Boundless Evolution: The Summoning Beast

The faint hum of the tracker's energy had long faded, but the air in the ravine still trembled as if holding its breath.

Every sound—the drip of water, the rustle of roots overhead—felt amplified, heavy with meaning.

Bennet and Kieran crouched in the half-dark, backs pressed against the cool stone. Their breathing was shallow, controlled, the silence between them louder than any roar as their assumed rest was brought short.

Bennet's eyes flicked toward the cave mouth.

"How much time before they find us?"

Kieran pressed a hand to the ground, his brow furrowed, feeling the faint tremor travel through his fingertips. "If it's the soldiers from the Defence Order of Nareth District," he began, his voice low and tense, "they won't take long. Their scouts move faster than most village forces—they'll be here in a half hour, not hours."

However, he did not seem to have finished talking as he lifted his gaze toward the now broken tracker which was leaking its final emissions of a red glow. Its pulse reflected in his eyes like a heartbeat of fire.

"And that thing—" he continued, his tone sharpening as a hint of panic escaped his voice, "it's not standard Nareth issue. That's a capital design used by the policing force in the capital, it comes directly from Malakar. This means someone from the capital was actually stationed here and waiting. They'll be here sooner than either of us is ready for."

The weight of his words struck like a physical blow, the air itself seeming to grow heavier around them. The silence stretched, oppressive and absolute, as if the ravine itself were holding its breath.

Bennet nodded slowly, rubbing his temple, "Then if we stay, they'll be breathing down our necks before we can rest."

"No..." Kieran's jaw tightened, "Fleeing is worse. The ravine opens to barren ground for a hundred paces. No cover, no escape. We'd die before we made ten steps. There is no outrunning the summons that these trackers are linked to."

Bennet's gaze lingered on him, "So we make our stand here."

"Here," Kieran confirmed. His eyes traced the jagged lines of the cave wall, "The terrain's our ally if we use it right. That entrance narrows into a choke point. Big as it is, whatever's coming will have to crawl through one at a time."

He paused, a faint grin ghosting across his face, "I have an idea! Back in the academy, do you remember that cave drill in the south quarry? The one I turned into a trap?"

Bennet frowned, "You mean the one that nearly buried the instructors alive?"

"The same," Kieran said, his tone softening with memory, "I stacked oil jars behind loose rock, made it look like a dead end. When the patrol pushed through, I triggered the collapse and sealed them in. Same principle here. If we can bait it into the funnel, we use its own strength against it."

Bennet chuckled quietly, "You've always had a knack for reckless ideas."

"And you've always been the one to make them work," Kieran countered with a faint smile.

The moment lingered—two soldiers bound by memory, separated from the world that once gave them purpose.

Then Bennet's voice dropped again, calm but edged with that commanding tone he used when strategy took over. "You've always been clever with traps, but you and I both know a few collapsing rocks won't stop an entire squad. What about the rest of them, Kieran?"

Kieran gave a short, humourless laugh. "You always did underestimate my flair for improvisation."

He brushed dust from his hands, eyes narrowing at the dark beyond the cave mouth, "The collapsing cave mouth will be the first big trap and it should split them up into two groups. It should delay them enough for us to get away but in the chance that they ignore that and just continue looking for us, we'll just make the place cave in."

His gaze flicked to the roots above them and the loose boulders embedded in the wall, "If we line the ceiling with the oil and pitch, then pull the supports once they enter, the fire will fall right on them. The smoke alone will choke them out."

He glanced back to Bennet, the glint of reckless confidence returning to his eyes, "If the fire doesn't kill them, the collapsing ceiling will. We won't just buy minutes—we'll bury the ones stuck in here."

Bennet's brow furrowed, "And what about us? You sure this cave won't come down on our heads too?"

Kieran hesitated, running a hand across the damp stone, feeling the subtle tremor running through it.

After two seconds, he gave a small shrug, half a smirk playing at his lips, "Stability's a matter of luck, Benny. We've had worse odds before."

Bennet shook his head, exhaling through his nose, "Luck isn't much of a plan."

"Maybe not," Kieran replied, checking the flasks again, his tone wry, "But it's gotten us this far. Besides, if it's between luck and waiting to be torn apart, I'll take my chances with the rocks."

Bennet studied him in silence before replying, "I concede..."

They moved quickly but methodically, each motion deliberate. Kieran began laying out the oil flasks in a half-circle near the entrance, his hands steady despite the tension.

"We'll need three along the ceiling cracks. The pressure should carry the flame upward when it bursts," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Bennet crouched beside him, wedging a flat rock beneath a loose slab to serve as a pivot.

"And these?" he asked, holding up a few rusted spear shafts scavenged from the corner.

Kieran nodded, "Pit spikes. Line them below the weak points—if the fire doesn't stop them, the collapse will pin anyone trying to push through."

The two men worked in unison, their movements wordless but practiced.

The sound of their effort filled the hollow—the scrape of metal, the crunch of gravel under boots, the soft slosh of oil being poured. The acrid scent filled the air, mixing with damp earth and old dust.

Sweat rolled down Bennet's temple as he pushed a heavy boulder into place, his muscles straining.

They placed the last of the makeshift spikes, braced the oil flasks behind the rocks, and stood side by side near the choke point.

Oil gleamed faintly in the dim light, dripping between cracks like veins of molten glass. The smell was strong enough to sting their eyes.

"Give me the last of the pitch," Bennet said.

Kieran tossed it to him, and Bennet coated the last row of stones, sealing them tight, "That'll hold."

The two stepped back. For a moment, they simply stood there as dust trickled from above, drifting through the thin moonlight that seeped into the cave.

Bennet let out a slow breath.

"Lucas would hate this smell," he murmured absently, "Said smoke makes everything taste like ash."

Kieran's expression softened but he said nothing. Instead, he began to tie one of the oil flasks to a long cord of vine and set it near the entrance.

"Trip fuse," he explained quietly, "The first man through won't even see it."

When they were done, the cave felt less like shelter and more like a trap waiting to breathe. The air was thick, trembling with the promise of fire.

They exchanged a brief nod. The fear was still there—sharp, cold, unrelenting—but beneath it was something stronger: resolve. They had fought a hundred battles before. This one would be no different.

Bennet drew his sword, the steel whispering as it left the scabbard, "How many times have we done this?"

"Enough," Kieran said with a wry smile, "And never enough."

Outside, a faint gust rolled through the ravine, carrying the echo of distant voices and the steady rhythm of boots on stone.

The soldiers of the Defence Order of Nareth District were advancing cautiously, their torches struggling to stay lit against the thickening wind.

The air reeked of ash and wet stone. Every man in the unit felt the same unease—the silence was wrong, too complete, like a held breath waiting to exhale violence.

Captain Voln lifted his hand, signaling a halt, "Form up. Shields front."

His voice carried, hard but strained.

The glow from the torches painted his armor in shades of rust and gold. Behind him, the commander and his vice commander observed from horseback, silhouettes framed by the red shimmer of the summoning mark on the beast ahead.

The Netherbreed stirred, the summoning mark along its neck glowing brighter until it pulsed like a living ember. The red veins across its body writhed with each breath, its movements jerky and unnatural, as though driven by invisible strings tugged from afar.

The soldiers watched in mute awe as the creature obeyed some unheard command, turning its molten gaze toward the ravine.

Fear rippled through their ranks—men gripping their weapons tighter, eyes wide with dread—while behind them, the commander sat utterly still, the faint light of control sigils glimmering under his gauntlet.

This was the Inquisitor's summon, the Netherbreed, the capital's living weapon leading their hunt. It rose from the dark like smoke taking shape, its form shifting between shadow and flesh. Its breath steamed the air, its low growl vibrating through the ground beneath the soldiers' boots.

One of them whispered a prayer, voice trembling.

Voln shot him a sharp look, "No prayers. You think the gods will listen to cowards? Eyes forward."

But even he felt the pull of awe—a grim reverence. The beast had followed the trail flawlessly. It had found them.

For a brief moment, relief brushed his chest. They had succeeded where men would have failed.

Eryndor leaned down from his horse, his voice barely audible but sharp, "My summon does not err. Follow its lead."

Voln nodded curtly, ordering the men, "Move in, two lines."

The soldiers stepped forward, the rhythm of their march echoing off the canyon walls.

The sound carried into the cave like a drumbeat of war.

Inside, Bennet's grip tightened on his sword.

"They're here," he said quietly.

Kieran crouched near the trip fuse, hand hovering over the vine cord.

"Just say when."