"Catch him, he must not escape!"

The night was exceptionally clear that evening. The two moons, with their strange milky reflections, gleamed with a pale, greenish glow, akin to the eyes of a cat caught off guard by too bright a light. They illuminated the undulating, ashen sands of the Greywood Plains that stretched endlessly.

The wind, one of the few inhabitants of this dreary horizon, shared these infinite expanses with the cold. Here, bone-chilling nights rivaled the stifling heat of the days. Thus, only the lament of the frigid breeze typically disturbed the sepulchral silence of this region. Except for that night:

"It's no longer Ardin! It's a monster! Fire!"

A few dead and gray trees creaked under the onslaught of the moaning blizzard, tearing nebulous clouds of dust from their gnarled branches. The hunters cursed and swore when these dusty clouds irritated their eyes, preventing them from aiming accurately with their bows.

They cautiously advanced on the treacherous and slippery silver sand that wound its way between the dunes and semi-buried foliage, suddenly lifted by a gust to fall farther away and continue its sinuous trajectory. Yet, the hunters did not stumble. One could sense their vast experience in navigating this rugged terrain. Their arrows made noise only in the whistling of their flight or occasionally embedding themselves in a dead branch standing in their lethal path.

But their true target was that whitish silhouette, covered in leather strips and tatters, awkwardly running in the sand, a few dozen paces ahead. The assailants, much more adept in this environment, gradually widened the gap. One of them drew his bowstring again. A quivering arrow pierced the night and the wind. A cry. The prey was hit:

"I got him, I got him! May the Ytes bear witness, this dog will be punished!"

Cayn fell to his knees, hand on his shoulder. With trembling fingers, he felt the shaft of the arrow painfully embedded in his flesh. No time to remove it; he had to flee. He rose unsteadily, steadied himself, and sprinted again in his desperate race for survival. The shouts of his pursuers drew near. His heart pounded. Only fear compelled him forward. Hope, on the other hand, waned with each hesitant step on the mocking and shifting ground. He didn't even realize there were no more dead trees around him, or that he was running straight toward a sand crater.

No more twisted trunks to protect him. No more ash clouds to shield him. No more wind to deflect the course of enemy arrows. But Cayn, panicked, saw nothing, heard nothing. Only the dull and violent beats of his heart echoed in his ears.

It was then, overcome by exhaustion and pain, that Cayn stumbled. He tumbled rapidly down the escarpment that had suddenly opened beneath his feet, reaching the center of the cavity five meters below. The sand cushioned his fall, but the arrow planted in his shoulder snapped and sank even deeper.

Overwhelmed by pain, he lay motionless. He wanted to get up, but the tearing sensation in his chest prevented any further movement. Sharp pulses of pain tore through his shoulder. He screamed his rage and despair between gulps of cold, piercing air. Gathering his last ounces of strength, he began to crawl on the other side of the crater, much steeper, attempting to regain the heights. His fingers slid on the fleeing sand, his feet sank, struggling to find purchase. He could now hear the footsteps of his pursuers, so close, descending the opposite slope.

Cayn was seized by a sudden urge to give up, to surrender, to stop running, to stop suffering. He couldn't take it anymore, and obviously, he was lost. Why continue to fight when all hope seemed gone?

Suddenly, the earth trembled. Behind Cayn, the sand in the center of the crater began to swirl under the influence of an imperceptible will. The group of hunters abruptly halted the chase. Some rushed backward, trying to climb the slope as fast as possible. But it was too late.

An army of massive claws emerged suddenly from the grey desert. Some easily measured the size of a horse. In a frenzy of screams and blood, the hunters suddenly became the hunted. Limbs, halves of bodies flew, disarticulated, and fell to the ground in positions defying all physical laws. Men, screaming, were swallowed by the sand in terrible convulsions.

Beyond the paralysis induced by terror and despair, it was horror that once again moved Cayn. Four by four, he resumed his sprint to escape the gruesome feast unfolding only a few dozen paces away. Defeated, the sand slipping through his fingers. Forgotten, the arrow planted in his shoulder. Ignored, the heart pounding in his chest. Even though his muscles seemed on the verge of breaking, he climbed the unstable slope at breakneck speed. His entire focus was on the top of the dune looming before him, revealing beyond it the blackened skeletons of dead trees. He could not avert his eyes from this salvation, hoping to find shelter in this desiccated forest. Only his imagination provided vague indications of the carnage behind him, which only accelerated his pace.

Gradually, silence returned to the Greywood Plains, living up to their macabre name on that fateful night. The last cries fell silent, insectoid chirrups stifled, and the sand became still once more. The wind and cold resumed their dominion over the plains, blending with the panicked gasps of a man profoundly shocked, huddled against a dead tree.

Long minutes were needed for Cayn to steady his breath, and even longer to regain his senses. Suddenly, he seemed to remember that he was being hunted. Lifting his head, he scrutinized the silent darkness. When he was certain that none of his assailants had survived, he surveyed the surroundings, searching for a better refuge. A corner of a ruined wall a few steps away would suffice. Limping, he reached this makeshift shelter, awkwardly gathering some dry twigs on the way, then huddled shivering in the recess. The biting cold seemed to penetrate him to the bone. He had to warm up if he didn't want to die in the night.

Cayn then set about digging a hole with the only arm not taxing his injured shoulder. He piled his twigs into it, extracted from beneath his rags a small pouch carefully hidden, containing a flint lighter and a piece of tinder. He crumbled a few branches among the driest, struck the flint against the flintlock so that the sparks ignited the tinder, which he used to light his thin shavings. The precious spark thus obtained was slid under his pile of branches. The fire then grew, devouring the wood, to the delight of the frostbitten man. While his actions betrayed a mastery of the technique, his face could have given the impression that he was managing to make fire for the first time in his life.

After adding some thicker branches found around him, Cayn carefully stowed his flint in the pouch and then pulled out a small vial, uncorking and sniffing it before taking a sip. Then, fumbling, his fingers approached the arrow and pushed it, eliciting a grunt of pain upon contact. For the moment, the shaft prevented too much blood from flowing, but he knew he couldn't keep it in his flesh.

The young man then took out a wide knife from his boot, planted its handle in the sand at the corner of the fire, so that the blade heated. Clenching a piece of wood between his teeth, he grasped the arrow's shaft and prayed briefly that the point was neither bent nor serrated. In a groan of pain, the arrow was swiftly and sharply pulled from his body. The rest of the contents of his vial passed over his shoulder to disinfect the wound. It hurt like hell.

Then, Cayn seized the incandescent knife, its tip gleaming like a sadistic star. A deep breath, and the flesh crackled at the contact of the white-hot blade. An unpleasant smell of roasted fungus wafted into the cold night air, along with the scream of a man trying to escape death.