A blinding flash of light ripped through the darkness, leaving a faint whiff of ozone lingering in the air. From it, Philippe was flung out, his body stumbling and nearly crumpling onto the damp earth.
His breaths came in ragged bursts, each one searing his lungs. With wild, darting eyes, he scanned his surroundings—trees loomed like black skeletons against the night sky—searching for any hint of movement or the shadowy outlines of demon hounds that might have trailed him. Silence.
Only the pounding of blood in his ears and the rustle of wind-stirred leaves filled the void. No howls, no claws scraping the ground. The unseen burden on his shoulders eased, and he let out a long, trembling breath.
His muscles ached in protest, his eyelids heavy as lead, pleading to close. A fleeting vision of a bed and warm blankets flickered in his mind, only to be swiftly overtaken by another: a shattered doorframe, splintered wood, and deep claw marks carved into his bedroom floor.
A fresh wave of exhaustion crashed over him—not just from physical strain, but from the despair of picturing his sanctuary in ruins.
Philippe sighed again, softer this time, more resigned. His heavy, bowed head lifted slowly. In the distance, a warm speck of light—his earlier goal—now swayed nearer.
The lantern's glow danced, piercing the gloom, gradually revealing the figure holding it. Broad shoulders, sturdy, muscular arms—a man.
When the lantern's light finally bathed Philippe, the man's steps faltered. His jaw dropped, eyes widening at the sight of the slumped figure before him, smeared with dirt and crusted blood, looking no better than a child who'd tumbled through a muddy ditch.
A faint smile cracked Philippe's dry, chapped lips.
The last of his strength drained into that small gesture. The world tilted, colors blurring together, and the ground rushed up to meet him. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision.
Dimly, he heard the man's frantic shouts, a name called over and over. Philippe couldn't answer, only letting the smile linger as consciousness slipped away entirely. He knew—he was safe.
…
Philippe's eyelids fluttered, opened, then shut again before finally staying open. His entire body throbbed, as though every joint and muscle were laced with molten lead.
The sharp sting of antiseptic and the scent of clean linen greeted him—this was clearly not his room. Fragments of the previous night flashed through his mind: howls, claws, a burst of light, and a startled face behind a lantern.
He tried to sit up, but a sharp jolt from his ankle made him wince and sink back. His gaze traced his body—purple bruises mottled his arms, bandages swathed several spots, and his sprained ankle was tightly wrapped.
Yet, it wasn't just the injuries weighing him down. There was another presence, warm and rhythmic, resting on his thigh.
A girl, Emilie, lay asleep there, her cheek pressed against his trousers, her breathing steady. Philippe's slight shift seemed to rouse her.
Emilie stirred, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, then blinked groggily. Her sleep-clouded gaze met Philippe's. A brief pause, then realization hit. Her eyes widened.
"AAAAAAAAAAA!"
She nearly lunged to hug him but stopped short, her movements stiffening as she jerked her face aside. A flush raced from her neck to her ears.
Philippe felt heat climb his own cheeks. He scratched his temple with his index finger, eyes fixed on the blanket. "Did I wake you?"
"AHEM." Emilie cleared her throat loudly, standing awkwardly before dropping back into the chair beside the bed. She closed her eyes for a moment, drawing a deep breath to steady herself. "Are you feeling better?"
"It seems walking will be tough," Philippe rasped, his voice rough. His eyes lingered on his swollen ankle.
Emilie's gaze followed his, then flicked back to his face. "I checked your room. It's a total wreck. What actually happened?"
Philippe dipped his head briefly, then raised it with a forced smile, trying to sound casual. "Haha, you probably won't believe it."
Emilie didn't budge. Her face remained stern, her eyes insistent, waiting for the rest without a trace of amusement.
Feeling foolish for laughing alone, Philippe looked away for three seconds before meeting her gaze again, now matching her seriousness. "I was attacked by a rifthound," he said flatly.
Emilie's breath hitched. A short silence fell as she processed his words. Then she touched her chin with her thumb and forefinger, as if weighing something, while her foot tapped the wooden floor in a tense, quiet rhythm.
"Why are you always the target?" she asked sharply. "This is the third time. The first nearly killed you. The second was when you were with me. And now this… What did you do to draw their attention?"
Philippe stayed silent. If I knew, I'd have been ready from the start. My life's on the line, he thought bitterly. He shook his head slowly.
Emilie sighed, her disappointment plain. She felt an invisible wall between them. As she started to rise, ready to leave him in that silence, a soft voice stopped her.
"But…" Philippe looked at Emilie, who froze mid-motion. "I know who's after me."
"Not the rifthounds. A human."
Emilie's mouth parted slightly. "Are you serious?"
Philippe nodded firmly.
Emilie edged closer, dragging a wooden stool with a faint creak, then sat facing him. "Tell me."
"You know I passed out, right?" Philippe waited for her nod before continuing. "A rifthound took me somewhere that felt far away. There, I was surrounded."
Emilie listened closely, her eyes flicking to the wounds on Philippe's body, as if piecing things together. "Then you slaughtered them all?"
Philippe shook his head. "I didn't kill a single one." He paused, searching for the right words. "I escaped."
Emilie's expression held steady, still patient.
"The rifthound that took me suddenly turned on its own pack. They tore each other apart until one died. My guess is its job was just to bring me alive to its master. That's why, when the others threatened my life, it went berserk to protect me." Philippe lowered his head, occasionally glancing at Emilie, who remained silent.
"Why? What makes you think that?" Emilie asked then.
Philippe swallowed hard. The air in the room grew thick. A choice loomed: reveal the impossible truth—that he was a soul from another world trapped in a body called Philippe—or hold his tongue. The silence stretched until Emilie nearly spoke again, but Philippe's suddenly sharp gaze halted her.
"I can… sense the thoughts of dying creatures," he said softly, each word deliberate.
"At that moment, the rifthound that shielded me lay dying beside me, torn apart by its pack. And I—I touched it."
"I received its memories in an instant. Blurred fragments of its life as an ordinary wolf, then a painful transformation that scrambled its mind. Not everything's clear now, but one thing stood out, burned into its thoughts…"
Philippe stopped, locking eyes with Emilie.
"The silhouette of a human."
...
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