Alina flicked a small knife from nowhere, parrying the shortsword from Celestine's hand.
The spinning blade whistled through the air, grazing the woman's left wrist.
Celestine lost her grip, and Al tumbled to the ground.
Without even stopping to wipe his tears, the boy scrambled away on all fours.
He collapsed behind the massive form of the Centigor, gasping for air in ragged heaves.
Even during his "struggle" with Zhakun, he hadn't felt the cold finger of death so close to his throat.
The woman lunged to retrieve her sword, but a massive shadow swallowed her whole.
Celestine looked up, frozen.
Crimson pupils looked down at her with icy, expressionless disdain.
"You are brave, human woman," Alina said, her voice flat and rhythmic.
Her powerful, athletic body trembled slightly, as if she were wrestling with an internal beast.
She reached out, her hand darting toward Celestine's throat.
Though the woman saw it coming, her exhausted body couldn't match the Centigor's preternatural speed.
"Ugh!"
Alina hoisted Celestine into the air by her neck.
In the struggle, the fur blanket slipped away, leaving the woman completely naked once more.
Her shortsword was easily snatched away and tossed aside.
Celestine clawed at Alina's iron-hard forearm, her legs kicking uselessly in the air.
"If this is the extent of your strength, I will gladly offer your failure as a sacrifice to the Blood Mother."
The Centigor turned slightly, keeping her grip on the throat, and looked down at the boy.
Al sat in the dirt, his face a mess of bruises, filth, and tear streaks.
He looked pathetic, staring blankly, unaware of the centaur's silent prompt.
"Prince of Divine Favor, how shall I handle this?" Alina finally asked.
In her grip, Celestine stiffened, her muscles tensing even though she couldn't see the boy behind her.
Al snapped out of his trance.
He looked at the naked woman dangling in the air—his "mother," defeated and exposed.
He stared at her pale back, her golden hair spilling over her firm buttocks and thighs.
Despite the intrusive, erotic, and taboo thoughts buried in his mind, Al realized something simple.
He wanted a mother. He had always wanted one.
He covered his face and knelt in the dirt, sobbing from the sheer trauma of nearly being murdered.
Alina arched an eyebrow, clearly surprised by his reaction.
"Let her go... let her go back to the city," Al choked out, weeping for reasons he couldn't name.
For the first time, Alina doubted the Blood Mother's choice.
She was baffled that such a weak, soft creature could be the God-child of her deity.
But the doubt was fleeting; the Enraged Mother still favored him.
Through Al's eyes, Alina could almost see the terrifying crimson shadow sitting upon the Skull Throne.
"As you wish," she muttered, dropping the woman to the ground.
She whistled, summoning several Beastmen to guard the perimeter to prevent the woman's escape.
These were her personal followers—"Wrath-Gors" who prioritized combat over the hedonism of Zhakun's tribe.
To them, a head was a head. If the woman was strong, they'd take her skull; if not, she wasn't worth the effort.
Al stopped crying, feeling embarrassed by his own display of weakness.
"You've been to Estalian cities... can you take her back?" Al whispered, following behind Alina.
He didn't dare look back at the naked woman sitting in the dirt.
"I could," Alina replied with a smirk, "but that would leave you alone here."
"The All-Father's followers might leave you be, but those Slaaneshi Gors? They'll eat you alive once I'm gone."
"I-I'll go with you!" Al blurted out.
The civilized world!
Al's eyes lit up. Being stuck in a Beastman tribe in the Old World was a nightmare second only to being a Bretonnian peasant.
He'd rather be a skeleton in a Tomb King's army, working his way up to a manager position (a generic Lord), than be a slave to the Great Horned Rat or a dicks-out Orc.
The Centigor let out a mocking snort, her hind hooves pawing the dirt restlessly.
"Are you sure about that?"
"Huh?" Al was confused.
Alina drew her scimitar and held the flat of the blade up to Al's face.
He flinched, then stood his ground when he saw her teasing grin.
The blade was polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the image of a filthy, bedraggled little boy.
"Look at your eyes," Alina prompted.
Al leaned in close. His heart skipped a beat.
In his pupils, he saw a throne so massive it touched the heavens, burning with blood-red flames.
Mountains were mere pebbles at its base; countless skulls paved the steps.
A colossal, terrifying shadow sat upon the throne, brooding.
Suddenly, the shadow noticed Al's gaze and hurled a brass rod toward the "camera."
The rod spun through the air, tearing through the space of the Warp, growing larger and larger.
"Aaaah!" Al fell back, clutching his eyes.
At that exact moment, on the edge of the Western Badlands, a desperate coalition of Men, Dwarfs, and Elves was fighting for their lives.
They had been shipwrecked near the Gulf of Medes while trying to reach Barak Varr and were now surrounded by Greenskins.
Savage Orc Big 'Uns, covered in primal tattoos that shrugged off physical blows, were tearing through the lines.
Every Orc was worth two human swordsmen, and their Boar mounts were even worse.
The real problem, however, was the Greenskin "ships"—cobbled-together hulks of scrap metal and wood.
Grot-crewed cannons were pounding the coalition's formations into pulp.
"By Grungni's beard! I'll shave every Grot I see and stuff 'em into a catapult!"
Morgin, a Dwarf Engineer, screamed as he watched his riflemen get blown apart by scrap-shot.
But then, a miracle happened.
A rift tore open across the surface of the sea, and a roar of pure Chaos echoed through the air.
A colossal strike of energy swept across the water, snapping the Greenskin warships in half like dry twigs.
The Savage Orcs stopped in their tracks, stunned.
Even their Shamans couldn't summon the "Foot of Gork" with such terrifying power.
"Fire everything!" Morgin roared, blowing an Orc's head off with his Grudge-raker.
A Wood Elf leapt over his shoulder, twin blades dancing as they carved through the stunned Greenskins.
"Long-ear! I'm putting that jump in the Book!" Morgin yelled as the coalition counter-attacked.
But Al, living like a caveman in Estalia, had no idea he had just saved an army.
Al rubbed his sore, red eyes. Alina offered the blade again, but he waved it away.
"No more. I'm done looking."
"As you can see, the Blood Mother watches the world through you," Alina said.
"And the world can see Her through your eyes."
Al bit his nails nervously. If a Witch Hunter or an Inquisitor looked into his eyes and saw the Brass Throne...
"I-I'll wear a blindfold! A thin one so I can still see!" Al suggested.
Alina didn't answer; she just reached out and ruffled his hair.
For a moment, she looked at him not as a God-child, but as a boy.
She turned to leave to check on the tribe, but then she paused and leaned down to whisper in his ear.
"By the way... I noticed your 'marks' aren't just in your eyes."
"What?"
Alina's hand brushed his cheek, then slid down his back, stopping firmly at his tailbone.
She pressed down hard. A jolt of electricity—a mix of pleasure and heat—shot up Al's spine to his skull.
"Find some water and take a look at your back," she whispered with a smirk before galloping away.
Al stood there, face bright red, trying to twist his body to see his own lower back.