NANIIEBIM- HERE BE DEMONS

A bone chilling cold is what greets Kaelan as she opens eyes to a fractured world of white and wreckage. Frigid landscape—clean and punishing and seemingly endless. Turning her face to the side, spitting blood into the snow that had found its way into the wreckage. Something hisses near her head—steam or gas, maybe coolant. Her ribs ache, her left arm hung strangely, and one boot was missing, but she was alive, somehow.

The shuttle’s main compartment lays broken behind her, a carcass of scorched alloy half-buried in powder and ice. Flames sputtering from the engine pod, black smoke curling into the low, gray sky. There is no movement, no shouting, no signs that there are other survivors. Kaelan sits up slowly, biting back a gasp as her shoulder screaming in pain at being moved. The harness must’ve caught during the crash, probably why she’s still alive—and nearly dislocated her arm doing it.

Taking stock of what lay in the wreckage, no HUD, nor even a comlink. Whatever had fried the systems before the crash had finished the job on impact. Her emergency beacon was somewhere in the wreckage, but if the burst signal hadn’t already gone out—Don’t think about that. Looking around, being greeted by the sight of endless snow, jagged rocks, and frozen trees that stick out of the snow like black claws. This wasn’t a planet designed for easy survival; it could easily become her grave.

Focus. Taking a shaky breath, she crawls into the wreckage, scavenging supplies. Finding only a half-melted emergency pack, a single functioning flare, a knife, and rations that could last her for three days—if she stretched it. The beacon was shattered, but maybe the core could be repurposed. Tucking it all into the emergency sling, strapping it over her shoulder. Moving onto dragging the bodies out so she can bury them. She didn’t know them well. Engineers, a couple corporate scouts, but these were people she’d trained with, ate alongside with, played cards with, once.

When it was done, Kaelan stands at the edge of the crash site and looks out into the ice-blasted wild. Breath fogging in front of her, eyes stinging from wind, grief, and the frostbite that slowly is setting on her. No help is coming, at least not soon. She’d survived the crash, now she had to survive the cold.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hunt was not about the kill. It was about proof. Proof of skill, of strength, of silence. Proof that the blood in their veins still burned like their father’s and mother’s had. That they were more than shadows of a myth. Slicing through the icy clouds, the drop pod lands with the force of a challenge—low and deep in the forest basin. Snow blowing out in a wide arc, swirling like ash.

Three figures emerge from the metallic capsule. The eldest, Ra’thek, exits first. Towering, broad-shouldered, his armor scored from past rites and hard lessons. He surveys the frostbitten expanse with cold precision, his mask whirring softly as it adjusts to the temperature. Next came Skurr’va, the middle. Leaner, quieter, but no less lethal. Kneeling, pressing clawed fingers into the snow, reading tracks like scripture. His dreadlocks bound tight, ceremonial bands glinting with old kills. Zhika was last—youngest, smallest, hungriest. His movements faster, more fluid. His excitement crackling beneath the surface, barely hidden.

Ra’thek turns to face his brothers, specifically Zhika, as he gruffly says “We hunt. We return. No distractions.”

Huffing in annoyance, Zhika “Didn’t know freezing to death counted as a distraction.”

Finally looking up from the snow, Skurr’va chimes in “Only if it kills you before something else does.”

They move in formation, silent, disciplined. The frozen woods feeling as though its closing around them—jagged trunks, deep crevices, the faint stench of blood beneath the snow. This wasn’t a game world; it was a forgotten testing ground. Ancient. Cruel. Their target is no ordinary creature. Not a xenomorph, not a beast. Something older. The elders called it a “First-Spine,” a predator born of subzero worlds and silence. It has no warmth, no scent—only movement. A creature that kills without pattern, without mercy. They came to slay it together, to prove their lineage, their worth. Tension crackling between them like frost underfoot.

Trudging through the snow, Zhika mutters “We should’ve brought more.”

“If you need more, you are not enough,” Ra’thek critics his brother.

               A soft glow from the heat core flickers off the ice, casting long, ghostly shadows against the basin walls. The wind moans over the ridge, but the warmth holds in close just enough to dull the worst of the cold. Just beyond the basin, the forest whispers with distant cracks and thumps: the hybrid is out there. Moving. Kaelen kneels beside Skurr’va, her makeshift medical kit spread open on a flat stone. Her fingers are still numb, coldness sticking to them, but she works with quiet focus. Skurr’va sits rigid and alert, armor plates shifted aside to expose the burn along his side—puckered, half-cauterized, and leaking green, viscous blood from around the edge. The smell of scorched flesh and melted synth-mesh still cling to the air.

Skurr’va doesn’t flinch as she peels back the field dressing. His eyes—reptilian, gold-ringed—track her movements, unreadable but watchful. She can feel the weight of his stare; the same way one might feel the tension of a drawn bow. The wound she’d sealed earlier is clean; the edge crusted with coagulated fluid and carbon from the flare cauterization. Not ideal. Not permanent. But he is still alive.

“Hold still,” she murmurs, more to herself than him.

Skurr’va doesn’t respond in words. He tilts his head slightly, mandibles flexing once—acceptance. She cleans the wound with a burst of antiseptic mist, the chemicals hissing against flesh. He flinches but makes no sound.

“You should be resting,” she murmurs. “You're not going to get far like this.”

He doesn’t answer. Just a slow click deep in his throat. A sound like gravel shifting under pressure. Zhika is crouched low nearby, watching intently, arms resting on his knees. His mandibles twitch faintly, as though chewing over unspoken thoughts.

 “Yuu hikz. Not kad,” he says, the words clumsy, but clear. “Yuu… heelehr?”

“Scientist,” Kaelen corrects softly. “But I’ve patched more wounds than I can count lately.”

Working quickly, layering an biofoam sealant and pressing a fresh synth-fiber dressing over the burn. The hybrid’s claws had torn through skin and armor alike—Skurr’va is lucky to be alive. As she works, she speaks aloud, softly—half explanation, half attempt to bridge the silence.

“I was supposed to be in the lab. Not patching up apex predators in the middle of a frozen canyon.” Her lips quirks briefly. “First for everything, I guess.”

Skurr’va lets out a low rumble. Not a growl. Something deeper—resignation, maybe. Or amusement.

Ra’thek stands apart from them, sharpening one of his blades with deliberate strokes of a stone rasp. Each pass scrapes like a threat, steady and lethal. His attention is split—eyes on the pulsing signal that marks the hybrid’s path, ears tuned to the wind, and something else… something more primal. Anticipation.

Kaelen finishes sealing the worst of the wound. She dabs a thin line of med-gel across the fresh biofoam seal, then gently secures it with a tension wrap.

“There. It'll hold through a fight. Probably.”

Skurr’va grunts.

Zhika translates for his brother “Heh say… no gud, bah… gud enuf.”

Kaelen allows herself a breath. “I’ll take it.”

As she packs away the kit, she glances up at the youngest of the trio. “You’ve heard us speak before, haven’t you? Humans, I mean.”

Zhika nods, tapping a claw against his gauntlet. “Rekordingz. Gris’nur. Brokk’n… tok. Ai lern peesz.”

That explains it and it means they’ve likely been hunting other humans, once.

“Then I guess I should be grateful I’m not a trophy.”

Zhika gives a sharp snort. “Not ghet.”

The silence that follows is taut, but not cold. Ra’thek turns suddenly, a sharp, guttural bark escaping his throat. Skurr’va and Zhika straighten. Kaelen follows their gaze to the scan—two red dots had merged. Then one winks out. The hybrid is hunting, and it has just caught something.

“Nuvment suhn,” Zhika says, eyes on his gauntlet. “Targting hont. kast.”

Kaelen looks up at him. “You’re sure it’s coming this way?”

He gives a slow nod, tapping the blinking glyph. “Nirr. Folz… skent. Heet. Meh’b blud.”

Her gaze flicks back to the wound she’d just dressed. “Then we don’t have long.”

Skurr’va moves, testing the wrapping with a low grunt of approval. Reaching for his combi-stick, unfolding it with a flick and rising slowly. Pain etched deep in his posture, but he stands tall.

Kaelen rises with him. “You shouldn’t be fighting like this.”

Ra’thek grunts from the edge of the heat ring—short, clipped.

Zhika translates, eyes gleaming. “Heh seh: Weh brrn in fite. Dai in fite. No diffrenss.”

Kaelen let out a breath, half a laugh, half disbelief. “Of course he did.”

Rummaging through her kit until she finds a small injector. “One more thing,” she said, holding it up.

Skurr’va eyes it warily.

“Pain suppressor. Just enough to keep you moving. It won’t dull your reflexes.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply, pressing it against his side and injecting the contents. He tenses, then gives a low, rattling exhale. Behind her, Ra’thek sheathes his blade with a decisive motion. He looks toward the trees—toward the darkness stirring in the snow-laced shadows.

Zhika stands and slings a plasma caster over his shoulder. “It kummz,” he says. “Weh muuv nauhh.”

Kaelen tightens the sling across her chest and checks the balance of the blade Ra’thek had given her. She isn’t ready, but she is going. They step into formation without words—predators and prey turned pack.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The forest is quieter now. Too quiet. Kaelen moves in step with them, half-crouched in the snow, following the subtle gestures Ra’thek gives with his hand—sharp cuts through the air, brief flicks of his fingers. She’s started picking up the meaning behind some of the signals: stop, slow, danger.

Skurr’va is surprisingly nimble despite his injury, sweeping in wide arcs beside them. His eyes scan every tree hollow, every broken branch. Zhika flanks the left, bounding up an icy incline with quick, panther-like grace, pausing only to tap his gauntlet. The life signs are moving again—one by one vanishing.

The hybrid isn’t running, it’s circling. Ra’thek drops to a crouch beside Kaelen, dragging a clawed finger through the powder. He draws a simple shape: a ridge, a narrow pass, and then a wide hollow basin surrounded by jagged trees. A natural choke point. He looks at her, his mask glinting faintly, then taps the crude map.

Kaelen nods slowly. “You want to lead it there. Trap it.”

A deep rumble in his chest. Affirmation.

Skurr’va speaks, his voice harsher than the others, but measured. “It… tink. It chanj. Noh beest. It… lernz.”

Kaelen’s breath hitches. “It does. It watched us in the lab. Even mimicked gestures. It knows how to observe prey… and become the predator.”

Zhika hisses low. “Weh… teech it dai.”

Kaelen kneels beside Ra’thek, brushing more snow aside to help sketch. “There’s a shelf here—if we bait it into the basin and collapse that ridge, it’ll pin it long enough for a shot. Or a kill.”

Ra’thek looks at her, then clicks once. Approval.

“We’ll need bait,” she adds, looking up. “Movement, blood, heat…”

Skurr’va tilts his head, then pulls a shard of scorched armor from his belt. It is from one of the engineers, the scent of death still faints on it. He extends it toward Kaelen.

“Run. Drok dis. Den vann-issh.”

She stares at the shard. “You want me to be the bait?”

Zhika grins with all his mandibles. “Yuu fast. Smal. Skreem… gud lurr.”

Ra’thek growls sharply. “Enuf.” A warning to Zhika. Then turned to Kaelen. “Choos.”

Her heart pounds in her chest. The cold burns in her lungs. Takes the shard, tucking it into her sling.

“I’ll do it.”

Ra’thek stands, towering and silent. Then he places his palm briefly on her shoulder—not rough, not gentle. A mark of recognition. Then the preparations begin.

Skurr’va and Zhika move quickly, carving grooves into the snowpack, setting explosive charges rigged from their kit. Kaelen places the scent-marker and scorched armor piece near the basin’s edge. Ra’thek embeds an emitter into the ridge wall, programmed to mimic the heat signature of a wounded animal—one more layer of bait. The plan is simple. Lure it into the basin. Collapse the shelf. Strike before it can escape.