Duskfire Glacier the gods call your name

her throat is ruined. her flesh is torn, hot blood pumping freely down her chest and soaking the pale fur to a dark, slick crimson. it has not stopped since she tore herself free from sun water’s jaws, and she knows—she knows—if she doesn’t find aid soon, she will not see another sunrise.

darukaal’s borders are unfamiliar. she does not belong here. she is a stranger, a trespasser, but desperation drives her to their doorstep. her breath is shallow, ragged, a wet gurgle in her throat every time she tries to swallow. the snow beneath her is painted in her ruin. still, she stumbles forward, half-lamed, barely holding herself upright.

her vision blurs. the world tips dangerously when she falters again—back leg buckling—and she slams shoulder-first into a tree, barely catching herself before she collapses. fuck. fuck. teeth grit against the sharp, white-hot pain blooming in her throat, in her ribs, in her battered muscles.

she has no strength to call out. no voice left to scream for help. she can do is keep moving. keep bleeding. keep fighting. until someone finds her—or until the snow swallows her whole.