The scream ripped through the emerald tranquility of the Dolina Tsveta, not from a human throat, but from an inhuman throat choked with rot. It was a sound that vibrated in Milena’s bones, turning the sweet afternoon air sour. One moment, she had been grinding herbs for a calming poultice, the scent of crushed belladonna clinging to her hands. The next, the world inverted.
Stanimir, who had been meticulously carving a new support beam for the hearth, froze. The heavy mallet slipped from his grasp, hitting the packed earth floor with a dull thud. His head snapped towards the dense shroud of the eastern forest, his usually calm posture coiled with an immediate, terrifying tension. The fiery brands on his skin pulsed, brighter than Milena had ever seen them, like embers fanned by a sudden gale.
Another shriek, closer this time, accompanied by the splintering crack of old boundary posts. The outer wards. Whatever it was, it was *through*.
Milena snatched a heavy iron pestle from the counter, her fingers tightening around the pestle's cold iron handle. Years of evasion had honed her reflexes, but this was different. This wasn't a lone tracker or a patrol. This was a violation of the sanctuary itself, a sound that promised widespread devastation. Stanimir met her gaze, his stare fixed on her, rigid with warning. He gestured to the cellar hatch, then pointed sharply down.
She shook her head, a stubborn defiance flaring in her chest. “No,” she mouthed, her voice a reedy whisper. She would not be a burden. Not here. Not now. He hesitated, the brand across his collarbone glowing crimson. The ground trembled. A guttural snarl, wet and deep, reverberated through the timber foundations.
Stanimir grabbed her arm, his grip firm but not crushing, pulling her towards the back wall where a small, seldom-used exit led into a thicket of thorny berry bushes. He knew the terrain, knew the escape routes. His eyes darted to the small, hand-drawn map Milena had made of the local flora, tacked to a support pillar. Her knowledge, his strength.
They burst into the forest, the air instantly colder, heavier. The vibrant mosses underfoot squelched. Milena saw it then: a hulking shape tearing through the undergrowth, its strides unnaturally swift. Its fur was matted, the color of dried blood and ash, and its eyes glowed with a malevolent, phosphorescent green. Ribs protruded sharply under its hide, and its muzzle dripped with a viscous, black spittle. It was a Grave-Hound of the Voivode, twice the size of any common mastiff. It moved with a sickening, loping gait, its head low, following an invisible trail.
“It’s hunting *me*,” Milena breathed, the realization a bitter taste on her tongue. The brute was heading directly for their dwelling. Stanimir pushed her forward, away from the house, deeper into the less-trodden parts of the Dolina. He moved with a speed that belied his size, a quiet bulwark through the elderwood. He was leading it away. Leading it to a place they could fight.
They weaved through a dense stand of gnarled elms with peeling bark. Stanimir gestured towards a narrow fissure in the earth, barely visible beneath a curtain of hanging ivy – a crevice that dropped into a hidden rock hollow. This was his trap. He would draw it in, and she would… she would find a way.
The Grave-Hound burst through the elms, its unholy shriek tearing at the air. Its eyes fixed on Milena. Stanimir shoved her into the fissure, barely giving her time to scramble down the slick earth, before turning to face the beast head-on. He wedged his shoulders across the cleft opening.
The beast lunged, its fangs bared over black gums. Stanimir met it with a roar that tore from his chest, a sound Milena had never heard, raw and scarred by agony. He caught the beast's head in his broad hands, his forearms straining as the runes along his flesh flashed scarlet. He was fighting it with sheer, unadulterated strength, pushing against its momentum, trying to wrestle its jaws back from the cleft.
Milena, wedged in the narrow space, could only watch, her knuckles scraping raw against the rock. Her blood-bloom abilities were useless here, a subtle influence over life, not a weapon against death. Her gaze landed on the smooth pebbles that lined the hollow floor. She remembered the warmth of the valley’s energy, the way it had soothed Stanimir’s skin. It was a long shot, a desperate gamble. There had to be a way to use the valley's power, not just her blood-bloom connection.
As Stanimir strained, the Grave-Hound twisted, its head whipping free for a split second. Its fangs plunged deep into Stanimir's shoulder, ripping through his tunic and into the flesh beneath. A chilling sound, a wet tear, echoed off the damp rock. Stanimir staggered back, a silent gasp wrenching from his throat. The brands on his entire body flared, not just with intensity, but with a horrifying, luminous agony. The runes flared into white-hot streaks, as if the venom fed the trapped heat beneath his skin.
Milena saw it then, truly saw it. Not just a constant pain, but a torment. A daily crucifixion, etched in fire. His body spasmed, but he did not fall. He remained upright, his gaze fixed on her, even as the creature prepared for another strike.
Her fear twisted into a cold, focused fury. He protected her. He suffered for her. She would not let it be in vain. Milena reached for a loose chunk embedded in the wall, a jagged piece of dark basalt. She scrambled up, positioning herself above the struggling pair. The Grave-Hound was momentarily distracted by Stanimir’s pained resistance, its focus narrowed.
“Hey!” she screamed, a raw, primal sound she didn’t know she possessed. The beast’s head whipped around, its glowing eyes locking onto her. She hurled the chunk, aiming not at the skull, but at the cracked shale ledge overhead. The impact brought down a shower of flint and rubble. The hound flinched, tucking its head as scree battered its snout.
That was Stanimir’s opening. With a guttural roar, he seized the creature’s head again, this time with both hands, twisting with immense, bone-jarring force. Bone snapped beneath his palms. The Grave-Hound went limp, its legs collapsing, its phosphorescent eyes dimming to a dull, lifeless glow. Its body thrashed once, a dying tremor, then stilled.
Only Milena's ragged breathing and Stanimir's shuddering gasps filled the alcove. He sank against the rough wall, dark venom seeping from the torn muscle of his shoulder. His curse blazed, an inferno under his skin, making him tremble uncontrollably. He bit his lip, refusing to make a sound, but his eyes, when he looked at Milena, were clouded with unbearable pain. It was not just the bite; it was the venom reactivating and amplifying the curse that had held him captive for so long. She saw the true cost of his protection.
Milena rushed to him, her hands hovering, unsure how to help. His skin was feverish, the heat from his curse intense enough to feel from a foot away. Her eyes caught on something else, half-hidden beneath the dead hound's heavy jowl. A collar, thick and crudely fashioned from hardened leather, lay on the ground. It was old, scarred, and etched with symbols she couldn't decipher.
She picked it up, her fingers tracing the worn surface. There, beneath a spiral sigil, was an inscription. A single, elegant name, carved with precision that defied the rough material. The letters pressed cold into her sight.
*Anya*.