The beast reared its head back with a violent jerk that made the air tremble, and the roar that tore out of its throat was the most intense sound Riley had ever heard. To be fair, it was the only time she had ever been on the receiving end of a carnivore caribou battle cry, but still.

  She had one pathetic hail mary between her and becoming lunch meat.

  She had to act now. The animal was only playing with its food, pushing the proverbial peas around the plate. If she didn’t make the first move, that thing would be on her faster than she could react.

  She sucked in a sharp breath, forced everything she had into one desperate swing, and brought the pickaxe down toward the animal’s skull with every ounce of strength she could scrape together.

  At that same instant the predator pushed backward, its front hooves launching it in a quick, startling retreat.

  The pickaxe cleaved straight into the ground. Her hands still glued to it despite the nervous sweat that lubricated the hold.

  The impact jarred her arms all the way to the shoulder. The metal head buried itself deep, wedged in the soil like it had decided to retire from combat and pursue life as a fence post. Riley held the handle in both hands, frozen.

  Her eyes widened.

  So did the caribou’s.

  They recognized the disaster together, a shared moment of clarity that would have been funny if it had not been horrifying.

  The creature lowered its body like a spring being pulled tight before it launched forward at violent speed.

  She yanked at the pickaxe. The handle did not move.

  She yanked again, harder. Nothing.

  The world stretched into slow motion, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

  Her tombstone would read: “Death by ravenous reindeer.”

  How absolutely iconic.

  The spring uncoiled and the beast launched towards her.

  Before its hind legs even left the ground something slammed into its side.

  A streak of fur. A heavy impact. A raw, furious growl that came from something much smaller but apparently much braver.

  The caribou was shoved sideways from the impact.

  Riley couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It was that freaking dog!

  The dog scrambled for footing, then squared itself behind the caribou, snapping and growling with impossible ferocity.

  Riley tried yanking the pickaxe again and it jerked free at last. She fell backward, in a messy, graceless sprawl.

  She stared at the two wild opponents.

  That dog had just come to her rescue. Well, it hadn’t completely rescued her yet because it was still in a snarling match with the caribou, but it was being stupidly brave on her behalf.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The caribou was enormous compared to the dog. This was not a fair fight. But the dog didn’t seem to care. It growled, ears pinned back, body low and ready. Riley scrambled up onto her feet again, her heart still hammering against her ribs.

  The caribou looked between them as both Riley and the dog were in front of it now. Its head swung toward Riley and the dog erupted into a vicious bark, sharp enough to slice through the standoff like a knife.

  The caribou snapped back at the dog and snarled louder. It took a tense, dangerous step toward the smaller animal. Its body trembled with barely restrained aggression.

  This was her chance. If she was going to run, it had to be now. She lifted her gaze toward the tower. It looked impossibly far. Her legs were shaking but she had to try.

  The beast took a half step forward, signaling its intention.

  Riley turned her eyes back to the confrontation.

  A loud, wet crunch split the air.

  It echoed through the clearing with the sickening heaviness of a watermelon obliterated by a sledgehammer.

  The caribou’s eyes rolled back instantly.

  It staggered, hooves scrambling and failing to find the ground.

  One more step. Then another.

  It collapsed in a heavy thud.

  A spray of warm droplets hit Riley’s face. She jerked back in shock. She raised her hand, touching her cheek, her temple. It was the animal’s blood. She blinked at the smear on her fingers and felt something in her chest twist violently.

  Her pickaxe was no longer in her hands. She hadn’t thought or planned. She had simply reacted. She had swung the tool down again with a desperate cry, striking the caribou’s neck.

  The blow landed without design. Survival instinct alone had guided her hands.

  She could barely see. Her arms shook uncontrollably. Her adrenaline felt like electricity buzzing under her skin.

  The dog watched her with its mouth closed now, teeth hidden away, ears up, head tilted as if it too couldn’t believe what Riley had just done.

  Her knees gave out.

  She fell forward and reached her arms up to wrap them around her head. Her whole body shook. She let out a long scream, the sound breaking and shuddering as sobs tangled through it.

  She had killed countless monsters before in her games. But they had vanished politely when defeated. They did not bleed. They did not fall with weight and heat and sound. They did not leave her with red speckles across her face.

  This was real. Awful and real.

  The dog moved closer, slow and cautious unsure whether she was about to continue pulverizing the corpse or collapse entirely. Riley didn’t notice. Her palms covered her face. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

  The dog let out a quiet whimper and nudged her shoulder gently with its nose.

  Riley flinched and screamed, scrambling backward. The dog lowered its head, ears flat, tail wagging softly like it had that day at the Rivermark gate. It inched forward again, trying to close the distance.

  “Stop,” Riley said, voice cracking. “No. Stay back.”

  Her hands trembled violently. She had no weapon now. Nothing to swing. Nothing to hold between herself and whatever came next.

  The dog hesitated. Then it backed up a little, tail still wagging.

  It waited.

  When Riley did not calm, did not reach out, did not speak again, the dog seemed to understand. Its ears twitched. It gave a single small, apologetic bark, the sound soft and almost cheerful.

  Then it turned and bolted in the direction of the tower.

  Riley sat there shaking for another minute before she forced her body upright. Her legs were absolute rubber. She kept scanning the woods worried these caribou hunted in packs.

  She walked to the river, each step slow and deliberate, meant as much to avoid drawing additional predators as to spare her failing legs. She crouched and splashed water on her face, wiping away the blood, cooling her overheated skin. She patted her neck, letting the cold settle her nerves, grounding herself in the simple feeling of water and gravity.

  After a long pause she forced herself to turn around.

  It looked like a crime scene. Blood pooled thick and dark on the ground, following the dip of the terrain. The caribou’s body lay twisted and still. Her pickaxe lay beside it, blade stained.

  She could look at it now without hyperventilating, but her insides still churned. She would need therapy. Maybe several types. Grief counseling, trauma counseling, fear of nature counseling. She would need to talk to someone with very soft lighting and an expensive degree about this someday.

  But someday was not today. Today she had work to finish. Time did not care if she wanted to crawl into her tower, lock the new door, and never come out again.

  “Suck it up Riley.” she whispered to herself.

  She picked up her gear. She washed the pickaxe in the river until the water ran clear again. Her hands still shook a little, but she could grip the handle.

  She took one last look at the clearing, at the blood and the earth and the silent animal.

  Then she turned and walked back toward the tower, wanting to leave this place behind her.

  Far behind.