"Rage can lend you power and strength, but it always demands a price."
The road to Dornach stretched beneath a sky turning orange with dusk. The air smelled of damp earth, and their horses kept a steady rhythm of hooves against stone. Elv rode tall and steady, with the confidence of someone who had traveled these paths a thousand times. Rook, beside her, tried to imitate her posture, though his body was stiff, his muscles tense, and the bandage on his leg reminded him with every step how close he had come to death.
Elv broke the silence.
- "Do you know anything about the Fenn?" she asked, turning her head slightly.
- "Only what Amaric told me. That you're… different. That you defend the realm and its people from unnatural dangers." Rook hesitated, aware of how clumsy he sounded.
Elv smiled faintly."Most of us are not so different. Not all of us can learn magic. Many know only the basics: mending cuts, raising a shield, strengthening a strike. And even that can mean the difference between life and death. That's why silver is a Fenn's best ally. There isn't a creature alive that doesn't fear its edge. A blade tempered with silver alloy can do what a hundred spells cannot. A hunter should never go without at least one silver blade, especially if he can't wield magic."
Rook frowned.
- "And the others? The ones who know more than the basics?"
Elv was quiet for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully."The magic we use isn't ours. We flow with what surrounds us, with life and nature. We borrow that strength. But… there are exceptions. Amaric told me about them, and I found references in the manuscripts of the Dun. Some Fenn carry magic of their own. Rare… but real."
Her eyes gleamed as she leaned slightly forward in her saddle.
- "They're known in three ways: Forgers, who can manipulate matter and shape the impossible through a catalyst. Amaric once told me of a hunter who used stone and earth to raise walls and shields in battle. Custodians, protectors who heal, reinforce, and raise invisible barriers that stave off death. And the most feared… the Berserkers. Warriors who channel pure destruction—combat itself, made fire and storm."
Rook absorbed her words in silence, a shiver crawling down his spine."And you?" he asked at last.
- "Where would you fit?"
Elv smirked.
- "None. I'm only an apprentice. Like all novices, I've studied basic spells of healing and defense. But for me, the weight of steel—the sword and the daggers—matters more than any arcane word."
The sun was sinking when a howl ripped through the air.Rook yanked the reins; his horse reared, and the sound froze his blood.
From the thicket burst the creature: a monstrous hound, as tall as a calf, its dark green fur glistening like wet moss, spines running along its back. Its eyes glowed like burning coals, and a second howl shook the ground beneath their hooves.
Elv's eyes widened, her body frozen for a heartbeat.
- "A Cù-sìth…" she whispered, almost soundless.
Rook stared at her, startled, noticing for the first time a tremor in her voice.
- "I've never seen one before," she added, swallowing hard without taking her eyes off the beast. "At the Dun we only studied their descriptions, their habits… but they should never be this close to a village. These creatures are heralds of death. They say they guard the paths to the Otherworld, and each howl tears a little more of the soul from the body."
The hound lowered its head, baring fangs as long as daggers. The grass beneath its paws withered.
- "They say its third howl can paralyze you," Elv said quickly, forcing her voice to sound firm. "We must kill it before then. Its weakness is the throat."
Her eyes raced over the beast as though recalling every line of the manuscripts she had studied at Argenholt."I'll draw it from the flank and force it to lower its head. When it does, I'll have a chance to strike the throat. Keep it distracted however you can—it can't focus on both of us at once."
Before Rook could reply, Elv was already moving. She gripped the reins, leaned forward, and dropped from her horse in a smooth motion. She rolled across the wet grass, and in the same gesture unsheathed her curved daggers, their blades catching the last dull light of dusk.
Elv advanced with short, steady steps, her body moving with lethal precision. The Cù-sìth growled, its muscles rippling beneath the dark fur. It struck first, faster than she expected. One swipe tore away a shoulder guard.
- "Rook!" she shouted, dodging another lunge. "A little help would be nice!"
The boy did not answer. Fear anchored him. He remembered the screams in Briholm, the fire, the helplessness. The beast lunged at Elv, slamming her to the ground.
Rook clenched his grandfather's knife without realizing, his knuckles white, the blade trembling in his grip. His eyes were fixed on the grass, lost, as if he still saw Briholm's flames burning there. But something new rose in his face: his eyes burning with uncontrollable rage, fury with no outlet.
Then it happened. The knife flared with a red-gold aura, as though ancient fire had ignited within it. The light did not burn, but it rippled around the weapon like living flames, crackling in the air. The glow grew brighter, wrapping Rook's arm, illuminating his features twisted by pain and fury.
Elv felt it at once; a chill ran down her spine. But she wasn't alone. The Cù-sìth, pinning her beneath its weight, froze. Its coal-red eyes swung toward the boy. Instinct. Whatever stood behind it was more dangerous than the prey beneath its claws.
That hesitation was enough. Elv, gasping, twisted with all her strength and drove both daggers into the hound's throat. The creature's howl drowned in a dark gurgle, and its weight collapsed onto her, dead before it hit the ground.
Elv staggered to her feet, blood and mud streaking her skin, staring at Rook's knife in disbelief.
- "That is not common magic", she thought.
Rook met her gaze, unable to speak. The aura had vanished. Suddenly the weight of the world crashed on him. His legs buckled and he fell to his knees, gasping as though air had been ripped from his lungs. Sweat soaked his brow, and the knife of his grandfather felt as heavy as lead.
Elv cleaned her blades on the grass and sheathed them. Despite the blood trickling from her wounded arm, she crouched beside him to check his breath.
- "What in the hells was that?" she murmured, her voice wavering between awe and fear.
Rook shook his head, eyes still distant.
- "I don't know… I didn't do anything… and then… —" his voice broke. "I'm sorry. I froze. I couldn't move. I didn't do anything to help you."
Elv set a hand on his shoulder, firm but warm.
- "If you hadn't been there, if that thing hadn't felt whatever came out of you, I'd be dead. Don't call it failure, Rook. Thanks to you, I killed it."
Rook lifted his gaze, guilt clouding his eyes.
- "I…"
- "Enough," she cut him off with a weary smile. "We're alive, and we slew a Cù-sìth. That's what matters."
She straightened, shaking dried blood from her hands.
- "I need to wash this before it sticks to my skin. If I'm not mistaken, there's a river just ahead. Come on."
They walked a short distance until they found a narrow stream, its waters fast and clear. Elv stopped her horse, left her weapons on the bank, and began unstrapping her armor, dropping it in the grass. Rook blinked, startled, as she shed the rest of her clothes without hesitation. Her skin, marked by fresh cuts and old scars, glowed beneath the fading light. Elv waded into the water up to her waist, bending to wash her face, and the stream slipped down her shoulders, along the curve of her back, silvering her skin until he could barely breathe.
Rook forced his eyes away, but they betrayed him, sliding back again and again. He saw her gather her wet hair in her hands, the water running from her neck to her breasts—full, round, rising and falling with each breath. The outline of her hips, the tension in her thighs beneath the surface—every movement natural, unashamed—disarmed him more than any monster.
Elv, oblivious to his torment, smiled at the river's chill and dove under, surfacing with a brief laugh.
- "Cold… but better than stinking of blood."
She rubbed her face, water dripping from her lashes, and turned toward him with playful ease.
- "Come on, get in. Not a bad bath at all."
Rook laughed nervously, lowering his gaze to hide the heat burning his face. His body begged him to plunge into the water, but his mind was tangled in guilt, desire, and memories of Briholm. When he glanced up again, his eyes betrayed him once more, drawn to her breasts—too perfect, too beautiful to ignore, though he knew he shouldn't look. They glistened with droplets sliding across her skin. His stomach lurched, and he jerked his head away as if that could erase what had happened.
But Elv had noticed. To spare the boy further embarrassment, she casually pulled her hair back with one hand and covered her chest with the other, as though it were nothing.
Rook stammered, fumbling for an excuse.
- "I… I'm fine here… I don't want to… catch a cold."
The excuse was so unconvincing that even he didn't believe it. Elv held his gaze for a moment, that half-smile of hers blending mischief with understanding, but she didn't press. She turned and finished washing, leaving him the space to breathe.
Rook clenched his jaw, his heart pounding, unable to banish the image from his mind. Between her laugh and his own torment, he knew he had lost that small battle against himself.
The sun was almost gone when they set off again. Dornach loomed ahead, only minutes away—a gray mass of stone rising from the hills, smoke trailing from chimneys. They could hear the distant echo of the market, still alive with voices, mingled with the smell of cooking and mead carried on the wind.
Rook didn't know what awaited them in that city. But one thing was certain: the journey had become far more complicated than he ever imagined, and his head spun with too much to process.