Her wings, nascent and still phantom-like, yet with patches of glimmering scales, and her newly sharpened claws had made a startling, visceral appearance during the earlier, brutal fight—likely a raw, instinctive response to the life-threatening danger she'd sensed, amplified by her recent, obsessive efforts to hone her mana perception. She didn't understand the full scope of this transformation yet, but primal instinct had taken over, seizing the reins. Now, the aftermath surrounded her in an eerie, blood-soaked silence.
Lux lay still on the damp, leaf-strewn forest floor, her breath coming in ragged, heavy gasps. Around her were the broken remnants of the ambush—some utterly dead, their bodies twisted into grotesque shapes; others too grievously injured to move; one or two, perhaps, feigning stillness with desperate hope. A sharp, wet sting flared across her back, a searing, hot agony—the werewolf bastard in the woods had landed a sickening hit before she'd brutally torn him apart. It was stupid. She'd allowed herself to be flanked, caught off guard. A critical error.
But she had no time to nurse regrets, no space for the luxury of pain.
One of them had fled. One ghost had slipped through her bloody fingers.
And that, she knew with a chilling certainty, could spell everything going to hell.
Still breathing hard, each inhale a shallow scrape, she forced her battered body to move. Her muscles screamed in fiery protest, her spine roared with fatigue, each movement sending jolts of agony through her. But she gritted her teeth, a faint snarl on her lips, and pushed herself upright, bracing her hands on the muddy earth. The forest had gone unnaturally quiet—the kind of silence that warns predators when another, more dangerous predator is on the move.
No rest. Not yet. Rest was a luxury afforded only to the dead, or the truly safe.
She staggered forward, her limbs stiff and protesting, barely catching herself on a low, gnarled branch. Then—snap. Her heavy boot struck something soft but resisting beneath the thick carpet of leaves. She looked down, her blood-red eyes narrowing, and saw the glint of a concealed blade, followed by a flash of movement too slow, too desperate. One of the mercenaries, a human, had played dead, blade clutched in his hand, waiting with grim patience to stab her in the back as she passed.
Unluckily for him, he was now precisely under her foot.
Crunch.
The sickening, wet sound of his spine giving way was followed by a choked, strangled scream, abruptly cut short. Her full weight crushed his body like dried kindling, a final, brutal ending. Without pause, without mercy, her face set in a mask of grim resolve, she crouched over the bodies of the others. With practiced efficiency, born of cold necessity, she slit the throats of the unconscious and the crippled—quick, horizontal cuts across their necks. Bright, viscous red spilled across the forest floor, mingling with the mud and rain, like the very sun dying behind the trees.
No loose ends. No witnesses.
Blood on her hands, some dried and sticky, some fresh and glistening, she turned toward the fading trail. The scent of damp earth, rich and dark, was now intertwined with the metallic tang of so much spilled life.
The one who escaped was clever—leaving no visible tracks on the muddy ground, and his mana masked well, expertly dampened. But not perfectly. Not for her awakened senses. There was still residue. Lux could feel it now, like a faint, acrid smoke clinging to the chilled wind. His unique aura, the bitter tang of his fear, the lingering echo of his murderous intent—it all left faint, almost invisible fingerprints on the air, subtle vibrations in the mana around her.
She sprinted through the trees, her body half-numb, moving on pure instinct and fury, weaving effortlessly between ancient trunks and ducking under low-hanging branches that clawed at her. Thorns scraped at her legs, tearing fine lines in her skin. Twigs caught in her hair, pulling painfully. But she didn't stop, didn't hesitate. The thought of a loose end, a potential harbinger of doom, fueled her relentless pursuit.
And then—she found him.
He was kneeling by a small, nondescript pack, rearranging his gear with a chillingly calm, methodical precision. A man readying himself for another kill, his posture radiating focused intent. She could see the tension coiling in his broad shoulders, the subtle, almost imperceptible twitch in his pointed werewolf ears—he knew she might come. He just didn't know when, or from where.
Too late now.
She lunged, a blur of motion and raw, predatory grace, her claws outstretched like sharpened knives, her nascent fangs bared in a primal snarl of unadulterated fury. But the man was fast—dangerously so. He spun, his hidden blade flashing in the last, dying rays of sunlight, stabbing straight for her chest. Instinct, sharp and immediate, kicked in. She blocked with her left forearm. The knife sank deep into muscle with a sickening crunch, grating against bone, but the pain, immense as it was, didn't even elicit a scream from her.
With a roar that was more dragon than human, she drove her other, uninjured claw into his throat.
His eyes went wide with sudden, comprehending terror, his breath stolen mid-gasp, a thick gurgle of dark red blood bubbling through his lips as he collapsed, his body going limp. She didn't let go. They fell together, her weight slamming into him like a dying star colliding with a planet.
For a moment, everything stilled again. The forest held its breath.
She lay on his corpse, bloodied, panting, her entire being humming with the low static of excruciating pain and unyielding fury. The knife was still buried in her arm, a hot, throbbing weight. Slowly, painstakingly, she rolled off his cooling body, carefully, teeth gritted tight, her muscles screaming with the effort.
The sun had dipped entirely below the horizon, painting the western sky in streaks of deep violet and fading orange. The ancient trees stretched long, grasping shadows around her, their skeletal branches reaching like accusing fingers. Night was coming fast—and with it, whatever unforeseen consequences this brutal, necessary fight might bring from the Duke, from the King, from the world.
But Lux was alive.
And they weren't.