Silas Coilheart POV
The Killground reeks of weakness today. I smell blood soaked earth, panicked sweat from those pathetic human scraps, and the distant whimpers of tributes breaking too soon. I slither through the underbrush in my half shifted form, my scales glinting like oil in the light, my tongue flicking to taste the air. It's thick with promise. Females are scarce, witches even more so, but I've scented one.
She smells ripe and potent. Her essence lingers like venom in a vein...berries, earth, and wild magic that could swell my coffers with heirs. No more scraping for half-breed spawn from unwilling sluts. This one will breed true, or I'll wring her dry trying.
My coils tighten at the thought. I've claimed breeders before, tied them in my bogs, pumped them full of seed until they birthed my spawn or died in the effort. No romance, no pretty words. Just purpose. The plague took our females, so I'll take what I need to rebuild. And if this witch fights? All the better. Breaking them is half the fun.
A hiss escapes my lips as new scents intrude... lion musk, wolf fur, and rank tiger. Three Warlords are ahead, clustered like fools around a massive oak. Hadrian Ironpaw, that golden prick with an ego bigger than his mane. Fenrick Bloodhowl, the snarling brute who thinks loyalty makes him king. And Nythor Frostbite, the cold bastard who'd sooner freeze you than fight fair. What are they doing here, sniffing the same trail I've caught?
I shift fuller into my serpentine form, my body elongating, scales rasping against leaves as I approach silently. They don't notice me at first, fuckers are too busy growling at each other and circling the tree like they've lost something precious. The air hums with their tension, and beneath it... her scent. Faint, cloaked, but definitely there. Up in the branches? No, it's fading into the shadows beyond. She's slipped away, but these idiots are still arguing over her ghost.
I emerge from the ferns, my hood flaring slightly, my fangs bared in what passes for a smile. "Well, well," I hiss, my voice like silk over glass shards. "What have we here? Three mighty lords playing in the dirt like cubs. Chasing shadows, are we?"
They snap toward me as one, all three bodies tensing. Hadrian's golden eyes narrow, his mane-like hair bristling as he shifts partially, his claws extending. Fenrick growls low, his black fur rippling along his arms. Nythor remains sleek, but his tiger stripes darken, and a warning chill rolls off him.
"Coilheart," Hadrian rumbles, stepping forward with that arrogant swagger. "Slither back to your swamps. This ground's claimed."
Claimed? My tongue flicks, tasting the lie. They're hiding something. The witch's trail leads right here, up that tree, then vanishea into the undergrowth. I coil tighter, my eyes darting to the oak. "Claimed for what? I smell a female. Witch blood. Potent enough to breed heirs for a king... or a serpent." I lean in, inhaling deeply. "Share the spoils, brothers. The Games are for all of us."
Fenrick snarls, his hackles rising fully now. "No female here, snake. Just us settling old scores. Piss off before we add your scales to the tally."
Nythor's voice is ice, eyes locked on mine without blinking. "He's right. No witch. No prey. Move on, Silas. Your venom's not welcome."
I circle slowly, pretending nonchalance, but my gaze flicks to the tree again. Her scent clings faintly to the bark, it's cloaked, but not perfectly. She's been here. Recently. Escaped while these fools bickered? Or are they protecting her? The thought makes my blood boil. These self-righteous pricks, with their talk of "worthy mates" and alliances.
They know my ways, how I take what I want and then discard the husks. They think they're better. "Suspicious," I hiss, drawing closer to the trunk. "Very suspicious. Let me just... taste the air properly." I rear up, my tongue extending toward the lower branches, fangs dripping with anticipation. If I can confirm her path, I'll track her down, drag her to my depths, and.....
Hadrian's growl thunders like an earthquake, his body blocking my way, his fucking lion form half-emerged, huge claws gouging the earth. "Lay off, Coilheart. Touch that tree, and I'll rip your fangs out and feed them to you."
The other two close ranks, Fenrick's wolf jaws snapping inches from my hood, Nythor's claws come unsheathed in a blur of white.
Three against one. Even I know those odds. My coils twitch with rage, but I force a laugh, slimy and sharp. "Touchy, aren't we? Fine. Keep your secrets. But if there's a breeder out there... she'll be mine before the moon rises."
I slither back, hood folding, my body compressing as I retreat into the shadows. They watch me go, their eyes burning with hatred. Good. Let them stew. But I don't go far. Oh no. I circle wide, searching. My tongue is flicking frantically. And there, beyond the tree, faint but fresh, I find her scent again. Berries and magic, leading deeper into the wilds. She's running. Alone.
A cruel grin splits my face. Time to hunt properly.
Branwen POV
Bloody hell, that hiss still echoes in my ears like a nightmare slithering up my spine. I bolt through the underbrush, barefeet pounding the moss, my heart slamming like a war drum. Shadow step charm bought me distance, but not enough. The forest feels alive with threats now, those three furballs back there, and whatever made that serpentine sound closing in.
I refer to them in my head as Black Wolf, White Tiger, and Lion. No names, no faces beyond their beastly forms. Just predators who think I'm theirs. Twat waffles, the lot of them. But gods, that fight... part of me was fucking thrilled at the power crashing below my perch. My magic surged again at the thought, the land feeding it and whispering of ancient rites and blood bonds. I shoved it down hard, I'm no one's breeder. The pull lingers like a dark heat in my veins.
Focus, Branwen. You're a Mosswood. Powerful. You don't belong to fucking anyone. I skid to a halt at a cluster of ancient oaks, their roots twisting like serpents.
Perfect for traps. I whisper a snare spell, and watch vines coil into loops hidden under leaves. I add a few sharpened stakes from broken branches, enchanted to pierce deep. If that snake thing follows, it'll regret it.
Panting, I climb the tallest oak I can find, settling into a high fork. From here, I can see the clearing I left behind, it's empty now, but the earth is churned from their brawl. No sign of the three, but that hiss... it's closer.
A slithering sound rustles in the ferns below.
My breath catches. I nock an arrow, magic humming along the shaft. "Come on, you slimy bastard," I mutter. "Let's see what you're made of."
The bushes part, and out he comes, a massive snake shifter, scales gleaming green-black, his hood flared like a death fan. Humanoid upper body, serpentine lower half, eyes slitted and cruel. He tastes the air with a forked tongue, his fangs dripping venom that sizzles on the ground.
"Witch," he hisses, voice like poison honey. "I sssmell you. Ripe. Ready. Come down, and I'll make it quick. Breed my heirs, and perhapsss you'll live."
Breed? My stomach twists. This one's different, he is cold and hateful. There's no pretense of "worthy mate." Just a tool for his twisted needs. "Piss off, you scaly twat!" I shout, loosing the arrow. It flies true, empowered by a gust charm, slamming into his shoulder.
He yowls, hood flaring wider, venom spraying as he thrashes. But he doesn't fall. He lunges, coils propelling him up the trunk, claws scraping bark. "You'll pay for that, breeder!"
Bollocks. I scramble higher, whispering a thorn barrier spell. Vines erupt from the tree, thorny and thick, wrapping the trunk like a cage. He slams into them, his scales tearing, his blood hissing as it hits the barbs. "Curssse you!"
I bare my teeth from above. "Curse yourself, snake. I'm no one's broodmare." He retreats, coiling in pain, but his eyes burn with hate. "You'll break. They all do." He slithers off, but I know he's not gone far. Circling. Waiting.
My hands shake as I lower the bow. That was close. Too close. And where are the others? Black Wolf, White Tiger, Lion, they'd rip this creep apart if they caught him. Part of me almost wishes for their growls now. Almost.
But I'm Branwen Mosswood. Kind enough to pity the broken, spicy enough to fight the cruel. I won't wait for saviors. I leap to the next tree, letting weightless drift carry me silently. The hunt's on, and this time, I'm the one setting the traps.
Hadrian Ironpaw POV
The snake is gone, but his stench lingers like rot. Fenrick paces, his wolf form bristling, while Nythor sniffs the air, tiger eyes sharp. "He suspects," I growl, shifting back to human form, blood still crusting my wounds from our earlier scrap. "Coilheart's a vicious shit. If he finds her first..."
Fenrick snarls agreement, shifting too. "He'll break her. Use her like a vessel."
Nythor's voice is frost. "We track her. Protect her. She's ours to claim...but she must be willing."
I nod, though rivalry simmers between us. But against Silas? We're allied. Her scent fades into shadows, but we'll find her. And when we do, that witch's fire will burn for us.