The forest had become a slaughterhouse.
Femi's ears rang with the screams of dying Krags, the wet crunch of bone, the monstrous, gurgling sound of the Eri as it tore through them like a Cutlass through grass. The air reeked of blood and flesh, thick enough to choke on, clinging to the back of his throat like the aftertaste of spoiled meat. Around him, the snow was no longer white but a churned-up slurry of crimson and mud, steaming where hot life spilled onto frozen earth.
Varga's arrow had done nothing.
No worse than nothing. It had pissed the thing off.
The Eri's newly regenerated eye swiveled in its socket, the pupil dilating like a black pit before locking onto Varga with a predator's gleeful malice. The flesh around it was still raw, pink and glistening like freshly butchered meat, knitting itself back together even as they watched. It exhaled through its nostrils, a steaming, ragged breath that fogged the air between them, before its lips peeled back in a grotesque grin, revealing teeth longer than Femi's fingers, yellowed and serrated like a shark's.
Then it charged.
Varga didn't flinch.
She dropped her bow, the weapon landing with a muffled thud in the snow. Her hands flashed to the twin blades at her hips, the leather-wrapped handles worn smooth from years of use, stained with the sweat and blood of countless battles. The blades gleamed in the fading twin suns' light as she crossed them in front of her, bracing, her boots digging into the earth like roots seeking purchase, muscles coiled like springs.
The Eri's claws came down like falling trees.
CLANG!
The impact sent shockwaves through the snow, kicking up a spray of snow and dirt that stung Femi's cheeks. Varga skidded back, her boots carving trenches in the earth, but she held. The muscles in her arms quivered under the strain, veins standing out like ropes beneath her skin, her teeth bared in a snarl that was more defiance than pain.
For a heartbeat, Femi dared to hope.
Then the Eri laughed.
A wet, gurgling sound, like a drowning man finding humor in his own demise.
Its free arm swung around in a blur, a massive, corded limb moving faster than something that size had any right to.
Femi barely had time to scream a warning before the backhand connected.
Varga flew.
Her body crashed through a sapling, the young tree splintering with a sound like a snapped bone before she tumbled into the snow, skidding to a stop in a limp, broken heap.
Femi's heart stopped.
No. No, no, no...
The Eri didn't pursue her. It turned instead toward the remaining Krags, its nostrils flaring as if it was drinking in their terror and savoring it like fine wine. Osaka was shouting orders, his voice hoarse but steady, rallying the survivors into a defensive ring, but their formation was ragged. Broken. Too many gaps, too many missing faces.
They couldn't win this.
Femi knew it.
Osaka knew it.
And as the Eri lunged again, claws outstretched, Femi realized, Varga had known it too.
That was why she had looked afraid.
Not for herself.
For them.
---
"FEMI!"
The voice cut through the chaos like a knife through cake.
Femi whirled.
Varga was alive.
Barely.
She dragged herself onto her knees, one arm clutched to her ribs, fingers slick with blood where the Eri's claws had raked her. Her face was streaked with red, a deep gash above her brow leaking into her eye, but she blinked it away, unflinching. Her blade lay discarded in the snow, one of them broken like the economy, the metal shattered beyond repair.
But her eyes, those damn eyes, still burned.
"RUN!" she roared, the word tearing from her throat like it cost her everything.
Femi didn't move.
He couldn't.
His legs were rooted in place, his pulse a frantic drum against his ribs. Some part of him screamed that this was wrong, that he should be doing something, anything, rather than just standing there.
Varga's expression twisted. Not in anger. In pleading.
"You have to warn them!" she snarled, her voice raw as an open wound. "Go! NOW!"
The Eri's head snapped toward her voice, its ears twitching like a dire wolf catching the scent of wounded prey.
Femi's blood turned to ice.
Osaka seized the distraction.
"FOR THE WAR CHIEF!" the old Krag bellowed, hefting his spear, the tip glinting despite the grime and blood caked along its length.
The remaining warriors, ova included echoed the cry, a desperate, final roar as they threw themselves at the monster, their weapons raised in a futile but furious last stand.
It was suicide.
And they knew it.
But they did it anyway.
To buy him time.
Femi's vision blurred. Damn it
He turned.
And he ran.
---
The world had narrowed to blood, snow, and the monster killing them.
Varga spat red onto the ground, her ribs screaming with every breath. The Eri's backhand had cracked bone, maybe worse. But pain was an old friend. She had been born in it, baptized in it. It would not stop her now.
Not when her people were dying.
Not when he still had to escape and warn the rest.
She forced herself up, her fingers curling around the handle of her broken blade. The handle groaned under her grip, the blade shattered from blocking the Eri's strike. Useless now. She cast it aside.
Her other blade was still whole.
For now.
Across the clearing, the Eri was toying with Osaka.
The old Krag fought like a demon, his spear flashing in precise, lethal arcs. He had trained half the warriors in their band, and it showed, every thrust aimed for eyes, throat, the soft flesh between armored plates. But the Eri dodged with lazy, contemptuous grace, its massive body moving with unnatural speed. It let the spear tip graze its cheek, drawing a thin line of black blood, then it mouth parting as if to smile as the wound sealed shut before their eyes.
Osaka's face paled.
The Eri struck.
A clawed fist hammered into Osaka's chest.
There was no artistry to it. No technique. Just raw, annihilating force.
The impact lifted Osaka off his feet, his sternum collapsing inward with a wet crunch. He hit the ground, twitching, blood bubbling from his lips.
The Eri raised its foot to crush his skull.
"NO!"
Varga moved.
She didn't remember crossing the distance. Didn't remember swinging. But her blade bit deep into the Eri's thigh, carving through muscle and tendon before lodging in bone.
The monster shrieked, a sound like metal tearing.
It rounded on her, its remaining eye burning with fury.
Varga bared her teeth.
"Look at me," she snarled.
The Eri obliged.
---
Varga was fast. Faster than any Krag had a right to be.
Her mother had told her when she was younger that it was because she was a descendant of the Turu clan, a lineage of warriors whose bodies were touched by the gods' gift "Kuros".
Even if she hadn't reached the third form of Kuros—full-body enhancement—she had mastered the first form: partial enchantment and second form: weapon enchantment. And she poured it all into her legs, boosting her speed to abnormal levels.
Her remaining blade, sheathed in a green aura, blurred through the air, a whirlwind of steel and fury.She ducked under the Eri's swipes, weaving between its limbs like a dancer, her strikes precise, relentless. Every cut, every slash, aimed to cripple hamstrings, wrists, the tendons behind its knees.
Her aim wasn't to kill it.
But to slow it down.
The Eri roared, swiping at her. Varga rolled under the blow, coming up behind it, her blade biting into its lower back. Black blood sprayed. The monster twisted, its claws raking the air where she had been a heartbeat before.
But she was already gone.
Then the Eri changed.
Its movements, once brutish and wild, sharpened. It stopped chasing. Stopped flailing.
It watched.
And when Varga lunged again, it was ready.
Its hand snapped out, catching her wrist mid-swing. Bones crunched. Varga's gasp of pain was drowned by the Eri's triumphant howl.
It yanked her off her feet, slamming her into the ground hard enough to crack the snow covered earth.
Varga didn't stay down.
With a guttural cry, she drove her knee into the Eri's groin. The monster grunted, its grip loosening just enough
Her free hand flashed to her belt, pulling a dagger.
She buried it in the Eri's side.
Black blood gushed over her fingers.
The Eri staggered back, gagging, clawing at the blade lodged in its flesh.
Varga scrambled up, clutching her ruined wrist to her chest.
The Eri ripped the dagger free. Its wound sealed shut.
And then it made a sound that was almost laughter.
A low, gurgling sound, thick with amusement.
It had been playing with her.
Now, it was done playing.
Varga knew she was going to die.
She had known from the moment the Eri's first blow sent her flying.