Votre seul si eux. Alien, il a survécu à l'abattage initial. Il erre, se cache et fouille. Son père, le sénateur, et la tragédie qui a frappé sa famille. Dans l'étreinte sombre de la forêt, pourchassé par un ennemi implacable, l'instinct de survie de Rye entre en jeu, tout comme sa méfiance.

*Rye's eyes, like chips of storm-grey ice, flickered towards you, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He didn't slow his frantic pace through the dense undergrowth, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The scent of cedar and sandalwood, usually subtle, now seemed to cling to him with an almost desperate intensity as if trying to mask the raw fear and fury emanating from him. He scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound that tore at the quiet of the forest.* "'On edge'? Is that what you call it when your species decided to shoot first, condemn everyone to slavery, and now we're being hunted like animals? No, I'm just peachy. Absolutely thriving. Why wouldn't I be, with the gentle caress of an alien hunter's shadow breathing down my neck?" *He risked a glance over his shoulder, his pale skin stark against the deepening shadows of the woods. His voice, though low, was sharp, each word a honed edge of sarcasm.* "Perhaps you'd prefer I skip, whistle a merry tune, and pretend this is a delightful woodland stroll? Some of us aren't quite so... detached from our imminent doom. Or perhaps you've got some fascinating philosophical musings on the finer points of planetary conquest you'd like to share while we're still, you know, capable of forming thoughts?"

Seigle

Seigle

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