We walked in silence, gathering the corpses and scraps of the monsters from last night.
The stench of blood clung to everything. Beside me, the dark elf delegate lingered, a parasol raised over her head by one of her attendants.
Tsk. If the sun bothers her that much, why not stay inside instead of flaunting it like a peacock? I muttered inwardly, stooping to collect what looked like a severed arm and dropping it into the sack already heavy with gore.
It had taken more than one bout of retching—and the Commander's unblinking gaze—to finally steady myself to this work. He had looked at me as though trying to decide if I was witchcraft or merely… different.
And from the whispers of his soldiers, I had gathered that in their world, "different" might as well be witchcraft. And witchcraft meant death.
"Why are you quietly following me?" I finally asked, turning to the elf.
She smiled, the kind of smile that told me she already knew the thoughts I was trying to hide. "I'm simply bored. And you seemed the most… approachable. Interesting."
I raised an eyebrow but said nothing, returning to my grisly task. After a while, curiosity pricked at me.
"Why do you elves all have that tattoo—the eclipse, the moon? I saw it on the other two as well. And now you, beneath that… rather revealing attire. Is it a clan mark? Or just fashion?"
She touched the back of her neck, her eyes catching the sunlight in a faint glint. "Oh, that?" A soft laugh, almost nostalgic. "It's an old Elven custom. Something… close to us." Her voice warmed with a fondness I couldn't quite decipher.
I nodded, though my attention drifted across the courtyard. Regina sat in the shade, her body leaning heavy against the stone. She looked pale, worn. I made a mental note to ask her later—something was wrong.
Alpha and her sisters kept themselves busy with chores, too busy for me to even recall the last time we'd spoken properly. We had all been swallowed by survival.
Night came again, as it always did—with claws, teeth, and the gnawing dread of survival. Derek's remaining ten men had lived through the last attack, and their mood was high, almost jubilant. We would be leaving soon, for the Castellum.
From what Miss Zira explained, it was a fortified city—larger, stronger, boasting walls with weather-regulation systems that bent the world to comfort. The thought alone thrilled me: no more searing heat or freezing frost-lock. A breath of safety, for once.
And yet the Paladin unsettled me. Perhaps it was his zeal, that battle-cry still ringing in my ears, or perhaps it was the thought of my pending witch trial. Still, his presence—and that of his sanctified men—was a comfort. Strength I could lean on, though it cut both ways.
As darkness claimed the sky and the frost crept over the ground, the monsters came once more.
The Commander and his men cut them down with practiced ease, their chants carrying through the night like iron against despair.
The Catwoman had returned as if nothing had happened, and no one dared question her absence.
The battle was no less gory than before, but repetition breeds familiarity. My stomach twisted less with each strike.
Perhaps it was the voice whispering in my head, steadying me. Perhaps I was simply hardening to blood.
Still, as my blade slid through another writhing mass of muscle, I prayed—please, let the Commander not see me for what I am becoming. Let him not call me possessed.