The name *Anya* burned into Milena's thoughts, colder than the notched hide. Her mother. The beast had worn her mother's name. A guttural cry broke the clearing, ripped from Stanimir rather than the dead hound. He convulsed, shoulders knotting as the red brand along his skin flared. The venom had pushed his torment beyond enduring. His lungs seized on ragged gasps, each exhalation scraping against ribs that seemed ready to crack. He hit one knee, palms digging into scorched loam, mouth open in soundless recoil. Milena dropped the collar, her focus snapping back to Stanimir. The heat emanating from him was unbearable, a distortion in the air around his form. She knelt beside him, fear tightening her throat. "Stanimir!" Her voice was a raw whisper, useless against the inferno consuming him. She wanted to touch him, to offer some comfort, but the visible waves of heat made her hesitate, remembering the searing agony he endured. Instead, her gaze swept frantically around, searching for anything, any forgotten herb, any water, anything that might alleviate his suffering. From the fringe of the elder oaks, a figure stepped into the dusk. Tall, cloaked in travel-stained hide, balanced on light soles. Ksenia Orlova. Her gaze swept over the carcass, over Stanimir's spasms, settling on Milena with sharp intent. Stanimir, despite his torment, sensed the intrusion. His head snapped up, a primal growl tearing from his chest. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying, his body a beacon of radiating pain. He didn't speak, couldn't, but the message in his stance was unmistakable: a wounded titan, ready to die defending his charge. He lunged, a blur of raw power, his intent clear. Ksenia didn't flinch. She was prepared. Matching his rush, she slid beneath his reach, a polished river pebble already held high. It pulsed with faint azure light, slicing through the dusk. As Stanimir pivoted for another attack, she thrust the stone forward, not at him, but displaying it between them. Its light flared, momentarily blinding him, and for an instant, the scorching aura around Stanimir's skin seemed to dim, his momentum faltering. "Wait!" Ksenia's voice cut through the tension, sharp and unyielding. "I am not here to hunt you, Rostova. Or him." Her gaze flickered to Stanimir, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "This stone… it is from the druidic circle. It speaks of us, of the Dolina, of the master's treachery." Milena stared, frozen. Ksenia. Here. After all this time, the rival Blood-Bloom, the one who had always been a step ahead, a shadow of her past. "What game are you playing, Orlova?" Milena spat, her voice laced with suspicion. Her self-preservation instincts screamed betrayal. Ksenia had never offered anything but cold ambition. Ksenia ignored the barb, her focus fixed on the still-trembling Stanimir. "Your protection of her is commendable, giant. But if we do not speak, if we do not act now, it will be for naught." She gestured to the warding stone. "This artifact records the true purpose of the 'Blood-Blooms.' It records old compacts, twisted past recognition. We are not fodder, Milena. We are guardians. Our blood was never meant to feed his blight, but to fortify these woods, to seal out the rot." Milena felt a chill colder than any mountain wind. Guardians. The word felt like a brand. "What darkness? What pacts?" "The master is not merely breaking his binding," Ksenia said, keeping her tone low and flat. "He intends to cast an affliction across the province, Milena. He seeks to spoil the basin's sap, turning it into an engine of ruin. Your veins hold the catalyst. The celestial crossing arrives in two sunsets. After that, the rite begins." Milena stepped back, the truth souring in her mouth. Two sunsets. "An affliction? What does he gain?" Ksenia leaned forward, words level and dry. "Total dominion. The rite will not merely bleed you dry, Rostova. It tethers you. You become the mute core of his pestilence. You will not perish. You will linger as a channel for the rot, joined to withered soil, unable to utter a syllable or move a finger. He burns your flesh to tear down his boundary, but your beating pulse finances his rule. A hollow vessel crowned in ash." The image settled like frost behind Milena's ribs. Not death, but a cage of marrow and breath, turned against the hollow she meant to shelter. Stanimir let out a shuddering bass roar, watching Milena with raw clarity in his gaze. "There is another path," the hunter pressed, stepping closer. "The runic slate. It outlines a reversal. It takes your blood not to crack the loam, but to wake its roots. To seal the fractures and raise a barrier against the Conclave. It demands your consent. It means confronting him at the Dolina's basin on the hour of the crossing. Binding the hollow to our hands, turning his iron into timber. We reforge the original accords using your lineage instead of his rot." Milena looked from Ksenia's determined face to Stanimir, still fighting the surge of his curse, his eyes pleading with her to understand. The choice was clear: become the heart of a plague, or gamble everything on an alliance forged from blood and desperation. Two sunsets remained before the crossing. She knew the elder lord; she knew his hunger. He would comb every ditch. Running was done. This was the only door left that led toward fighting back. Milena met the woman's dark irises, an understanding passing between the surviving blooms. "What does it ask of us?" Milena said, steadying her fingers. "To wake the loam? To bind it?" The hunter nodded once. "We start at the basin's center, the mineral springs. Your veins provide the key. But first we clear out the taint already settling in the moss." "The hound's venom," Ksenia continued, turning toward the kneeling giant whose frame shuddered against the moss. "It draws a straight line to the master's hex. It kindles the fire, but it also leaves him receptive to the spring water. If we draw the spring's runoff through his tie to the soil, we don't just quench his fever—we redirect his agony outward to repel the rot. His torment, steered true, forms an iron gate against the contagion." Milena glanced at Stanimir. Channel his agony? The thought turned her stomach, yet watching him shudder beneath the skin-heat, watching him suck air through clenched teeth, she saw no second chance. The air around him shimmered like a smithy's hearth. "Then we begin with him," Milena said, keeping her chin lifted. "Tell me what needs cutting." Stanimir lay prone, the brand pulsing along his ribs. Two sunsets to break the hunt or choke beneath its ash.

An Alliance of Blood