Twelve years later.
Safety was a lie people told themselves to sleep at night. Anya had learned that lesson young, and the forest had spent the last decade reinforcing it.
She crouched in the underbrush at the tree line, breath controlled, steady despite the adrenaline in her system. Seventy yards ahead, the razorback boar rooted through dead leaves, oblivious to the predator watching it. The creature was a mountain of muscle and scar tissue, easily eight feet at the shoulder. Its tusks curved like short swords, and the ridge of bony spines running down its back—thick as her thumb and sharp enough to impale a man—marked it as one of the big ones.
Survivors. Mean enough to kill hunters. Smart enough to vanish when the odds weren't in their favor.
She'd been tracking this one for three days.
The job had come from a logging camp two weeks back. The foreman, a grizzled man missing three fingers, had spat tobacco juice and offered double her usual rate.
"Killed two of my men," he'd growled. "Charged right through camp at dawn. Smart bastard. Knows to hit us when we're vulnerable."
She'd taken the job. Not for the loggers, but because winter was coming and her coin purse was light.
Now her bow was drawn, the string brushing her cheek. Her right arm—the steel one—held steady with mechanical precision while her flesh hand controlled the draw. The prosthetic was a masterwork, forged from an alloy Cyra had never named. It responded to her thoughts through whatever enchantment or mechanism her former mentor had woven into the metal.
The bow will keep you alive, Cyra's voice echoed in her memory, cool and measured. Master it, or die.
Anya pushed the thought away. Thinking about Cyra made her angry. Anger led to mistakes.
The boar's head lifted. Its nostrils flared as it tested the air. Anya froze, forcing her heart rate down until it felt steady again. She'd washed upstream, scrubbing her skin with wild mint and pine sap to mask her scent.
The creature's ears swiveled. It snorted and pawed the ground. A warning. It knew something was wrong, but not what.
One.
Two.
Three.
The boar turned its head toward her hiding place.
Four.
She released.
The arrow cut through the air and struck the creature's left eye with a wet thunk, punching through into the brain. The beast squealed—a sound too close to human—and thrashed, its bulk tearing through leaves and earth.
She was already moving.
She drew a second arrow as she circled right, keeping low. Blinded on one side and panicked by pain, the boar charged where it thought she had been. She rose fifteen feet away, drew, and loosed in one smooth motion.
The second arrow struck its throat, just above the chest plates where the hide was thinnest.
Blood sprayed across the leaves. The boar staggered, tried to turn, failed. Blood loss and brain damage did the rest. It took two unsteady steps and collapsed with a heavy impact, the light fading from its eyes.
Silence returned to the forest. The birds that had fled were gone; even the wind seemed to pause. Anya stood over the body, waiting a full minute to be certain it was dead. Caution had kept her alive for two years on her own. Rushing had killed the hunters before her.
Satisfied, she drew her hunting knife with her steel hand and knelt, resting her flesh hand against the still-warm flank.
"Swift death. Clean kill. Honored prey," she murmured. "May your spirit run free."
The words felt empty. They always did. Just another habit Cyra had drilled into her.
Still, part of her—the girl who used to play by the well—wanted to believe there was honor in it. That she wasn't just a butcher.
She pushed the thought aside. The boar needed to be dressed. The spine plates meant coin. The hide was worth even more.
But first came the part she dreaded.
The part she needed.
She scanned the clearing. No travelers. No other hunters. She was always alone for this.
Her flesh hand trembled as she drew the knife across the creature's throat, widening the wound. Blood welled up immediately—dark, thick, steaming in the cool autumn air. The smell hit her hard. Copper. Musk. Life.
Her stomach turned even as her mouth watered. The contradiction never faded.
How can I hate this and still need it?
"Just a little," she whispered. The same lie every time. "Just enough."
She cupped her left hand beneath the flow. The liquid was hot against her skin. Her reflection wavered in the dark pool—a young woman with hard eyes, a scar through her eyebrow, hair the color of wet earth. She looked older than eighteen.
She closed her eyes and drank.
The taste was vile. Thick and metallic, coating her throat and making her gag. Beneath the bitterness—wildness, dying rage. Monster blood was always worse than beast blood. It tasted wrong. Old.
She forced herself to swallow.
Once.
Twice.
The effect was immediate.
Heat spread through her chest, pushing outward. The nausea vanished, replaced by strength flooding her muscles. Tendons tightened. Her body felt heavier, denser, more solid.
Her senses sharpened. She could count the leaves on an oak fifty yards away. She could hear a mouse moving under the brush. The air carried the scent of an approaching storm.
She opened her eyes. She didn't need a mirror to know they glowed faintly red.
The curse.
The gift.
The abomination.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and spat, though the taste would linger for hours. The power would last maybe an hour—long enough to dress the carcass and haul the load back to camp without strain.
She set to work. Her steel hand locked the body in place while she butchered with practiced speed. She removed the hide in one piece. Then the spine plates. The heart and liver for the alchemists.
She dug a pit and buried the remains.
"Show respect to what you kill," Cyra used to say. "Especially monsters."
Did you respect me? Anya thought as she packed the earth down. Or was I just another one?
By the time she finished, the sharpness had begun to fade. The world lost its razor edge, but the heaviness stayed. Her muscles still felt too ready, her thoughts a half step too quick.
One step at a time.
One job.
One secret.
Somewhere, Cyra was alive. Somewhere, there were answers about the eyeless beast and the black liquid that had burned through her veins twelve years ago.
But for now, she just needed to get paid after the red glow faded completely.
Behind her, a raven landed on a branch, watching her go. It tilted its head, studying her with eyes too sharp to belong to a bird. When she disappeared around the bend, it spread its black wings and flew north.
Toward the mountains.
Anya kept walking. Thunder rolled in the distance.
A storm was coming.
It always was.