Ghislaine blinked, and everything changed.
The dust had settled, the ringing in her ears began to fade. From afar came the sounds of insects, muffled growls, movement in the leaves. She didn't know how much time had passed. Everything seemed to collapse into a single moment: the blow to her temple, the attempt to regain her senses, a blink—and the world was already different. A few seconds? Minutes? Hours? Nonsense. She wasn't weak enough to lie unconscious from a hit like that.
Ghislaine rose.
Her bones cracked faintly, her temple throbbed, her leg faltered for a moment. She straightened. Her hand moved to her temple and slid across her skin. Blood. No scab yet, and in the streaks red blood-moths already crawled, clinging to her and sucking the warm blood, leaving barely visible marks. She looked at her fingers, then at her arm. Thin trails of blood ran from her temple down her neck, chin, and shoulder.
With a sharp sweep she brushed them away and crushed them mid-flight.
Then her hand darted to the small gray pouch at her belt. She reached inside, rummaged, and pulled out a tiny wooden jar. She lifted the lid with a nail—a foul smell hit her nose, like fermented urine. Ointment made from swamp ragga slime.
She hadn't expected to use it, and irritation flared hotter than the throbbing pain in her temple.
Quick movements spread it over the wound, ignoring the small cuts across her body. The sting bit in, but she paid no mind. Her thoughts were scattered, but she had to continue the hunt.
She looked toward where her target had been. At the site of the struggle stood a tree, murky water swelling around it. Ghislaine stepped closer and opened her right eye. The world rippled and shifted. Now she saw what no one else could. A gift from Bariah—a nonhuman ability only she possessed.
Her instincts sharpened, and thin red lines lit the air, revealing the creature's trail. She focused, catching scents and sounds with inhuman precision, beyond even ordinary beastkin.
The tracks glowed before her. Wherever the Shavra had touched the branches, bright marks remained, like glowing burns sinking into the wood, nearly invisible to normal sight. Scents turned into colors, each shade a trail. Tracks, blood, fear—everything wove into a pattern leading her forward.
Ghislaine followed the lines without looking at her footing.
They led her along slick branches where the bark sagged beneath claws. The red lines didn't fade—they sharpened instead, as if the creature had accelerated. Fresh blood scented the air. It was close.
She descended lower, sliding from branch to branch, checking signs at each level. Somewhere ahead came a short crunch. Ghislaine froze, listened, and moved slowly toward the sound repeating.
The tracks grew sharper, and soon she would reach her target. Crossing the swamp and stepping onto firm ground, Ghislaine hid behind a tree. The crunch grew clearer.
Peeking out slightly, she frowned but stifled a growl. Ahead, with his back to her, sat a man. He wore a black coat reaching below the waist, a hood covering his head. White trousers, a long blade at his hip in plain black scabbard. The hood was trimmed with white fur, and despite the heat of the Great Forest he seemed unbothered.
He was currently butchering the carcass, taking everything valuable from the Mist Shavra. Her Shavra.
Rage flared instantly, sharp, her body tightening from tension. The Beast inside stirred, shifted, growled.
How dare he? It was her prey. Her offering to Bariah. Her trophy for Khar'Ragar.
Ghislaine felt her muscles tense, her fingers reaching for her sword on their own. Her breathing grew heavy and fast. She watched, resisting the urge to leap out and drive her blade into his spine.
Thoughts darted one after another.
If he killed the Shavra—would it still count as her hunt? What would Ashai say? Would the spirit of Bariah accept the trophy or deem her a failure? Ghislaine frowned, anger cooling into calculation. If he was an outsider, he violated the sacred rite. If he was one of theirs, he broke the taboo. Either way it was an insult—to her, and to the ritual.
He slowly, lazily turned in her direction. Ghislaine pressed herself to the trunk at once, hiding. He hadn't noticed her, and therefo—
"Come out. Don't hide," a rough voice said.
She froze, every muscle tensing. The voice was low, calm, without fear or surprise. As though he knew she was there and had been waiting. Ghislaine exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to her sword. She could leap out and strike first. But what if it was a trap? He didn't smell like a beastkin. Not at all. That worried her.
"I can feel your intent to kill, little beastkin," he said in the same tone.
Ghislaine felt the Beast inside stir again. He spoke calmly, without challenge, as if knowing she wouldn't dare attack. That angered her. He still stood with his back to her, unmoving. As if he didn't care.
Her thoughts slipped, and the Beast inside roared.
He violated the rules, hindered her, dismissed her. Kill-kill-kill.
Her hand closed on the sword. Strength rose, her muscles hardening. The Beast's fury filled every vein.
A lunge—and she was already airborne.
He still stood with his back to her, not acknowledging her.
A strike—the blade left the scabbard, rushing toward his neck, ready to take his head in one sweep.
But at the last instant, when almost nothing remained before impact, he turned sharply. Their eyes met. Their faces were close, almost touching. His hand caught her wrist, stopping the strike; his other hand fell on her shoulder.
A jerk—and Ghislaine flew through the air, thrown aside. Mid-flight she managed to twist and land softly. Her feet slid across the wet soil, leaving a damp trail.
Ghislaine stood in a battle stance, sword forward, ready to counter. But he didn't move, watching her with lazy calm. A thought flashed. He had thrown her easily, tossed her aside—she hadn't even understood how she'd ended up in the air.
Now she saw clearly—he was human. A scar ran across his cheek, from cheekbone to eye. His gaze lazy but sharp. His features angular, almost wolfish.
He smirked and said distinctly:
"You failed. Try harder."
His tone and manner enraged Ghislaine. No one had ever spoken to her like that. She felt the Beast rise again, demanding blood. Her muscles tensed, breath quickened. She stepped forward, eyes fixed on him, ready to attack again.
He shifted his focus, noticing the blue lines along her skin. Thought flickered across his face, and a moment later he seemed to understand.
"Oh… So you're undergoing Khar'Ragar." He nodded toward the dead Shavra. "Then that's your prey."
"If you know, then why interfere?" Ghislaine hissed, gripping her sword. "Thief. You stole my prey."
He snorted without changing posture.
"Stole?" he repeated calmly. "I simply took what you failed to hold. Isn't that the essence of the hunt?"
Rage drowned everything.
A lunge—and Ghislaine vanished from where she stood.
The next moment the blade swept in a wide arc toward his chest. She attacked fast, relying only on instinct and the Beast's strength.
He simply stepped aside, taking a lazy step.
The blade sliced empty air.
Ghislaine turned it instantly and continued her assault, giving herself no time to think. Each swing was faster than the last.
The first strike he parried with a hand, knocking it aside.
The second he countered with a sharp hit to her wrist, but she didn't drop the sword.
The third seemed to cut his chest—but he simply stepped back, and the blade missed. The sword dipped, and his foot pinned the blade to the ground, holding it.
"Weak. Slow. Stupid." His voice was calm, but every word dripped contempt. "You just flail like a cub, hoping strength replaces skill."
He looked down on her as if she were an apprentice unworthy of his time.
Ghislaine jerked the blade, but it stayed pinned. In the next instant she flipped forward, using the sword as a pivot. Her leg whipped toward his head, forcing him to retreat again.
She didn't stop.
Her foot struck the ground and pushed her into another attack. A turn—and a kick at his torso, but he met it with his elbow, shifting it aside. Ghislaine pressed on.
First strike—straight at his chin, but he ducked, letting her sword slice past.
Second—her elbow at his temple, almost hit, but he stepped away.
A slash, the blade cutting air.
"Coward!" Ghislaine shouted. "All you can do is run!"
He smirked.
Another strike came too close. He stepped forward, and his knee slammed into her throat. Air blasted from her lungs. Ghislaine choked, collapsing on one knee, coughing and struggling to breathe. Her throat locked up, her vision dimmed, but she held her sword.
He laughed.
"I don't even need a sword against you," he said calmly, looking down at her. "You fight like you're begging to be dropped."
Ghislaine tried to grip her blade, but her fingers failed. The sword slipped from her hand and fell. Only then she noticed—her wrist was swollen, the skin tight, the joints swollen with pain.
Her leg too. Everywhere his blows landed, solid lumps formed under the skin.
He stood, watching her.
"You can barely move. Can't even hold your sword. What kind of swordsman are you if you can't grip your own blade?"
Mockery dripped from every word. He tilted his head.
"Had I struck harder, you'd be dead already."
Ghislaine stayed silent. Her throat burned, her fingers wouldn't obey. She wanted to speak, but only a growl came out.
"So bad you forgot your own tongue?" he said quietly. "Maybe you're an animal. Then drop the sword. You don't need it."
Ghislaine tried to pick up the blade. Her fingers wouldn't obey, closing halfway before failing. She tried again, but the hilt slipped from her palm and fell. Ghislaine exhaled, clenched her teeth, and bent down. Then, without hesitation, she grabbed the blade with her teeth and lifted it.
The bone handle pressed into her teeth, cutting into the gums, but she didn't let go. She straightened, holding the sword. The man raised a brow, watching, and smirked.
"Pitiful sight," he said with a slight tilt of his head. "Gnawing a bone like an obedient dog."
Ghislaine clenched so hard her ears rang. Pain pulsed through every joint. The Beast inside thrashed, demanding to tear him apart. She opened her right eye. The world rippled, and thin red lines lit the air, pointing to a spot beneath his armor. A target.
As soon as she opened the eye, his gaze locked on it. He spoke calmly, with mild interest.
"H-oh? A magic eye? Not bad. Lucky to be born with it… or did you rip it from someone?"
Ghislaine didn't reply—even if she tried, only a growl would come. The lines led her forward, showing where to strike. She lunged, earth scattering underfoot.
The first strike landed under his rib, near the place where the thread led to his heart.
The man didn't dodge—he met her charge, still without drawing his sword. His hands intercepted hers, blocking every attack.
A strike, a block—Ghislaine didn't stop, jerking her head, the sword in her teeth slicing the air, missing as he tilted his head aside.
A hit to her knee from him—a crack—and Ghislaine's body collapsed, but mid-fall she curled and lashed out with her foot at his head. He only grabbed her and slammed her into the ground with a wet, heavy thud.
"Pointless."
He meant to pull away, but Ghislaine's fingers clamped onto his coat. Her grip was vicious. Her fingers dug into the fabric and wouldn't release. He felt the tension of her muscles, the tremor beneath the cloth.
A moment—and he sensed danger. He yanked her toward him, but that only gave her more momentum. Ghislaine snapped her head, and the blade sliced the air. Everything went still.
He stood for a few seconds, holding her. Then he dropped her to the ground.
"Congratulations. You did manage to land a hit."
A barely visible scratch marked his arm. Blood appeared—and vanished, the skin sealing instantly.
He looked at the dead Shavra. Then at the line of blood trailing from Ghislaine's wound to the ground.
He smirked crookedly.