The hem of the young witch's dress whispered against the stone floor as she moved quietly through the corridor. Her scarf had slipped from her head and now rested loosely on her shoulders, and her fingers absentmindedly toyed with the beads around her wrist. She had won two more. A small, private smile flickered across her lips at the thought of giving one to Oryen—and perhaps, if courage did not fail her, another to the elite who had helped her time and time again.
Though doubt lingered in her chest, she forced herself to hold on to hope.
Her steps slowed.
Then stopped.
A figure stood a few paces ahead.
The air shifted, turning heavy, suffocating. Her heart dropped as her eyes traced the unmistakable details—the armor… and the jagged tree branch protruding from his chest.
Her breath caught.
It was him.
Her first kill.
Those same red eyes fixed onto her, unblinking, burning with something she could not name. Watching. Waiting.
He moved.
One slow, deliberate step.
