𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧

Chapter three: Push forward, Mikey

I leaned against the cold stone wall, taking a moment to steady my breathing. This wasn’t new to me. I’d been through worse. But even so, it still irked me, like a wound that never quite healed.

I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t powerless. Not in the ways that mattered.

I might be the runt now, but I wouldn’t stay that way forever. Let him have his scraps and his arrogance. One day, I’d take more than just food. I’d take everything he thought made him untouchable.

For now, though, I’d wait. And watch.

____

The texture beneath my paws felt uneven but smooth, like weathered stone or bone. The damp air clung to my fur, and the distant drip of water echoed through the cavernous sewer. It was only when I stopped, leaning against the wall to catch my breath, that I really looked down.

The ground wasn’t stone. It was bone. Human skulls, piled high and scattered across the floor, their empty sockets staring back at me.

A chill ran down my spine. The memories from my past life—battlefields littered with bodies, the stench of death heavy in the air—rushed back like a flood. I shook my head, forcing the thoughts away. This wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be.

And yet, it was. The remains beneath me spoke of a brutality I couldn’t ignore. The Rat King’s domain. A place where the weak were crushed beneath the strong, where survival came at a cost I wasn’t sure I could pay.

I sighed, pushing away the gnawing fear. I couldn’t afford to lose focus. My small body was a constant reminder of my limitations. Every movement felt clumsy, my balance unsteady, my limbs too thin and frail.

But if I stayed like this, I wouldn’t last.

I dropped to all fours, my tiny claws scraping against the bone beneath me. Running on two legs wasn’t working—not with how top-heavy I felt, always teetering on the edge of falling. I needed to adapt.

The first few tries were humiliating. My front paws slipped out from under me, and I tumbled face-first into the ground more times than I could count. My tail, still awkward and unfamiliar, threw off my balance even more.

“Damn it,” I muttered, rubbing my bruised snout. The words sounded strange in my small, squeaky voice, but the frustration behind them was real. I hated this weakness, this constant stumbling and falling.

But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

I pushed myself back up, planting all four paws firmly on the ground. This time, I started slow, testing my movements. One paw forward, then another. Keep your center low, I told myself, like crouching before a charge.

It worked—at least for a few steps. My body felt more stable, more in control. I quickened my pace, testing my limits, until I was moving at a slow trot.

Then I tried running.

The first sprint ended with me skidding across the ground, my paws scrabbling for purchase as I crashed into a pile of bones. I cursed under my breath, shaking off the shards that clung to my fur.

“Again,” I whispered, gritting my teeth.

I tried again. And again. Each time, I managed a few more steps before losing control. My muscles burned with the effort, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.

By the end of what felt like hours, I was panting heavily, my body trembling with exhaustion. But I’d made progress. My movements were smoother, my sprints faster. I could run now—not gracefully, not yet, but enough to escape if I needed to.

I collapsed against the wall, staring out at the dimly lit expanse of skulls and shadows. This place was a nightmare, but it was also a training ground. If I could survive here, I could survive anywhere.