I stop walking. Soreia stops beside me, close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes my arm. The proximity sends a spike of awareness through my nervous system—her scent, her magic, the rhythm of her breathing.
Too close.
Not close enough.
I crush the thought before it forms fully.
“How many?” Her voice is rough. Combat-raw. She hasn’t recovered from anchoring seven hunters in the ravine.
“Seven.” I don’t look at her. My eyes track the lead hunter’s movements, mapping approach angles and probable attack patterns.
“Stay behind me.”
“I can?—”
“You can barely stand.”
I position myself between her and the closest threat.
The hunters hold formation.
They’re not attacking. They’re waiting. Watching. The lead creature—largest of the pack, scarring visible across its armored shoulders—tracks my movements with hunting calculation. It’s learning. Adjusting. Building a profile of how I fight and what I guard.
What I guard.
The phrase lodges in my skull like a splinter.
I guard territory. I guard hunting grounds. I guard the boundaries that keep complications out of my domain.
I don’t guard people.
The witch shifts her weight behind me. Favoring her left leg—the one she twisted in the ravine. Compensating silently. Moving carefully, the way prey moves when it knows predators are watching.
Careful. Compensating. Not complaining.
I notice the details without intending to. The tremor in her hands she’s learned to hide by folding her arms. The way her breathing stays controlled despite the fear I smell bleeding off her skin.
She’s been running for weeks. Fighting longer. Burning through her own life force to make deaths stick.
Too much. Always too much.
The observation serves no purpose I can name. I file it away regardless.
The first hunterbreaks formation at dusk.
It comes from the left flank, angling toward Soreia instead of me. The others hold position—they’re not committing to a full assault.
They’re testing. Probing. Trying to force me into a defensive pattern they can exploit.
I intercept before thought catches up to instinct.
My body moves with lethal precision—pivot, strike, tear. The hunter’s throat opens under my claws, blood spraying across the dead undergrowth. It staggers back, god-given power already reaching for the wound, trying to knit flesh and seal the damage.
My second strike removes its head.
The body drops. Divine energy stutters around the severed neck, confused by the separation. It won’t regenerate immediately—decapitation buys time—but without her magic, it will return. They always return.
The remaining six hunters don’t react. They hold position. Watching. Learning.
