Early morning. The sun had not yet risen above the canopy, but warmth was already creeping in. A thin mist hung over the swamp, and rare rays pierced the dense foliage, settling on wet branches.
A small fire crackled nearby. The flame was low and muted, and someone was clearly making sure the smoke didn't rise too high. On an improvised spit roasted a chunk of Shavra meat—dense, still dripping with juice. The smell was sharp, tinged with blood and fat.
Ghislaine lay beside the dead carcass.
Her hair was stuck together, her skin glistened with sweat and ragga-slime ointment. A thin line of drool shone on her lips, and her breathing came in soft, almost peaceful puffs, as if nothing had happened.
She stirred. First she opened one eye slightly, the pupil moving slowly, trying to focus. Everything swam. A few moments—and flashes of the fight sparked in her memory. She inhaled sharply and jerked upright, her heart pounding, gaze darting. Forest, fire, dead Shavra. And a strange feeling that someone was close.
"You sleep peacefully, almost like a corpse," a voice said.
Ghislaine sprang aside at once. On the other side of the fire sat the same man. Calm, as if nothing had happened, lazily turning the meat to keep it from burning.
"You?!" Ghislaine snapped, her hand reaching for the place where her sword usually hung. Empty. "What are you doing here, carrion-eater?"
He smirked without looking up, turning the meat again.
"Having breakfast. And you, it seems, have just resurrected," he said calmly and, without waiting for a reaction, removed a piece from the spit. "Help yourself. Yours, technically."
"I don't take food from a thief, thief!" she hissed, though her gaze clung to the steaming meat.
He shrugged and took a bite himself, chewing with clear enjoyment.
"Your choice. But the meat's good, and you're running low on strength. Growl all you want, but better eat before it cools."
She kept glaring at him, not understanding what he was planning at all. He won—but she was still alive. And he just sat and ate meat. Her prey. Her offering. Her mind couldn't wrap around why he hadn't finished her off.
"You should eat," he said after a short pause, as if reading her thoughts. "The Great Forest doesn't forgive weakness."
He threw her a glance with something like a smirk.
"And as you see—I do."
Ghislaine growled, the muscles in her neck tightening, but he acted as if he didn't notice.
"If I'd wanted to kill you, I'd have done it back there," he added calmly, looking her straight in the eyes. "So what are you afraid of?"
She didn't answer. Only a suppressed growl, and the fire in her gaze flared brighter. She stepped forward. He only smirked, not moving, and said quietly:
"I feel your intent to kill. Forget it, girl."
At that moment something changed. The space around him rippled, warping along the outline of his body, as if the air itself couldn't withstand his presence. One glance was enough to freeze Ghislaine. A memory flickered—her father. No one else radiated such monstrous pressure. A human equal in strength? Nonsense. But her gaze still slid downward.
He bit off a piece of meat, chewed, then held out the rest to her.
She snatched it, leapt back, eyes fixed on him. He only smirked.
"Wise choice."
Her teeth sank into the meat instantly. Dry and sinewy, a bit burnt, it chewed like rubber. But Ghislaine didn't care. Her body demanded food, and her mind was finally clearing. Somewhere inside, the Beast stirred, rose lazily, shook itself, yawned—coming to after the battle. She didn't see it, but pictured a large cat. Beaten, tired, but alive.
The man watched with mild interest, eyes narrowed. Then he reached behind him and took out a broad blade with a bone hilt in dark leather sheaths. Her blade. He drew it, inspected the edge, ran a finger along the ridge.
"Not bad," he said calmly. "Your work?"
By the way Ghislaine twitched, he understood—yes, she had forged it herself. She finished the meat, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and frowned.
"What do you want, human?" she asked bluntly.
He raised a brow slightly and replied with a question:
"What does a human want?"
She blinked, not catching the mockery immediately.
"I want something?" she hissed, irritation already rising.
His lips curled in a faint smirk; a quiet chuckle escaped him. It amused him—and only angered her.
"Laughter! You dare laugh at me?!" she shouted, stepping forward.
He just looked at her with the same lazy calm.
"If I were laughing at you, you'd feel it. Right now I'm just… surprised."
"At what?" Ghislaine clenched her teeth.
"That you still don't understand why I'm here," he said quietly, meeting her gaze. "I'm not your enemy, beastkin."
She growled again, though somewhere in it flickered doubt. He leaned back slightly, bracing a hand on the ground.
"I didn't know about your Khar'Ragar. If I had, I wouldn't have interfered. I didn't care about your hunt, beastkin. Your Shavra just leapt out right in front of me… and then you."
His gaze sharpened slightly.
"Attacking me was stupid. You were lucky."
"Lucky?" Ghislaine repeated, her voice low.
He smirked.
"Lucky you impressed me. Otherwise I'd have killed you then and there…"
These words made her rise instantly, body falling into a battle stance, fingers tightening.
He clicked his tongue, shook his head, and said with a lazy smirk:
"There you go again. Maybe everyone in your tribe is this stupid?"
Before she could retort, he stepped—and in a heartbeat stood right in front of her. The speed was so great Ghislaine didn't even register the movement.
Something hard struck her stomach. The air burst from her lungs.
"Returning this," he said calmly.
Ghislaine wavered, fell on her backside, and only then realized she was holding her sword against herself.
He turned his back to her and walked forward as if nothing had happened.
The urge to strike flared instantly, her fingers tightened—but she forced herself still. He walked a few steps and sat by the fire again.
"What's your name?" he asked simply.
Ghislaine stayed silent, gaze cold.
He huffed, nodded slightly.
"My name is Gal Farion. I am the greatest swordsman of our age."
"Plenty call themselves that," Ghislaine muttered.
He nodded.
"True. The world is full of swordsmen, and each thinks he's the strongest," he said, without mockery—just stating a fact.
"And you're not like that?" she narrowed her eyes.
"No," he said after a brief pause. "I don't think. I know."
His tone shifted—slightly more serious.
"Earlier you showed decent skill. For a wild beastkin—impressive, even. You have strength, and fury, and endurance. You move roughly, but with heart. And that is what saved you."
"I'm the strongest in my tribe," Ghislaine said defiantly.
He smirked.
"Plenty call themselves that," he replied, returning her own line.
"I'm stronger than anyone," Ghislaine insisted, her voice firm.
"I don't doubt it," he said calmly. "But your forest and your tribe are only a speck on the world's map. Beyond it there are others—and many are far stronger than you."
Ghislaine narrowed her eyes.
"What are you saying?" she asked cautiously.
"How can you call yourself the strongest if you live in a well?" he said calmly.
"What well?" she frowned. "Fool! I'm not in any well!"
He rolled his eyes slightly.
"It's a metaphor," he said with mild exhaustion.
Seeing she still didn't understand, he clicked his tongue.
"Why be satisfied with one tribe when you can challenge the world?"
Ghislaine fell silent. Her gaze darted between him and the sword, as if the answer lay somewhere between.
He broke the pause:
"You're undergoing a ritual, right? When it's over, you'll be free. You can become a mercenary or go on a great hunt beyond the forest." He paused briefly, then said quietly: "So why not become my student?"
"What?! Fool!" she barked.
He rolled his eyes and smirked, as if expecting this exact reaction.
"Few have earned the honor of being trained by me personally," he said lazily. "And those I've invited myself—you can count on one hand."
His gaze sharpened.
"You're foolish and arrogant if you think you can refuse. Your strength is far from ideal," he continued, staring into her eye. "I saw how you swing a sword. With such skill you're no swordswoman—just a brawler."
"I fight as instinct demands," she shot back.
"Exactly," he said calmly. "Instinct is fine for a beast. But you want to be a huntress, a warrior, a swordswoman, right? Then stop swinging your blade like a club. Learn. Or die the moment you leave your forest."
He exhaled, leaned back, added quieter:
"That's why you can't afford to refuse."
"You're too sure of yourself, human," she growled.
"And you're too stubborn," he said calmly. "But that can be fixed. Stubbornness isn't a flaw—if you direct it correctly."
He studied her.
"You can become far stronger than you think. But not in your swamp, not among those who praise your every swing. Here you've hit your ceiling. With me—you have a chance to grow."
He fell silent, letting the words settle.
After a moment he looked up at the sky—the sun was already lifting above the crowns.
"You know where the Hiss tree grows?" he asked casually.
"I know," Ghislaine replied curtly.
He nodded and tossed her a small claw—dark, jagged.
"This is what you were hunting," he said calmly.
Ghislaine caught it, closed her fist around it. The man stood, brushed off his cloak.
"In a week I'll be there. If you decide you're ready—come to me."
He turned and walked away without waiting for an answer. After a few steps, his silhouette vanished into the thick brush.
Ghislaine sat for a long time, studying the claw. Cold and heavy in her palm, uneven along the edges—a simple piece of a dead creature. She turned it in her fingers, thinking about his words.
Then she rose, took her pouch and fastened it to her belt. Checked her sword, ran a finger along the edge, nodded, and hung it back. After that she stepped to the water. Three days remained.
The claw still lay in her palm. She held her hand over the surface and opened her fingers. Plop—and the claw vanished into the murk.
Ghislaine exhaled and said quietly:
"I don't take handouts."
Turning away, she walked on. A new hunt awaited her.