Early afternoon. Storm gathering.

  Delmar.

  A gust of wind swept down the street, tossing my strawberry-pink hair into my eyes.

  I brushed it back and pulled my demonhide coat tighter, letting it shield me from the chill as I headed for the North Gate.

  Yarissa was a sly, demanding vixen, but she always paid well.

  Slaughtering a few moss-hoppers—even oversized ones—posed no threat to me or my blade. Child’s play.

  My fingers closed around my mythril sword — single-edged, slim, and deceptively light. Forged of mythril, it was nearly unbreakable, built for speed and endless strikes.

  The blade had earned me the nickname Thousand Slash. An embarrassing name, to be sure, but it brought me fame, better jobs, and higher pay.

  Tonight, I’d feast on the finest seafood Delmar had to offer, washing it down with the best wine in the city.

  The street was crowded as ever, slowing my pace.

  I had meant to finish the job quickly and be gone before the storm, but a sudden commotion stopped me.

  Guards shoved the crowd aside as trumpets blared.

  A nobleman’s procession. Just my luck.

  Had Levia overheard my plan and ruined it? Bet he was having a good laugh now.

  Until the streets cleared, there was no moving forward.

  I tapped my sword impatiently, forced to wait as the streets slowly cleared.

  My gaze flicked to the restless movements of storm-dark clouds above, when a sudden voice cut through the wind:

  “Isn’t that Lune? Lune, over here!”

  The nearest carriage responded to the call and rolled to a gentle stop.

  It seems I was found—when the gale swept the heavy blinds of the nearest carriage aside.

  An excited young boy with short cinnamon-brown hair waving at me with a big grin.

  …Looks like today really was my unlucky day.

  How and why was Little Whiskie here in Delmar? Wasn’t he supposed to be in Shineville?

  An adult hand drew back the blinds beside him, a massive golden ring gleaming on the index finger, its raised emblem depicting the Moon Whisperer.

  A man with a luxuriant, waxed mustache appeared beside Little Whiskie, a superfluous smile curling on his lips as he adjusted the massive golden ring on his finger.

  “It’s been a while, Lady Thousand Slash. Pray, join us at the mayor’s manor and commemorate our reunion!”

  The words dripped with polish, but the firmness in his tone made it clear: declining was not an option.

  Baron Whiskie…

  A knight in a gleaming mythril cuirass came to escort me. No way could I refuse.

  As the crowds buzzed with gossip about me and the Baron’s family, I reluctantly joined the ostentatious procession.

  Since it had come to this, I might as well enjoy the feast the pompous mayor had prepared to the fullest.

  I put on an attentive smile as Little Whiskie jabbered at me, while my thoughts drifted back to my job.

  Too bad, Yarissa. Your calculation had missed the mark this time.

  I wonder if you have any backup plans for those “profitable,” moss-hoppers…

  ??????????

  Late afternoon. Thunderstorm.

  Orphanage.

  Thomas slept by the hearth, his skin no longer icy, warmth seeping back into his limbs, his breathing soft as a whisper.

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  Fiorella sat close by, worry etched across her small face, gently brushing the damp strands of his brown hair back as she studied him.

  Millie stood watch at the window overlooking the porch and cobbled way, slings ready in her hands. She didn’t hunt as often as the boys, but her skill was dependable.

  I whispered a silent prayer—for Thomas, and the boys in the storm-swept woodlands.

  Perhaps today was the moment to try something I had never used before.

  I remembered the ornate, finely polished wooden box tucked away in the wall cupboard, untouched for years.

  A gift from an old acquaintance.

  I remembered her words,

  Better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.

  Her laughter still rang in my ears, warm and clear, even decades later, along with the careful kindness in her words.

  I went into my room and retrieved the box from the cupboard. A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I traced the grain of the polished wood with my fingertips.

  I lifted the lid. Five pieces of dark shingle stones lay quietly in the box; each etched with different rune on its smooth surface.

  Decades had passed since I last touched it. Would they even work?

  “Girls, stay in the building, I need to prepare something on the porch.”

  With a spade in one hand and the wooden box tucked under my arm, I gave them a final look and pushed open the front door.

  The storm struck at once. Howling wind and icy rain slammed into me, soaking my cloak in seconds and tearing the warmth from my body.

  There was no time to hesitate — I had to place the runestones before the storm took me down.

  I steadied my breath and rehearsed the steps in my mind.

  Counting my pace, I measured the distance, then drove the spade into the earth. One by one, I dug shallow hollows along the porch and buried the stones in sequence, forming a wide circle beneath the rain-slick ground.

  My lips moved, whispering the runes in the proper order.

  Each stone answered.

  A soft glimmer bloomed beneath the soil, lights rising one after another as the runes took hold. Faint lines of radiance stretched between them, weaving together, pulsing — until a vast glyph flared briefly into existence across the porch.

  Then it vanished.

  The rain swallowed the light, leaving only the runestones faintly glistening beneath the earth, barely visible beneath the downpour.

  I exhaled, unsteady.

  The trap was set.

  ??????????

  Late afternoon. Thunderstorm.

  Cobbled way.

  The path had turned into a gushing stream, slick and treacherous beneath my boots.

  I ran fast, yet measured my steps carefully. I couldn’t afford an injury before reaching Allen—but even caution had its limits.

  Cold gnawed at my body, draining my strength with every breath.

  I gritted my teeth, scanning my surroundings as I sprinted through the storm-lashed woodlands.

  [GROWL~]

  I stopped instantly.

  The sound tore through the rain and lodged itself deep in my chest, etching the true meaning of fear into my heart and soul.

  It came from the right—deeper within the woodlands, away from the cobbled way.

  Even through the torrential downpour, the crash of falling trees and the beast’s growls carried clearly.

  If it was still rampaging… then Allen was still alive.

  I tightened my grip on the sling, shook the fear from my limbs, and stepped into the woods with care.

  The trail of fallen trees stretched ahead, a path carved by destruction.

  As I followed it, a pungent stench rose from the churned earth and splintered trunks—rank, moss?rot and iron tang, the unmistakable odor of the beast.

  The smell clung to the rain, thick and suffocating, guiding me as surely as the broken branches.

  Flashes of lightning tore through the canopy, granting brief moments of vision as I pressed deeper.

  Then, without warning, the forest opened up. Trees and shrubs lay crushed and scattered, as if a maelstrom had torn the land apart.

  There it was.

  A towering beast reared on its hind legs, roaring in fury. One of its eyes was ruined — Allen’s doing, no doubt. A feat in itself.

  My gaze darted across the clearing, searching for him.

  If we could slip away without drawing the monster’s attention, that would be ideal. I wanted no battle here. This thing was far beyond me. A mythril weapon might stand a chance… but my daggers and sword?

  Hopeless.

  I crept around the clearing, squinting through the rain. Calling his name would have been easier, but far too dangerous.

  At last, I spotted him.

  Allen crouched behind a massive tree, his arms shielded the satchel as he shivered, still conscious.

  Trembling cold, yet he clutched his knife with stubborn resolve—he wasn’t ready to surrender.

  Before we could savor reunion, the beast let out its loudest roar yet.

  I rushed to Allen, scooped him up, and stole a glance at the creature.

  For a moment, it seemed frozen in the clearing. Then the dark, moss?like fur along its back shimmered, a ripple coursing through its massive frame.

  Its lone garnet eye flared—what had been a dull ember now burned like molten fire, piercing and overwhelming.

  Magic.

  We froze as its gaze swept the clearing—and then stopped. On us. Straight through the rain, through the shadows, locking onto where we crouched behind the tree.

  The massive paw swung at us, claws glowing faintly, too fast to dodge. Trees and shrubs exploded in its wake—death barreling straight toward us.

  Allen reacted instantly. Exhausted, battered, but stubbornly alive, he shoved me out of the path.

  My boots skidded on the slick forest floor, heart hammering in my ears.

  A blinding light erupted from Allen’s satchel, too bright to look at. My eyes stung. My stomach dropped.

  The light erupted, condensing into a glyph—an eye of ancient design, its gaze sharp enough to split stone. The symbol pulsed, and reality itself seemed to ripple.

  The beast's claws met an invisible wall, and the collision rang like a hammer striking an anvil. I stumbled backward, nearly losing my footing.

  The creature roared as the glyph's power surged outward, a shockwave that bent trees and scattered debris.

  The giant moss-hopper was hurled backward, its bulk crashing through the forest, splintering trunks as it tumbled, before slamming into a boulder.

  The glyph burned in the rain, an eye of ancient design.

  I thought I’d seen it before… I guess Xanthia would know better...

  Shock rooted me to the spot. Allen slumped against the tree, motionless.

  The light faded, and the woodlands returned to pitch?dark silence.

  The beast shook its massive head, unsteady on its legs.

  It had underestimated small prey wielding power strong enough to bend reality.

  I didn’t wait. I hoisted Allen onto my back, every step slippery, every breath ragged, and fled through the storm as the creature struggled to recover.