A man’s arms dropped to his sides as his body became limp. The elbow locked around his throat patiently maintained its grip for minutes, then carefully lowered him to the ground. Hands gripped his boots, tugged; dragged across the rough soil, the warm body collected mud.

Despite the numbing cold of the night air, the man’s clothes were thin and light - it was likely he left with little more than a simple trip to the outhouse in mind. Now, the muddy wake of his corpse sat parallel to an identical trail, both leading to the large cottage he recently left.

Disappearing into the dark forest of supports, his hands were the last of him to be enveloped in the shadow of the building. It was clear he was never an executioner - his fingers and palms were free of the distinguishing mess of burns and scars.

A woman emerged from the darkness. Each layer of the loose-fitting clothing draped over her was soiled with aged dirt and torn with wear - they spoilt the air around her with the sour stench of hard labour. Soft jingling came from the keys in her hand as she inserted one into a lock.

A twist, then a click. The cottage’s thick door creaked open.

A lantern sat on a large table in its centre, filling the room with a dim light. Almost lost in a sea of bottles coating its surface and leaking onto the floor, a man in full uniform snored resoundingly. His hands clasped an invisible glass - in his dreams, unlike reality, it hadn’t already slipped from his hand.

In the corner of the room, a figure of a man shot up from the bed.

The almost unnatural speed of his dreadfully gaunt body caused much distress to the groaning bunk bed underneath him. Slowly, his head turned to stare at the doorway.

Then, he squealed.

The woman responded with a swift dash. Flowing across the air and bouncing off the hardwood floor, she moved to rapidly close the distance. Her body twisted in a full pirouette and her arm swung; a blackjack she scooped up mid-turn connected with the frail man’s skull.

A satisfying crunch ensued. His cry became a wheeze. From his bunk, he tumbled onto her - despite the injury, the man’s narcotic-addled brain didn’t deem it necessary to pass him out.

She was caught off-balance, fell; the baton clattered to the ground. The man wasted no time in sinking his rotting teeth into her cheek. His arms flailed wildly, although only occasionally finding their mark in her sides. Unflinching, he took countless knee swings from the woman; the dull, heavy impacts were futile against his sore-riddled body.

Skin and muscle began to tear. The woman could feel the vice of his mouth take more and more of her face with it. Her eyes stared into his rapidly contracting nostrils as the stench of his decay filled her own; she was helpless, for the crazed man’s head was simply too close to land any sort of clean swing.

Woman and cheek parted. The momentum of this bite carried his head up. Staring directly into hers, his eyes screamed victory.

He observed her face. He wanted to see terror, pain, anything...

He saw nothing - the exposed muscle and teeth of the lower-left quarter now gushing blood glared in stark contrast to the otherwise bored expression.

Out of the blue, a wet crack came from his temple. The man’s left eye rolled back into his head as a drop of blood trawled from his nose; his other eye still stared into hers. His arms froze, then dropped to his sides. A trickle of blood dripped onto her forehead from between the man’s matted hair. It traced a line of dots as the body collapsed her side.

She pushed off the corpse and stood up. The bottle she had picked up now glistened with gore.

Pale red foam pooled from the man’s mouth and nose and the inside of the cottage was rapidly consumed by the sharp stench of human excrement.

“Get ‘er!”

“Where’s Wick and Reeves?”

“Fuck me bloody if I know! Go get!”

The other beds were empty and their two remaining occupants faced her, uncertain. As they inched forward in a pitiful advance, weapons in their hands trembled. The one with a thick accent held an ordinary baton while the other… the other held a strange congealment of club and nails.

Meanwhile, the woman nonchalantly wiped her bottle on the still-sleeping guard’s uniform. Another one of many found its way into her hands, then both were smashed; she now held two makeshift knives.

“Well?” she said, turning to face them.

Their stomachs churned as they watched her teeth and tongue move along with the word through the new window to her mouth; the skin usually keeping them from sight lay on the wooden floor next to the fresh corpse, covered in bloody foam.

Adrenaline kicking in, they charged. A pirouette, a shuffle; then, she was behind them. Their fury added equal parts strength and predictability to their swings.

Buckling to the ground, one of the men screamed. A broken bottle dropped from a gash in the back of his knee as his own weapon clattered to a corner of the cottage. He saw the woman swing for another strike, this time to his face. He turned away, by reflex.

By doing so, he revealed the side of his neck.

The sharp edge of the bottle sliced through skin and vein, creating an impressive spurt of blood. Red splashed onto her trousers but disappeared amongst the grime. His attempts at a shout bore fruits no greater than that of a gurgle.

The spiked baton made small gashes on her leg as she narrowly dodged another swipe. A pirouette, a counterattack; trailing a red arc, the edge of the bottle cut into his eye. His scream of rage became a scream of pain - his whole body recoiled and shuddered in a frenzy. It crashed against a nearby bookcase; reaching out for some form of support, his arms only succeeded in launching stacks of paper flying. He teetered, then fell. The shelf toppled alongside.

With one hand on his ruined and bleeding eye and the other on the floor, he began crawling. The new carpet of ledgers and roll calls gained bloody handprints. He sobbed, alternating between curses and cries for help.

He did not see her approach or her arm wrap around his head. He did, however, feel her bottle create a jagged cut in his throat; he also felt the excruciating pain of blood flooding his lungs.

“What will be the next step of your master plan? Walking a hundred miles through this taiga?”

The man in full uniform at the table had sat up and was now stroking his chin. His hair and beard were long and dishevelled - it was difficult to estimate his age. Glistening in the lantern’s light, the fresh gore wiped earlier on his back detracted little from his otherwise filthy attire.

Despite the appearance, his speech was controlled and without a hint of an accent.

“I can understand your motivations behind killing the officers, but you do need to think of the consequences.”

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He remained seated, watching her intently. She had reached down to pick up the spiked baton, now that its owner finished squirming.

“Who are you? But, more to the matter - why have you not attacked?” she replied, still standing.

“I watched you brutalise three soldiers at once and I am still watching you ignore your face or lack thereof. If possible, I would like us to simply part ways. Although, I’m unsure about the logistics of such an arrangement… our only lifeline in this place is the prisoner and food caravan. Unless, as I suggested, you would prefer walking.”

She pulled up a chair, then slowly set herself down across from him.

“Interesting,” she said.

“Yes, but not quite as interesting as a woman doing hard labor for twelve hours after eating a quarter of a meal every day suddenly gaining enough strength to sneak past a platoon of guards and then murder four officers,” he replied.

“I hate to disappoint, but Flay… Wick will not be coming back from his trip to ambush me.”

“Five officers, in that case. My point still stands - what next?”

“What next? You tell me what you are, of course,” she said, her eyes hardening.

“I don’t seem to understand-”

“You are a cursed creature. What are you?”

“How did you-”

“I tried kicking you and failed. This is the last time I will ask nicely. What are you?”

His beard muffled a soft chuckle.

“And here I was wondering why you chose to sit down. You’re well versed in the curses, I see - at the very least, you’re aware cursed creatures have safeties to prevent infighting.”

“My patience has a short fuse.”

“Very well. I am an ordinary lycanthrope, nothing more.”

The woman did not relax.

“If you are a vampire,” she said, “this will be your last night.”

The man leaned forward in his chair, elbows now on the table.

“Pray tell the reason for this reasoning.”

She mirrored his stance. They glared into each others’ eyes, unflinching. Droplets of blood gathered around the edge of her exposed flesh, crisscrossing a row of red lines across her neck.

Without looking away from his eyes, she began, “It is quite simple - vampires are little more than a parasite to this world. Dwarves, elves, humans - they all possess a drive. A drive to gain power or wealth, a drive to create a timeless masterpiece or even just a drive to protect their homeland; they pursue it at all costs, or live with it as a quiet narrator - either way, it is always with them.”

She leaned back in her chair, then continued, “These ‘drives’ are what forged, forge and will continue to forge this world - every dream, coming together to form relationships, build cities and create complex societal structures. Of course, not all are perfect - or even good for that matter - but the alternative… the alternative is nothing short of destructive.”

Standing up, the woman began to pace.

“You see, vampires have none of this ‘drive’. Or, no proper drive to speak of - every fibre of their existence is used to either find blood to drink or to ensure they will have blood to drink in the future. They possess no emotion, no sympathy, no empathy, no pain - all that is left is pure rationality. Replicating human phrases to blend in, restructuring kingdoms and laws, waging lengthy, bloody conflicts - they can and will do everything possible to secure and maintain their supply. They will destroy millions of lives to obtain but a more concrete guarantee of their status - as a result, in their solid neutrality, vampires possess the potential for limitless ruin.”

“Why do you tell me this?” he interrupted.

“Your superiors... will they not be upset that someone slaughtered every single one of your comrades and escaped?”

“They will believe my story if I blame the whiskey.”

“Of course, they will have no choice but to believe your tale.” Her pacing halted abruptly near the table, opposite to the man. “However, immediately after believing, they will execute you.”

“That is the worst case, yes. However, I doubt it will ever result in such drastic consequences,” he replied.

“What is the reason for you risking everything to avoid fighting me, in that case? I have no doubt that a few injuries would be an acceptable price to pay to avoid a court-martial.”

He was silent.

She pressed further. “Vampires often go out of their way to avoid long-term injuries, unlike humans. Tell me, is this not an excellent indicator of your lie?”

“Of course not. Everyone prefers to avoid being crippled if they can.”

“The problem is, you would not be crippled. The full moon is tomorrow - if you were truly a lycanthrope, you would pay little heed to any long-term or even short-term injuries.”

Silence filled the air - he had no retort.

After a short pause, he whispered, “So, the rumours of skinwalkers regenerating during their transformations… weren’t rumours?”

The woman’s spiked club swung toward his face, but he was prepared. Ducking, he smashed his nose against the table; the attack passed by him. He threw himself back against his chair and kicked the table, soaring then landing on his feet in a graceful backflip.

A flying bottle hit his forehead, knocking him slightly off balance. By the time he recovered, the woman was already throwing out her next attack. He sidestepped, then pulled a small dagger from a pocket in his boot. With unnatural speed, he turned to swipe at her next attack with his knife.

The force of the deflection forced both to stagger back. The spiked baton had obtained a new, large gash.

Their weapons began their respective flurries - dagger and club sliced the air apart, striking either nothing or each other. The movements of this battle transcended human sight as it travelled around the inside of the cottage; papers, chairs and shelves flew. Absorbing the heavy punishment, her monstrosity constantly scattered pieces of wood and metal.

He saw her overextend and stabbed. With her baton still in its momentum, she had no choice - her hand shot up to intercept the attack.

The dagger skewered her palm. The woman’s blood trickled down its short blade, pooling at its hilt. Small pieces of torn sinew poked out of the exit wound.

“It was foolish to seek a fight with a vampire, woman. Your humanity and inexperience will be your downfall - it seems as if you were unaware there exist methods to bypass this forced non-aggression pact.”

His gaze moved from her destroyed hand to her face, while his chest swelled with realisation. It was serene, as if she slept with her eyes open; judging from her expression, she clearly didn’t lament the loss of a quarter of her face or particularly mind the knife currently inside her palm.

“This… is impossible. Why would you…?”

The man’s question was interrupted when he saw her baton winding up for another swing. The near-instantaneous movement of the arm was, unfortunately, still enough for his eyes to capture and analyse. The contractions of her various muscles under the layers of clothing revealed the next attack would be a vertical downwards strike to his head; he knew from previous exchanges that a simple backstep would be more than enough to guarantee his safety.

That was when he noticed her stabbed hand had wrapped around his own in an iron grip.

His balance was lost as she pulled him with incredible strength. In his eyes, time slowed to almost a standstill. They looked up at her arm. A brute swing, filled to the brim with strength - no style and no grace. The air escaped from under the baton’s path, whistling. It was closer now, this wind. It caressed his scalp, ruffled his hair. For the fraction of a second, he felt the cold steel of its nails touch his skin.

Then, time resumed.

It struck. The force of it was enough to fragment his skull - he could sense each chunk move on its own, barely held together by his skin. He felt the steel enter his brain through the fresh cracks. Wounds rapidly flooding with blood, he was losing control over his own body - on this world, he had little left to live.

His leg collapsed under him before one of his eyes stopped seeing. Helpless, lying on the ground, he watched her lift his dagger and approach the still-twitching bodies of the other men. The blood from their throats soon stained the floorboards, released by its blade.

This was no fitting conclusion to the epic that was his life as a murderer by necessity. Aeons of this world’s history, the births and deaths of entire civilizations, kings and queens growing from toddlers into senile, paranoid schemers - all memories he kept shelved, archived for centuries, all untold and unheard…

Her footsteps were becoming distanced, muffled. Vision gone, his eyes stared with an empty glaze at the cottage ceiling. Clear fluid, mixed with blood and chunks of grey and white, seeped from his decimated head. The woman’s knife moved to the throat, but a single word already escaped his lips - too quiet to be heard by human ears. Then, a single, clean swipe... The vampire didn’t feel it, couldn’t.

She wiped the knife on his crusty jacket, then wrapped it in a makeshift sheath of cloth.

As she walked to the door, her quiet footsteps did little to break the now deafening silence. The echo of the handle’s squeaks heralded the night, with its soft whisper of wind and refreshing air.

She stood in the open doorway, cold drowning the room. As it extinguished the lantern, she thought back to what left the vampire uttered just before his death, the one word - above all others - he chose to leave this world with.

Hypocrite.