It had been a clean shot. Or so you'd thought.

The arrow had sunk into the creature's flank, but not deep enough. Not clean enough. The sernuk had bolted, and you'd followed, your boots slipping on moss-covered rocks, your breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls. You knew better than to chase wounded game into unfamiliar territory. You knew better.

But you'd wanted to prove you could do this.

Now you were crouched behind a fallen log, your heart slamming against your ribs, watching the elder sernuk hobble through the brush ahead. Its breath came in ragged, wet huffs. Its antlers caught the light, gleaming like bone. It wasn't moving fast, but it wasn't moving slow either. And it knew you were there.

A branch snapped somewhere behind you.

The sernuk lunged.

Time fractured. The creature's body twisted with a speed you hadn't anticipated, its wounded flank forgotten, its antlers lowering like a battering ram aimed straight at where you'd been kneeling. An arrow loosed past your ear with a sharp whist-thunk. A shout—your own or his, you couldn't tell. Then Hassian's hand closed around your arm, hard enough to bruise, and he wrenched you backward.

You stumbled into him, your back hitting his chest, the world tilting as the sernuk crashed through the space where you'd been seconds before. Bark flew. Leaves scattered. The sound of hooves pounding against the forest floor faded into the distance, and then there was only silence.

The kind of silence that settles after a near-miss. Heavy. Loud.

His hand was still wrapped around your wrist. His breathing was controlled, but you could feel the tension in his grip, the slight tremor of restraint.

When you finally turned to look at him, he wasn't cold. He wasn't irritated.

The forest held its breath.