The boulder was cold in his hands — rough, jagged, and far too heavy for someone like him to lift.
And yet… he did.
Millet blinked.
It shouldn't have been possible.
That thing must've weighed half his size. Maybe more.
And still — there he was, crouched, holding it like a weapon, his arms trembling not from strain… but from fear.
It didn't matter.
Not now.
He'd question it later — if he lived long enough.
The creature was closing in.
One step.
Then another.
Each thud was a beat of death — slow, deliberate, echoing off the cold walls of the mountain pass.
Millet waited.
Waited until the beast was almost within reach — no more than a meter separating them.
Then, in one swift motion, he turned.
And threw.
The boulder arced through the air — a blur of gray against the soft blue glow of snow — and landed with a harsh crack against a thick patch of ice to the left.
A glacier bank.
The impact echoed across the pass, bouncing through the still dawn.
Then silence.
Millet didn't move.
Didn't even breathe.
He stood still, like prey. Like stone. His only company was the thunder of his heartbeat and the low growl of the creature.
Please work… please…
Crunch.
It moved.
But not toward him.
Toward the sound.
Toward the noise.
It worked.
The creature took the bait.
It growled low, then thundered toward the broken glacier patch, about ten meters away.
Millet's eyes snapped open.
Now!
He turned.
And ran.
His feet hit the snow — bare, numb, raw — but his legs pushed forward with force he didn't recognize. With speed that shocked him.
Why am I so fast?
His body — it felt lighter. More responsive. Stronger than it ever had before.
But that thought vanished in an instant.
Because behind him, a bang echoed across the cliffs.
He turned his head.
The creature was no longer chasing noise.
It was chasing him.
The bait had run its course.
Now it was real.
Now it was hunting.
Millet ran harder, forcing his legs to stretch farther, faster.
The wind burned against his face. The cold bit into his skin.
But he didn't stop.
Didn't dare.
He couldn't outrun it forever.
He needed—
Then he saw it.
Dead ahead.
A shape in the cliffside.
A cave?
No — something else.
As he got closer, the details came into focus.
Not stone. Not shadow.
But ice.
A tunnel.
Formed entirely of ice — the entrance wide, shimmering in the half-light of dawn, like the gaping mouth of some ancient beast.
Millet charged forward, feet slipping slightly on the slick surface.
And then he looked up.
His breath caught in his throat.
At the top of the tunnel — embedded in the ceiling — were massive spikes of ice. Not stalactites. These were sharper. Longer. Thicker. Like frozen nails. Each one the size of a tree trunk, pointing downward, poised like swords ready to fall.
If those drop…
A plan began to form in his mind.
He didn't have time to think it through.
He had seconds — maybe less.
Then he saw it — off to the side, partially buried in snow.
Another boulder.
Roughly the size of three footballs, cracked but solid.
Millet diverted — turned hard — snatched the boulder with both hands, nearly slipping from the shift in momentum.
Then sprinted toward the tunnel.
He didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
The sound of claws scraping against stone told him everything.
The creature was still coming.
Still closing in.
Millet reached the tunnel and darted inside.
The walls were smooth.
The light refracted strangely — his shadow danced around him, multiplied, stretched, warped.
But he didn't stop.
He ran through the tunnel, snow trailing behind him.
The air inside was even colder.
Each breath he took stung his throat like needles.
His chest heaved. His arms ached from carrying the rock.
But he kept running.
He didn't need to reach the end — he just needed distance.
He needed the thing to follow.
The tunnel narrowed slightly near the exit.
That's where he stopped.
Turned.
Waited.
The boulder still in his hands, pressed against his chest.
The tunnel entrance — and the creature — behind him.
He listened.
Crunch.
Crunch.
The sound of massive feet scraping ice.
A low growl.
The breath of something unnatural.
And then —
Bingo.
The creature was near the mouth of the tunnel.
It had taken the bait again.
This time, it wasn't sound.
It was scent. The trail he left. The shift in air. The warmth of blood.
The creature's instincts had led it here.
Right where Millet wanted it.
He stepped backward — slowly — deeper into the tunnel.
The boulder still in his hands.
One step.
Two.
Then he stopped.
Turned halfway — just enough to see the entrance.
The beast was inside now.
Silhouetted by the rising sun.
It ducked slightly, large frame adjusting to the tunnel's height.
Its breath fogged the air, steaming the ice walls.
Good.
Come closer.
Millet glanced up.
The ice above him — those massive frozen spikes — remained still.
But his eyes caught something.
A fracture.
Hairline.
A line across the ceiling just ahead.
Like a seam.
Maybe…
Just maybe…
If he could hit the right spot—
Crack it.
Break it.
Drop it.
He looked back at the creature.
It was moving forward — slow, cautious.
Not because it sensed danger.
Because it didn't need to rush.
It thought its prey was trapped.
Millet tightened his grip on the boulder.
His hands were shaking.
His vision blurred from the cold.
But he was ready.
This was his moment.
The only chance he had left.
The creature growled again.
Closer now.
A few more steps…
Millet raised the boulder.
Waited.
Waited—
And then he threw it.