Zohra Series Book 1: Karshok
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Nooz Aster
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54
Chapter 1
Book 1: Karshok
The life we knew is over.
That’s what my captive friend used to say before he was killed. That’s what we all said.
The forest is black as ink; the cold gnaws at my exposed skin. The days are humid and suffocating, but the nights turn brutally cold. My thighs burn as I crouch, my body aching from hours of crawling and sneaking.
I always gather at night. If anyone saw me, I’d kill them.
I’ve done it before.
We’ve all killed.
My fingers tighten around the hard shells of the alien nuts I’ve managed to scavenge. They’re rare, hard to find, and I need them. If everyone searched for them, I’d have nothing.
I need them if I want to stay unchosen.
The encampment will stir soon. The others will wake. Another day of labor, of whispers that die when I get too close, of eyes flicking to my arms, my thighs, my stomach.
I’m different from them. Healthier. Stronger. Practically thriving compared to their wiry frames.
And they hate me for it.
Fifteen years ago, my biggest problem was grinding for gear in an MMORPG. I’d stay up until dawn, eating junk food and drinking soda, my only exercise being the frantic clicks of a mouse and keyboard.
The solitary danger was some overpowered raid boss wrecking my party—or worse, a toxic guild member flaming me in chat.
Back then, scavenging was a game. Click to loot, gain XP. Death? No big deal, just respawn and do better next time.
I used to joke that I’d be screwed in an apocalypse. Turns out, I wasn’t wrong.
I shift against the rough bark of an old pine, my pulse steadying. The mix of Earth trees and blue, spiraling alien growths makes my stomach twist. Ghosts of what was. Proof of what will never be again.
They came fast. They came ruthless. The aliens and their monstrosities.
We thought our technology would do something—anything—against the hordes of invaders.
It was a joke. We were a joke.
Now we’re slaves. Cattle butchered the moment we become useless.
A gust of wind rattles the trees. But something else moves too. Slow. Deliberate. A predator.
Something cracks. Loud. Close.
I freeze.
Silence.
A minute passes. Then another. I exhale slowly, heart hammering.
Then, movement.
I inch around the tree, my breath caught in my throat. A white form flickers between the trunks, fast and fluid. My hand flies to my mouth, smothering a gasp.
I inch back.
Mistake.
My foot snags on a root. My balance tips.
A sharp inhale—not mine.
I freeze.
A Fhaen.
From a distance, we can’t tell the difference between male and female Fhaen, but the sharp contrast between his white skin and leather-clad frame is all I need to see—he’s male. A hunter.
My stomach twists. The women are cruel, but the men are ruthless. They don’t just enforce. They hunt.
The leather strapped around his chest and arms is meant for function, not decoration. He’s not a ruler. He’s a weapon.
The Fhaen whistles—short and sharp. A sound that cuts through the silence, then vanishes like my breath.
He crouches.
I scramble back, a tremor running through me.
He hasn’t seen me. Not yet.
The Fhaen moves with eerie patience, eyes sweeping the dark, head tilting like he can hear my heartbeat.
I shove the nuts into the sack I wear and press myself flat against the ground, barely breathing at all.
My lungs ache from the effort of staying still.
The Fhaen moves slowly, methodically. Each step is deliberate, like he has all the time in the world.
He’s getting closer.
I can’t outrun him. I can’t outfight him.
But I can mislead him.
I reach for a small rock beside me, inching closer to it silently. My fingers close around it. If I make a sound—too close, too obvious—I’m dead.
I flick my wrist. The rock sails through the darkness and lands with a soft thump somewhere to my right.
The Fhaen’s head snaps toward the noise.
He pauses. Listens. Then, with barely a shift in his body, he glides toward it.
I don’t hesitate.
I push up onto my elbows, then my knees. Silent. I need to be silent.
The moment he moves deeper into the trees, I bolt.
Not a full sprint—that would be suicide. Quick, careful steps, dodging roots, slipping between thick trunks.
I don’t look back. Looking back slows you down.
The trees blur around me. My thighs scream, my lungs burn, but I don’t stop.
A second whistle pierces the air.
Shit!
Not a hunting whistle. A signal.
I shove my fist against my mouth to keep from cursing.
There’s another one. Close.
I veer left, toward a dense cluster of alien trees, their thick, twisting roots forming natural barriers. If I can get deep enough, low enough—
A rustle ahead.
I skid to a stop. Heart hammering.
Did I just run straight into another one?
