She stalked through the castle’s lower corridor, her strides slow and ragged, squinting whenever the morning light hit her face through a window.

It felt like her head was stuck in a glass jar. Slow, pounding, the world moving like oil around her.

She’d been up all night, hunting, killing, organizing patrols, keeping the perimeter, and half her mind was still there, filled with the smell of sulfur and death, the cool touch of the forest, torchlight on the trees. Thick brambles and undergrowth breaking under her feet, rushes of adrenaline as she chased down demons, the blunt ache of muscles and bruises as she’d scrambled and rolled through dodges and defense, the holler of the hunting party as they’d rushed to keep up.

The morning light felt too much like a dream.

Eighteen dead. Three of them nobles, six from the village, and the rest either temporary or permanent castle staff. Doneil had survived, as had the lord and lady, Geneve, and Prince Nales. They’d lost a horse in the stable. Killed in its stall, gutted like a wolf kill, blood and entrails pulled out, flesh shredded. Two others had broken out, been recovered. Nales had stayed with her throughout the hunting party, never wavering.

Only one of the demons had been marked with the same symbol as the hellhound.

Two of her spells still worked. She could still call wind, and she could still encourage the growth of a very specific tree—for all the good that would ever do her. Her ice, however, led to crippling bouts of pain and renewed blood loss whenever she tried to use it.

She shoved a hand through her now-loose braids, grimacing at the next blade of light to fall over her face.

Gods, what had happened to the world?

“Catrin?”

The voice, warm and raw, but lilted upward in surprise, came like a splash of fresh water over her skin. She glanced up as someone stepped into her path. Geneve stood like a forest doe—frozen still, eyes forward, as much a part of the castle as the polished timber and textured plasterwork that framed her. Someone had changed her clothes, put her in something more practical—a simple, solid, faded green dress that ran straight to the floor over her hips—but her hair looked rough, frayed, still holding last night’s complicated weave. Her entire manner appeared shaken, hesitant.

Tired. Haunted.

Catrin’s jaw locked as the woman’s gaze darted over her. She had come this way for a reason. With her rnari skills, she had done most of the close-combat wet work. Almost every inch of her was covered in blood, dirt, and other things she didn’t want to think too hard about. She stank. Reeked. Sulfur, death, gore, a slip of sweet-smelling venom from one of the smaller demons that had etched into part of her bracers, the protective mercari be damned. A patch of mixed piss and blood from when she’d gone down in the stable.

She’d been tempted to change in the barn, except people were cleaning the mauled horse’s remains out of there, and she hadn’t thought much of anyone would be in this hallway.

She’d been wrong.

“Lady Geneve,” she said, trying to inject some pleasantness into her strained voice, hyperaware of the blood and dirt that coated her body like a disgusting skin.

Geneve shifted, and Catrin tensed, reading the emotions that rippled across the young woman’s face. Like watching a pond in the first trembles of a storm, fish darting under the surface. Elrya, she’d been so confident last night. Buoyant. Brimming. Mischievous.

Now, it was like someone had smashed all of the happiness from her.

An image flashed through her mind—Geneve, body stiff, backed into a corner, a mix of fear and horror on her face; her shriek as the hound had torn through Bellfort. Her, kneeling on the floor, cushioning his head in her palms as he lay bleeding.

Temdin. She’d likely seen him die.

Geneve slid forward, buckling slightly on one stride—the action made Catrin flinch, wanting to catch and steady her—gaze locked to hers like iron to a magnet.

She expected her to stop, but she didn’t.

She had about half a second to process Geneve’s movement before two narrow arms wrapped around her.

The hug was surprisingly fierce. Strong. Catrin went tense as a bowstring, aware more than ever of the disgusting bits of blood and death that were now pressing into Geneve’s dress.

“Gods.” Geneve’s voice was raw in her ear. Worn. “I was so worried.”

Catrin froze.

Worried? She had been worried?

A shock of surprise went through her, and she gulped in a quick breath. The scent of lavender and rose came to her, tinged slightly by torch smoke. She inhaled deeply, dropping her head, relaxing into Geneve’s grip, a tremor going through her.

Slowly, her hands came up. She hesitated, aware of the blood and dirt ingrained into her skin, then pressed the cleanest bits of her arms to Geneve’s back.

Thank Elrya she’d washed her hands.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice wavered, unused to this. To comforting. “He was a good man.”

Geneve trembled. Her back shuddered once, twice, a small, choked sob wracking out of her.

Gods, he’d kill me for making her cry.

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She hadn’t known Bellfort long, but she’d gotten that sense about the man.

Another sob. Geneve sagged against her shoulder, head buried close in the crook there.

“He gave me a dumpling.”

“You invited him to.”

“I know.” Geneve’s breath hitched, rapid and shallow, matching the flutter of her chest. “I’m just—I’m glad you’re all right.”

She pushed away, and Catrin moved her hands off as she straightened. Geneve’s eyes glistened with tears, but she held Catrin’s shoulders at arms’ length and darted her gaze over her soiled armor. “Though you stink. And what have you done with my hair?”

Catrin laughed as the other woman’s hands went to her head, wandering over the roughened twists of the warrior braids now windswept and mixed with demon blood and pieces of forest. “You should be proud. They served me well.”

Her hand stilled. “They did?”

“Yes.”

“Did you…” She hesitated. “Did you kill many demons?”

Catrin bared her teeth, knowing the woman would get a flash of her canines. They weren’t absurdly long, not like a dog’s, but their pointiness always threw off the humans.

“Twelve,” she said. “And there will be many more. I’m not done with killing things.”

Geneve stilled. “You will go out again?”

She nodded. “Later, after I’m rested. Hunting party.”

They hadn’t ironed out the particulars of the hunt, but Treng had been talking about it when she’d returned. One, at least, would be sent out to the nearby farms and villages—a dual purpose of protection and recon. Reports of demon activity had already begun to filter in. Better to get on them quickly, before the creatures got their bearings.

Geneve bit her lip. A mask slid over her face, putting on a semblance of stoicism and sharp-eyed practicality, but it was a thin one. Easy to see the emotions that swirled beneath. Especially in her eyes. They tightened around the edges, little tiny wrinkles that gave her away. The blood-shot surface didn’t go liquidy, but it was a near thing.

“Will you…” Geneve swallowed, her breath hitching on the inhale. “Will you be okay?”

Catrin gave her a small smile, then, hesitating for only a short moment as she was reminded of the blood on her arm, reached forward and gave Geneve’s arm a squeeze. “Yes. It’s what I do.”

“Hunt demons?” Geneve’s laugh was a small flutter, like the butterfly from yesterday.

“Fight. Kill.” Catrin squeezed harder. “Protect.”

Geneve dropped her eyes, and her back hunched, as if she’d been hit. The next words came out in a tumble—fast, racing, chased by the hitch of a sob. “That’s what Bellfort did, too. He—he wasn’t fine.”

Catrin was at a loss for words. She wasn’t used to this. And Bellfort’s death had shocked her—like the cold of snow in the shadows of spring, always lurking at the edges, waiting for the times when she stopped moving long enough to dwell on it. All she could do was continue to hold her, hope that her grip provided some comfort. A slow, stinging pain needled the muscles and tendons of her inner wrist, the result of an awkward blow and prolonged use, but that would ease with sleep.

Geneve felt like a shuddering bird. Elrya, how she wished she could make it better.

“It was a brave thing Bellfort did,” she said. “Unarmed, against a hellhound.”

Geneve’s jaws trembled. Her nostrils flared quickly, then her mouth clenched shut. For a moment, it looked like she fought a silent battle with herself, the tension rippling through cheek muscles, her entire body pulling stiff as a board, quivering as she struggled with the emotion.

Then, it was like something gave.

She didn’t relax. Not really. The emotions weren’t gone. Anger, fear, grief—they all still blazed from her, but she’d put a shutter over them and turned them into a forge fire. Bottled up, but burning strong.

When she looked up, her eyes met Catrin’s with a strong, quiet determination.

“Yes. It was.” The quiver of her lips threatened to unravel her, but she held it together, only a slight hitch in her breath as she continued. “We will honor him tonight. Him and the others who will go beyond.”

The Night Vigil. A human custom, though elves held similar. No one would sleep tonight.

Catrin nodded. “We will honor him.”

The click and rattle of a door and the patter of running footsteps interrupted them. A few moments later, Holic, a small, stocky lad who was training as Lord Stanek’s page, came around the corner in a near sprint, his expression of grim determination edged by borderline panic.

He stopped short, eyes visibly rounding and brows shooting into his forehead as his gaze locked on her—or, more likely, all of the blood, dirt, and obvious gore that covered her armor.

“Miss—er—Guardsman Ternadon,” he started, his brain obviously backpedaling on its rungs. “Ah, it’s His Highness, ma’am.”

She hid the smile that threatened to twitch her lips. It always amused her to hear her father’s name around the castle. Elves didn’t use the same naming conventions as the local humans—the li Ternadon in her name referred to him, not her, and whenever one of the castle’s staff attempted to shoehorn her full name into their title system, it always felt like she might turn around and find him standing right behind her.

Beside her, Geneve’s expression had gone smooth and professional, shoulders back and head straight. Her arms crossed over her chest.

“What about His Highness?” Catrin asked.

She’d left Prince Nales in the courtyard, on the periphery of where castle staff had set up an aid station. Last she’d checked, Prince Nales had been just about as covered in gore as she was, his face paler under the dirt than it had been yesterday. He had to be at least as tired as she was—humans, generally, had less stamina than elves—but she doubted he’d sleep.

He’d looked too haunted for that. Too far past the point of slumber. Like a moon-blind fish in the middle of a stream.

“He’s, ah, he’s taken a horse from the stables—one of his lordship’s—and is going out. Wants to keep hunting. We tried to stop him, but…”

But he was a prince, and Holic and the rest of the guardsmen were not.

Catrin grimaced and rubbed her brow. “Where’s Treng?”

“Attending his lordship. They went to the backwood.”

Out of the picture, then.

Catrin let out a low hiss, and Holic flinched—it wasn’t a human sound, but she didn’t quite care just then to censor herself. The flit of anger and frustration she’d felt yesterday at the prince’s arrival came back in full force, flowing through her muscles like a hot night drink.

Gods damn it all. And he’d be going out alone, which was likely his intention, or he’d be dragging a burned-out party of equally dead-tired guardsmen with him to who-knew-where.

With a grumble that was more of a growl, she shoved herself past Holic and back down the hallway he’d come from.