They have no idea what they face.
I have not unleashed my true nature in over a century. Have not allowed myself to become the predator that carved out this territory in the first place. The diplomat, the negotiator, the careful lord who manages resources and maintains alliances—all of that falls away.
What remains is hunger satisfied and strength amplified by the perfect pain Braith feeds me. What remains is the creature that survived the chaos after the Shift by being faster, stronger, and more vicious than anything else in the darkness.
A thief tries to circle behind me. I hear his heartbeat, smell the fear-sweat soaking through his leather armor, track his movement without turning. When he strikes,I am already moving. My elbow catches him in the sternum, driving bone fragments into his lungs. He drops, drowning in his own blood.
Two more rush me from opposite sides, hoping to overwhelm through numbers. I grab the first by his hair and slam his face into my rising knee. The impact crushes his nose, drives bone into his brain. He is dead before his body hits the ground.
The second thief's blade actually touches me, sliding along my ribs before I twist away. The cut is shallow—his weapon not designed for my skin's density—but it draws blood.
For that insult, he dies slowly.
I catch him by the throat and lift him to eye level. His legs dangle, feet scraping futilely at my chest. I want him to see exactly what he faces in his final moments. I want the terror in his eyes to feed the satisfaction building in my chest.
“Look at me,” I command.
He tries to turn away. I tighten my grip until his attention focuses.
“I am not the weakened lord you expected to find. I am not diminished by the frenzy. I am fed. I am focused. I am what your kind whispers about in the dark.”
His mouth opens, trying to form words. No sound emerges but strangled gasps.
“Tell me,” I continue, loosening my grip just enough to allow speech, “what intelligence did Vasek provide about my current state?”
“Weakened,” he chokes out. “Distracted. Lost to... to frenzy madness.”
“And what do you see now?”
His eyes dart around the grove, taking in the bodies of his companions, the ease with which I hold his weight. Understanding dawns in his expression, followed immediately by despair.
“Stronger,” he whispers. “Fed and... and controlled.”
“Yes.”
I snap his neck with a quick twist. Clean death. He provided useful information.
Four thieves remain. They have withdrawn to the edge of the grove, no longer interested in completing their mission. Survival has become their only objective.
“Run,” I tell them.
They hesitate, uncertain whether this is mercy or another form of cruelty.
“Run,” I repeat, stepping over the bodies scattered between the trees. “Carry word to your master. Tell Vasek what you witnessed here. Tell him that I am not the prey he believes me to be.”
They run. Crashing through the underbrush in their haste to escape, leaving behind their dead and wounded.I let them go. Live messengers serve my purposes better than corpses.
Silence returns to the grove. The bone-white trees resume their gentle clicking, branches swaying in wind that carries the copper scent of spilled blood. The fruit continues its rhythmic pulsing, undisturbed by the violence that protected it.
I move between the trees, cataloging damage, checking that no fruit was successfully stolen. The thieves were professionals—they knew which pods contained the most concentrated pain, which ones represented decades of careful cultivation. But they took nothing. Every piece of stolen fruit lies scattered on the grove floor, abandoned in their flight.
The satisfaction in my chest grows deeper. Not just the joy of successful defense, but something more profound. For the first time since the frenzy began, I feel completely in control. Not fighting my nature but embracing it, directing it toward appropriate targets.
Behind me, footsteps approach through the grove entrance. Light, careful steps that belong to someone trying not to disturb the scene she witnessed. Braith.
“Are you hurt?” she asks.
I turn to her, knowing what she must see. Blood stains my clothes and hands—not my own, but that of the invaders who dared violate my domain. The savagesatisfaction still clings to my frame, changing the way I move, the way I hold myself.
