Fear gripped the little child as he slept. But as time passed in the middle of the night, he awoke—not from terror, but from pure hunger.
The water hadn't lasted long, and so the child needed to roll near the source once again. But this time, he was afraid. Afraid of the night before. Of the screams within his senses, the wild warning, and the way he had lain—face-first on the earth, praying that nothing would happen.
The child wanted to return to sleep, ignoring the biting of mosquitoes and the crawl of insects all around him. But hunger knew no fear. It grew. With each passing moment, it became unbearable. The child knew now—he could not escape it.
Peeking through the bushes, the little child surveyed his surroundings. No animals. No birds. No predators on the surface. Quietly, he observed, then softly, carefully, rolled toward the thin stream flowing from some place unknown. He drank—one drop at a time—and slowly, surely, filled his empty stomach. Though unaware of what might lurk nearby, there was nothing in the forest at that moment that could harm him.
The forest lay still. Ever so faintly, the voices of trelks echoed—but not for long. Only the gentle rustling of wind through the high leaves remained, and the soft murmur of the stream trickling through damp soil.
Now lying near the stream, arms splayed wide, the child took in his surroundings—the towering trees, the canopies above, the scent of damp soil, ever so gently searched by water, and the rustling air. He lay there, soaking it all in. This fragile sense of peace—the child had never known it. Not since the moment he was born.
For the first time, the child tasted peace.
But not for long.
Soon, many woodteeth began climbing the child's body. Panic surged. He scrubbed at his skin, desperate to rid himself of the crawling things. But the more he brushed them off, the more frenzied they became. Tiny mandibles nipped his skin, sharp stings blossoming across his arms and sides.
The child whimpered, twisting in agony, frantically rolling on the ground to escape the little demons. The more he moved, the more they bit. It went on—for minutes.
And finally, the tiny menaces were gone.
The child lay trembling, breathless. His first battle in the wild had ended before it even began. Taking deep breaths, he collapsed onto the damp soil, beside the trickling stream—now a few paces from where the woodteeth had first appeared. Watching from a distance, the child lay bare-backed upon the ground and—before he even realized—he was asleep again.
In the wild, there are many predators. Some wait. Some lunge. Sleeping in the open is the worst mistake one can make—and unbeknownst to the child, he had made the same mistake.
And so, a price would be paid. Age, size—none of it mattered.
Far above, a wide-winged shaped being caught sight of the child—an ashfeather, circling high in the skies a mile away.
It considered him. Then, with lethal grace, the ashfeather leaned down from the sky. Wings tucked, it launched downward—tens of miles per hour—toward the vulnerable child.
At that very instant, the child's senses screamed at him louder than ever before. He jolted awake. Eyes flung open. No time to think.
Above—a massive bird, nine feet wide and four feet long—rushed toward him. With no time to spare, the child rolled to the side. The ashfeather's claws missed—but not entirely. One claw grazed his left side.
Blood spilled—fast.
The ashfeather climbed into the air again, circling the child like a shadow of death, weaving between the trunks of the dense forest. The child, now bleeding, dragged himself toward the tree where he had first awakened. Left ribs clawed open, blood trickling freely.
Pain blurred his focus. He hardly noticed the ashfeather above.
Seeing its chance, the predator dove again. Its beak tore the air as if it didn't exist. The child saw it coming—rolled, once more—but this time, the ashfeather anticipated it.
Its claws raked his right side.
Now the child bled from both sides. Out in the open. Defenseless. Dying.
The ashfeather circled once more, eyes locked. It rushed downward again, and this time the child... did not move.
He couldn't.
The blood loss. The exhaustion. The pain.
He lay still, trembling, eyes open, watching death descend. Accepting it.
But then—a miracle.
From beyond the sky, a massive shadow surged—a bird twice the ashfeather's size. With a shriek that split the heavens, it snatched the ashfeather mid-flight, one claw crushing its neck, the other its stomach. And it rose, taking the attacker far above, never to be seen again.
The child, stunned, could only stare. One moment prey... the next, saved.
He didn't understand. He couldn't understand.
Only one thought echoed in his fragile mind:
Nothing is certain in this place.
Anything could happen. At any time.
Before his mind could wander further, the pain returned—sharp, burning. He clutched both sides instinctively with his four arms. Eyes fluttered shut.
And as dusk descended, exhaustion claimed him once more.