My heart was pounding at a rhythm completely incompatible with rational thought.
But thinking was all I had.
The creature was still, but the roots were closing in, tightening the circle.
It wasn't just a physical threat—it was a puzzle, a veiled challenge, like the forest was saying: "Prove you deserve to pass."
And I'm terrible with riddles, but excellent at cheating.
I picked up a small stone and threw it to the left, hitting the trunk of a tree. The dry sound echoed and bounced.
The creature turned its head, its amber eyes tracking the noise for a second.
It hears.
That was all I needed.
With a stupid idea blooming, I ran in the opposite direction.
The monster stretched out an arm, and a root cracked out from the ground toward me.
I leapt over it like a drunk acrobat, slammed my shoulder on a moss-covered rock, and rolled downhill until my body hit a ledge of compacted earth.
A branch fell inches from my head—or maybe it was part of one of its arms.
