And the children came groping, with smiles on their faces,

To sniff out the traces and follow the tracks,

Blessed enthusiasm, that led them headlong to rest.

M. Kefhaer, The Hunter's Test.

He was running.

His heart was pumping blood at high speed. Blood boiling with adrenaline. The forest oozed a thick fog that blurred the pine trees on both sides of the narrow, muddy trail. Derren felt the cold and wet on his calloused feet. His knees brushed against the ferns, pushing them aside as he went and waiting to be pushed aside again by the companion trailing behind.

As the days passed, they had fallen. One by one, death caught up with them. Grohen, the fattest, was taken by a poisonous mushroom. No one was surprised, for he had a second stomach where his brain should have been.

Dirla was left behind and died at the hands of wild wolves. Hungry wolves, judging by how the carcass was found. These were bad times for any creature's stomach. A lean time.

Balut was killed by a twenty-meter fall: the bed he had improvised on the branches of a tree broke while he was sleeping. He never woke up.

The others died with the arrival of the cold. When one fell ill, the group abandoned him to his fate, more for the burden than for fear of contagion. No one could survive, alone and sick, in the forest of the Green Fangs. Thus, of the ten teenagers who had to be initiated, only two remained: Ysgon and himself.

Ysgon was faster. He felt his breath on his back and could almost hear his heartbeat. But Derren couldn't let him overtake him, otherwise he would be lost. Fortunately, the path was very narrow and the undergrowth formed a thick wall that was practically impassable on both sides. Sooner or later it would catch them. It was the only chance he had to survive: to sacrifice his friend.

A pressing fatigue in his legs began to take its toll. That and the fire that oppressed his lungs. With each stride he noticed that it became more difficult to dodge the roots that emerged from the ground, he noticed that his eyesight was blurring, that he was short of breath. And he felt Ysgon's arm, trying to force himself to overtake him. No. He could not let him.

He slowed his pace while still blocking the road. He needed to regain strength for what was coming. Soon he would be alone. Alone against the beast.

“What are you doing Derren? Run!”

“I can't... Anymore...”

“Then get out of the way!”

Ysgon tried desperately to push him, but he broke free. Derren turned to look at him for a second, still running. He had to choose. Either Ysgon or him. Ysgon was faster, but he had less strength. He couldn't kill the cerberus. He would run away. He would return to the village empty-handed and his own people would kill him. In truth, he had no choice. There was only one way out.

Derren stepped slightly aside to let him pass, sinking partially and briefly into the underbrush. As his friend passed him, something nudged his leg. Instinct. The unexpected obstacle caused Ysgon to fall face first into the puddle of mud and leaf litter. The boy raised his head quickly, confused. He looked into the undergrowth, where the leg came from, and their eyes met.

He would never forget his muddy face begging for help. He would never forget his look full of dread. He would never forget his betrayal. But it was the only way out.

The beast reached him in the blink of an eye, and its fangs dug into his legs. Ysgon let out a blood-curdling scream of pain. The beast was biting his skin off. The jaws of one of the two heads snatched one of his arms clean off. What followed was the most terrifying sound Derren had ever heard: the crunching of his friend's bones turning to mush. He stood transfixed, hidden behind the tangle of vegetation, watching his friend being devoured because of him. But it was the only way out.

The two heads of the hoopoe seemed to have become a little satiated, as the bites were less violent and brutal. It was time. He had to seize the opportunity. If he didn't, he would die too. He was sure the hound could smell it. As soon as it finished with Ysgon, it would come for him. He had to act. His trembling legs could barely support the weight of his body, he felt like his bladder was going to explode, and he could see his hands and the stake they held trembling. But it was the only way out.

Armed with the stake and a courage hitherto unknown to him, he lunged at the beast, driving the piece of wood through its neck. He pierced it from side to side. He had to cut off its neck, for cutting off one head would not end the other. The hound barked in pain. Two synchronized barks. And two heads turned toward him.

But Derren already knew that would happen. The adrenaline was working in his favor now, making him more agile, stronger, faster. He pulled out the stake and drove it in again, this time from top to bottom. He felt it sink into the flesh of the huge hound. His jaws drooled the red blood of his friend.

One of the heads hit him in the ribs, knocking him to the ground. Cold mud stuck to the back of his neck. A chilling cold. The cold breath of death. His skin bristled. The two black heads of the cerberus loomed before him and slowly approached. The boy flinched, from the ground, helping himself with his elbows. He still had the stake. He still had a chance. And at last came the moment of truth. The moment they had both been waiting for.

The cerberus pounced on Derren, ready to devour him with its sharp fangs. He had no time to hesitate. Nor to think. His arm moved of its own accord. By instinct. The instinct of survival. His only bodyguard.

The stake pierced the animal's neck, this time from the bottom up. Bloody drool soaked his face. The beast's fetid breath made him uncontrollably nauseous. He vomited.

The weight of the animal exceeded his strength. He let go of the stake and rolled to one side with great difficulty. The animal was still breathing, but barely, with two muffled gasps. Derren pulled the stake out again and finished the job.

Suddenly, he felt a warm, moist sensation. A feeling of great relief. A relief that came from the crotch.

*

Derren opened his eyes. He was drenched in sweat. The morning light timidly illuminated the small room. He pulled the blanket aside and discovered the usual puddle of urine.

"Shit".