A year later.
The rain had been falling for the second month without pause.
Drops beat against leaves, bark, and the dirty water beneath the roots. In the Great Forest this was the usual time—the rainy season. Every year it came almost on schedule, drawing a thick gray veil over everything. Sometimes it lasted three months, sometimes longer. The forest slowly drank the moisture until the ground stopped being ground and turned into a living swamp.
Beastkin tribes often settled high in the trees. They built platforms and walkways from woven branches, stretched roofs of vines and broad leaves. Up above was safer: neither the water nor the creatures that emerged from the swamps during the rains could reach them.
One of the tribes was now sheltering on the treetops. Below them churned murky water, and the current could easily sweep away even a strong beastkin. Sometimes magical creatures crawled out of the depths—slick things with many legs—they scaled the trunks, but the warriors of the tribe quickly knocked them down. The creatures fell back into the torrent, the splash swallowed by the roar of rain.
Each beastkin held a long spear, knocking the creatures off with loud, infectious laughter. Over time it became a game—who was faster, who struck truer. Cries, clacking shafts, and splashes rose from the lower platforms.
"Hop!"
A beastkin with catlike ears struck deftly. The spearhead plunged straight into the eye of a creature that looked like a giant lizard. It screeched and vanished into the murky water.
"Well? See that?" He turned to the others, flexing his arm to show his bicep. "Fourth one today!"
Beastkin women nearby exchanged meaningful smiles.
Soon the Khar'Bariah would begin—the Call of Bariah, or the Gate to the Beast-God. It was a great feast where the whole tribe gathered. They brought offerings to the Beast-God, showed trophies, boasted of scars and strength. After the feast they paired off to produce offspring and then went back to the hunt.
Beastkin were often hunting, or working as mercenaries, or joining the great hunts—and sometimes all at once. But for this festival, held once every few years, everyone tried to return. Even those far from home hurried back. Already many were boasting of trophies and strength—without that, there wasn't even a glance from the opposite sex.
The posing beastkin didn't notice another lizard creeping up behind him. It had already opened its long, narrow jaws, ready to bite his leg and drag him into the water.
"K-r-r-ee!"
The creature lunged sharply. The beastkin noticed too late but still managed to strike. He missed. The spear grazed the thick skin.
"A-ah!"
Jaws clamped onto his ankle and yanked downward. He fell, sliding across the wet planks. In the same instant a figure dropped from above. In her hand was a broad, short blade that plunged into the creature's head, breaking the skull. It twitched, then went still. Only faint spasms ran along its body as life left it.
The figure straightened, still standing atop the lizard. Fresh blood streamed down her torso, sliding across her abdomen and soaking into loose dark pants. Her body was covered with many small scars and left bare. Only a dark band covered her chest. White ears on white hair twitched, and she turned to the beastkin.
Her single uncovered eye fixed on him. Still gripping his leg trapped in the jaws, he intended to show respect, but the words stuck in his throat when he realized who stood before him.
"...oh, Ghislaine..." he whispered shakily.
"Falling over again," she said calmly, keeping her foot on the dead lizard's head. "If not for me, you'd already be dragged under."
She bent down, lifted the spear he'd dropped, and handed it to him carelessly.
"Here. If you're going to pose again, just jump into the swamp right away instead of getting underfoot."
He took the spear, avoiding her gaze.
"I... didn't notice."
"Yeah," Ghislaine smirked. "You don't notice a lot."
She looked at his leg and grinned wickedly.
"Need help?" she asked in a long, mocking tone.
He shook his head, forcing out:
"No. I can—"
"O-o-oh... since you're begging for help, I'll help." She smirked and stepped closer.
"No-no! I was sa—"
Her hand clamped around the dead creature's jaws and forced them open. He cried out as the teeth slid off, leaving bloody marks on his skin. Ghislaine didn't let go. She moved the jaw back and forth as if stretching the moment, savoring his reaction.
"See?" she said calmly. "Without me you wouldn't have gotten out."
Pain twisted his face, but he held it in, refusing to make a sound. If he screamed, he would lose all respect—that was exactly what Ghislaine wanted. Sweat broke across his temples, drops sliding down his cheeks and vanishing into the fur on his chin.
Ghislaine snorted and finally pulled the jaw away from his leg. With a hook she pierced the inner part of the jaw, tied the ropes, and fixed the corpse so it wouldn't slide off.
His leg was swollen, red-purple. The bone looked broken—her rough handling had caused that. Blood ran down, mixing with mud.
A swamp skira bite—as these lizards were called—was dangerous. Their saliva carried a trembling sickness that quickly ate through muscle and vessels. Without help within minutes, the leg could be lost.
Ghislaine didn't hurry to leave and kept her gaze on him. He rose slowly, leaning heavily on the spear, trying not to look at her. The saliva was already working, draining his strength; his muscles ached from strain and pain. Ghislaine didn't intend to help—only to watch, with a slight smile, as if waiting for him to collapse.
He still managed to stand, swaying, struggling not to slip and fall.
He looked at her at last and, swallowing hard, forced out:
"Thank you, Ghislaine... I owe you."
She smirked wider, staring into his face.
"Of course," she said quietly. "Always happy to help the feeble."
Ghislaine didn't stop. She narrowed her eyes and looked at his leg.
"See how it's swelling?" she said quietly. "I've seen wounds like that. They don't heal."
The beastkin paled. His mouth opened but no sound came.
"You'll have to cut it off," she continued evenly, as if speaking of something mundane. "Though even that won't save you. Skira venom doesn't leave the body. You'll have to drain the blood, use swamp leeches. They bite in and gnaw out chunks of flesh with the blood."
He swallowed; his gaze went empty.
"But even then," she said, stepping closer, "the weakness stays. You'll feel it always. In every movement, in every breath."
She came right up to him. Her nose nearly touched his, her gaze burning through him. He began to tremble, unable to look away.
"No one will look at you," Ghislaine whispered. "You're a weakling. A disgrace to the tribe."
She didn't look away.
"Think anyone will want to sleep with a cripple?" she continued, her voice quieter, colder. "Even your mother will turn from you when she learns you couldn't handle a bite."
He recoiled, but his legs trembled and he leaned on the spear again. His lips shook, his breathing faltered. He tried to speak, but his throat locked. Tears gathered on his lashes, one rolling down his cheek, lost in the rain. He lowered his head, but still felt her gaze.
Ghislaine stayed silent, letting the quiet finish him.
She opened her mouth to say something, but a piercing roar ripped through the air from above. The sound was so strong even the lizards fell off the trunks. Beastkin crouched, covering their ears.
"GHISLAINE! YOU SEEM TO HAVE YOUR OWN BUSINESS TO ATTEND TO!"
She looked up.
On the treetops stood a beastkin enormous even by their standards. Over two meters tall, his body was covered in scars; skulls hung from his hips, and necklaces of fangs and teeth crossed his chest and arms.
Ghislaine watched him for a few seconds, then clicked her tongue, grabbed the rope, and dragged the lizard behind her. Climbing swiftly, she pulled the trophy upward.
The beastkin above turned and roared through the rain:
"GIES! HELP YOUR BROTHER UP AND TAKE HIM TO ASHAI!"
A rustle sounded nearby, and another beastkin hurried over, grabbing the wounded one before he fell.
"Don't worry," he said quietly. "Ghislaine is just messing with you. You'll be fine. You'll recover."
At the top of the trees, dull gray light filtered through the leaves. Here, among the broad branches, the beastkin had arranged a platform—the center of their camp. Fires smoked in clay bowls, and rainwater streamed across the planks.
Ghislaine climbed up, dragging the trophy. Warriors were already gathering, murmuring warily.
She jumped her way up to a large tent made of hides from swamp beasts, bound with vines and bones. She passed the guards easily—strong beastkin, clearly the elite. Even from afar it was obvious they were the best fighters.
Before her, on a throne of skulls and bones, sat the beastkin who had interrupted her fun. He was the same dark shade as she was, only older and broader. Ghislaine knelt.
"Father! I killed a lizard!"
She looked at him with a child's smile and excitement. He silently lifted a skull-cup and took a drink. Inside sloshed strong garsh brew, made from fermented forest fruits. It would scorch a human's throat and stomach.
By his throne stood four human women. Their bodies were adorned with gold chains and bracelets, gems glinting on their skin. They moved smoothly, alluring in form and gaze. Slave-concubines taken during raids, each from a noble house.
The beastkin on the throne waved his hand, unimpressed.
"Just a lizard," he said in a low voice, not looking at his daughter. "For a warrior of your level that isn't even a warm-up."
"It was big!" Ghislaine straightened. "And I saved one of ours."
"Saved?" The beastkin smirked, setting the cup aside. "I saw you tormenting the wounded. Don't mistake play for a feat."
"I wasn't playing," she said quietly but stubbornly. "I was testing his strength."
"Testing..." he repeated, slowly raising his eyes. "And if he'd died? If the tribe lost a warrior because of your stubbornness?"
Ghislaine didn't answer. He watched her until the silence grew heavy. Then he rasped:
"Strength without reason is weakness. Remember that."
He waved his hand.
"Go."
Ghislaine nodded and left.
One of the women stepped up to the chief and refilled his skull-cup. He took a long drink and exhaled noisily.
"Weak," he muttered to himself, looking toward where his daughter had gone. "Too much play in her eyes."
Beside him an elder warrior inclined his head.
"She is young, chief. She'll learn to hold herself."
"Young," the beastkin repeated, slowly turning his gaze. "At her age I was already tearing hunters from neighboring tribes with my claws."
He lifted the cup again and finished it without flinching.
"Let her go hunting after the rains. Alone. If she returns, maybe I'll start believing she'll become a warrior."
The warrior beside him lifted his eyes uncertainly.
"Chief... you don't mean—"
The chief cut him off.
"Yes. She's ready for the Khar'Ragar."
Khar meant call, urge—an instinctive pull of the tribe's beast spirit. Ragar meant hunter. Together it meant the Hunter's Call—a path not all returned from. This was how beastkin entered adulthood: go on a hunt and prove worthy to be a warrior, claim their first true trophy.
"She's only twelve," he said quietly.
The warrior still looked uneasy.
"I'm worried, chief," he added after a pause. "Something is wrong with Ghislaine. She feeds the Beast inside too often."
The chief raised a brow but stayed silent.
"She is fierce, dangerous. Her cruelty has no bounds. If she keeps feeding the Beast with blood and rage, it will consume her."
The Inner Beast lived within each of them. It was the force that ruled body and spirit, granting power and savagery. But if fed too often, it began to rule the mind. Those who lost themselves entirely and let the Beast take over were called Griza. The word meant the Fallen—a beastkin devoured by the Beast. Such outcasts were feared and despised.
The chief rasped a smirk.
"You think I don't hear it feeding?" he said, looking at his hands. "I hear its roar myself when she fights. But let it eat. Better fed than starved. A hungry beast tears from within."
The warrior shook his head slightly.
"But if she stops holding it back—"
"Then she'll become Griza," the chief said calmly. "And we will do as we always do."
He looked at the warrior coldly.
"Don't forget, hunter. In our tribe even the Fallen once brought glory."
The warrior lowered his gaze, conceding, though worry stayed on his face.
Outside the rain continued. Light filtered through the leaves, and every drop striking the planks sounded loud. The chief raised his gaze.
"Let her go," he whispered. "Let Bariah decide who she belongs to."
He lifted the cup again, drank, and closed his eyes. Warriors drifted away in silence, and the tent sank into dimness.