Though she had survived the brutal ambush, Lux was far from calm. A deep, primal hum of adrenaline still vibrated beneath her skin, making every nerve sing with an uncomfortable awareness. The silence that always followed such violence felt heavier, more suffocating, than the preceding chaos—like blood drying slowly, imperceptibly, under the skin, a stain that would never truly wash away.
She sat on the cold, damp forest floor, legs sprawled awkwardly, her breath still coming in shallow, ragged gasps that tore at her throat. A relentless, searing pain pulsed through her right arm, a throbbing reminder of the werewolf's last desperate strike. The entire fight had drained her, leaving her utterly spent, muscles screaming with exhaustion, but she knew, with the chilling certainty of survival etched into her very bones, that she couldn't afford stillness for long. The forest was a deceptive canvas of vibrant greens and dappled shadows; danger always lurked beneath its deceptive beauty, unseen but felt.
After catching her breath, forcing a semblance of calm into her ragged lungs with sheer force of will, she began the grim task of gathering what she could. The fallen mercenary's belongings—a worn leather belt, a few useful pouches, a small, practical knife—were swiftly and methodically strapped to her waist. Then, with a grunt of effort that strained her aching muscles, she gripped his leg and began to drag him behind her, his limp body scraping over branch by branch, root by root, back to the blood-soaked clearing where she'd left the other mangled forms. His corpse left a faint, disturbing trail in the mud, a dark smear in the earth.
Getting a fire started took too many tries. Her hands, still trembling from exertion and residual shock, fumbled clumsily with the flint and tinder. Her nascent magic, usually a reliable spark, flickered erratically, like a dying candle in a strong wind, unable to produce even the simplest flame despite her will. It seemed her body had limits, even with the newly awakened mana perception that couldn't yet directly fuel an ability like fire-starting. But eventually, with a surge of raw, desperate will, and brute manual effort, the flame caught, blooming into a small, defiant patch of orange and yellow against the encroaching twilight, its warmth a stark comfort in the chilling air.
One by one, her movements methodical despite the waves of pain, she rifled through their corpses, her fingers moving deftly over cold, stiff forms. A few tarnished silver coins, cold and impersonal. A small pouch of dried, tough rations—a vital find in the wilderness. And, most importantly, five healing potions in total—or rather, four now, given the one she'd already drained in her desperate escape. Each of them, she noted with a grim satisfaction, had carried one. A convenient, albeit bloody, resupply.
Her eyes fell on the wicked, sharp knife still embedded stubbornly in her right forearm, its hilt a stark contrast against her pale skin, a dark stain of her own blood around it. The initial white-hot agony had dulled to a steady, rhythmic throb, a relentless drumbeat, like her body was politely, yet insistently, reminding her: You're still bleeding, idiot. Take care of this. Now.
With a low growl of mingled pain and defiance, her teeth gritted tight enough to ache, she gripped the hilt and yanked it free with a sharp, brutal pull. A fresh surge of warm, crimsonblood welled from the deep wound, tracing a vivid path down her arm, mirroring the tracks on the forest floor. She poured water from her canteen over the gash, letting the cool liquid wash away the grime, the clinging mud, the faint metallic scent of enemy blood that still clung to her. Then, with grim determination, her jaw set, she reached for a dagger she'd carefully left heating in the heart of the crackling fire, its tip now glowing with a dangerous, fieryorange, radiating searing heat.
Her mouth, already parched and dry, gagged instinctively as she bit down hard on a strip of stolen cloth, tasting the stale fabric. With a silent, fierce resolve that bordered on madness, she pressed the glowing, scalding blade to the raw wound on her arm.
The hiss of searing flesh was sickeningly loud in the quiet forest, a violent punctuation to the night, accompanied by the cloying, nauseating stench of burning skin, a smell that would forever be etched into her memory, mingling with the scent of pine and damp earth. Her body jolted violently, a convulsion of pure, unadulterated agony, but she held it, held herself rigid, refusing to give in, refusing to scream, refusing to show weakness to the indifferent trees.
Once the wound was sealed, a jagged, dark line marring her skin, a permanent scar, she uncorked one of the salvaged, low-grade potions. Its viscous, **pale green liquid** shimmered faintly as she poured it liberally over the cauterized flesh—not for full healing, she knew, but just to stave off the creeping threat of infection. *Good enough.* It had to be.
She drank deeply from her waterskin, the cool water a blessed relief on her parched throat, washing away the metallic tang. Then she slumped back against the rough bark of a towering tree, its ancient presence a silent witness. Her pulse had steadied now, a calmer rhythm against her ribs, but her mind was still a furious storm, swirling with too many unknowns, too many threads of conspiracy now intertwined with the very mud and blood of the forest floor.
She didn't bother burying the bodies. They didn't deserve the dignity of earth.
Instead, with a cold, precise logic, a chilling display of intent, she arranged them—neatly, purposefully—into a grim, macabre display. Like broken, discarded dolls left sitting at a shattered tea party. Heads tilted at unnatural angles. Weapons carefully placed in their laps, their hilts gleaming dully in the dim light, as if they might rise again. The kind of deliberate, chilling tableau that sent a clear, unmistakable message to anyone who might stumble upon it.
This wasn't panic. This was chilling precision. This was a statement written in death and silence.
By the time the sun finally rose, spilling its first hesitant, **golden light** through the canopy of trees, bathing the clearing in a soft, ethereal glow, Lux was already gone. Her trail was meticulously covered, every subtle track erased by her careful movements, every disturbed leaf returned to its place. Her scent was masked with a blend of pungent ash from her fire and wild, crushed herbs rubbed into her clothes, leaving nothing but the smell of damp earth. The clearing left behind looked less like a chaotic battlefield and more like a stark, bloody warning, etched into the very soil, a silent promise of what awaited those who hunted dragons.
---
Elsewhere, within the opulent, meticulously manicured grounds of the Barony of Andrell...
Lord Paul Andrell, ever the picture of refined composure, sipped his afternoon tea, a delicate blend whose fragrant aroma filled the air, mingling subtly with the scent of blooming roses. He was seated beneath the wrought-iron pergola of his sprawling garden estate, the very image of aristocratic ease. The sun, now high, cast a warm, dappled light through the climbing roses that adorned the structure, painting intricate shadows on the flagstones. His sharp, calculating eyes flicked upward with barely a shift in his serene posture as a courier approached—a young man, nervous, visibly pale, carrying a wax-sealed letter clutched in a trembling hand, his haste betraying the urgency of his message.
Paul broke the seal without a word, the crisp snap of wax the only sound in the serene garden, a small, sharp punctuation mark in the quiet afternoon.
It was a request. No... a summons. From the Duke himself. Martel Vaedrin, undoubtedly flexing his authority, demanding an audience.
He read it once, his gaze calmly scanning the elegant, flowing script. Then again, absorbing every nuanced phrase, every veiled threat, every subtle implication hidden within the Duke's polite demands. Not a flicker of emotion, not a single muscle in his perfectly composed face betrayed his thoughts. His composure was a mask of polished stone, impenetrable.
With perfect, unyielding calm, he set the letter aside on the polished stone table beside his teacup. The delicate porcelain clinked softly, a deceptively gentle sound.
"Make preparations," he said to his ever-present butler, who stood as a silent, attentive shadow beside him, anticipating his every need. His tone was quiet, almost a whisper, yet absolute in its command, carrying the weight of unshakeable authority. "We ride for the duchy before nightfall." The hunt, he knew, was far from over. And Martel, it seemed, was growing impatient.