Nirvaan did not remember sitting down.
At some point during the night, his legs had stopped obeying him, and he had lowered himself against the broken stone without deciding to. The black field stretched ahead in pale silver under the twin moons, and for what felt like hours he watched the place where the larger eyes had disappeared.
Nothing returned.
That should have comforted him.
It did not.
His left forearm throbbed where the small predator had bitten him. Blood had slowed but not stopped completely. The torn sleeve clung wetly to skin, cold whenever wind crossed it.
He pressed the fabric tighter around the wound.
The pressure helped little.
By the time the larger moon dipped lower, the air had become colder than any night he remembered from India.
India.
The word came with effort now.
It no longer arrived with pictures attached.
Only the shape of the word itself, like something read long ago.
He tried forcing memory.
A room.
A fan overhead.
Someone laughing nearby.
Nothing stayed long enough to sharpen.
His jaw tightened.
He looked up again.
The sky remained alien enough to make anger useless.
When dawn began, it came slowly and without color.
No orange.
No gold.
Only a pale whitening at the horizon, as though darkness had thinned rather than retreated.
The field revealed itself properly for the first time.
The black soil reached farther than he had realized, interrupted by ridges of broken rock and scattered growths of stiff grass with dark purple edges. Beyond the field, the trees looked worse in daylight—tall and narrow below, swollen higher up, with branches that folded inward like hooked fingers.
The place where he had emerged from the soil now looked disturbingly deliberate.
A shallow depression.
As if something had buried him there carefully.
He stood slowly, legs stiff, head light.
Hunger arrived all at once.
Sharp enough to hollow him.
His stomach clenched hard enough to make him bend.
He had no idea how long he had been unconscious before waking, but his body felt as though it had already burned through whatever strength remained.
Water first.
The thought came naturally.
Then shelter.
Then maybe understanding.
Though understanding felt least likely.
He started walking east simply because the ground sloped there.
Every few steps he checked the tree line.
Nothing moved.
But silence still felt false.
A living silence.
Like the land was listening.
His bitten arm had stiffened by the time he reached the edge of the field. Up close, the trees smelled stronger—wet bark mixed with something bitter, almost medicinal.
He found tracks before he found water.
Large ones.
Four deep impressions in soft mud near a patch of flattened grass.
Not hoofed.
Not pawed.
Something broad-footed, clawed, heavy.
Fresh enough that edges had not collapsed.
He stepped away from them instinctively.
A faint sound reached him then.
Not far.
Water.
He followed it carefully.
The trees thickened enough to block most light, forcing him to slow. Several trunks carried long vertical scratches higher than his shoulder. Some marks looked old. Others did not.
The sound of water grew louder until the trees opened into a narrow stream cutting through stone.
Clear water.
He crouched immediately and drank too fast, coughing after the first handful.
Cold enough to ache in his teeth.
He drank again, slower this time, then washed blood from his arm.
The bite looked ugly but shallow.
Four punctures.
No swelling yet.
That mattered, though he did not know why his mind clung to that detail.
A smell reached him before the sound.
Rot.
Not old.
Fresh blood somewhere nearby.
He straightened slowly.
A few steps downstream, partly hidden behind low stone, something large lay on its side.
At first he thought it dead.
Then it moved.
Nirvaan froze.
The creature was roughly the size of a deer, but heavier through the shoulders. Its hide looked rough, layered in dark plates along the neck and spine. Two forward-curving horn ridges framed its skull, though one appeared cracked near the base.
Blood darkened its left side.
The breathing was uneven.
Injured.
Badly.
One rear leg bent wrong.
It had not noticed him yet.
Or if it had, it lacked strength to react immediately.
He remained still.
The creature slowly lifted its head.
Its eyes were pale amber, unfocused but alert enough.
No fear there.
Only exhaustion.
It tried standing.
Failed.
The body slammed awkwardly back onto stone.
Nirvaan stepped backward.
His mind ran ahead of him:
Leave.
Immediately.
An injured animal is worse than a healthy one.
But another thought came just as quickly.
Food.
The thought disgusted him because it arrived so naturally.
He had never killed anything larger than a mosquito in a deliberate way.
Yet hunger stripped morality into practical shape.
The creature tried standing again.
This time it made a sound—low, guttural, almost like stone dragged across metal.
Then something in the forest answered.
Far behind him.
Branches shifting.
A different sound than before.
More than one movement.
Scavengers.
Or predators.
The injured beast heard it too.
Its head jerked sharply toward the trees.
For the first time, panic entered its breathing.
Nirvaan understood immediately:
whatever was coming wanted this creature.
And if he remained beside it—
they might want him too.
He backed away again.
The beast suddenly lurched, dragging itself half upright despite the broken leg.
Its head lowered.
It saw him properly now.
The damaged horn angled toward him.
A warning.
Weak, but real.
Then it charged.
Not fast.
But close enough that he barely had time to move.
He threw himself sideways as the creature crashed past him and struck stone hard enough to crack one horn completely.
It shrieked—a raw, ugly sound.
Then turned again.
Its injured leg failed mid-turn, sending its weight sideways.
The body collapsed near the stream.
The head struck rock.
A brief silence followed.
Nirvaan remained on one knee, breathing hard.
The creature twitched once.
Still alive.
Barely.
And behind them—
the forest sounds were closer now.
More movement.
Several bodies.
Fast.
He looked at the injured beast.
Then toward the trees.
Then back again.
His hands found a loose rock without thought.
Heavy enough.
The creature’s eye fixed on him.
Still conscious.
A single breath.
Another.
The forest behind him crackled louder.
No time.
He stepped forward.
Raised the stone.
For one moment he hesitated.
Then brought it down with everything left in his arms.
The sound sickened him.
The creature convulsed.
He struck again.
And again—
until movement stopped.
Silence.
Then—
something impossible happened.
A faint pale mist rose from the broken skull.
Not smoke.
Not breath.
It hovered only a moment.
Then moved toward him.
Fast.
Straight into his chest.
The world vanished.
Pain hit before understanding.
He dropped instantly, stone falling from his hand.
His ribs felt as if something inside them had opened.
Bones tightening.
Muscles locking.
A scream tore from him before he knew he was making it.
Heat surged through his veins like liquid metal.
His spine arched violently.
His fingers dug into mud hard enough to tear nails.
Inside his body—
something was breaking.
No—
changing.
His jaw clenched so hard he tasted blood.
A memory exploded behind his eyes—
rain hitting a helmet visor
headlights spinning sideways
someone shouting—
gone.
Pain returned harder.
His left arm seized.
Every muscle pulled against itself.
He rolled into the stream by accident, cold water striking him without relief.
Still burning.
Still tearing.
He could not breathe properly.
Every inhale came jagged, stolen.
The pain lasted long enough for time to lose shape.
When it finally loosened, he lay half in water, shaking uncontrollably.
The forest had gone quiet again.
Too quiet.
He tried standing.
Failed once.
Then forced himself upright.
The dead beast lay near the bank, already looking strangely smaller than before.
Or perhaps he was seeing differently.
His own breathing sounded sharper.
Clearer.
And beneath that—
another sound.
Movement.
The scavengers had stopped.
They had not fled.
They were waiting.
Watching.
Nirvaan looked toward the trees.
Several low shapes stood between trunks now.
Eyes reflecting pale morning light.
Drawn by blood.
He understood one thing immediately:
whatever had entered his body—
it had not made him safe.
And he was now too weak to run far.