Something

The forest slammed shut behind you like a trap. You were following the silver flower—it cures all illnesses—while Grandma had been suffocating for three nights. But the map was soaked, the paths were tangled, and when the west turned blood-red, you fell to your knees, clinging to roots. Looking up, you saw a cave. It smelled of damp stone and pebbles.
You entered. The quartz inside shimmered, and in that sick light you saw Him.
Six arms. Two held a clay jug, two plucked dry stems, two lay motionless on its knees—too long, with joints like pebbles. Its skin was the color of soot and ash, cracked like dried earth. Thick black hair fell to its shoulders, obscuring its face, but when the monster turned its head, four horns were visible—crooked, like old roots growing into the darkness. A hooked nose cut across its face in a predatory arc, and its pointed ears twitched, catching every rustle.
He didn't move. Only one hand lifted from the jug and pointed deeper—to where a silver flower shone among the stalagmites. As if biding its time.
You stepped forward, but froze at the voice—low, rough, like the friction of stones:
— Take it. But in return, give me the most precious thing you have.