THE BEAST ROUNDED THE BOULDER. It stood on hind legs, a scar across its fur-covered chest. A low rumble rose in its throat as its tail, a lasso of several dozen iron blades, coiled around loose stone with the screeching of metal on rock.
Clad in a black and gold cloak, Harlow Gulden did not blink. The scent of lavender mixed with the rotten flesh that hung from the beast's mouth. The man's nose wrinkled. How long had it been since he last encountered such a beast? Sixty or seventy years?
He'd thought them to be extinct. He removed his hood, revealing a full head of light brown hair combed to the side. His ring caught the light, diamond-less and smooth, and he rubbed his thumb across its surface, revealing the inscription Tig En Mori.
The beast bared its canines. Yellowed fangs, sharp enough to puncture steel. It was the size of trees, its claws larger than a man's forearms, and it slammed all its weight onto the pavement.
His cloak was held firm by the golden emblem of the falcon across his chest. Underneath, he wore a colorless cotton shirt and trousers that pricked him at every wrong twist and turn.
His gaze traveled over the beast. Down the corded muscle of its arms, across the ridge of its spine, and to its sunken brow. Scars littered its vessel.
The ones done to its chest and legs were like slashes, done by another beast, no doubt. But the injuries inflicted on its arms and head were in the form of rings, as if someone had used it as target practice.
Harlow lifted his arm. He slid a hand against the matte, rough fur. His hand smoothed over the divots and craters left behind in the beast's skull. Did a human do this? And they failed to report this beast to the Department of Magical Injustice?
The ends of Harlow's eyes wrinkled. "Someone did this to you?" he whispered. Harlow pressed his forehead against the beast's. He closed his eyes and let his hands roam. A gentle breeze rustled past the leaves and rattled the branches.
"Grieg Em Tine," Harlow said. A trail of white dancing lights spewed from the opened wound of the beast and guided him further into the forest. He turned on his heels, wrapped the cloak around him, and he and the beast followed the white lights.
They were aimless. The lights swirled cluelessly around trees and through the bushes. They began to harass an innocent squirrel until Harlow reminded them. How strange. The dancing lights should have returned to their source by now, even if they were too far to reach on foot, yet they remained stagnant, searching the forest in endless circles.
"I know you're out there!" Harlow shouted.
His voice echoed, coarse and tight, against the dense canopy.
Then, without warning, the dancing lights snuffed out.
The beast let out a weak, pathetic whimper before tumbling over, its massive frame sheared through nearby branches before the earth shook under its weight.
There were no incantations or sounds to be heard.
Speechless magic?
The heel of his boot sank into the ground, and roots sprouted and tangled themselves around his leg, pushing him further in.
He reached for his Grimoire, but a violent gust knocked the book from his grasp.
His jaw locked.
A shadow moved from one bush to another.
A cold, leaden pressure settled into his limbs, turning his blood to slush. He tried to gasp, but his throat burned, as if he'd swallowed lye. The world tilted. He fell to his knees. He clawed at the earth, then at his own neck, desperate to release the hold around it, only to find there was none.
A shadow moved again.
Harlow's vision blurred. The trees morphed into flat, earthy colors until a figure, elongated, like a sinewy thread, crimson and bold, emerged from the earthy colors.
"And here I was..." the crimson figure said. Their voice faded. Before he knew it, the world went black and silent, and a cold relief washed over him.