They attack. I intercept. They target her. I move faster, hit harder, place myself as a barrier against every approaching threat.
The calculating part of my mind registers the waste of it: I’m taking wounds I don’t need to take. Absorbing damage toshield someone who could survive a glancing blow. Fighting defensively when aggressive elimination would end this faster.
I know the optimal strategy. Kill the threats as they emerge. Don’t waste energy on defense when offense wins faster. Let acceptable damage through to preserve resources for decisive strikes.
The strategy makes sense.
I don’t use it.
Every choice I make prioritizes her survival over optimal combat. Every adjustment keeps her in my sight lines, keeps me between her and danger, keeps the hunters from reaching the witch they’re designed to kill.
I don’t let myself name what I’m doing.
A hunter’s claws rake across my ribs. I feel the blood—hot, immediate—but the pain is distant. Secondary. What matters is the angle of the next attack, the trajectory of the creature circling behind me, the exact position of the witch I won’t let them reach.
I take another wound across my shoulder. A third across my back. A fourth that tears through the meat of my thigh and makes my leg buckle before dragon healing kicks in.
EIGHT
KASTER
By the time the last hunter falls, I’m bleeding from six different wounds.
None of them are fatal. All of them are the result of defensive choices—absorbing damage meant for her, intercepting strikes aimed at her position, fighting to shield rather than eliminate.
I could have ended this faster. Could have let a few attacks through to her while I systematically dismantled the pack. She’s not helpless—she survived weeks alone before she found me. A glancing blow wouldn’t have killed her.
I didn’t let a single attack through.
The bodies lie where they dropped. Seven Hunters. None of them anchored.
Without the Anchor binding the kills, god-made power will reassemble these creatures within hours. We’ll face them again—or worse versions—before the day ends.
They’ll reassemble. We’ll fight them again. The war continues.
I stand in the aftermath and breathe through the pain. Dragon healing is already working—fire in my blood sealingthe worst of the damage—but the process takes time. Energy. Resources better spent on movement.
Behind me, Soreia pushes away from the tree she’s been using as cover.
Her footsteps are careful. Measured. The gait of prey that has learned to move quietly around killers.
She moves toward me anyway.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’ll heal.”
“Six wounds.”
“Counting them now?”
She doesn’t rise to the edge in my voice. Instead, she moves closer—carefully, watching for signs I’ll retreat—until she’s standing within arm’s reach.
She’s inside my guard.
“Let me look.”
“No need.”
