The pack lunged.
Shadows became flesh—wolves, their pelts bristling, their eyes like burning coals. They poured from the treeline with hunger in their throats and bloodlust in their snarls.
Steel flashed. The Hero met them head-on, blade carving arcs of light through the gloom. The first wolf split open mid-leap, crashing into the earth with a wet thud. Another snapped for the Hero's throat, only to be turned aside with a twist of the hilt and silenced by a precise thrust.
Sora watched, frozen. He should run. He should slink into the forest, leave the Hero to their fate, let the beasts devour them. Yet his core pulsed erratically, refusing. Each clash of fang against steel reverberated inside him like an echo of his own fear.
The wolves circled. They were not mindless—they tested, probed, sought weakness. And when their burning eyes shifted toward him, Sora understood. He was prey.
The nearest wolf lunged—not for the Hero, but for him.
Instinct flared. His body quivered, then lashed outward, a sticky tendril slapping against the wolf's snout. The beast recoiled, stunned, before the Hero's blade cut it down in a spray of red.
The Hero's eyes snapped toward Sora, narrowed. "Stay. Down."
More wolves came. Claws raked across the Hero's arm; steel answered with blood. The clearing rang with snarls, with the scream of metal biting flesh.
Sora trembled, forcing himself to strike again. A whip of slime lashed out, clumsy, but enough to stagger a wolf for half a heartbeat. The Hero's sword found its heart an instant later.
For a moment, the forest was still again. Dead wolves littered the ground, their blood soaking into moss and root. The Hero stood tall, chest heaving faintly, sword dripping red.
Their gaze turned to Sora. Not gratitude. Not mercy. Suspicion. Cold and sharp.
"You fight like you want to live." The words were low, edged. "That makes you dangerous."
Sora's core flickered wildly.
The Hero raised their blade once more, stepping toward him.