Chapter 5 – The First Night Alone
The cold came first.
Not the kind that bites, but the kind that seeps — slow, patient, whispering its way into my bones until even my hate felt frozen.
The forest stretched before me like a wall of black teeth.
Wind slid between the trees, carrying the stink of wet moss and something else… something faint and metallic.
Blood.
Old blood.
I couldn't tell if my hands were trembling from the chill or from the rage still clawing through my chest. My sister's scream kept replaying in my skull. Not once. Not twice. Over and over, as if my mind refused to let the sound fade.
I could almost see it—her falling, Eryndor's blade pulling the life from her eyes, and me… too far, too weak, too slow.
My feet moved on their own, dragging me deeper into the dark.
The Sovereign's voice — the one that had been whispering since that day — was quiet now.
It didn't need to speak.
Its presence pulsed inside me, like a second heartbeat.
I found a tree with roots thick enough to shelter me from the wind. My body screamed for rest, but the second my eyelids dipped, the cold fingers of fear tightened around my throat. The wilds didn't care for grief. They only cared for meat.
I forced myself to tear a strip from my tunic, wrapping it around my bleeding palm. Every scratch burned, every ache screamed, but I kept going — because if I stopped, she would fade from me.
And she cannot fade.
Not until Eryndor is dead.
Not until I drive my hands into his chest and tear out everything that keeps him breathing.
The night was alive.
Somewhere far off, a beast howled — not the deep, thunderous roar of the greater monsters, but the chittering, hungry kind that prowled in packs.
I pressed my back to the tree and closed my fingers around the jagged shard of metal I'd scavenged earlier. A weapon only in the loosest sense — it was nothing more than a bent scrap of blade, dulled on one side and serrated on the other.
The hunger hit around midnight.
A twisting, gut-wrenching hunger that made my hands shake harder. I hadn't eaten since… before she died.
Every breath felt heavier, and the shadows between the trees started to move.
At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks. Then I saw the eyes.
Small. Yellow. Too many of them.
Three of the creatures crept into the moonlight.
They were no taller than my waist, their spines ridged with bone, their mouths a mess of needle teeth. Their smell hit me a moment later — rot and wet fur.
The shard in my hand felt pitifully light.
I thought of running.
Then I thought of Eryndor's face.
And something inside me broke open.
I lunged.
The first creature squealed as my shard sank into its neck. Warm blood sprayed over my hand, slicking my grip. The second leapt onto my back, claws tearing into my shoulder, but I spun hard, slamming it against the tree until its skull cracked.
The third one didn't run.
It circled, hissing, yellow eyes locked on me.
I don't remember moving.
I just remember the sound — wet and heavy — as my shard ripped through its jaw, snapping bone.
My breath came in ragged bursts.
The forest went quiet again.
And I…
I kept stabbing.
Long after the last twitch.
When I finally stopped, I was shaking — not from fear, not from the cold.
From the fury that wouldn't die.
I dragged the carcass behind the roots.
I didn't bother with a fire. I tore into it raw, chewing past the taste, swallowing chunks whole because my body didn't care about flavor. It cared about not dying.
When the meat was gone, I sat back against the tree, eyes fixed on the dark between the trunks.
"I'll kill him," I whispered.
Not to myself.
Not to the night.
To the thing inside me.
And it… approved.