Dawn's first light filtered through the pine canopy as Roland Farter jerked awake. His muscles ached from yesterday's labor, and his head pounded like a war drum. He sat on the edge of a cold stone trough, dipping his calloused hands into a basin of water and splashing his face.
Beyond the camp's palisade wall, the forest lay still as a silent sentinel—until the sudden bellow of a creature shattered the calm.
Roland's heart lurched. He dropped the cloth and sprinted toward the eastern gate, joining a ragged line of recruits and militia. The sergeant barked orders over the melee: "Archers, line up! Spearmen, brace!"
Roland shoved through the crowd, trying to steady his breath. He had practiced drills with wooden spears, but no training could prepare him for the sight that burst into view: a massive war boar, its tusks gleaming ivory-white, body rippling with muscle. The beast charged, snapping trees and splintering defensive stakes as villagers fled in terror.
A novice archer let an arrow fly. It thunked off the boar's thick hide. A veteran spearman thrust his spear—but the weapon shattered on impact. Roland's eyes widened. This was no ordinary boar; it was a terror beast rumored to be bred by the Dark Lord's alchemists.
Instinct propelled Roland forward. He grabbed a fallen wooden stake, hefted it awkwardly, and waited for the boar to turn. As it barreled past him, he pivoted and thrust the stake between the creature's shoulder blades. The boar skidded to a halt, reared, and crashed into a rotten fence post, shattering wood and sending Roland sprawling into the mud.
Pain shot through his arm, but the boar's anger subsided. It shook its head, shaking Roland free, then raised its tusked snout in a triumphant roar. The sergeant seized the chance: "Now!"
Spearmen drove their sharpened tips into the beast's flanks. Roland rolled aside as the boar staggered, throat frothing as it let out a final bellow. It collapsed with earth-shaking force. In the sudden hush, blood seeped into the soil like ink spreading on parchment.
Roland lay on his back, chest pounding, mud coating his tunic. He watched the boar's chest heave once, twice, and then still. Soldiers and villagers alike poured forward, some cheering, others weeping relief.
Out of the crowd stepped the sergeant. He stalked over, axe in hand. Roland craned his neck, expecting a reprimand—or worse, a sword aimed at his throat for overstepping boundaries. Instead, the sergeant placed a gloved hand on his shoulder.
"Luck favors the bold, Farter. Don't lose it."
Roland's legs wobbled as he stood. He nodded, words caught in his throat. The sergeant stepped back, shouting orders to bury the beast and secure the perimeter.
As the sun rose higher, Roland helped to drag the carcass deeper into the woods. Villagers stacked logs and offered prayers for the dead—and the living. A mother called out her child's name, and a young recruit exhaled in tearful gratitude.
Roland paused, looking at the fallen beast. He had saved lives—yet the reality settled like stone in his gut: this world did not owe him peace. Danger lurked beyond each dawn.
He wiped mud and sweat from his brow, tightened his makeshift grip on a spear, and marched back with the others. Crisis averted—barely.
And tomorrow, the killer beasts might return.