The captain stood at the broken breach in the wall.
His armor was battered, stained. The helmet long off, hanging from his belt. Face smeared with dirt and blood, a fresh cut on his cheek. Fingers held the blade lightly, eyes sharp.
Behind him stood his men. Close-packed. Blades drawn. Three dozen. All aura-users. The ones who remained. The ones who held formation, didn't break, didn't abandon their own.
He waited.
When Ghislaine charged, the signal was clear without words. They followed—not head-on, but from the rear. While she tore through the center, they swept the flanks. While the slaughter took hearts, they cut off the hands.
Escape was impossible.
Those who dropped their weapons were cut down on the spot. No shouting. No questions. The only ones taken alive were those who might know something useful. Rarely.
The keep was nearly dead.
The few survivors accepted help. Shaken, silent, dressed in rags, eyes hollow. They were led aside, sat down by the walls, given water, shielded from the wind.
The knights checked every hall, every breach, every crypt.
Armories were empty. Locks smashed, chests broken open, hinges torn out. Anything with the slightest value was gone. Crossbows, swords, chainmail, shields. Even cracked plate and dented helmets—if salvageable—were piled separately by the guards. The rest fed the fire.
The vaults were picked clean.
The captain stood in the breach, watching without surprise. It was always like this. Where the artifacts should've been—special weapons, stores of rare armor—nothing. The raiders stripped it all ahead of time. Left only trash too heavy to carry.
What could be saved—was. What remained—wasn't worth saving.
A green flicker caught his eye.
The ground had been ripped open. The stone torn like by claws. Burnt streaks along the edges. In the cracks—a dim green glow. Alive. Almost breathing. The captain passed his fingers just above the lines—heat rose from them. Light. Sticky.
He didn't know what it was.
"Captain."
A voice broke the thought.
He looked up. A prisoner was being dragged over.
The guard hauled him by the hair. The man still struggled, stumbled, tried to stay on his feet. Face smashed in, one eye swollen shut, mouth full of blood. On his shoulder—a faded tattoo: three crossed swords. Mark of one of the raider lieutenants.
The guard kicked him behind the knee. The man dropped into the mud.
The captain looked at him silently. The prisoner moved his lips, tried to spit blood, but couldn't reach. His mouth was swollen, teeth broken. But his eyes were still alive. Sullen. Defiant.
"Where's Serek?" the captain asked. Calm.
The prisoner smirked.
"Check your boyfriend's ass." Voice rough, but cheerful.
The captain's face didn't change. Only his grip on the sword tightened slightly.
"Who broke the keep?" Same tone.
The prisoner barked a laugh, coughed, spat onto stone.
"Your fat whore mother. We tossed her off the walls." Tears spilled from his puffed eyes—not from pain, from coughing.
The captain exhaled through his nose. Not anger. Just indifference. He gestured.
The guard kicked him in the ribs. Dull thud. The man doubled over, wheezing, but raised his head again.
The captain didn't rush.
"These flares. The green light. What is it?" Still the same tone, like asking how much water was left in the barrel.
The prisoner shook his head, wiping blood in the dirt. Then laughed.
"Death itself sniffed your tail, mutt. You like it? Pretty, isn't it?" His mouth stretched into a grotesque grin.
The captain straightened. A slight movement. His eyes were only cold. Looking down at the man like roadkill.
"Look at yourself," he said quietly. "Pathetic shit that can't even die like a man. Spitting blood and whining about 'mama'—that's your honor. Just filth and stench. Worthless."
Silence spread over the courtyard.
And on his face—just the faintest smile.
"Perfect... and now—" He tried to go on, but the prisoner burst out laughing.
Loud, hoarse, blood in his throat. A ragged sound, like old stitches ripping open.
"You—you really think—" he began, voice cracking, and then stopped.
Something shifted in the air.
The captain's gaze snapped to the wide, shattered doors of the hall. A figure stepped out.
Heavy steps. Sun-darkened skin, patches of fur along her arms, torn and caked with dried blood. Movements predatory—twitchy, sharp, but tightly controlled. The aura around her was so dense it warped reality itself, making everything near her feel brittle, thinner, like it might break from the pressure.
It wasn't a warrior's aura. Not an executioner's. This was a killer's—pure, honed, lived-in. She wasn't here for justice. Not vengeance. She didn't count the bodies. Didn't care if it was the first or the hundredth. Only the fight. Only the scent of blood. The weight of steel.
Her ears—feline—twitched in the wind.
One hand held two severed heads. Hair clumped, blood still dripping onto stone, leaving dark patches in her wake.
Ghislaine.
The captain moved the moment he saw her. As if pulled.
Hand to chest. A short, precise bow. No wasted motion.
"Lord Protector," he said firmly. "Keep secured. Few prisoners. Clearing eastern wing. Six casualties. Five badly wounded. Awaiting orders."
Ghislaine stopped in front of him. Stared. Silent. Like a beast still deciding whether to tear into something or move on.
Inhale. Exhale.
Heavy, almost a growl. The aura that had pressed down on everything vanished at once. The air lightened. That choking pressure dissolved. Breathing got easier. The guards' shoulders relaxed without realizing it—though none moved.
The captain raised his gaze. His eyes drifted to what she held.
Two heads. Hair tangled. Faces shredded. But still recognizable.
He knew them.
"Their leaders," he said quietly, not wanting to break the brittle stillness. "One summoned the spiders. The other... the idiot who laughed."
Ghislaine didn't respond. Just gripped the hair like rags. Blood ran down her fingers to the floor. She stood as if debating whether to drop them now or later.
"And the count's family—"
"Dead," she said.
Then walked on. Past the captain. Past his men.
Toward the prisoner. The one still breathing. Still gasping in the dirt on his knees.
Her steps were heavy. Each one hit like a blow.
The man tensed the moment he saw her. A tremor ran through his arms, his neck, his legs. He knew what beastkin rage meant. Had heard the stories. Today, he'd seen it from afar—three jumps, no pause, no thought, just slaughter. He saw her cleave a man in two with one swing.
And now fear took him by the throat.
He tried to get up. Lunged, stumbled, scrambled to crawl, to flee anywhere. But fear held his legs tighter than the mud.
Yet even that wasn't the worst of it. It wasn't just fear of her—it was something deeper. Something else was wrong. Right now. Something cracking under her skin.
He screamed:
"I-I didn't know! Didn't think Borea would be dumb enough to keep one of thos—"
Punch.
Her fist hit his chest. No windup. No pause. Just impact. The body launched backwards. Skidded through dirt. Dust. Stone.
The body writhed. Trying to breathe. Fingers clawed at air. Useless.
Ghislaine walked up. Slowly.
She stepped on his face. Softly. Calmly. With weight. The stone under his head cracked. Skull gave in. A dull crunch sank into the ground. The body still twitched in the mud as she pressed him into the dirt.
"You'll speak when I let you," she said. Her voice cracked into a growl, deep and blunt, like a paw slamming into a cage.
His eyes jerked upward. He saw her face. Saw the tremble in her cheeks, the fur threatening to tear through her scars, through the pores. She was holding it back by force. Only her will kept the beast caged. For a second, it looked like if she let go, everything would drown in blood.
She lifted her foot. Stepped aside, slow, leaving him in the shallow crater.
Crouched beside him. Still holding two heads.
"Recognize your friends?" Ghislaine asked.
Her face was calm. Only the corners of her mouth twitched with a bare snarl.
He tried to smirk. Croak out some joke.
She grabbed his hand in silence.
Crunch.
She tore off one finger. Clean, precise.
The scream ripped through the air. His body arched, thrashing in the filth.
"Where did it start? Why here?"
The prisoner rasped. Snorted snot. Tried to breathe.
"Count Foss... worked with us..." he coughed. "Ran slaves. From the Wilds... to Assura... back..."
She nodded. Understood.
"How did you break through?"
He coughed again, shook his head.
"I don't know…"
Crunch.
Second finger.
The scream choked in his throat. He writhed, heels hammering water from puddles.
"I don't know! I don't know!" he shrieked.
Crunch.
Third finger.
"Aaah—!"
He gasped, swallowed air, lips shaking.
"Bombs... some kind of bombs…" he finally forced out. "Serek said… bombs! I don't know what they are! He went to deal with the Count… then the walls blew… everything collapsed!"
She looked aside.
At the fractures in the ground. The green flares still flickering in the stone's ruptures. At the broken walls—scorched, swollen, like a wave of fire had torn through from within.
"This?" she asked. Voice low, hoarse. No surprise.
He nodded spasmodically. Twitched like he wished the dirt would swallow him.
"Where is he?"
He shook, but answered fast. Voice drowning in spit and blood.
"Into the center... center of the kingdom..." he choked. "As soon as this was done. The attack was... just a distraction... to pull back..."
He coughed, gurgled, tried to keep speaking, but the words tangled.
"All of this... this whole siege... was just cover... to break through…"
Ghislaine stood over him, unmoving. She looked like she'd already heard enough. Took a step away.
He slumped into the dirt. No point listening further.
Ghislaine turned.
Her body was steady, steps controlled, but inside—boiling. The beast under her skin clawed, shifted, strained to burst out. Every breath got heavier, like air sliced from the inside.
As she passed, the guards stiffened. One lowered his head. Another took half a step back—unthinking, reflex. Fingers clenched hilts. Elbows trembled. Not one raised their gaze. Not one spoke.
Not even the captain.
He stood straight, but his shoulders were too stiff. His eyes slid away—like an animal faced with something meaner.
Ghislaine stopped in front of him.
He felt it like a blow. Her will dropped on him like stone on the chest.
"He's moving on the outpost," she said. Quiet. Not a threat. But it hit like a command. "That means he's already met with Philip."
The captain nodded. Careful. Fingers barely tensed.
"Then we have no time." Ghislaine didn't look at him. She looked through. "We're going where he's already fighting."
She stepped forward. Slow—like before a strike. Her aura shifted—just barely, but in a meter's radius, the air clenched. Those closest flinched, tried to step back.
"Half with me. The rest—prep the second wave. If he holds the line, we hit their flank. If not—you cover retreat."
No one objected.
Ghislaine moved. The tension stayed behind. She didn't look back.
Hold the line. Or die properly.
The sound escaped on its own. Low. Guttural. Not a voice—more a growl, tangled with something like laughter. Dry, joyless. Closer to a rasp than a laugh.
Ghislaine paused. Her fingers twitched. Aura rolled outward—dense, sticky, like the beast inside her stretched to the surface.
A second—and it was gone.
Her breath leveled. Her eyes steadied. She was herself again.
Wind kicked up dust—swirled it around her boots like a warning.
But she was already gone.
P.S. The finished chapters I had are all posted. I'm going into hibernation. I'll be back when I've stocked up some more. If you added this to your library thinking I crank out a chapter a day — feel free to unfollow.