The cart rattled away from the Holy City's reach. The smooth merchant road gave way to a rough dirt path. The night was thick and dark, broken only by a single swaying lantern hanging from the cart, cutting a small hole in the endless black.
Seraphia curled in the hay, trying to steal a little warmth. Away from the city's lights, the wind bit deep, cutting through her thin robes and stinging her skin. The driver's off-key humming and the cart's steady groan only made the surrounding silence feel deeper, more frightening.
Sleep wouldn't come. Behind her eyes, she saw Archbishop Reginald's angry face, the cold armor of the temple knights, and that ugly red crack in the eastern sky. The weight of her mission pressed down, making it hard to breathe. She gripped the holy symbol at her chest, its metal cold against her skin. She whispered a calming prayer. A faint, almost invisible warmth seeped from the symbol's center, pushing back just a little of the cold and her fear.
Suddenly, the horse let out a terrified whinny, rearing up!
The cart lurched violently, hay spilling over the sides. The driver shouted, fear clear in his voice, and his whip cracked, but it did nothing to calm the beast.
Seraphia grabbed the cart rail, her heart hammering. She peered out into the dark road ahead.
At the very edge of the lantern's light, pairs of sickly green eyes flickered to life. A low, threatening growl rumbled from the shadows. Twisted, wolf-like creatures slunk onto the path. Their fur was patchy, showing oozing skin beneath. Drool dripped from their jaws. Their eyes burned with a mix of hunger and madness.
Chaos-touched beasts.
Her heart sank. They rarely strayed this far from the worst corrupted areas. Their presence here meant the sickness was spreading faster than the Church admitted.
"Get back! Filthy dogs!" the driver yelled, his voice shaking. He waved his whip, trying to scare them off.
One of the larger beasts snarled and lunged at the horse! The animal panicked, kicking and twisting, nearly overturning the cart.
Seraphia didn't hesitate. It was pure instinct. She stood, holding the holy symbol out before her.
"Back!" she commanded, forcing strength into her voice, pushing down the tremor. "In the name of the Dawn, return to the shadows!"
Pure, soft white light bloomed from her hand, like a tiny sun born in the darkness.
The light hit the corrupted jackals. They howled in pain and anger, shrinking back, shielding their green eyes with their claws. The foul energy clinging to them seemed to thin for a second.
But the light was weak and didn't last. Seraphia's face went pale. Her arm, holding the symbol, shook. Using its power drained her deeply.
The moment the light died, the jackals grew more enraged. They sensed her weakness.
"L-Light… useless!" the driver screamed. He jumped from his seat, abandoning the cart and horse. He scrambled away into the dark, taking the lantern with him.
Darkness swallowed everything. Only the horse's desperate cries and the guttural growls of the closing beasts remained.
Seraphia stood alone on the shaking cart, cold fear gripping her heart. She had only her symbol and her faith, but against sharp teeth and claws, it felt painfully thin.
Then, from the shadows of a large boulder on a hill to the side, came a deeper, more powerful growl.
The chaotic jackals heard it. They went still for a moment, then crouched low, moving aside to clear a path.
A huge, hulking shape moved out from behind the rock. It was like the jackals, but stood more like a man. One of its claws was massively swollen, rotting and purple-black. Thick, smelly fluid dripped from it—its weapon. The source of its name.
Rotclaw Gordon.
Its green eyes locked onto Seraphia, lingering on the symbol in her hand. Its look was a mix of greed and hate. It could feel the power in that small thing. It hated it. It wanted it.
"Light… girl…" it rasped, its voice rough, unused to human speech. "Give… shiny… toy… to me…"
It stepped closer. Its rotten claw dragged on the ground, leaving a sizzling mark. Its sheer presence made it hard for Seraphia to breathe.
She raised the symbol again. Light flared, weaker than before.
Gordon just let out a mocking growl, pushing through the discomfort. It saw her weakness.
Her heart pounded like a drum. She couldn't die here. Not before she'd even begun. She bit her lip, thinking desperately. Maybe… maybe she could try to purify it? Its corruption was so deep, but what if…
The thought barely formed before Gordon charged. Its huge, rotting claw swept through the air, straight for her hand holding the symbol!
She could smell its foul, decaying stench.
This is it.
She closed her eyes.
The expected pain didn't come.
A solid *thump* and Gordon's roar of pain and surprise happened at the same time.
Seraphia's eyes flew open. A rough arrow, fletched with grey-white feathers, was buried deep in Gordon's good forearm!
"Get outta my hunting grounds, you piece of rotten meat!" a voice, old but tough as nails, shouted from the woods behind her.
*Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!*
More arrows flew, aiming precisely for Gordon's eyes and joints. The beast stumbled back, swatting at the air with its good claw, roaring in fury. The other jackals stirred nervously.
*Chance!*
Seraphia didn't know who was helping, but it was her only hope. She leaped from the shaky cart and ran, stumbling, toward where the arrows had come from.
She didn't look back. Gordon's angry roars and the sound of flying arrows chased her.
The cold air burned her throat. Her strength was fading fast. Just as she felt she couldn't go on, a rough, strong hand shot out from behind a large spruce tree and grabbed her arm, yanking her into the shadows.
"Down! Quiet!" a low, commanding voice ordered.
Seraphia obeyed, crouching by the tree roots, gasping for air. In the faint moonlight filtering through the trees, she saw her rescuer—an old man in worn furs, his face a map of deep lines and hard years. His eyes were sharp like a hawk's. He held an old, sturdy longbow.
Old Hunter Bartow.
He watched the path behind them, listening. Gordon's roars were fading. It seemed to have given up, for now.
"Hmph. Ran off, the foul thing," the old man spat. He turned and looked Seraphia up and down, his frown deepening. "A Church sister? Come out here alone to die?"
His eyes fell on the holy symbol clutched in her hand, then scanned her pale but determined face. Understanding flashed in his eyes, followed by deeper doubt.
"Giant's Peak…" Seraphia panted, her voice weak but clear. "I must go there."
Old Hunter Bartow's face froze. His sharp eyes filled with pure shock and horror, as if she'd just said the most insane, terrifying thing in the world.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a fearful whisper, each word heavy with dread:
"You have a death wish, girl? What's in that mountain… that's the 'Rage That Splits Stone' itself!"