The Great Forest was one of the most dangerous places that existed. It was certainly not somewhere one ought to live. Everything here—from insects to whatever lurked beneath the roots—tried to kill you. There was no climate in the usual sense, because the climate itself was an enemy. Heat, rot, and moisture worked together, competing over what would finish you off first.
Life moved on every level, from the ground to the canopy. Below crawled insects and soft-shelled creatures that fed on the dead. Higher lived predators hunting anything that moved. On the upper layers dwelled light, quick beasts leaping between branches—their claws left marks deeper than knives.
As you already know, each year part of the forest sank underwater. Rains poured for months, turning the lowlands into endless swamps. The currents washed away soil down to the roots until the earth stopped being earth at all. The swamps spread for dozens of kilometers, swallowing everything that failed to climb higher.
Because of that, during the rainy season—and for a long time afterward—everyone traveled only along the upper crowns.
Naturally, the only ones who lived here were the toughest and most vicious. And no wonder—when everything around tries to devour you or poison you, softness disappears fast. Even the children knew that weakness cost lives and learned it with their mother's milk.
But she knew this better than anyone.
A figure slid across the trees quickly and precisely, passing dangers of which there were many. She stepped only where instinct said it was safe—and that instinct had never failed her. Her movements were light, almost silent: short bursts of speed, wide jumps, sharp turns. In one moment she grabbed a thick branch, spun three times, and released it. Her body sailed through the air and landed softly on a nearby tree.
Crouching, she scanned the territory below with a sharp, focused gaze.
Branches stretched in all directions, hiding parts of the view. Through the leaves shone flecks of light and slow shadows of creatures crawling across trunks. Even lower, in the deepest hollows, everything was hidden by thick fog. Down there you couldn't tell where water ended and soil began, and bubbling steam rose from time to time.
Ghislaine had been on the hunt for four days. All this time she had been tracking the creature she'd chosen as her target—the Mist Shavra.
Looking toward the lowlands where the fog lay especially thick, doubts stirred in her. It might have been ordinary evaporation after the rains, or it might have meant a Shavra nest.
Together, those creatures would tear her apart in seconds. She had no desire to stick her head into a predator's jaws, no matter how something inside her pulled. So Ghislaine continued her hunt. Now was not the best time—the mating period. But that was exactly why she had chosen such a target. She wasn't looking for an easy path; she wanted to test herself.
Lowering her position and stepping away from the densest fog, she hid and watched her intended setup.
Ahead grazed a herd of shaurts—medium-sized herbivores. Their bodies were long, covered in short gray-brown fur, their forelegs slightly longer than the hind. Each head bore two horn stubs, and their eyes were large and wary. Beside a female wandered two younglings, tearing leaves from the lower branches. These beasts were known for speed and endurance. When shaurts broke into a run, their speed on flat ground could reach one hundred twenty kilometers per hour. Catching them afterward was nearly impossible.
Exactly what she needed.
Ghislaine nodded and shot upward, gaining height. She used a branch as a catapult, launching herself straight toward the target. Mid-flight she drew her wide blade and swung.
The shaurt female only managed to lift her head and see a white blur flying toward her.
The blade flashed and entered her throat. Ghislaine's other hand grabbed her fur, and without withdrawing the sword she slid down the back, slicing the neck in a broad arc.
The younglings shrieked and scattered. Ghislaine didn't care. She pushed harder, pinning the female to the ground. The beast struck with its legs, but strength was fading fast. Ghislaine leaned lower and twisted the blade until blood gushed from the torn throat. The body jerked and went limp.
Pulling out the blade, she wiped it on the fur and sheathed it. Then she reached into her small pouch, pulled out a bundle of herbs and several reddish-yellow berries gathered earlier. After one more glance at the dead beast, she began to work.
Hours passed.
Ghislaine had been sitting in ambush this whole time, hidden among the branches. She had smeared her skin with mud mixed with rotten leaves to mask her scent. Now all she had to do was wait. She watched her trap and kept her eyes on the fog-filled lowlands where her target would appear.
More hours passed.
In the distance, the fog began to stretch. It crept slowly, sliding along the branches and spreading toward the female's corpse and everything nearby. Ghislaine tensed. Her hand reached for the band over her eye and removed it. Underneath was a greenish eye glowing with a faint fire. The world changed instantly—the fog no longer hindered her. Now she clearly saw everything hiding within it.
Ahead stood the creature bent over the carcass.
Its body was long, covered in gray-green scales blending with foliage. Its forelegs were long, each ending in a bone hook used to grip prey. Every movement came with a crunch—the creature ripped pieces of flesh and swallowed them with the fur.
Its head was narrow, its jaws long, lined with several rows of fishlike teeth. Each bite came with a wet crack, and bits of organs spilled from the shaurt's torn throat.
Ghislaine didn't strike. She waited patiently for what she'd prepared to take effect. It needed time. Gradually the creature's movements slowed, and the fog it emitted thinned. Sensing something wrong, the Shavra jerked and twisted its head, trying to understand.
She had used a mixture of herbs she'd prepared over several days.
It included dried sprigs of moss-stinger, juice of swamp kalia, and crushed yargroot seeds. For ordinary creatures the mixture caused paralysis and convulsions. For a Shavra it worked more weakly—only dulling muscles and throwing off coordination. But that was enough to rob it of speed and leave it vulnerable.
A snap.
The Shavra twisted sharply.
Ghislaine struck, and the wide blade drove into the creature's leg joint.
Clang—the blade bounced aside, scraping bone.
Ghislaine clicked her tongue in irritation and flipped backward, dodging the tail. The Shavra spun, hissed loudly, and leapt aside, kicking up a cloud of mud and rot.
As she retreated, Ghislaine felt for vines on the ground. She grabbed them and pulled sharply, bracing her legs and sliding from the force. In that instant the traps triggered.
Interwoven nets of vines, reinforced with sharp bone stakes, tore free from the branches. They struck downward, wrapping around the Shavra's sides and legs. It screeched and thrashed, trying to break free, but the bindings only bit deeper into its skin. With every second its movements grew sharper, and thick dark blood seeped from under the scales. Ghislaine kept tension until the trap locked the creature in an awkward stance.
Over time the Shavra's struggles slowed and grew sluggish. This was the sticky myuri resin at work—the sap that seeped from cracks in the bark. Finding and collecting it had been difficult, and any mistake left a mark. On Ghislaine's hands still showed the scars from when the resin glued her fingers together.
She smirked, watching the creature thrash uselessly.
"Ran fast, didn't you?" she said fiercely. "Now crawl."
Ghislaine tightened the bindings and circled the tree, securing the vines around a thick root. The knots settled tight, leaving the Shavra no chance of escape. She walked right up to it, the same smirk on her face.
"Well," Ghislaine said calmly, staring into the creature's cloudy eye, "shall we talk now?"
She stepped closer, bent down, and ran her finger along the Shavra's neck, where the skin bulged under the vines. The creature hissed, but the sound was weak. Ghislaine watched, checking the bindings. Then she drew her sword and drove it into the creature's shoulder, just below the joint.
"Quiet," she said evenly. "I'm only starting."
She didn't rush to kill the Shavra. She knew she had to—that the ritual demanded it, that it was the right thing—but something inside said otherwise.
Blood! More-more-more-more!
The thought tore through her mind.
The growl grew louder; she heard it from within, echoing in her skull. The Beast inside her had awakened and hummed with pleasure like a satisfied cat.
A light smile touched her lips. The blade slid lower, cutting flesh. The mixture of herbs and myuri had softened the hide, making it easier to slice. The Shavra jerked, still wasting its last strength trying to break the bone stakes embedded in its side.
The Beast inside rose.
It fed on blood and fury, and now it swallowed everything else. Pressure swelled in her chest, something inside pressed outward. Her hair lifted, her left eye narrowed to a slit. A tremor ran through her body—muscles swelling with power, strength flooding back.
For a moment she lost control. Her arm moved on its own, and the blade plunged down again and again. The creature writhed, bucked, trying to break free.
A snap—the blade cut a vine, and it tore.
Others burst after it. The Shavra sensed weakness and thrashed wildly, its tail whipping the trunk. A crack sounded—the tree, softened by the season's waters, began to break at the roots. It tilted.
The hook shifted at a bad angle, the tension dropped.
Freed, the creature bolted.
The tree collapsed, lifting a cloud of fog, rot, and mud. One of the branches struck Ghislaine, throwing her aside. She hit her temple and fell into wet leaves.
Everything went silent. Darkness crept over her vision, and her eyelids began to fall.