Warning: Dark themes, violence, attempted assault (no on-page rape).
The commander dropped to one knee beside Rya. Slowly, deliberately, he hooked his fingers under the crimson gown with its silver-and-black lining and dragged it down her shoulder. The fabric slid lower, lower, until her pale chest was half-exposed to the cold night air and the hungry eyes of twelve men.
"Commander, don't hog all the fun," one of the soldiers called out. "We're here too."
The commander only grinned. He peeled off his leather gloves, tossed them aside, then slipped his bare right hand inside the torn neckline of her gown and squeezed. Hard. Rya's body jerked, but her arms were weak and useless. She tried to twist away; nothing happened.
"Don't struggle, princess," he muttered, shoving his other hand in as well. "The sooner I'm done, the sooner my comrades get their turn."
His palms moved greedily. "Gods, you wouldn't believe how soft they are," he said over his shoulder, loud enough for every man to hear. The soldiers leaned forward, eyes shining, licking dry lips.
"To think I'm actually touching a real princess," he laughed, drunk on it. "How did the stars line up tonight?"
He tugged the gown lower, all the way to her navel, baring her completely to the waist.
Rya's mind screamed Stop, please stop, but her cracked lips only trembled. No sound came.
"Unreal," one soldier breathed, staring. "Look at that pair. My eyes are so blessed."
"You don't get to be a daughter of Nyxelene if you're not this gorgeous." Another added.
Then a small, clear voice cut through the dark like a silver bell.
"Mom… what is that mean-looking man doing to the lady's boo-boo?"
Every head snapped around.
A little boy, no older than seven, stood at the edge of the torchlight, clutching his mother's skirt. His eyes were huge, bright, completely innocent.
The commander froze, both hands still on Rya's bare chest.
"Who the…"
He turned slowly. A woman stood behind the child—tall, dark-haired, dressed in simple travelling clothes, face calm and unreadable.
"Don't worry, darling," the woman told the boy softly, warm as fresh bread. "They're just playing."
"But the lady doesn't look happy," the boy said, pointing at Rya's bloodied lip, at the bruises blooming across her ribs where the gown no longer hid them. "She's hurt."
"Yes, sweetheart. That's why Mama is going to ask them politely to stop." She brushed a hand over his hair. "Now be a good boy. Go hide behind that big tree. Cover your ears tight. Don't come out until I call you."
The child obeyed instantly, padding away and disappearing behind the tree without another question.
Then the woman looked up.
The warmth was gone. Her eyes were winter.
"I'm not going to ask what she did," she said, voice flat and cold. "I don't care what crime you think she committed. But every eye that has seen her half-naked tonight will not see tomorrow's sunrise."
The commander let go of Rya as though her skin had turned to hot iron. He stood slowly.
"Now who in the layers of hell are you?" he demanded, wiping his hands on his tunic like he could wipe away what he'd just done. "What are you doing in these woods at this hour with a child?"
The woman didn't answer. She just started walking toward them, slow, steady steps.
The commander's mouth twisted into an ugly grin.
"Silent type, huh? Doesn't matter. A woman travelling alone with a kid and still looking that good?" He glanced back at his men and spread his arms. "Boys, looks like tonight just got better. Two beautiful women. Everybody gets a turn before lord Javier arrives."
The soldiers cheered, crude and loud, already moving forward.
One of them stepped right up to the woman, leering.
"Don't care who you are, lady. Blame your bad luck for walking in at the wrong time."
By then Rya had slipped away into blackness, her body finally giving out. The last thing she saw was the woman's gaze flicking down to her half-naked, bruised form sprawled on dead leaves and broken sticks.
Then the world went dark.
"You really have some pretty eyes," the soldier said, stepping close enough that his breath stirred the loose strands of her hair. His gaze dropped to her mouth. "But they're not the only pretty thing on yo—"
The words ended in a strangled gurgle.
Three fingers closed around his throat with surgical precision. A single, measured pull, and the cartilage of his windpipe tore free, half-exposed, protruding from the flesh. Blood poured in a thick, immediate stream. The soldier collapsed to his knees, both hands clawing at the ruin of his neck, trying and failing to draw air through the shredded passage. He would drown slowly in his own blood; she had made certain of that.
"What in the world just happened?" another soldier shouted as he stared at his comrade writhing on the ground, fingers slick with crimson, eyes already glazing.
"She's dangerous! Capture her, now!" the commander bellowed, drawing his sword.
Ten men surged forward in a ragged line, steel raised.
They halted as one when the woman raised her blood-smeared hand and, without haste, licked the red from each finger. Her tongue moved deliberately, gathering every drop while her eyes remained fixed on the silver wolf crest embroidered on every breastplate.
"Runevale soldiers," she said, voice calm and precise. "Still the same repulsive breed. I had hoped time might have forced some improvement in you. Evidently not. Then again, none of you would dare change while Nyxelene sits on the throne."
The commander's hand tightened on his sword hilt. Only one name in all the old records described a woman who tasted enemy blood without flinching. Only one name had ever been spoken in that exact tone of cold disdain.
Before the thought could fully form, another soldier broke ranks and charged. His sword swept in a powerful horizontal strike from the left, aimed to sever her head from her shoulders as he shouted.
"She's just one woman, don't be intimidated. We have the advantage in head counts."
The woman lifted her open palm and caught the blade between thumb and two fingers. The steel stopped as though it had struck stone. With a short, economical pull she dragged the soldier forward, off balance, and sank her teeth into the thick muscle where neck met shoulder. The man screamed. She shifted her bite to the opposite side, tearing deeper, then clamped down on the throat itself. Cartilage shattered beneath her jaws. She chewed once, twice, the sound wet and unmistakable, then spat the ruined mass of flesh and bone onto the ground.
"Your meat is sour," she informed the corpse, blood painting her lips and chin a vivid crimson. "The worst I have tasted in years. Hygiene clearly remains beneath Runevale standards."
The soldier's body joined the first on the forest floor, both twitching in their final spasms.
What followed was no longer a fight; it was extermination.
Swords rose and fell. She deflected every strike with the flat of her bare hand or the edge of her forearm, steel ringing uselessly against skin that refused to part. When blades came too close, she seized wrists or throats, dragged men in, and bit. Flesh tore. Arteries opened. One by one the search party fell, some with throats ripped out, others with faces half-consumed, all dead within moments.
The commander stood rooted, sword arm trembling.
Nyxelene had destroyed entire bloodlines, killed more people than she met, but she never ate them.
'This cannot be the rumored cannibal,' he thought, panic clawing at his chest. 'If it truly is Aeloria, the most feared Šērēĺįťh user ever born in Runevale, then only Lord Javier himself could hope to stand against her.'
A handful of seconds later the clearing was silent except for the drip of blood from leaves.
Eleven corpses lay in a loose circle, throats gaping, chests stoved in, faces unrecognisable.
The woman walked forward, leaving red prints in the dirt, and stopped directly before the commander.
He looked at her, breath shallow, voice barely a whisper.
"Your name… it is Aeloria, isn't it?"
Her smile revealed teeth stained scarlet.
"My, my. To think there are still souls in Runevale who remember the name. How very interesting."
Her hand moved faster than sight. She seized the gorget of his armor and slammed him backward. His helmet struck the ground hard enough to ring his skull. Before he could draw breath she was astride his chest, knees pinning his arms, weight immovable.
"That aside," she continued in the same conversational tone, "I observed how thoroughly you enjoyed handling that young woman's chest."
With deliberate ease she gripped the front of his breastplate and ripped it open. Steel buckled and tore like parchment, exposing his bare torso to the night air.
Under any other circumstance he would have fought, would have drawn the dagger at his belt.
Against Aeloria, he could only lie paralysed, every muscle locked by terror. This was the same mad woman who ate her child to survive the wilderness.
She regarded his exposed chest with cool detachment.
"So flat," she observed. "You clearly admire generous proportions in women, yet you have neglected your own development entirely. All those years of training abandoned."
Her right hand hovered directly above his heart. The fingers flexed once, slowly.
"I had intended to repay your earlier enthusiasm in kind," she said, voice soft, almost gentle. "To squeeze your chest exactly as you squeezed hers. But yours is disappointingly small."
Her palm lowered until he felt the heat of her skin against his own.
"That begs the question," she murmured.
"What, exactly, should I squeeze instead?"