The forest had become a slaughterhouse in Jorka's wake.
By the time the sun dipped low enough to paint the canopy in blood-red streaks, he had carved a path of carnage through the wilds. A dozen beasts lay bound across his broad shoulders and dragged behind him on vines he'd twisted into crude ropes—massive boars with tusks like scimitars, a pair of dire wolves still twitching in death throes, a black-maned lynx whose throat he'd crushed with a single grip, even a young cave bear whose skull he'd caved in with a flung boulder that had levitated into his hand without conscious thought. The weight should have buckled any normal man. Jorka carried it like a cloak.
His body thrummed with the blue-black power. Every kill had fed it, sharpened it. The esper-like force coiled in his mind like a second set of muscles, eager and precise. He no longer walked through the forest—he moved through it. Stones rose at his passing; branches bent aside without touch. He could feel the pulse of life in every creature long before he saw it, could crush a heart with a thought if he focused.
The clan camp lay perhaps two hours east now. He could smell the smoke of their fires already, faint on the wind. Dorag would be there, strutting with the tiger pelt, accepting the elders' praise. Jorka's lips curled. Soon.
Then—a scream.
High. Raw. Female.
The sound sliced through the forest like a blade. Jorka froze mid-stride. For eighteen years he had heard nothing like it. No woman's voice had ever reached the men's side of the ridge. The scream came again—shorter, choked with pain—and something primal snapped awake inside him.
He dropped the kills. They thudded to the earth.
He leaped.
Not ran—leaped. His legs coiled and propelled him skyward in bounding arcs that cleared fallen trunks and streams in single bounds. Trees blurred past. Wind tore at his hair. The power surged, lifting him higher, farther, faster than muscle alone could manage. He covered miles in minutes, following the echo of that cry like a hound on scent.
He landed silently on a rocky outcrop overlooking a narrow clearing ringed by ancient cedars. Below him:
Chaos.
A dozen warriors—none from Soranghi—circled a single figure in the center. They wore strange leather armor: dark, lacquered plates stitched with bone and sinew, dyed in shades of charcoal and crimson. Helms with antler tines. Weapons unlike any Jorka knew—curved short-swords, weighted chains, throwing blades that glinted with oily sheen. They moved with unnatural grace, too fast, too strong. One lifted a felled log one-handed and hurled it like a toy. Another blurred from one side of the clearing to the other in a heartbeat.
And in the middle of their ring:
A woman.
Mature. Mid-thirties, perhaps. Tall, lithe, built with the lethal elegance of a predator forced into stillness. Her long dark hair hung in blood-matted strands across a face that remained heartbreakingly beautiful even now—high cheekbones, full lips parted in pain, eyes the color of storm clouds flashing defiance. Her clothing—once fine, layered hides and woven cloth dyed deep forest green—was torn and soaked crimson. A deep gash ran across her ribs; another sliced her thigh. She clutched a broken spear shaft in one hand, using it to prop herself upright. Blood dripped steadily from her fingertips.
She was cornered. Wounded. Alone.
One of the warriors—a tall brute with a scarred face and twin chain-flails—stepped forward, raising his weapons. "End it," he growled to the others. "The matriarch wants no survivors."
Jorka's blood ignited.
He dropped from the outcrop like a thunderbolt.
He landed in the center of the circle, between the woman and the scarred warrior. The impact cracked stone beneath his boots. Dust billowed.
The warriors reacted instantly—faster than any clan hunter. Three blurred toward him in a coordinated rush. One swung a chain that whipped through the air with a metallic hiss. Another leaped high, sword descending in a killing arc. The third drove forward with bare fists that crackled with some inner force, knuckles glowing dull red.
They had abilities too.
Not the same as his.
Jorka adapted in the space between heartbeats.
He raised a hand.
The chain warrior's flails jerked mid-swing, halted by invisible force. Jorka clenched his fist—the chains crumpled inward like paper, metal screaming as it folded in on itself. The warrior's eyes widened. Jorka flicked his wrist. The mangled chains whipped back, wrapping around their owner's throat and yanking tight. Bone snapped. The man dropped, gurgling.
The leaping swordsman came down. Jorka sidestepped—impossibly fast—and drove an upward palm strike into the man's sternum. Ribs shattered inward. The warrior flew backward twenty paces, crashing through a cedar trunk that splintered like kindling.
The third—the red-knuckled brawler—landed a blow. His glowing fist slammed into Jorka's ribs with force enough to pulverize stone.
Jorka barely flinched.
Pain flared—then vanished. The blue-black power surged, knitting bone and flesh in an instant. He grabbed the man's wrist, twisted. The arm broke like dry wood. Before the scream could escape, Jorka drove his forehead into the warrior's face. Skull caved. Brains and blood sprayed across the clearing.
The rest charged as one.
Jorka laughed—low, feral.
He didn't need to touch them anymore.
He extended both arms. The air around him warped. Loose stones, fallen branches, even the corpses of the first three warriors rose in a swirling vortex. He flung the storm outward.
Rocks hammered like cannon shot. Branches impaled. One warrior tried to blur away—Jorka reached with his mind, seized the man mid-stride, and slammed him face-first into the ground hard enough to crater the earth. Another raised a shield of woven leather and bone—Jorka crushed it inward, folding metal and flesh together until nothing recognizable remained.
In less than thirty heartbeats, the clearing fell silent.
Twelve bodies lay broken, twisted, lifeless. Blood soaked the grass black.
Jorka stood untouched in the center, breathing steadily, blue-black veins faintly glowing beneath his skin.
The woman stared at him.
She hadn't moved. Her broken spear still propped her up, but her storm-gray eyes were wide—not with fear, but with something closer to recognition. Wonder. Hunger.
"You…" Her voice was hoarse, cracked from pain and screaming, yet rich, low, feminine in a way that struck Jorka like a physical blow. "You're not one of them."
Jorka stepped closer. Slowly. The power still hummed in his veins, ready.
"I'm not one of anyone," he said. "Not anymore."
She studied him—his blood-streaked hides, the fresh scars already fading, the faint shimmer in his eyes. Then her gaze dropped to the dead warriors, to the impossible carnage.
"You killed them like they were nothing."
"They were nothing." He tilted his head. "You're bleeding."
She glanced down at herself as if only just remembering. A weak, bitter laugh escaped her lips. "I've had worse."
Jorka crouched before her, close enough to smell iron and wildflowers on her skin. Up close she was even more striking—strong jaw, faint scar along one cheekbone, lips full despite the pallor of blood loss. Even wounded, even defiant, she radiated a raw, mature beauty that made eighteen years of enforced celibacy roar awake inside him.
He reached out. Hesitated. Then gently pressed two fingers to the gash on her ribs.
The blue-black power responded without command. It flowed from him—cool, liquid light—seeping into her wound. Flesh knit. Blood slowed to a trickle, then stopped. The tear closed, leaving only a thin pink line.
Her breath hitched. Eyes fluttered.
"What… are you?" she whispered.
Jorka met her gaze.
"Something new."
He stood, offering a hand. She took it—her grip surprisingly strong despite everything. He pulled her to her feet with ease. She swayed once, then steadied, still holding his hand longer than necessary.
"They were raiders," she said quietly.
"Your people?"
She looked eastward, toward mist-shrouded valleys Jorka had never dared approach.
Jorka's pulse quickened.
Eighteen years of curse. Eighteen years of nothing.
And now—
A real woman, touching him.
He released her hand, but the contact lingered on his skin like fire.