It hits me like heat off a forge.
Wounded, angry, proud—bright like sun through glass, cracked but burning anyway.
Something stirs in my chest. Not hunger. Not curiosity.
Something older.
I don't move. I just watch.
She catches sight of me and straightens. Her knees wobble but she draws herself tall, leveling a glare that could melt granite.
That defiance... it shines.
Charen skitters to my shoulder, grinning. “Brought you dinner.”
“Looks undercooked,” Veeto mutters behind me.
“She’s still kicking,” I murmur. “Barely.”
Toad Knight growls. “Wemuststop this madness. She’ll bring death to our doorstep!”
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But that thing in my chest stirs again, ancient and loud.
I step out into the light.
Toad Knight’s helm glints in the rising sun as he plants himself between me and the human girl, puffed up and self-righteous like a toad in heat.
“She’s a poacher,” he growls, voice like gravel poured through old parchment. “A trespasser. She broke the code. You know what that means, Kragna.”
I arch a brow. “Hmm.”
“It means stew,” he snarls, drawing his ridiculous sword, Righteous Hatred, and pointing the blade straight at her throat. “I’ll carve her myself.”
The girl—barely standing—just blinks at him. Her face is smeared with blood, her jaw swollen. I can hear her breath whistling in and out of her, wet and too fast. But her eyes? Her eyes don’t flinch. They stay locked on Toad Knight like she’s stilltrying to figure out if any of this is real, or if she’s gone and dropped dead and landed in some fucked-up monster fairytale.
Charen giggles from her perch, “Oh she’s adorable. Like a bleeding doll.”
Toad Knight takes a step forward, sword quivering. “Say the word, Kragna. Say stew, and I’ll make the first cut.”
I scratch my chin. Playful.
“Well…” I rumble, loud enough to make the trees hush, “it’s been a while since I roasted a human.”
The girl’s eyes flick to me. Then to the others. Then back.
She doesn’t speak. Just tightens her grip on that sad excuse for a stick she’s got in her hand.
Veeto snorts. “Stick won’t help you, sweetheart.” He leans on a log, licking his fingers. “If it’s stew, we should gut her quick. Less bile in the meat. Then there’s spit-roasting. Or Kragna’s favorite—bury her in the coals till the belly pops.”
“Or stew,” Charen singsongs. “Oh stew stew stew. Boil the bones and suck the marrow.”
The girl lifts the stick.
Her hand is trembling, skin torn and purpled at the knuckles. She’s got barely enough strength to hold herself upright, let alone fight. But she raises that pathetic twig like it’s a sword forged by gods, and shedaresme to come closer.
