The ring of warriors tightened, spear tips catching the dying glow of the flora. Zosia braced her heels against Bramor's boots, their conjoined mark flaring amber along their wrists. But Danuta had already circled behind the ruined arch. From the periphery, a flash of tawny fur, a blur of motion. Danuta was a predator in her element, a ghost in her own right. She moved before the last tendrils of the flashbang dispersed, before Kajetan’s bewildered soldiers fully regained their sight. Her target wasn't the warlord, but the lieutenant, Voren, a hulking brute with a scarred eye, known for his cruelty and the snarls he’d once inflicted upon Zosia. He was bellowing orders, his voice raw with fury, when Danuta struck. She didn’t aim to kill, not yet. Her hunting knife, a blur of polished obsidian, wasn’t meant for his throat, but the fleshy part of his shoulder. It sunk deep, not quite severing the arm, but pinning it, rendering his weapon useless. Voren roared, a sound of surprise and pain, stumbling back into his own men. The formation around Zosia and Bramor wavered, momentarily confused by the sudden attack from within their own ranks. “Scatter!” Danuta’s voice, sharp and commanding, ripped through the chaos. She didn’t wait. “Lead them deep, Zosia!” Zosia, already anticipating, shoved Bramor forward, not into the fray, but away from it. Their joined hands pulled, a silent agreement. Bramor lowered his massive shoulder and plowed through the blinded line, clearing an alley for them both. They didn’t fight, not yet. They ran. They plunged into the maze of quartz-veined ravines cutting deeper into the Hollow, where glowing moss coated the jagged limestone walls. Danuta, meanwhile, was a whirlwind. She ducked under a wild swing from a soldier, her boot sweeping out to trip him. He crashed down hard, his temple striking a protrusion of sharp spar. Before another could react, she was gone, a phantom through the dissolving smoke, dragging the screaming Voren with her, his arm still skewered by her blade. “After them!” Kajetan’s voice, rough with anger, finally cut through the din. “Find the girl and the beast! Do not let them escape deeper into the Hollow!” But Danuta was already leading Voren into a side passage, a narrow slit in the rock face that only a skilled hunter would notice, almost invisible beneath a hanging curtain of glowing epiphytes. She pulled him through, ignoring his pained grunts, her grip on the knife hilt absolute. They emerged into a small, echoing grotto, its walls shimmering with veins of deep blue and violet. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp stone and something metallic. Voren collapsed against a jagged outcropping, panting, his face pale beneath the grime. His eyes, though clouded with pain, still held a hateful glare. Danuta yanked her knife free. Voren screamed, a raw, animal sound. Blood welled, dark and thick, staining the mineral crust. He pressed his uninjured hand to the wound, trying to staunch the flow. Danuta merely watched him, her expression a mask of cold fury. “That,” she said, her voice low, a rasp of gravel over stone, “is for every time you called her ‘little fool.’ For every time you pushed her, for every bruise you didn’t think anyone saw.” Her eyes, usually so sharp, were dark pools reflecting the grotto's dim light. “For every tear she held back, that I saw in her eyes when she thought no one was looking.” Voren spat, a bloody fleck hitting the ground near her boots. “She deserved it. Weak. A runt. Our pack would be stronger without her dragging us down.” Danuta’s foot shot out, slamming into his injured shoulder. Voren cried out, doubling over, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “A burden,” she repeated, her voice turning flat as slate. “You called her dead weight. Yet what does your warlord actually seek in Bramor’s blood, Voren? What rot did your elders tell you to hunt?” He struggled, trying to push himself up, but another kick to his ribs sent him sprawling. Danuta knelt, her knee pressing hard into his good arm, twisting it behind his back. The groan he let out was cut short as she leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. “Speak,” she snarled, her hunting knife now resting lightly against his jugular, its edge a cold promise. “Kajetan’s sword. I saw it. It bled, Voren. A corrupted blade for an empty cause. Is it not Kajetan’s own hand that carried that decay into your valleys?” Voren shuddered, his pupils shrinking against the knife's cold edge. He tried to turn his head away, but Danuta’s grip was unyielding. The pressure of the blade increased, a thin line of blood beginning to bead on his skin. He choked on a wet rattle. “The… the sword,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “It’s… it’s not from Bramor. It’s the source. Kajetan… he found it in the Sunken Spires. He thought… he thought he could control it. Use it to… to cleanse the lands, but… it only spreads the rot. His blood is tainted by it. He needs Bramor to absorb it, to… to take it all into himself.” The words spilled out in ragged bursts. Danuta froze, the knife's pressure easing imperceptibly. The Sunken Spires. An ancient, forbidden place, whispered about in dark corners. Kajetan hadn't been seeking a cure, he’d been wielding a plague. Bramor wasn’t the source of the blight; he was meant to be its ultimate receptacle. The knot in Danuta's chest hardened. “He carried the ruin in himself,” she whispered to the empty stone. She shoved Voren away, the information far more potent than any lingering retribution. The screams of Kajetan’s vanguard, faint now, echoed down the ravines. Zosia and Bramor were retreating, deeper into the Hollow, unaware of the true horror Kajetan carried. They needed to know. The huntress burst from the grotto, scouring the sheer stone chutes until she found the high gorge that channeled sound across the chasm. She found it, a gaping maw in the earth, a hundred feet across, hundreds deep, filled with swirling mists and the faint, shimmering light of distant flora. On the far side, barely visible through the haze, she saw them – Zosia, her hand still clasped in Bramor’s, their figures silhouetted against a glow. They were still running, but they were safe, for now. Danuta filled her lungs, cupping both palms around her mouth, and hurled her voice across the drop. “ZOSIA! BRAMOR! It’s the sword! Kajetan’s poisoning himself! It’s not his blood! It’s the…” A searing pain erupted in her left shoulder. The force of the impact spun her around, sending her stumbling back. An arrow, fletched with dark raven feathers, protruded from her flesh, sunk deep, piercing through muscle and bone. Her shout ended in a ragged gasp, a gurgle of blood in her throat, as she collapsed against the calcite lip of the gorge, fingers clawing vainly at the empty air.

The Huntress Strikes