When she reached the nearby stream, she fell to her knees at the water's edge, dipping her hands in and scrubbing furiously. The icy water stung her raw fingers, but she didn't care. She needed every trace of the poison gone, needed to cleanse herself of their touch, of the filth clinging to her.
She splashed water over her arms, her neck, and her face, trying to wash away the feeling of Matthew's hands on her body. No matter how much she scrubbed, the phantom sensation lingered.
Her breath hitched. A sob clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it down.
Crying was pointless.
Crying wouldn't erase what had happened. It wouldn't erase what she had done.
Her nails dug into her skin as she scrubbed harder, her flesh turning red, then raw. It still didn't feel like enough. The dirt, the blood from his nose, the memory—it clung to her like a second skin.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her hands trembling in the water.
"You won," she told herself. You survived. They didn't.
She repeated it over and over, forcing herself to breathe.
When the shaking subsided, when her pulse no longer thundered in her ears, she finally pulled herself together and stood.
Slowly, cautiously, she crept back toward the mouth of the cave.
Silence.
The only sound was the distant chirping of crickets and the rustling of leaves in the night breeze.
She stepped forward, her gaze adjusting to the darkness inside.
The bodies lay where they had fallen. Dan sprawled on his back, eyes wide and lifeless, foam dried on his lips. Matthew was facedown, his fingers curled in the dirt as if still reaching for salvation that would never come. Blood had seeped from their noses, their ears, and their eyes—evidence of the poison ravaging them from the inside out.
Luna swallowed, an ache blooming in her chest.
She had won.
And yet, she felt like she had lost something all the same.
A part of her had died in that cave.
She had killed before, more times than she cared to count. But every death, every life stolen by her hand, chipped away at something deep inside her.
She was a healer.
She had taken an oath to preserve life.
But tonight, she had broken that oath again and again.
Not to heal, but to hurt.
Not to save, but to survive.
Yet here she stood, surrounded by the very lives she had sworn to protect.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. She told herself it was necessary. That they had deserved it. That she hadn't had a choice.
And maybe all of that was true. But the guilt still lingered. Another part of her was pleased, satisfied even, that her concoction had worked so flawlessly. She wasn't just some weak, helpless girl anymore. She had become something more. Something powerful.
A woman capable of crafting death with her own hands. The realization settled over her, an odd mixture of pride and bitterness. She had always been skilled with herbs, but now she was more than a healer. She was a poisoner, a dealer of death.
And she had survived because of it. Her gaze flickered back to the corpses, their still, empty forms stripped of the power they had once wielded over her. They had been so certain of their victory. So sure she was nothing but prey.
Now they were nothing but rotting flesh. With a scoff, Luna crouched beside them, roughly stripping their bodies of their clothing. The trousers were far too big for her, hanging loosely around her frame, but they were better than the tattered gown she had been wearing. She rolled the waistband as much as she could, securing it with a makeshift knot.
The briefs were a lost cause, filthy and reeking of sweat and old grime. Without soap or a way to properly clean them, she discarded them with a grimace and took the second cloak to use as bedding and blankets, and she wouldn't lie the quality was incredibly fine. The shirt was useful. It was oversized, hanging past her knees like a makeshift gown. She pulled it on, relishing the way it swallowed her small frame, offering warmth and coverage. The second shirt she kept, wrapping it around herself like an extra layer against the night's chill.
Before she turned to leave, she took a final moment to spit at their lifeless bodies.
"Rot in hell," she muttered. Staying in the cave was not an option. The air inside was thick with the scent of death, and she had no desire to spend the night in the same place as their corpses.
So she walked.
The night stretched long before her, the forest eerily silent except for the occasional rustling of leaves. Her feet ached, her limbs heavy from exhaustion, but she kept moving, determined to put as much distance between herself and the cave as possible.
Eventually, she stumbled upon the spot where the men had been camping earlier. Their supplies were scattered around, remnants of their drunken, reckless night.
Her gaze landed on a half-empty bottle of alcohol near the fire pit. Without hesitation, she picked it up, taking a swig. The burn was sharp, searing down her throat, but it warmed her from the inside. Luna exhaled slowly, settling onto the ground beside the dying embers of their fire.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to relax just a little. The warmth of the flames, the heaviness in her limbs, and the distant hum of insects in the air all lulled her into an exhaustion too deep to fight.
She hadn't slept soundly in so long, always on edge, always watching her back. But tonight, for the first time in months, she did. She never even noticed when the fire finally burned out, nor the mosquitoes that bit at her skin, nor the tiny creatures that scurried nearby.
For once, she slept.
She slept well into the early afternoon before finally waking up. The alcohol she had guarded closely had granted her an undisturbed sleep, while the extra shirt she had taken served as a much-needed layer of warmth. As she rose, stretching out her sore limbs, she took a moment to gather herself before resuming her journey.