From Freya Van Daalen's Perspective
For the first time in a long while, Freya's mind was free.
No more human noise — no doubts, no fears, no moral reasoning about what was right or wrong.
All of it had dissolved with the last scream of the men who ran.
She remembered clearly what Aslan had told her before they stepped through the gray portal — before their Essences ignited.
His words echoed in her memory now, finally making sense:
"There are risks.
Awakening your Essence doesn't just mean gaining power.
It means changing.
Part of you will evolve… but another part may never come back."
Back then, she had only nodded, confident.
Now, at last, she understood.
Because when the last of the Fighting Dogs fled into the forest, something inside her caught fire — a spark reignited after ages of silence.
It was sudden.
Visceral.
A heat rising from the base of her spine, an impulse so raw it felt older than consciousness itself.
Her mind screamed that she had to chase them.
It wasn't vengeance.
It wasn't pleasure.
It was need.
A primal, instinctive, savage calling.
Something that reached deeper than any logic ever could.
And before she knew it, she was running.
Her muscles obeyed before thought could even form.
Her body — lighter, sharper, faster — moved as if guided by the wind itself.
Branches brushed her face, the damp earth shifted beneath her feet, and the rhythm of her breathing merged with the whispering roar of the wind through the trees.
Everything around her aligned with that new instinct.
The world stopped being a blur of shapes and colors and became a living map, drawn by scent, sound, and vibration.
She could hear the rustle of branches dozens of meters away, distinguish every breath, every frantic heartbeat, the acrid tang of fear hanging in the air.
And it was perfect.
She didn't think.
She felt.
Each step drew her closer to the first man.
She saw him through the shadows — stumbling, glancing back, face slick with sweat and panic.
He tripped, fell, scrambled up again — and she almost laughed.
Gazelles… she thought, her lips curving into a wild smile.
They run like frightened gazelles.
Gazelles she had no intention of letting escape.
The scent of blood and earth mingled with adrenaline, a perfume that intoxicated her.
Her heart beat in a rhythm that no longer belonged to humankind — faster, stronger, in sync with the forest itself.
She didn't fight the instinct.
Not now.
She let it flow.
The instinct took control — and for the first time, Freya didn't resist.
Because even though she knew it was dangerous — that surrendering to that wild side meant allowing something new, something perhaps uncontrollable, to awaken within her — it was impossible to deny the pure, unrestrained joy of freedom.
It felt as if the weight of her past — all her doubts, her pain, her exhaustion — had melted away, replaced by the steady pulse of the hunt.
No memories of the world outside the Tower.
No guilt.
No fear.
No fatigue.
Only her, the forest, and the prey still foolish enough to run.
And with each breath, each heartbeat, what had once been human reason transformed into something deeper.
Fiercer.
More hers.
Wind rushed around her, lifting leaves and dust as the green glow in her eyes caught the moonlight.
She could almost taste the metallic tang of blood before her blade even touched flesh.
Yes — she would have to learn to control this instinct before it controlled her.
But not today.
Today, she would simply hunt.
And when the first scream echoed through the trees, Freya Van Daalen left the human world behind — surrendering completely to what now pulsed in her soul.
She moved like a whisper among the trees.
Her feet barely touched the ground, her body bending and straightening with the rhythm of the terrain, as if the forest itself were an extension of her will.
With each step, her sense of smell traced invisible paths in the air — sweat, fear, blood, iron.
Three distinct scents, all fresh.
All alive.
The first man was close, struggling up a small rise covered in thick roots.
His breathing came ragged, uneven, desperate.
His hands trembled so badly he could barely grip the dagger at his belt.
Freya approached in silence, circling a fallen trunk.
Moonlight filtered through the branches, painting her face in shadow and silver — her green eyes glinting, fixed on him.
She didn't run.
She didn't need to.
She waited until he stopped to catch his breath, the dagger resting weakly on his knee.
Then she moved.
One leap.
A sharp rustle of leaves.
He turned, confused — but by then, her strike was already done.
The blade sliced across his throat from side to side, swift and precise.
For a moment, his body didn't understand what had happened.
Then the blood came — a perfect crimson arc spraying against the trunk behind him.
His gaze froze in bewilderment as he dropped to his knees.
Freya caught his shoulder to keep the fall quiet, tilted him gently — almost tenderly — and laid him down on the moss.
She said nothing.
Didn't look back.
The second was farther ahead, running blindly, screaming his companions' names between sobs.
Freya followed the sound.
Each time he stumbled, she closed the distance.
She could smell his fear — a sweet, bitter scent that guided her like a beacon through the dark.
When he turned to change direction, she was already there.
A single, fluid movement — her body lowering, her arm sweeping upward, the blade flashing in the moonlight.
She struck from below, the cut deep and fatal.
The sound that escaped him was soft — a strangled whimper, almost a sigh.
He dropped to his knees, hands clutching his wound in vain.
Freya didn't slow.
She passed him, twisting her wrist to flick the blood from her blade.
Behind her, the body hit the ground with a dull, wet thud.
The third was different.
Faster.
Smarter — or maybe just more desperate.
He ran with awareness, glancing back every few seconds, scanning for movement.
Freya shadowed him from a distance, adjusting her rhythm to his.
Each time he looked back, she disappeared.
Each time he ran, she let him think he was escaping.
But fear consumes faster than any predator.
Soon his body trembled, lungs burning, steps heavy.
At last, he stopped — leaning against a tree, gasping, wiping sweat from his eyes.
Only then did he realize the forest had gone silent.
No wind.
No insects.
No sound.
Something cold touched the back of his neck.
Freya had reached him — quietly, effortlessly.
She pressed the blade to his skin and waited, curious to see if he'd dare to move.
He didn't.
Leaning close, her lips brushed his ear as she whispered, barely louder than the rustling leaves:
"Run again."
He turned in panic — and that was his last mistake.
The strike pierced his chest cleanly, emerging through his back.
His body arched, eyes wide, a final breath escaping as a hoarse whisper.
Freya nudged him lightly with her boot, letting him fall face-first into the dirt.
For a moment, she stood still — breathing deeply, savoring the cold air and the metallic scent of fresh blood.
Her pulse still raced, but her gaze was calm.
The forest was silent.
Obedient.
Three down.
The rest — still running.
Still alive… for now.
She twisted her wrist, wiped the blade on one of the fallen cloaks, and started walking again.