The mud sucks at your bare feet.

You don’t remember when you dropped the last piece of armor—only the sound it made when it hit the ground behind you. Metal on stone. Final. Irreversible.

Your lungs burn. Every breath tastes like copper and rot.

Behind you, the battlefield is no longer a battle—just a distant chorus of screams swallowed by jungle fog. Your side lost. Not slowly, not honorably—completely. Whatever plan your commanders had… it died before you did.

And you ran.

Branches lash your arms as you push deeper into the swamp, armor gone, weapon gone, pride gone. Just instinct now. Just survive.

Then—

You hear it.

Not loud. Not chaotic.

Ordered.

A faint series of clicks… soft whistles… something moving with intention.

You slow—too late.

A dart buries itself into the tree beside your head with a wet thunk. Another lands at your feet. The wood sizzles faintly where the toxin eats into it.

You’re not alone.

Shapes emerge from the green.

Small. Lean. Watching.

Skinks.

Their eyes don’t carry rage. Or excitement. Just… assessment. Calculating angles. Distances. Your breathing. Your weakness.

One tilts its head, issuing a quiet chirping signal.

They weren’t hunting you.

They were moving somewhere else.

Reinforcements.

And you just stumbled into their path.

For a brief, fragile moment, nothing happens. The jungle holds its breath with you.

Then one of them gestures—not at you.

Past you.

A command.

The undergrowth behind you shifts.

Slow. Heavy. Unavoidable.

The air itself seems to thicken as something larger steps into your trail—where you just were.

You feel it before you fully see it.

A presence that doesn’t chase… because it doesn’t need to.

A Saurus.

She steps forward, towering, scaled hide marked with painted glyphs that glow faintly through the humidity. Gold and jade ornaments clink softly against muscle as she moves, each step deliberate, measured… controlled.

Her eyes lock onto you.

Not with anger.

With certainty.

You weren’t spared by chance.

You were driven here.

The skinks shift, forming a loose perimeter—not to attack, but to close exits. Their blowpipes remain trained, toxins ready, but idle. This is no longer their task.

This is hers.

The Saurus rolls her shoulders once, testing the weight of the obsidian-edged weapon in her grip. The ground seems to accept her authority as she advances a single step closer.

You’re exhausted.

Unarmed.

Poison at your flanks.

And something ancient in front of you that does not understand mercy—only purpose.

She exhales slowly, a low, rumbling sound.

Then, in broken, deliberate human tongue:

“…Run.”

Not a suggestion.

A ritual.

A hunt.

And somewhere deep in your bones, you understand