The creature lay still on the cold ground. Its snow-white fur, once smooth and bright, was now dull and clumped with blood. Three tails spread limply behind it, a mark of age and power. The Kyubiryn was a fox-like being once worshiped across Therian and Elven lands, often appearing in the old stories of the Vulpan tribes and the long extinct ancient elves. They were said to be guardians, feared and respected, strong enough to rival the false dragons, the mightiest creatures on Fiendfell. Given a few more centuries, this one might have reached that strength. But there would be no such future for this Kyubiryn.

  The Kyubiryn’s blue eyes, eyes almost as famous as its many tails, were vacant, still holding some semblance of life, but it was as though the soul that should animate those eyes had fled.

  It writhed, its body convulsing on the ground, and for a fleeting instant, something sparked in its gaze. A brief flicker, as if what was missing had returned, only to be lost again almost immediately. The creature convulsed once more, a strange, pitiful attempt at life, but there was no strength left in its motions.

  Then it happened.

  The creature’s body heaved violently, not from within its own control but from some external force. An eruption of blood burst forth from its abdomen, a grotesque fountain of organs and viscera squirted up before raining back to the ground. From within the Kyubiryn's ruptured body, a small figure emerged, one drenched in blood and gore.

  The figure, humanoid in shape but covered in a mess of entrails, let out a savage cry. It tore at the creature’s insides with feral desperation, sinking its teeth into the soft tissue and ripping through what remained of the Kyubiryn’s body. He was like a rabid animal, violently attacking the already dying beast, trying to inflict more damage than his initial, bloody escape had caused.

  Yet, despite this vicious assault, the Kyubiryn did not resist. It did not fight back, it didn’t even seem to care, for it had lost the ability to care, no doubt long before this moment, leaving the blood-soaked boy free to wreak havoc on its vulnerable body. The creature, despite everything, was still alive, its heart somehow beating, its lungs somehow pulling breath. But there was no soul left to fight, not an ounce of will left to survive.

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  After what felt like an eternity, the creature finally died. Its body went limp, leaving the small, blood-covered boy standing amid the gore, breathing heavily.

  It was then that he, the bloodied silhouette, noticed him.

  The sight brought a smile to his face, one of amusement. It was always interestingly funny when this happened, he thought, watching as the boy pulled himself from the pool of entrails. The boy approached, small in stature, his black hair slick with the blood of his prey. His green eyes gleamed with a mixture of confusion and rage.

  He looked to be around eight or nine years old, though his small frame made him appear even younger. The madness he displayed, paired with his youth, reminded him of someone he once knew, a thought that stirred a pang of nostalgia deep within him.

  Closing in, the boy’s expression twisted into something feral. Without warning, he lunged at him, wild and unhinged. He stopped the charge with ease, raising his cane and pushing the boy back with its end. The force sent him sprawling onto his back. He tried to recover, but the cane pressed against his chest, pinning him to the ground as he struggled beneath it.

  The brief moment of nostalgia faded, replaced by cold detachment, the usual state he found himself in. The boy beneath him was a pathetic thing, writhing, clawing, and screaming in a mindless frenzy. Yet there was something familiar in his madness, something that echoed a memory best left buried.

  He would really hate this, he thought, if he ever knew that something like this boy reminded him of him. He shook his head, staring down at the boy’s wild, crazed eyes. The only thing they shared was the rage, the madness. His had been something else. Compared to him, this boy was true madness, senseless as they come.

  The boy screamed again, his hands clawing desperately at the cane, trying to break free, but he held him down effortlessly. He looked at him almost pityingly.

  Should he give the boy what no one could give him? The thought drifted through his mind, soft, barely audible over the boy’s screams. Should he give him what he could never bring himself to grant him?

  For a long moment, he considered. His gaze swept over the pitiful, wriggling form beneath him. Then he came to a decision.

  He usually avoided interfering, but for the sake of a sweet memory the boy had brought back, he would grant him the deliverance he deserved.

  He lifted his cane, pressing its tip lightly against the boy’s forehead. And then, just as simply, he withdrew.

  He watched as the boy stood, confused, glancing around as if unsure of what had just occurred. His previous rage had faded, leaving only bewilderment in its place. He looked around, as though he had never noticed him, as though he had never been there.

  But he was.

  He always was.

  He might, at times, look away, as he did now, but his gaze never truly left. He was always watching.