The monster killed the wolves first.
Not because it had decided to help him — he was under no illusion about that. It killed them because they were in its space and making noise and that was sufficient reason for something of its tier. It moved with a speed that had no business belonging to something that size, one hand closing around the nearest pack wolf before the animal could register the change in the room's threat level. The crack was immediate and absolute. It ate the wolf with the patient efficiency of something that did not waste motion, its golden eyes never leaving the old man.
He stood still. Sword held low, not raised. The posture that meant: I see you. I am not challenging you. Not yet.
The remaining wolves attacked the monster. They shouldn't have — something that size and tier should have triggered every survival instinct they had. But Pack Lord command overrode instinct. They went in anyway, which meant they would die on someone else's order.
They were fast. One of the larger ones opened a real wound across the monster's chest — he saw the blood, dark and thick, and heard the sound the monster made, which was not a sound he had a good reference for. Two more wolves hit it from behind. It staggered.
There. That was the window. And it would close in seconds.
He ran.
Not away. Across the hollow, at full speed, straight at the monster's turned back. He summoned the strongest blade he could manifest on two broken fingers and dwindling reserves — felt it form in his hand heavier and slower than he wanted, the runes along the fuller lighting blue-white — and drove it in at the base of the creature's spine with everything he had left.
The monster's roar shook the mountain. It spun and its claw passed over his head by less than a hand's width. He rolled, wrenched the blade free, came upright, and drove it in again between the ribs from the side, angled up toward the lung. The second blow landed correctly. He knew from the sound.
The monster fell. It took a long time to fall — things that large always did — and the impact of it hitting the cave floor sent a vibration through the stone he felt in his feet. Then stillness. Then the sound of the last wolves scattering through whatever gap they'd come in by.
He stood in the aftermath and took inventory. Armour: gone, the last pieces shattered by the claw arc that had nearly taken his head. Ribs: two broken, maybe three, the grinding wrong-feeling familiar enough that he could keep moving. Leg: bleeding again, the bite wound reopened during the sprint. Mana reserves: near the bottom of what he could sustain.
The boy was still alive. He could feel the pendant's warmth from across the hollow — a faint emanation that wasn't mana exactly but wasn't nothing, either.
He crossed to the alcove, gathered the child into his arms, and walked out of the mountain into what remained of the night.
— End of Chapter Three —