Three full moons hang low over the village, and the light they cast together feels wrong. It is too vivid, with too many colors at once, as if someone spilled ink across the sky and decided it was beautiful. On any other night, Lensa might have stopped to look. Tonight, she does not. She keeps her eyes on the shadows between the buildings and the dark rectangles of windows, searching for the faintest flicker of a candle.
The village is asleep. She needs it to stay that way.
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The red catches the triple moonlight no matter what she does, bright as a signal fire. Her eyes, sharp in the dark in ways that still make some people uneasy, sweep the windows.
Her clothes catch on a loose splinter in the fence post. She doesn't stop. Just yanks, hears the thin fabric give another inch. It doesn't matter. Everything she owns is already beyond repair. She moves with her elbows tucked in and her steps short, the habit of someone who has learned to take up as little space as possible. Her gaze sweeps restlessly, probing the deep, ink-black shadows. These shadows pool between the buildings, as if to remind her of a recent tragic event that took place. Looking into each dark window, she searches for any glint of light. A spark could mean someone has witnessed her escape. It could signal a potential threat.
Her heart is still pounding when the cottage comes into view. It is the smallest one in the village, set apart from the rest by a fence and a plot of land just big enough for one person to tend. She grew those herbs herself, every one of them. She does not let herself look at them now.
The door flies open under her hand, loud enough to make her wince. It does not matter. Out here at the edge of everything, no one is close enough to hear.
Upon entering, she freezes for a fraction of a second. The smell hits her first: dried herbs, ash, and something faintly bitter. Her home.
Her eyes dart across the room. Nothing changes. A table, a bed, some bundles of herbs hang from the ceiling.
The girl shakes off the feeling by slapping her face. 'I have little time! I have to go.' A frantic hum vibrates in her mind. The villagers' anxious whispers about the inquisitor, like dry leaves skittering, scrape at her nerves. Their venomous talk of ridding the village of the "evil witch Lensa" hangs heavy, a suffocating scent in the air. The recent events, a chill crawling up her spine, and a premonition, sharp as ice, spur her to the brink of a desperate decision.
From her rough, straw-filled bed, she snatches her tattered bag. The material, worn thin and full of holes, feels coarse against her fingertips. It is a regular companion for years, its frayed straps threatening to give way with every movement, yet a replacement is an impossibility. The whispers of distrust from the villagers are a constant hum in her mind, and any purchase betrays the path she plans to flee.
After finishing her packing and placing the last items in a container, she heads to the cupboard. She pulls out several loaves of bread, squeezing one to check its freshness before putting it aside. Although not perfect, they'll suffice for a few days. Next, she retrieves a pouch of mixed fresh herbs, perfect for the journey ahead. As she organizes them, a medley of familiar scents fills the air.
She checks the pestle and mortar, essential for preparing these plants, but they are quite heavy. Glancing at them, the girl carefully places them into her satchel, mindful not to disturb anything else inside.
"Damn it," the girl says to herself, justifying the bulky item's necessity. Without it, the herbs are barely useful.
Lensa uses a flint to start a fire if necessary. From the cupboard, she retrieves a rusty knife, its only purpose so far being cooking and medicine preparation.
To avoid accidentally injuring herself or damaging her modest clothes during the journey, she wraps the blade in an old rag. Her hands tremble causing her to take way longer than she should.
"Should've bought that damn dagger from that travelling merchant," the elf states clicking her tongue.
As the last item, she puts the cutting tool into her already full equipment bag. The material visibly stretches under the pressure, causing the bag's shape to bulge.
As she steps one foot outside the door, she stops and looks at the bed where the bracelet lies. A shiny silver metal forms the accessory. It is the only item that was with her when the residents found her as a baby many years ago.
"Tsk, I am wasting time. I need to hurry," she says, torn between emotion and reason. She clenches her hands and grits her teeth, contemplating. One part of her says it's important to her, while the other warns of the fleeting time. Ultimately, she retrieves the piece of adornment and puts it on.
As she leaves the house again, she checks that the door and shutters are closed. All of that, in hopes this confuses the locals in the morning and makes them think she is asleep, which would buy her some time.
With a calm, confident stride, she creeps behind the dwelling, despite hidden anxiety. In this way, the building obscures the entire village, minimising her chances of detection.
The nearby villages border the forest, and she dashes into its depths, where the moonlight lessens. Then she continues onward, sprinting ahead, darting between evergreen trees and patches of lingering winter snow.
She retraces her steps with caution, covering her tracks as best she can. The next day, when residents discover her absence, the inquisitor's pursuit will begin.
"I can only hope this inquisitor arrives in a few days, not tomorrow," she says. It is a futile wish, though. The villagers have received a reply, so her tormentor is almost certainly on its way.
After running some distance, the girl changes direction, slows down, and takes care to leave as few traces as possible. Next, she goes along the main road leading to the country border.
"I hope that travelling peddler wasn't lying," Lensa thinks, remembering the merchant who visited the village from time to time. He had mentioned that the settlement was near the country's boundary and that this route would lead there.
However, she hopes things will improve there and that life will not force her into constant running and hiding like some hermit, far from civilisation.
She dashes between the trees, weaving along a winding path. It is as if she herself does not know where she wants to go, but that is not true. It may seem strange, but this results from years of practice by someone who has spent more time searching for plants in this forest than in her own home.
The path through the woods twists and turns on purpose. She moves toward sounds like birds calling, leaves rustling, and the faint tapping of small animals in the undergrowth. When gentle creatures are nearby, it usually means there is no danger, since they run away before anything bad comes close. If the forest suddenly goes quiet, that is when you need to run.
Eventually, her body gives in. Her lungs burn. Her legs feel heavy, almost like waterlogged wood. She slows down and walks, pressing her hand to her chest as if she could force the air back in. Still, she keeps going.
Wet grunting and cracking noises from nearby interrupt the sounds of deep breaths. She falls silent and crouches behind the bushes to assess the situation and the source of the disturbance.
Creeping between trees and in back of dense vegetation, she halts behind a thick tree. Pressed against the cold bark of an oak, she glances sideways, and a sight that stops her in her tracks unfolds. Her eyes widen, and her body stiffens and face pales in the moonlight.
The tearing of flesh and the crunch of bone echoes through the air, a grisly symphony announcing a predator's gruesome feast. Just a few dozen meters away, a two-headed, feline-like creature tears into an animal carcass. Its navy-blue fur, a startling sight against the muted earth tones of the landscape, gleams with an almost wet sheen under the harsh light. A spiked tail twitches, a stark warning. Its large ears swivel independently, catching the faintest sounds, a testament to its keen predatory senses.
'Oh shit,' thinks Lensa, gets out of her stupor and hides behind a tree. "Why the hell are there birds chirping with this around?" She says quietly, frustrated and confused about how her usual methods had failed this time.
'Duskraeth,' she thinks. The navy-blue fur, the twin heads. She has seen one before, just once. She survived that, though she still does not know how. They are territorial. They hunt after dark. And now, it is well past sunset, and she is deep in its territory.
'Thank the gods it already found prey,' she thinks. If it weren't busy eating, she would most likely become its dinner instead.
Her hand grasps her bag to keep its contents silent. Then she slowly backs away from the surrounding branches and vegetation, holding her breath. Though she's sure the animal has spotted her, she moves with extreme care to avoid provoking it.
She takes a while, but distances herself enough to inhale and calm her racing heart.
The girl continues on her way, giving the distant, unseen, and unheard beast a wide berth.
She reaches the edge of the forest, the cool, damp earth cushioning her steps. Before her, a clearing opens, bathed in the pale light of dawn. The road, a ribbon of dusty grey, snakes ahead, vanishing beyond a rolling hill crowned with frost-kissed grass that crunches faintly underfoot. The air, crisp and biting, carries the faint scent of pine needles. This is the very path that once promised escape, a beacon of hope for a brighter future.
A smile appears on her face at the thought that this nightmare would soon be over. The lass passes the line of trees, relieved from the dark atmosphere their shade brings and, with slow, eager steps, like an excited child, climbs the hill.
She can't help but grin as she sees the crest of the hill just ahead.
Suddenly, a roar shatters the quiet behind her, and her grin disappears.