Twelve years later.
Safety was a lie people told themselves to sleep at night. Anya had learned that lesson young, and the forest had spent the last decade reinforcing it.
She crouched in the underbrush at the tree line, breath controlled, steady despite the adrenaline singing through her veins. Seventy yards ahead, the razorback boar rooted through dead leaves, oblivious to the predator watching it. The creature was a mountain of muscle and scar tissue, easily eight feet at the shoulder. Its tusks were like curved shortswords, and the ridge of bony spines running down its back—thick as her thumb and sharp enough to impale a man—gave the beast its name.
The locals called creatures this size "Old Tuskers." Survivors. Mean enough to kill hunters, smart enough to vanish when the odds weren't in their favor.
She'd been tracking this one for three days.
The job had come from a logging camp two weeks back. The foreman, a grizzled man missing three fingers, had spat tobacco juice and offered double her usual rate.
"Killed two of my men," he'd growled. "Charged right through camp at dawn. Smart bastard. Knows to hit us when we're vulnerable."
She'd taken the job. Not for the loggers, but because winter was coming, and her coin purse was light.
Now, her bow was drawn, the string kissing her cheek. Her right arm—the steel one—held steady with mechanical precision, while her flesh hand controlled the draw. The prosthetic was a masterwork, forged from an alloy Cyra had never named. It responded to her thoughts through whatever enchantment or mechanism her former mentor had woven into the metal.
The bow will keep you alive, Cyra's voice echoed in her memory, cool and measured. Master it, or die.
She pushed the thought away. Thinking of Cyra made her angry, and anger made her sloppy.
The Old Tusker's head lifted. Nostrils flared. Its small, intelligent eyes scanned the tree line. She froze, heart rate dropping to a slow, rhythmic thud. She had washed in the river upstream, scrubbing her skin with wild mint and pine sap to mask her scent.
The creature's ears swiveled. It snorted, pawing the earth. A warning. It knew something was wrong, but not what.
One. Two. Three.
The boar turned its head directly toward her hiding spot.
Four.
She released.
The arrow was a blur of gray goose fletching in the afternoon light. It struck the creature's left eye with a wet thunk, punching through into the brain. The Old Tusker squealed—a terrible, almost human sound—and thrashed, its massive bulk churning the earth.
She was already moving.
Drawing a second arrow with fluid grace, she circled right, keeping low. The beast, blinded on one side and maddened by pain, charged where it thought she had been. She came up in a crouch fifteen feet away, drew, and loosed in one breath.
The second arrow took the boar in the throat, just above the chest plates where the hide was thinnest.
Arterial spray painted the dead leaves crimson. The Old Tusker staggered. It tried to turn, tried to find its attacker, but its legs betrayed it. Blood loss and brain damage were doing the work now. It took two stumbling steps, then collapsed with a ground-shaking thud, the light fading from its eyes.
Silence rushed back into the forest. The birds that had fled the death scream were gone; the wind held its breath. She stood over the corpse, waiting a full minute to ensure it was truly dead. Caution had kept her alive for two years on her own. Rushing had killed the hunters before her.
Satisfied, she drew her hunting knife with her steel hand. She knelt, placing her flesh hand on the still-warm flank.
"Swift death, clean kill, honored prey," she whispered. "May your spirit run free in the eternal hunt."
The words felt hollow. They always did. Just another habit Cyra had drilled into her.
But the little girl who used to play by the well still wanted to believe there was honor in this. That she wasn't just a butcher.
She pushed the thought aside. The boar needed to be dressed. The tusks and spine plates meant coin. The hide was a small fortune.
But first came the part she dreaded. The part she needed.
She scanned the clearing. No travelers on the road. No other hunters. She was always alone when she did this.
Her flesh hand trembled as she drew the knife across the creature's throat, widening the wound. Blood welled up immediately—dark, thick, steaming in the cool autumn air. The smell hit her like a physical force. Copper. Musk. Life.
Her stomach turned, even as her mouth watered. The contradiction was a sickness she couldn't cure. How can I hate something so much and need it so desperately?
"Just a little," she whispered, the same lie she told every time. "Just enough to stay strong."
She cupped her left hand beneath the flow. The liquid was hot against her skin. Her reflection rippled in the dark pool—a young woman with hard eyes, a scar cutting through her eyebrow, and hair the color of wet earth. She looked older than eighteen.
Closing her eyes, she brought her hand to her mouth.
The taste was vile. Metallic and thick, coating her throat with a slickness that made her gag. Underneath the copper was the bitterness of wildness and dying rage. Monster blood was always worse than beast blood—it tasted of wrongness, of ancient hunger.
She forced herself to swallow. Once. Twice.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Heat bloomed in her chest, spreading outward like liquid fire. The nausea vanished, replaced by a surge of electric power. Her muscles sang, tendons tightening, bones feeling denser. Her senses exploded outward.
She could count the individual leaves on an oak fifty yards away. She could hear the heartbeat of a mouse in the underbrush. The air tasted of ozone—storm-scent, distant but inevitable.
Opening her eyes, she didn't need a mirror to know they were glowing with a faint, ember-red light.
The curse. The gift. The abomination.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, spitting to clear the taste, though the memory of it would cling to her tongue for hours. The power would last maybe an hour—long enough to dress the carcass and carry the heavy load back to camp without breaking a sweat.
She set to work. Her steel hand acted as a vice, holding the massive carcass steady while she butchered with enhanced speed. She removed the hide in one piece, a masterwork that would have made Cyra proud. Then the tusks. The spine plates. The heart and liver for the alchemists.
She dug a pit for the refuse, burying the bones and the ruined head. "Show respect to what you kill," Cyra used to say. "Especially monsters."
Did you respect me? she thought bitterly as she packed the earth down. Or was I just another monster to you?
The power began to fade as she finished, the world dulling back to its normal, gray edges. The strength drained from her muscles, leaving her feeling hollowed out.
She hefted the eighty-pound pack. It was heavy, but manageable. She set off toward the logging road, her steel hand resting on her bow.
One foot in front of the other. One job at a time. One secret at a time.
Somewhere out there, Cyra was alive. Somewhere, there were answers about the eyeless beast and the black liquid that had burned through her veins twelve years ago.
But for now, she just needed to get paid before the red glow faded from her eyes completely.
Behind her, a raven landed on a branch, watching her retreat. It tilted its head, studying her with eyes that seemed too intelligent for a bird. When she disappeared around the bend, it spread its black wings and took flight, heading north.
Toward the mountains.
She kept walking. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A storm was coming.
It was always coming.