tuuk closed his eyes for the briefest possible moment, allowed himself exactly one deep exhale, and then straightened his spine.
Of course. They were doing something stupid.
Again.
He didn’t need to hear another scream.
The moment that ridiculous, high-pitched excuse for a name echoed through the trees, he turned and moved toward the sound. He would have found them regardless. Their scent lingered in the air like the aftermath of a weak fire - chaotic, clinging, and unmistakably ooman.
They smelled of soft skin, misplaced confidence, and perfume that somehow attracted more insects than it repelled. No matter how far they wandered, Xar’tuuk could always track them. Not because of his training, although that was extensive, but because they simply didn’t know how to disappear.
Branches slapped across his face as he picked up speed. He didn’t bother to avoid them. The sting was irrelevant. All that mattered was reaching them before something else did.
Then he realized where he was heading. He was moving toward the lake.
For a split second, his pace faltered. His mind sharpened as a cold certainty settled in.
"They couldn’t possibly have gone there. Even they wouldn’t be that foolish."
The lake was old, silent, and avoided by every living creature with any sense. He had stayed away from it since the beginning of this assignment, not out of fear, but because some places didn’t need to be explored. There were things even predators didn’t disturb.
If the oomans had run toward the lake, if they had actually chosen that direction while panicking, then they had chosen the worst possible option.
Xar’tuuk growled under his breath and broke into a run.
There would be no more patience. No more tolerance. If they were still alive, he would haul them back to the camp and make sure they remembered every reckless decision they had made. He wasn’t their suckling-sitter.
But they would stay alive.
Because he would not allow it to be otherwise.
The impact with the creature’s maw had been sudden and absolute. There was no time to react, no time to reach for his blade, no time to leap aside. One moment he was at the edge of the lake, the next he was swallowed whole.
He couldn’t believe it.
He had been taken by this bloated, mindless beast, as if he were some flailing, untrained offworlder. Swallowed alive. A death without honor. The shame of it burned hotter than the acid beginning to sting his armor.
But he was not dead yet.
His will surged through him like fire, and his muscles answered without hesitation. He unsheathed his blade and drove it forward, carving into the soft, slick interior of the monster’s throat. The walls convulsed violently around him, tightening, pulling, trying to drag him down deeper.
He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.
He drove the blade forward again and again, not with rage, but with relentless purpose. Blood gushed and flesh tore, and still he fought, even as his lungs began to strain and the air thinned to nothing.
As he sank lower into the gullet, the pressure closing in, one bitter thought flickered through his mind.
So this is it. This is how I end.
But even that thought couldn’t hold him.
He bared his teeth and slashed again, pushing upward, refusing to be claimed. He felt the beast’s insides begin to clench and spasm, the walls collapsing inward, squeezing him tighter, but then..
The pressure shifted. Something changed.
The creature convulsed violently. He felt himself forced upward, shoved by muscle and instinct and the panic of a dying animal. The narrow tunnel became a vice, then a chute, and then suddenly - Air.
A rush of cold, wet air hit his face, and before he could process it, his body was launched from the beast’s throat, flung into the open.
He hit the lake with a thunderous splash, dragged under for a second time, but this time by water, not flesh.
