The shriek tore through the false quiet, a ragged sound like stone grinding on bone, but with an underlying tremor of fear. The cheap plastic barrel dug into my palm. *Follow your script until the Murkwing sings at dusk.* The note had laid down the cue. In the manuscript, it had been a footnote of vermin, dispatched in half a line. Yet, the instruction was clear. Someone had laid the bait, timing it to twilight. The dormitory corridor was empty, save for the faint scent of stale sweat and lamp oil. I slipped out, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind me, the pen now tucked into my tunic, a cold, hard secret against my ribs. The drill yards, usually loud with evening muster, lay empty. Most cadets were in the mess hall or studying. The sharp, clean air bit at my cheeks as I moved, hugging the shadows of the training barracks. The shriek came again, closer now, a series of frantic, high-pitched clicks followed by a thin, desperate wail. It emanated from the overgrown thicket that bordered the perimeter fence, where the neatly manicured lawns gave way to the wild briars that signaled the forest frontier. Cold air bit into my chest. The ancient woods stretched beyond the boundary stakes, dark and suffocating. Patryk Sova would have sprinted back to his cot. But I had mapped this ecosystem myself: these shadow-feeders never hunted the primeval timber. They picked through kitchen refuse along the perimeter, frequently caught in wire loops set by the yard keepers. I pushed through a curtain of thorny brambles, the harsh twigs scratching at my forearms. Rotting mulch sucked at the heels of my boots. There. Tangled in a tripwire snare, strung between two saplings, hung a small, dark shape. It thrashed weakly, its wings beating against the coarse twine. It was no bigger than my forearm, with leathery, obsidian-black wings and a snout tipped with needle-sharp teeth. Its eyes, tiny red beads, caught the dying sun. A young bat-thing, fresh from the roost. Its left wing was bent at an unnatural angle, a membrane torn near the joint. A thin, dark seep stained the coarse hair on its flank. “Easy,” I murmured. The thing hissed, needle-claws raking bark. I remembered an offhand sentence cut from my second revision: the fibrous membrane was so brittle that an early tear pinned them to earth for weeks. I pulled out the small, sharp knife I always carried—Patryk Sova’s one practical habit, useful for carving crude toys or whittling away boredom. The whelp squawked, red pupils tracking the steel. “Not for you,” I promised, slicing through the heavy twine binding its leg. It dropped into the mud, scrambling backward on three limbs while the fourth trailed uselessly. I knelt, ignoring the mud soaking into my breeches. I knew what to do. A scrap of early worldbuilding surfaced: cartilage like soft pine, prone to slipping out of joint unless snapped backward into alignment. I extended my hand, palm up, revealing nothing but open skin. Slowly, carefully, I reached for the injured wing. The small beast hissed through needle teeth, watching my fingers with animal fury. My thumb found the shoulder notch, pressed, and felt cartilage snap back with a dull pop. The whelp chirped sharply. I smoothed the torn membrane, pressing the edges together, hoping it would mend. It was a long shot, but what else did Patryk Sova have but a failed author's trivia? I ripped a strip from the hem of my tunic, binding the wing carefully, limiting its movement. It held rigid, black pupils fixed on my face with uncanny stillness. “There,” I breathed, pulling back. “You’ll heal.” A guttural screech tore through the black pines. An adult beast, wingspan broad as an ox cart, broke through the high branches, riding the draft down. Before I could react, a blur of silver and blue flashed past me. Zorian Voron vaulted the fence, *Solstice* clear of its scabbard. “Beast from the dark!” Zorian bellowed, tone perfectly pitched for an audience. “Breaching the perimeter!” The mature shadow-beast folded its wings, diving straight at the turf. Zorian moved with a fluid grace that was both horrifyingly familiar and sickeningly real. *Solstice* cleaved the air, a silver arc. The flyer choked on its own blood as five inches of silver sheared through its chest. It crashed across the brambles, kicked twice, and went slack. Zorian stood over the fallen beast, panting slightly, his chest heaving. His tunic was pristine, not a speck of mud. Heavy boots crashed through the brush. Patrol sentries arrived with pitch-soaked flares. “Voron! What happened here?” Commander Vayko’s voice was sharp. “A rogue infiltrator, Commander,” Zorian said, gesturing toward the kill with his silver blade. “It threatened the perimeter. I dispatched it.” He then turned, his gaze falling on me, kneeling by the fledgling. His heroic mask shifted, replaced by a cold, possessive stare. “Patryk, what are you doing with that… *thing*?” I stepped between him and the bundle in the dirt. “Caught in the wire, Zorian. Just a nestling.” Zorian’s jaw set into that practiced, patronizing curve. “Monsters breed true, Patryk. Even the runts. You know the penalty for harboring filth from the dark timber.” His voice was low, for my ears only, but the underlying threat was unmistakable. He wasn't just warning me; he was reminding me of my place, of *his* power. He wanted me to be weak, easily controlled. I swallowed, my gaze dropping to the trembling creature. It was small, insignificant, but it was *mine* now. A small flicker of defiance ignited within me. “It’s just an injured animal, Zorian.” He scoffed, turning back to accept the accolades. “Throw it over the ditch, Patryk. Or I’ll sever its neck myself.” I didn’t reply. As the guards escorted Zorian back, praising his quick action, I scooped up the fledgling. It clicked in its throat, hot ribs fluttering against my knuckles. I carried it back to my barracks, bypassing the well-lit paths, slipping through the shadows like a ghost. Once inside, I found a forgotten crate behind my bed. I set the injured flyer inside, scattering dry crusts beside its claws. It chirped, tentatively nibbling. “Flicker,” I whispered, watching its twin red eyes blink in the shadow of the box. “That’s your name now.” It was a throwaway name for a throwaway creature, but for me, it was the beginning of an alliance. My own small spy, a whisper in the dark, a creature only I understood. If this was revenge, then I needed all the help I could get. The next morning, during breakfast in the bustling mess hall, Zorian, bathed in the glory of his 'heroic' act, leaned across the scarred wooden table. His smile was dazzling, directed not at me, but at the general assembly. “My friends,” he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly, “my heart has been stirred. The gentlest spirit in our academy deserves protection, and I intend to offer mine. I will win the affection of Anja Kost.”

A Beast and a Bargain