Gorben’s words hung in the frigid air, thick and leaden. She looked up at him, her eyes tracing the raw, scarred lines of his massive face, the mask still clutched in his hand. His aura, which he could not see but she knew, pulsed with a weary, fading light around the encroaching darkness. Her throat locked tight. She had to find a counter-measure before the rot reached his chest. “The Keep,” she rasped, her knuckles digging into her skirt. “It has stood for centuries. There might be… records.” Gorben slowly nodded, his blind gaze fixed on the space above her head. “The library is in the eastern spire. Shelves of neglected lore.” His voice held no real hope, just a profound resignation. “Many have sought answers there. All have found only dust.” Without another word, Yulva turned. Her steps were quiet, almost imperceptible on the weathered flagstones, a habit ingrained from years of moving unseen. She didn’t know what she was looking for: an old remedy, a salt wash, anything to halt the spreading rot. The thought of Gorben, this gentle giant who had pulled her from the abyss, succumbing to such a slow, agonizing end, spurred her forward through the winding corridors. The repository was a vast, circular chamber, its walls lined floor-to-ceiling with towering shelves of decaying tomes. Dust motes danced in the slivers of weak, pale light that pierced the grimy, stained-glass windows depicting lost warriors and horned basilisks. The air smelled of moldering parchment, iron gall, and cold granite. She moved between the stacks, her fingers brushing against the rough spines of books bound in hide, elm boards, and sheet brass. Each rustle of paper made her stiffen, ears straining against the silence. She pulled a heavy volume bound in cowskin from a shelf, its leaves stiff as bark. The text was in a script she didn't recognize, etched in faded crimson ink. She skimmed past illegible glosses, searching for drawings of herbs, wound-dressings, or warding salts. Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the high rafters above. There was no sound, not even the whisper of disturbed dust. Only a sudden drop in the air pressure, a faint displacement. Yulva’s head snapped up, her body coiling. Her arena instincts, honed in the crucible of forced survival, screamed. Before she could fully react, a figure landed with unsettling grace directly in front of her, a blurred shape resolving into a woman. “Still here, little monster,” the woman’s voice was a low, guttural purr, sharp as a honed blade. She was lean, clad in dark, supple leather, her hair a wild, dark tangle escaping a practical braid. A sleek, black crossbow, its string drawn taut, was pressed against Yulva’s throat, the steel cold against her skin. “The bounty stated ‘the creature of Vihar Keep.’ Didn’t specify it would be something so… small.” Yulva stood utterly still. Her shyness evaporated, replaced by the deadly calm of a predator cornered. Her eyes, usually downcast, now locked onto the huntress, taking in the cruel glint in her gaze, the focused intensity. A bounty hunter. The steel prod stayed leveled against Yulva's collarbone without a tremor. “You’re mistaken,” Yulva managed, her voice a low growl. “There are no monsters here.” Zivena’s lips curled into a humorless smile. “The commissioner insisted otherwise. Paid a substantial sum to ensure you were dispatched. Something about ‘poisoning the perimeter wards’ and ‘an unchecked corruption nest.’ Conveniently vague, but the gold was real.” She pressed the crossbow harder, her finger tightening on the trigger. “Now, hold still. This will be quick.” Before Zivena could loose the bolt, a cacophony erupted. The tall stained-glass panels exploded inward with a deafening crash. Shards of colored glass rained down like deadly jewels. A reek of spoiled meat and copper filled the hall. Three gaunt shapes dropped through the gap onto the flagstones—canine terrors with patchy, weeping pelts, ribs jutting against skin, and irises burning with sickly yellow-green fire. They moved with a disturbing, disjointed gait, their claws tearing at the stone floor. And they did not look at Yulva. They lunged, not for her, but for Zivena. The lead brute, its neck ringed by a pulsing bulb of grafted flesh, snarled and spattered dark slime across the tiles. The woman pivoted, thrusting the weapon forward to block the snapping jaws, but the lead brute struck her chest, driving her backward into an oak bookcase. Books rained down on her, momentarily obscuring her. “Such a predictable little escape,” a harsh voice rasped through the chamber, vibrating out of the cyst grafted to the beast's collar. Krezko. “I knew you would burrow among the dead scrolls, little essence-bearer. You always seek knowledge to explain your aberrations. And you, huntress,” the voice shifted, dripping with malice, “a fool’s errand. You thought to claim a bounty on *my* property?” Yulva, ignored by the pack, watched the huntress struggle as a second beast clamped onto her boot, shredding the calf hide. The huntress kicked viciously at its snout, swearing through grit teeth as blood welled through the rip. The pack converged, their flanks radiating a feverish, humid heat that smelled of gangrene while the huntress fumbled for her belt dagger. A roar split the hall, rattling the brass fittings on the bookcases. Gorben. He burst into the chamber, a furious, avenging giant. His blind eyes stared unblinking, while to Yulva's sight, the silver threads of his aura surged outward like spiked iron. He moved with astonishing speed, a blur of immense power. The lead hound, the one with Krezko’s voice, turned, snarling. It was too slow. Gorben’s massive fist, still stained with the lingering scent of Yulva’s healing essence, descended with the force of a falling boulder. It struck the lead brute's skull with a sickening crunch; bone splintered, the flesh graft burst into foul fluid, and the carcass dropped lifeless. The remaining two backed away, bellies scraping the flags as they growled at the giant. The huntress shoved a fallen plank off her shoulder, staring upward as Gorben drew himself upright, chest heaving like a forge bellows. She pushed herself up, wincing, her hand going to the gash on her leg. Still pale, she dragged her weight against a post and set the spanning weapon onto the flags, sliding it clear of her boots. The metallic clatter echoed through the sudden silence. “Krezko’s entire army is marching up the mountain.”

The Huntress and the Hounds