The wind howled through the jagged peaks of the highest mountain on The Island, carrying with it the bitter sting of frost. Ara, a small but fierce survivor, huddled beneath the twisted roots of an ancient tree. The cold bit at her skin, but she had faced worse. Tonight, she would endure.
The shadows moved. Eyes glowed in the dark. The mountain’s predators—silent, relentless—watched her. Wolves, their breath curling in the icy air, padded closer. A great eagle circled above, waiting for weakness. Even the snow itself held dangers, for hidden beneath were venomous serpents that slithered unseen.
Ara gripped her sharpened bone dagger, its edge worn but deadly. She had carved it from the remains of a fallen beast, a reminder that she was a fighter. Her heart pounded, but fear was a luxury she could not afford.
A snarl split the silence. A wolf lunged. Ara rolled, dodging its snapping jaws. With practiced precision, she struck, her dagger finding flesh. The beast yelped and stumbled back, but more followed. She could not win this fight—she had to run.
Scrambling to her feet, Ara sprinted through the snow, her breath ragged. The wolves gave chase, but she knew this mountain better than they did. She leaped across a frozen stream, landing just as the ice cracked behind her. A wolf misstepped and fell, swallowed by the frigid water. The others hesitated.
She did not stop. Higher she climbed, toward the cliffs where the air was thin and the beasts dared not go. There, she would find shelter in the caves, where only the wind could reach her.
As the first light of dawn touched the peak, Ara stood on the edge of the world, victorious. She had survived another night.
And she would survive many more.
