That is a child, and they’re in danger.
My heart leaps into my throat. Throwing down my pack, I don’t think, I just run.
“Arlet!” Vann’s voice call behind me, but I’m already moving. My feet pound against the uneven ground, and my breath is ragged as I sprint toward the sound.
As I round a sharp bend in the path, more fear sears through me. There is still enough light for me to spot a small form swathed in green fabric. A child is huddled against the rocks, barely more than a blur in the distance. I push harder. It doesn’t matter that my legs sting and there is a sharp bite of cold air in my lungs.
Vann halts just behind me, cursing under his breath. His pack is also gone, though he holds his cleaver.
“What the hell is a child doing here?” he grumbles.
His eyesight is better than mine, and I turn to ask more questions, but a low growl rolls through the pass.
I freeze mid-step, my body locking up as my ears strain.
Another sound echoes off the stone, vibrating deep in my bones. My pulse pounds, each beat faster than the last.
“A wolf?” I barely manage to get out. Could it be stalking the child?
Vann shakes his head. “No, that wasn’t a wolf.”
Before I can respond, another sound comes from above us. I glance up just as a few pebbles dislodge from a shelf of rock, tumbling down in lazy spirals.
The child screams again in a language I don’t know, and a cold shock slaps across my shoulder blades.
Vann moves, silent as death, holding out his cleaver. He moves like he is the predator—lithe, aware, stealthy.
I hold my breath and scan the cliffs, waiting.
Then, the creature comes into view.
Its tawny coat blends almost perfectly with the sun-soaked rocks, and its muscles ripple beneath its fur. Golden eyes lock onto us, unyielding.
It’s feline and undeniably powerful. A mountain cat.
“Arlet, get behind me,” Vann commands, his voice low and steady.
I obey, breath shallow as the creature prowls closer, gracefully leaping down a series of sloping formations. Its tail lashes, muscles coiling beneath its sleek frame, ready to strike.
Vann stands firm, blade raised. His body is drawn taut like a bowstring. Every movement is controlled.
Then, in an instant, the lion moves—not at Vann, but to the side, toward the pile of rocks where the child hides.
I dive before my mind catches up. The world narrows to the space between me and the child. The lion turns, golden eyes flashing as its focus shifts to me. Vann shouts something, but I don’t stop.
The child—an elven boy, no older than what I would consider five in human years—looks up, terrified. The child's skin is the deep, warm brown of polished walnut, and he’s wrapped in a finely woven green coat. I reach him just as the lion lunges, throwing myself between them.
Pain explodes in my side as the creature’s claws rake across my ribs. White-hot, agony sears along the space. The air is punched frommy lungs, but I manage to shove the boy behind me. His hands tug on the back of my coat, throwing me off balance.
My Fuegorra heats in my chest, working in record time to heal the deep wound faster than the tears on my face can fall.
“Vann!” I scream, grabbing the first rock my fingers find and hurling it at the beast.
The mountain lion snarls. It crouches, tail flicking, preparing to strike again. I brace myself for the killing blow.
And then Vann is there. His blade flashes like silver lightning.
The child sobs and seeks my hands. He repeats something over and over in what I assume is an unknown dialect of elvish.