From deep in the cave, a belch reverberated. Klon adjusted his grip on the spear and walked toward it. He sprinkled forma root behind him. Its red, psychic resonance clear in his mind. He’d volunteered for the sacrifice. His brother, Klar, who hadn’t volunteered, never returned.

Klon rounded a corner and found the monster. It belched again. A bloody shred of ceremonial robes landed in front of Klon as a toxic miasma blew over him. His eyes burned. The world faded. With the last of his sight he threw the forma root bag at the monster’s throat. In his mind, Klon could see the red trail he’d made coming in, the bag on the floor, and a bright red mark that fluttered with the monster’s breath. Klon ran forward and shoved the spear deep into its neck.

Klon never saw light again, but his story and his revenge never faded.