The Mating Run by Leeka

In His Eyes: Executioner

Zeke’s POV

Pain ripples through me, a searing current that lances down my spine as the bat, adorned with rusted nails, connects with a brutal force.

My lips release a wild and unrestrained howl, its echoes resounding through the forest like a mournful cry for the pain pulsating within me. In the air, the mingling scent of blood, both mine and theirs, lingers, intensifying the raw intensity of the brutal dance happening in the moonlit clearing.

I snarl, my teeth exposed in a menacing display, as defiance blazes in my eyes. The bat–wielder stands before me, his face contorted into a twisted grin, savoring the suffering he has unleashed. However, I am not one to back down easily. A surge of wild anger propels me towards him, my unsheathed claws a testament to my transformation into a creature of darkness, instinctively fighting for survival.

The bat descends again, a malevolent arc seeking to crush bone and sinew.

I dodge, a dance of evasion that defies the pain radiating from my back. The forest becomes a shadowy arena, where the clash of wills and weapons echoes through the night.

My growl is guttural, a symphony of defiance that punctuates the darkness.

Momentarily taken aback by my resilience, the bat–wielder tightens his grip on the weapon, preparing for another strike. But I have the advantage of speed. In response, I swiftly counter with a retaliatory strike, my claws slicing through the air. The smell of fear permeates the atmosphere around him, intensifying my determination.

In the midst of our brutal dance, a flash of movement catches my eye. The machete–bearer, silent and stoic, advances with lethal intent. My senses, honed by years of survival, alert me to the impending threat.

With a predator’s instinct, I twist away from the bat–wielder, narrowly avoiding a collision with the looming machete,

The forest watches, its towering trees casting long shadows over the chaotic scene below, Waves of pain shoot through me, a constant reminder of the merciless beating from the bat. Despite everything, the flame inside me continues to rage.

Undeterred by my evasion, the machete–bearer lunges with calculated precision, the gleam of the blade reflecting in their determined eyes. Without thinking, I unleashed a swift kick directly towards his stomach. As the blow lands, the machete–bearer stumbles back, momentarily dazed and struggling to regain their balance. It is a fleeting advantage, a temporary edge that I pursue with unrestrained determination.

I seize the opportunity, swift and decisive. With a lightning–quick motion, I disarm him, wrenching the machete from his grasp. The balance of power shifts, a pendulum swinging in my favor. The machete, now in my hands, becomes an extension of my feral prowess.

The bat–wielder regains his composure, eyes narrowing with a mixture of rage and desperation. He lunges again, but this time, I am ready. The machete meets the bat in a clash of metal and wood, a primal symphony that reverberates through the clearing.

The forest stands silently, bearing witness to our fierce struggle, a battlefield where destiny teeters on the edge. The pungent scent of blood lingers in the air, a stark reminder of the sacrifices necessary for survival. I snarl, a creature of the night, my canines bared as I battle against the encroaching darkness.

With each swing of the bat–wielder, the earth shook beneath me, the force of their attacks becoming increasingly frenetic. With each parry, the piercing sound of claws scraping against wood echoes through the air, adding to the clash of primal forces. With each swing of the machete, I feel its weight and power as it effortlessly cuts through the thick vegetation, creating a symphony of echoes that bounce off the trees.

the fray. The forest seems to exhale a collective breath, as if anticipating the resolution that looms

stand my ground, a lone figure against the backdrop of

a silent testament to the ferocity of our struggle. The bat–wielder, sensing

attacks.

bat–wielder’s resolve weakens, his movements becoming sluggish under the weight of my relentless onslaught. With a swift swing, the machete connects, delivering a decisive strike that sends him sprawling

parry, claws and machete

forest seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy. The machete becomes an extension of my will, a tool of survival wielded against the encroaching darkness. The bat–wielder, still sprawled on the ground, watches with helpless

brow. With a swift maneuver, I counter, the clash of claws and machete echoing through the air, sealing his fate. The machete connects with a resounding thud, causing him to stagger backwards.

the stillness. I stand amidst the aftermath, machete in hand, a lone figure in the sea of shadows. The bat–wielder and machete–bearer lie defeated,

take a moment to breathe, the adrenaline–fueled haze gradually dissipating. The clearing, once fraught with

loosen their grip, and I feel

of blood

it’s a different kind of

it. These are the ones I have to eliminate. It’s

No need

waste questions. These names, they’re not just random. They’re problems, thorns in the pack’s side that

into a macabre celebration, where the ground becomes stained with blood and the pack erupts in cheers, rejoicing the end of their

through my thoughts. Among them. are familiar faces, some are complete strangers, but each person has earned their spot in this somber game of chance. Their

Run isn’t just about finding a mate; it’s a calculated purge, a culling of those deemed undesirable. It’s a brutal dance, a

unfortunate circumstance. But in the Alpha’s eyes, they’re all obstacles, challenges that must be eradicated for

the Alpha’s motives, no matter how unconventional they may be. Survival depends on obedience, an unquestioning and steadfast commitment. The Mating Run is the

order in our chaotic

measure of one’s allegiance to the pack. It’s a challenge that will determine who truly

skillfully tugs the strings, and I obediently dance to

it is to sow seeds of doubt that threaten to tear our pack apart. So, I accept the burden, shoulders

for the Alpha, that much

power like a forbidden fruit, and I, entrapped in the vines of obligation, find myself succumbing to the macabre rhythm of

to kill, the throne of the Alpha could be mine – an irresistible temptation that casts a dark cloud

the Alpha’s commands, each life extinguished becomes a stepping stone to an uncertain future. The pack, oblivious to the machinations at play, celebrates the Mating Run as a festival of unity.

– a truth