Ezekiel

Ezekiel never thought death would come like this—flat on his back under pine trees and sky, pressed into the wet ground, each breath hurting like a splinter. He wasn't really afraid of dying, but the pain was overwhelming. It stabbed through his leg, where the trap's metal jaws had bitten through his boot and flesh, holding him tight like an animal. As he lay there, it hit him: this wasn't an accident. Someone had set the trap, and he'd walked right into it. The thought sent a jolt of fear through him, but also a flicker of determination—he would have to fight to survive.

He forced himself upright, muscles taut beneath his broad shoulders as his chest shuddered with the strain. The leather of his jerkin, torn and caked with blood, creaked at the seams while he steadied himself against the pain. His body, once chiselled by years of battle and training, was made not only to fight but to teach others—to strike, to hunt, and to endure. He had survived skirmishes that would have shattered the most seasoned of men. His blades had become extensions of his hands, and time after time, he'd staggered from the chaos, bloodied but alive.

Some whispered that the gods had favoured him—that when he took up a weapon, unseen hands guided his aim, channelling a strength beyond his own. But Ezekiel had never believed in such superstition. Now, with agony flooding his body, he almost laughed aloud at the thought. If gods did watch over him, surely they wouldn't have left him trapped and bleeding in a silent stretch of wilderness.

The air brimmed with the scent of iron and wet earth. Pines arched above him like ancient sentinels, their needles whispering secrets as the wind slid through, indifferent to pain below. The forest breathed in hushes and murmurs—cool, green, untamed. The metallic tang clung to his senses, a constant reminder of blood and injury. Hunger gnawed at him—not just for food, but for redemption, for a clemency as fleeting as morning mist in these woods. He replayed the trail in his mind: snapped underbrush, bent grasses, claw marks raked into soft bark, and the musky tang of milk and fur. She had cubs. He was sure of it.

Usually, that would have been enough. He would have backed away. But hunger had a way of grinding down conscience.

The trap had snapped shut with a crack like thunder. The bear's roar, deep and furious, rattled through his skull. Instinct took over—his blade flashed free, muscle memory guiding the strike before thought caught up. Steel bit into fur, slicing deep across her shoulder, nearly finding her throat. Hot blood spattered his hand, quick and bright. So close—almost fatal, but not enough.

Now his fingers shook, slick with sweat and blood, the hilt slippery beneath his grip. The blow hadn't been cruel; it was survival—raw and unvarnished. Yet guilt pooled in his chest, heavy and insistent, throbbing in time with the pain in his leg. The bear's suffering pressed on him, their fates tangled by violence and necessity.

A soft, ragged laugh escaped him; it was a laugh somewhere between half-breath and half-madness. Maybe this was what the gods called mercy. A clean end, but better than starving and the frostbite gnawing away at his toes in the mountain nights.

Agony slammed through him, sudden and raw, seizing his lungs and twisting the air out of his chest. His laugh fractured into a strangled gasp. Fingers scrabbled at the forest floor, nails splitting against roots and stone as he fought for something solid, something to hold him to the world. The earth yielded nothing. Only the trap's iron grin stared back—smeared with blood and dirt, jaws buried deep and merciless.

A low growl rumbled through the clearing.

Ezekiel lifted his head with effort, vision blurred, and the world sliding in and out of focus. The bear stood with blood streaked on her hide in thick, dark trails, fur clumped and matted over raw wounds. Her massive frame trembled, but she did not fall. Her breath came hard, and her chest was heaving, the wound at her shoulder dripping rhythmically into the soil. Through the haze, Ezekiel watched, his mind fraying at the edges. The air swam with heat and pain, and for a moment, he wanted to let go—to let the darkness take him.

Unconsciousness would be a release, with no more questions or reckoning. But memory would not grant him peace. They surged in, unbidden and vivid.

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