‎

‎He froze when three figures eased out of a bunker hole carved into the mountainside and stopped to scan the ridges. For a heartbeat surprise flashed across Chakar’s face before he smoothed it into a flat, unreadable mask. His eyes were a hard warning: don’t test me.

‎

‎First Guy (whispering, eyes narrowing): “Looks like someone’s there… and it’s a kid.”

‎Second Guy (tilting his head, a weird smirk): “Huh. Surprised — he’s scared of the night.”

‎Third Guy (stepping forward, metal flashing): “You really thought we wouldn’t notice you?”

‎

‎Chakar’s jaw tightened. He didn’t waste breath. His voice came low, sharp as ice.

‎Chakar (cold): “I don’t have time for your jokes. You three aren’t from this village.”

‎

‎First Guy laughed — a short, arrogant sound.

‎First Guy (shrugging): “Manners? He’s got none. Should we kill the kid, then?”

‎Second Guy’s smirk split into something meaner.

‎Second Guy (soft, hungry): “Definitely. Let’s ruin that pretty face.”

‎Third Guy’s hand slid toward his weapon; the moon caught the metal. They closed in, teeth bared.

‎

‎Water gathered around Chakar’s fingers like a sleepy animal called to wake. He didn’t smile. He didn’t flinch.

‎Chakar (flat, barely audible): “Don’t.”

‎

‎The air snapped. The water around his hands tightened, coiling like a noose.

‎

‎They attacked as one — rock and earth hurled by First Guy, burning licks of flame from Second Guy, shards of biting ice from Third Guy. The assault slammed forward in a synchronized howl: rocks, fire, and glass-cold death converging.

‎

‎Chakar tilted his head, a slow, contemptuous smile. “Looks like this isn’t even a serious battle… you all have boring styles.”

‎

‎Before their first breath hit him, Chakar’s water fled his palms like living snakes, slipping into mouths and throats with surgical silence. Panic flared ugly across their faces. Their bodies convulsed — limbs twisting, eyes bulging — and then, without a scream, each one ruptured inwardly, collapsing into nothing but ragged cloth and a snapped promise of violence.

‎

‎Chakar flicked his wrist. A cool swirl of water ghosted over the ground and the ruined clothes, smoothing dark stains and broken earth until the ridgeline looked untouched  like the fight had been a shadow that never was. No scorch, no splintered bone, no blood. Clean.

‎

‎He stepped back, hands falling to his sides, faint grin curled at one corner of his mouth.

‎“Better. Now it’s clean. Don’t want anyone noticing my fun.”

‎

‎Scene shift to the temple

‎The mountain wind carried a faint echo — deep, metallic, and rhythmic. The temple loomed ahead, shadowed against the moonlight. Salal moved silently across the stone steps, every footfall measured, eyes locked on the gleaming Zorgor Stone resting at the altar.

‎

‎He reached out, fingertips brushing the cold, polished surface, and lifted it with deliberate care. The stone hummed faintly in response, a quiet pulse against his palm. Slipping it onto his back, strapped tight against his armor, Salal straightened, a shadow of a grin tugging at his lips.

‎

‎Then it happened.

‎

‎BONG… BONG… BONG…

‎

‎The temple bell tolled, deep and resonant, each strike vibrating through the mountainside. The sound wasn’t just a warning — it was a signal, the ancient mark that someone had dared to steal the Zorgor Stone. Every creature, every guardian, every hidden watcher within the temple walls would now know: the stone had been taken.

‎

‎Salal’s grip tightened on the straps across his back. His eyes flicked to the dark corridors behind him. The chill in the temple seemed to sharpen, like the night itself was watching, waiting, ready to strike.

‎

‎Salal (whispering to himself, tense): “Time to move… before they even know what hit them.”

‎

‎Shadows shifted along the edges of the temple, subtle but present. The echo of the bell continued to vibrate, a haunting rhythm in the frozen air. It wasn’t just a warning to the temple—it was a declaration. Salal had the stone now, and every second he lingered increased the danger.

‎

‎The bell’s deep toll vibrated through the mountain temple and into the village below. Yet, almost immediately, the Syraas stirred. Every hidden watcher, every shadow-born sentinel, felt it — the unmistakable alarm that a Zorgor Stone had been taken.

‎

‎Without a word, the elite Syraas operatives moved, whispers of water, shadow, and air bending around them. With practiced precision, each used a suppression technique, a silent pulse that muted sound and perception:

‎

‎The bell’s toll became inaudible to the sleeping villagers, fading like it had never rung.

‎

‎Any residual tremors that might give away the theft were absorbed, twisted, or redirected into the mountain itself.

‎

‎Even the faintest magical hum of the stone was veiled, hidden from normal senses.

‎

‎

‎Only those attuned to the Syraas’ heightened perception — commanders, masters, and elite scouts — could sense the intrusion.

‎

‎From the shadows, the Syraas commander’s voice cut through the minds of his operatives, sharp and commanding:

‎Commander (telepathic, crisp): “Alert all units. Check every corner, every ridge, every alley. Someone has taken the Zorgor Stone. I want eyes on them before they leave these mountains.”

‎

‎The operatives moved like water through cracks, gliding over rooftops, slipping between trees, each a living shadow. Their eyes glimmered in the moonlight as they spread across the village, scanning, probing, sensing.

‎

‎Meanwhile, the sleeping villagers dreamed on, oblivious to the stolen stone, the ringing bell, or the storm of Syraas precision descending upon them.

‎

‎The hunt had begun. The stone was taken, and no one — not a single villager — would know it until it was too late.

‎

‎Salal burst from the temple’s shadow like a blade cut loose. His lungs burned, but his legs carried him with that trained Seyrah rhythm — fast, balanced, relentless. Every step was a hammer strike against stone, his body flowing through the mountain terrain like he’d been born in the ridges themselves.

‎

‎The Zorgor Stone weighed heavy across his back, humming with a cold pulse that beat against his spine. Every throb felt like a beacon, like it wanted to scream out his position to the entire mountain.

‎

‎His breath cut in sharp bursts: ha—ha—ha, chest rising like a war drum.

‎But his mind? Steady.

‎

‎Seyrah training kicked in.

‎Eyes scanning ridgelines.

‎Feet finding holds without hesitation.

‎Every leap from rock to rock landed silent, precise, efficient.

‎This wasn’t panic. This was survival choreography.

‎

‎Behind him, the temple’s shadows stirred. The Syraas had already begun their hunt — they didn’t shout, they didn’t warn. They slipped into the night, their presence folding into the wind itself.

‎

‎Salal felt it. Not with his ears. Not with his eyes. With that deep instinct Seyrahs trained for years to sharpen. The prickle in the air. The shiver on his neck. The knowing that predators were in the dark.

‎

‎He clenched his jaw, muttering under his breath between ragged breaths:

‎Salal (gritting teeth): “Too fast… you won’t catch me… not tonight.”

‎

‎He pushed harder.

‎Hands scraped rock, legs coiled and released like springs. He vaulted ledges, slid under overhangs, spun around a narrow ridge that could’ve killed any normal runner. The mountains became his ally — familiar, brutal, and alive under his stride.

‎

‎But the Syraas… they weren’t slowing.

‎They didn’t chase like men. They glided. Every time Salal thought he’d lost them, he caught the faintest flicker at the corner of his vision — a ripple of shadow, a blur against the stars, a pair of glimmering eyes watching.

‎

‎And the bell’s toll still echoed in his head.

‎BONG… BONG… BONG…

‎

‎Even silenced, he could feel it. Like the mountains themselves were reminding him — the whole world now hunted him.

‎

‎Salal snarled, forcing his body faster, voice a hiss of defiance against the cold air:

‎Salal (spitting): “Come then. Let’s see who breaks first.”

‎

‎The Zorgor Stone pulsed harder against his back — as if it was laughing.

‎

‎The mountains shook with the sound of pursuit.

‎

‎They were on him — above, behind, too close. Salal’s breath came in ragged bursts, his chest burning as his legs carried him faster than he thought possible.

‎

‎“Don’t let him go!” a Syraas roared, the cry cracking the night.

‎“Cut him off!” another shouted, boots pounding against stone.

‎

‎Salal’s heart nearly stopped at the voices. They were close — so close he could feel them pressing down on him.

‎

‎A Syraas lunged from the ridge ahead. Salal swerved, his ankle twisting hard. Pain shot up his leg, but he kept moving, stumbling forward on instinct. Another came from behind. His body threw itself sideways before his mind could catch up, scraping through a tight crack in the rock. Stone tore his arms raw, but the gap was narrow enough to slow the chase.

‎

‎He burst out the other side, dirt filling his mouth as he hit the ground face-first. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. But then his body rolled, his legs pushed, and somehow he was running again.

‎

‎The shouts echoed behind him — closer, furious. “He’s slipping through! Faster!”

‎

‎His vision blurred, tears stinging, but he forced himself higher up the ridge. His legs shook, barely holding. His breaths broke into wet sobs, each one a stab in his chest.

‎

‎Then — the ridgeline split. A sharp turn opened into the higher slopes.

‎

‎Salal threw everything into it, lungs tearing, muscles screaming. He climbed, clawing at stone with bleeding hands, dragging himself up where the ground broke into jagged steps.

‎

‎The shouts grew distant. The pounding of boots behind him faded. For the first time since the chase began, the air carried only his own gasps.

‎

‎He collapsed to his knees, body trembling, face pale and streaked with dirt. His heart thrashed like it would rip out of his chest. The stone on his back pulsed heavier than ever, pressing him down — but he was alive.

‎

‎He had escaped.

‎

‎The peaks rose around him, black and sharp under the pale moon. The mountains stretched endless and merciless, and he was nothing more than a terrified figure climbing into their jaws.

‎

‎But he had reached them.

‎

‎And the chase, though broken for now, was far from over.

‎

‎Salal’s lungs were burning, each breath tearing his chest as he stumbled up the last stretch of the rocky slope. His legs felt like they would give out any second, but the mountains finally loomed above him—jagged, cruel, yet offering the only safety he could hope for. Behind him, Syraas’ furious voices still echoed:

‎

‎“Don’t let him go!”

‎

‎Salal’s heart skipped. He threw himself forward, scraping his palms on the rough stone, hauling his body higher until the shouts grew faint. His vision blurred, tears mixing with sweat. Every sound, every crunch of gravel behind him felt like death closing in.

‎

‎And then—

‎

‎A strong hand caught him before he collapsed. For a split second, Salal thought the Syraas had caught him again. He thrashed weakly, gasping, too terrified to even scream.

‎

‎But then he heard a voice, low and steady:

‎

‎“Easy, Salal… it’s me. Azaar.”

‎

‎His blurred eyes blinked, and through the haze he saw Azaar standing there, face lit by the thin mountain moonlight. Azaar’s grip was firm but protective, pulling Salal up to his feet.

‎

‎Salal’s body shook, knees threatening to buckle. His words came out broken, stuttered between sobs:

‎

‎“T-they… they almost… I couldn’t—”

‎

‎Azaar cut him off, steadying him. “You made it here. That’s enough. You’re safe now… I’ve got you.”

‎

‎Far below, Syraas’ shouts carried up the mountainside, still hunting, still furious. But up here, with Azaar beside him, Salal finally let out a trembling breath. The terror hadn’t left his bones, but at least he wasn’t alone anymore

‎