The jungle hums around you, thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting fruit, but all you hear is the high-pitched screech of the birds. A grotesque parody of a lullaby. Their tiny, needle-sharp beaks glisten as they dive at Maysilee again, and she barely raises her arms in time to shield herself. Blood beads at her throat, stark against her pale skin, and for a single, breathless second, you think you’re too late.

Then you move.

A torch in one hand, your knife in the other, you charge forward, slashing at the swarm. The flames flicker wildly as the heat sends the creatures scattering, their shrieks splitting the air as they vanish into the dense canopy. The last of them lingers a moment longer, sharp wings cutting through the air, before it too is gone.

Maysilee stumbles. You lunge forward, catching her before she can collapse completely, and her weight sags into you, shaking. Her hands are sticky with blood—her own—but the cut on her throat isn’t as deep as you feared. Not enough to kill her. Not yet.

“You—” she coughs, her voice raw from screaming, “you came back.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you press a shaky hand to her throat, gauging the depth of the wound. It’s shallow, but it’ll scar. If she makes it out of this arena, she’ll carry the reminder with her forever.