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Panic seized Noah’s chest like a physical force, a crushing weight that made his lungs burn. His breath came in short, rapid gasps that fogged in the increasingly cold air. Every survival instinct he possessed fired at once, contradicting each other in a paralyzing chaos of terror. Run. Hide. Fight. Freeze. His body could not decide which impulse to follow, leaving him trembling in the gathering darkness, a statue of fear.

The Gloomwood was alive with sounds that were not its own. The wind rustled through the high leaves, a natural and constant whisper, but beneath that familiar noise came others. The soft, deliberate pad of heavy paws on damp earth. The subtle brush of thick fur against tree bark. Low, rumbling growls that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, vibrating through the very soles of his feet. Noah’s ears swiveled frantically, trying to pinpoint the direction of the threats, but the dense forest played tricks with sound, twisting and reflecting it until he felt completely surrounded.

He forced his limbs to move. Standing still was a death sentence. He pushed forward through the dense undergrowth, trying to be quiet but knowing it was a hopeless endeavor. Every step he took announced his presence. Dry leaves crunched loudly beneath his feet. Low branches caught on his clothes with sharp, snapping sounds. His own labored breathing might as well have been a dinner bell, a clear signal of his distress and exhaustion.

A black flash of movement in his peripheral vision sent him stumbling sideways in a fresh wave of panic. His foot caught on a gnarled root hidden beneath the leaf litter, and he went down hard. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a painful rush. The knife, his only meager defense, flew from his grip and disappeared into the shadowed leaves. Noah scrambled for it desperately, his fingers brushing against damp soil and sharp twigs before finally closing around the familiar hilt, just as a large shadow passed silently overhead.

Something massive had leaped over him. He caught a fleeting glimpse of sleek black fur and powerful, rippling muscles before it vanished into the trees ahead. They were toying with him, he realized with a sickening lurch in his stomach. If they had wanted him dead, he would already be bleeding out on the forest floor. This was not a hunt for sustenance. This was sport.

The realization broke his paralysis. Noah pushed himself to his feet and ran. His supply pack bounced jarringly against his back, the water skin sloshing with each frantic, pounding step. Thorns tore at his arms and face, leaving stinging scratches in their wake. Low-hanging branches struck his shoulders like clubs. He did not care. Raw survival instinct had taken over completely, drowning out coherent thought and reason. He was prey, and prey ran from the predator.

The ground began to slope sharply upward. Noah’s legs burned with the strenuous effort of climbing, but he could not afford to slow down. Behind him, he heard the soft, deep-throated sounds of predators who knew their quarry was tiring, a sound that was unnervingly close to laughter. They were not even hurrying. Why would they need to? There was nowhere for him to go.

A sheer rock face appeared through the trees ahead, a wall of dark, wet stone. Noah’s heart leaped with a sudden, desperate hope. If he could find a crevice, a small cave, somewhere to wedge himself where their larger bodies could not reach him, he might just last until morning. It was a foolish, flimsy hope, but at that moment, it was all he had.

He reached the rock wall and pressed his back against the cold, unyielding stone, the knife held before him in a white-knuckled grip. His chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath, his lungs feeling raw. Blood ran in thin trickles from the dozens of scratches on his arms and face. His clothes were torn, and his white fur was stained with dirt and moss.

The panthers emerged from the shadows as if summoned. There were five of them, each easily twice his size, their forms radiating contained power. Their eyes glowed with an eerie, predatory light in the deepening darkness, reflecting what little moonlight managed to filter through the thick canopy. They moved with a liquid, unnerving grace, muscles rippling beneath midnight fur. They were death given form, elegant and terrifying.

They spread out silently in a perfect semicircle, cutting off any possibility of escape. Noah’s back was pressed against solid stone. There was nowhere left to run. The knife trembled in his hand, a visible sign of his terror, and he hated himself for the weakness. He would die afraid, and they would see his fear. There was no dignity to be found in this end.

The largest panther, a male with a collection of scars marking his muzzle, took a single, deliberate step forward. His lips pulled back in a silent snarl to reveal teeth that could tear Noah apart in seconds. The others watched with hungry, focused interest, waiting for their leader to make the first move, to begin the kill.

Noah’s vision tunneled, the world narrowing to the terrifying sight before him. His breath came in ragged sobs that he could not control. This was not how he had imagined death. He had thought, foolishly, that perhaps he would have time to make peace with it, to find some small measure of courage in his final moments. Instead, he was reduced to this, a terrified animal cowering against cold stone.

The scarred panther crouched low, its powerful hind legs tensing, preparing to spring. Noah closed his eyes tightly. He could not watch it come. He could not face the moment when teeth met flesh and his short, worthless life came to its violent and inevitable end.

A new sound cut through the night, sharp and sudden. It was a low, commanding growl that held a quality of absolute authority, a sound so powerful it seemed to make the air vibrate. The hunting party froze instantly, their attention snapping away from Noah to something beyond his limited vision. The scarred one lowered himself to the ground in a posture of immediate submission, his earlier aggression vanishing like smoke in the wind.

Noah forced his eyes open. Another figure was moving through the darkness, larger and more imposing than the others, radiating a palpable aura of power that made the air itself feel heavy and charged. This was no ordinary warrior. This was something far more dangerous.

Lord Samuel Esmeray stepped into the small clearing, and Noah’s last, foolish hope died completely.