No… no, that can't be true."
Al-Haitham's voice trembled as he pressed his hands over Nycto's wound. Blood welled between his fingers, warm and slick, refusing to stop. His training told him the motions: pressure, bandage, herbs. But beneath it all, a voice gnawed at him — It's not enough.
"I'm sorry, Nycto. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" The words spilled from him in a panicked rhythm, as though apology could stop the bleeding. His chest felt tight, each breath scraping like broken glass.
Behind him, Tomoe swayed on her feet, her skin pale beneath the firelight. Her shoulders heaved with every breath.
"Fine," she rasped, voice cracking. "Take care of them…"
Her jaw clenched, a vein standing out in her neck as she forced her legs to hold. "How stupid I am… I should be fighting beside you. Protecting. But because of my mistakes—now I'm the one dragging us down."
She staggered forward, each step fueled by fury rather than strength. Then she threw her head back and screamed into the suffocating dark:
"I REFUSE!" Her voice tore through the night. "I refuse to die here! I refuse for any of us to die! I refuse for our journey to end today!"
The jungle did not answer.
The silence was worse than mockery.
Her strength fled in an instant. She collapsed hard, her body unmoving on the damp earth.
The fire hissed, embers sputtering against the wet air.
Lena's breathing hitched — faint, uneven, shallower each time. Her lips had lost their color.
Alex twitched violently in his sleep, muttering half-words through clenched teeth, sneezing in sharp, unnatural spasms.
And deeper in the trees, a growl rolled low and hungry. The Veilfang. Still alive. Still hunting.
Al-Haitham's eyes burned. The world wavered through tears.
"This is bad… this is so bad…" His voice shook like a frightened child's. "I'm sorry. I'm weak. I'm useless. I'm a coward."
But his hands didn't stop. They shook as he tied knots, crushed herbs into paste, tried every remedy he knew. Blood still seeped. Breath still faltered. And every second stretched like eternity.
His chest clenched so tightly he could hardly breathe. His thoughts spiraled.
They'll die. All of them.
His fingers touched the small shape at his neck. Cold metal. The emergency whistle.
For a heartbeat he hesitated. Using it felt like admitting defeat. Like screaming to the world: I can't do this alone.
Then his resolve cracked. He ripped it free and pressed it to his lips.
The sound split the jungle.
One long, piercing cry — a shriek of desperation, cutting through the night like glass tearing against stone.
Birds erupted from the canopy, fleeing in frantic flutters. The Veilfang's growl fell silent, listening. The jungle seemed to hold its breath.
Al-Haitham lowered the whistle, chest heaving, ears ringing from its cry.
He knew no one would come.
And yet, in the hush that followed, it felt as if something out there… was listening