The rain started light and grew heavier by the minute.
Anya kept moving south, hood pulled low, boots sinking into mud that clung to her soles. The forest road had collapsed into ruts filled with water. Each step pulled at her legs, forcing her to slow.
Her pack felt heavier than it should have.
She shifted the straps. Adjusted the balance.
The weight didn't change.
Something was off.
The strength from the razorback's blood had burned out hours ago. That part was familiar. The power always came fast and left fast, taking the edge with it. What followed was usually emptiness—fatigue, hunger, a dull ache in her muscles.
This wasn't that.
Her stomach tightened. A wave of nausea rolled through her and didn't fade.
She stopped and braced a hand against a tree, breathing slowly through her nose. She waited for it to pass.
It didn't.
The taste lingered at the back of her mouth—metallic, stale. It was the same aftertaste that came when the blood wore off. She hadn't taken any since the hunt, but it clung to her tongue anyway.
She spat into the mud.
Just tired, she told herself. Just need to rest.
Rest wasn't an option. Not with Cyra somewhere behind her.
She pushed away from the tree and forced herself forward.
The rain thickened, blurring the forest into gray shapes. Lightning flickered far to the north. The air cooled, damp seeping through her clothes.
Her fingers began to shake.
Barely noticeable at first. A fine tremor.
She curled both hands into fists and kept walking.
By the time she saw lights ahead, her vision had begun to soften at the edges.
---
The inn sat at a crossroads, squat and practical. Smoke drifted from the chimneys despite the rain. Lamplight spilled from the windows. A stable stood to one side, horses shifting inside.
Anya stopped at the tree line.
She didn't want to go in. Didn't want to be seen. Didn't want—
Her knees buckled.
She caught herself on a trunk, breath coming faster than it should have. The tremor had spread up her arms. When she tried to focus on the inn, the edges of the building wavered.
Something's wrong.
The rain soaked through her clothes. Cold crept into her joints. The taste in her mouth thickened, unpleasant and persistent.
She needed shelter. Needed to sit. Needed time to understand what her body was doing before it stopped cooperating entirely.
She left the trees and crossed the yard.
---
The common room was warm and crowded.
Heat hit her as soon as she stepped inside. Voices overlapped—arguments, laughter, complaints about the roads. Someone near the fire laughed too loudly.
The smell of food turned her stomach.
She swallowed and walked to the bar. Her legs felt slow, disconnected. Each step took more focus than it should have.
The innkeeper—a broad woman with graying hair—looked her over. Mud. Weapons. Steel arm.
"Room?" she asked.
"Yes." Anya's voice sounded rough. "Just tonight."
"Two silver. Breakfast included."
Anya paid. A key slid across the counter.
"Second floor. Third door on the left. Need anything warmed? Bath water?"
"No."
The woman paused, studying her face. "You sick?"
"No."
"You look it."
Anya held her gaze.
The innkeeper shrugged.
Anya turned away. The room felt like it tilted.
She caught herself against the bar, fingers digging into the wood. The shaking was worse now. She could feel people watching.
Move.
She reached the stairs and climbed slowly, one step at a time. The noise faded as she reached the hall.
As she made it to the room, Anya tried to get in.
The lock resisted. Her fingers slipped. On the third try, it opened.
She walked in and shut the door behind her.
---
The room was small. Bed. Washstand. Window.
Anya dropped her pack and sat on the edge of the mattress. Her head throbbed steadily behind her eyes. The taste in her mouth hadn't faded since the road.
She stood.
For a moment, it felt like the floor moved under her.
She steadied herself without thinking and sat back down, slower this time. Focused on her breathing. Waited for her body to settle.
It didn't.
Her skin felt too warm. The tremor in her hands refused to ease.
That didn't match what usually came after.
She'd taken blood hundreds of times. There was always a drop afterward—the hollow feeling, the fatigue—but never this. Never the lingering imbalance.
Footsteps passed in the hall. Voices. Laughter.
She pushed herself up and crossed to the window, cracking the shutters. Cold air and rain pushed in, sharp against her face.
Below, the yard was busy. A wagon unloading. Men standing under the eaves, smoking.
Everything moved the way it should.
She turned back into the room and noticed a mirror.
Her reflection caught in the mirror.
Pale skin. Shadows under her eyes.
Her gaze lingered.
Not glowing. Not red.
Just darker than she expected. The pupils swallowing more of the iris than usual.
A knock at the door made her flinch.
"Food," a girl's voice called. "Innkeeper sent some stew."
Anya opened the door. A little girl held out a tray.
"Thanks," Anya said, taking it.
"No Problem" the girl said. "Have a good stay at our inn."
She left.
Anya set the tray down and sat again. Her hands shook as she lifted the spoon.
The stew was warm. Heavy. The kind of food that usually helped after a hunt.
She ate slowly.
Waited.
Nothing changed.
The tremor stayed. Her limbs still felt distant, like they were responding a moment too late.
Food sat in her stomach and did nothing else.
She pushed the bowl aside.
Her chest burned faintly. The sensation she'd lived with for twelve years—constant, dull.
Now it spread wider instead of fading.
She leaned back, one hand against her ribs.
She thought about the last month. The number of hunts. How often she'd taken blood afterward.
Did I take too much blood recently? She didn't like the thought. But the thought stayed.
Anya lay back on the bed, still dressed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Sleep didn't come.
---
She jerked awake again and again, heart racing without a clear reason. The taste worsened until she had to sit up, breathing through it.
The inn quieted as the night went on. Creaks. Distant movement.
Her muscles twitched. Sounds arrived unevenly. Her steel arm felt heavier than usual.
Not cold.
She flexed the fingers. No resistance. No pain.
It still didn't feel cold.
Wind rattled the shutters.
She turned toward the window.
Someone stood in the yard.
Alone. Still.
Lightning flashed.
Silver hair.
Anya pressed to the glass. Rain obscured the view.
The yard was empty.
Her hands shook harder as she backed away.
Not here, she told herself. She can't be.
She reached for her pack.
Her legs gave out.
She caught the bed frame, breath tearing out of her as the room dimmed at the edges.
She couldn't run like this. Couldn't fight.
She sank against the wall, eyes fixed on the door.
For twelve years, the blood had been an edge. Something she relied on.
Now her body wasn't responding the way she expected.
Rain hit the shutters.
Footsteps shifted somewhere below.
Her steel arm rested against her side.