The forest’s spirit whispered in her ear like a ghost, its words a melding of image, sense, and thought. She could almost see it standing behind her, a large phantom of a deer wrapped in a tangled gnarl of vine-trapped oak. Its whisper felt like the breath of wind on her skin, or the ceaseless babble of the stream on the other side of the hill. The shivering rattle of the spring breeze through the canopy’s new leaves, its scent still touched with snow from the mountains.

From her spot partway up one of its hills, the forest turned her toward her quarry.

There. Thirty paces on. Three demons.

Their presences festered in the forest’s woodcraft like acrid, unhealing scabs.

Slowly, silently, the forest watching, Catrin drew the cold, cutting iron length of her sword out of its sheath.

For a second, it felt like the forest drew it with her. Like she was the forest, split in two, at once a piece of land and the lethal Raidt elf who walked on it, offering herself as its blade.

She breathed in, felt the silence hone around her, and stalked forward.

The midday sun filtered through a mostly deciduous canopy, dappling the forest floor. In the shade, the cold touch of winter had reluctantly given ground to spring’s warmth. Two weeks ago, there’d still been snow in the higher parts. Now, green burst in an unruly growth and the creeks and streams were swollen with melt. She followed one of them around, the rush and babble hiding the sound of her approach. The day’s heat and activity had lifted a sheen of sweat from her skin, making the new, unfamiliar armor slide in a familiar way. A whisper to a set of runes on her arm kept the wind with her, and her scent away from her targets.

By the time the first demon noticed her through a copse of trees, it was too late.

Its head came off in a garbled mess. Warm, acrid blood sprayed her stained armor in fresh arcs, gushing hot over her wrists and forearms. Both head and body fell to the ground in soft thumps—and she was already swinging the sword into the second demon, who’d jerked to its feet.

This time, the head didn’t quite come off. She’d missed a clean cut by an inch, and she grimaced as she switched the backswing into a hanging guard and shifted through a series of footwork Treng had drilled into her. The actions felt hideous and awkward to her in a fight, the sword in her hands grossly heavy and inept compared to her usual blades, but it felt less heavy and inept than it had the first time he’d sent her off killing demons with it.

Improvement.

Her woodcraft picked up a moment later, singing in her steps—and she faced the third demon just as it snarled at her face.

She drove the sword straight into its throat.

Its growl died in a pained, drowning scream.

Then it was down, joining its brethren in useless death throes.

She studied the movements, feeling the blood cool on her skin.

The copse was full of it, arcs of red, violence scraped up from last year’s dead and decaying leaves, dark, wet patches sinking it back down. Feeding the forest its kill.

Slowly, its spirit slip from her mind, less in need of her services.

She let it go, her senses retreating into her body.

But not before she’d noticed the other elf who’d arrived on the scene.

“I’m not sure why you bothered bringing me along,” Doneil remarked, peeking through the brush. “You seem to have things well in hand alone.”

She grunted. “I thought you were watching the horses.”

“I decided they could watch themselves.” He slipped through a break in the trees and stopped short, eyebrows rising and lips thinning when he took in the sight of the demons’ corpses. “Elryia’s tits, Catrin. Is there anything you’re particularly angry about today, or is this a normal level of violent, Twelfth Circle bloodlust?”

She flinched a little at the curse—she’d used it before, but suns, hearing him speak about a goddess’ tits right after she’d been so in tune with the forest’s sacred mind felt jarringly vulgar, especially when part of her could still feel it feeding on the blood.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Anger is a rnari special, Doneil,” she said evenly.

“Oh, yes, I am well aware—but this—” He brandished his hand at the nearest corpse, the one whose head she’d only mostly hacked off. “You went after them like they personally insulted your ancestors.”

“The forest is our ancestor,” she reminded him. “Their mere presence is an insult.”

He sighed. “And if you believe that, well—perhaps that’s why your woodcraft is better than mine.”

“Oh, yes.” Idly, she unfolded a semi-clean rag from her hip and began wiping the blood, fur, and ichor from her blade. “Definitely. More time in the temple for you.”

To her surprise, instead of a humorful snort, his expression twisted into a quick, sharp derision. “You’d sooner see me gut a cockroach and feed it to the priestess.”

She halted her movement, surprised by his tone—and his honesty. For a second, she studied him. He’d left the Raidt—left the rnari—but she’d never given much thought as to why. A simple career change, she’d figured, or a need to broaden his horizons. Doneil, she’d noticed, was someone much obliged to new adventure.

But… had something happened to make him leave? Something with the temple?

“I see I’m not the only rnari special today,” she commented.

This time, he did snort—and the anger vanished from his face. “Indeed. And I see—can’t help but notice, really—that we aren’t anywhere near Sinya and its Vale of Light.” He turned to her, eyebrows arching into his forehead. “Tell me, is this new prince of yours planning to move his ass anytime soon, or shall I make plans to re-join the kitchens?”

Her mood soured. She focused back on her blade, wiping carefully at the blood. “He’s been gathering intel.”

“He’s been holed up in the library, reading a demon book.”

“Yes. Gathering intel. As I said.”

She felt rather than saw Doneil roll his eyes—not woodcraft, this time, but simple familiarity. “Oh, Temdin’s tits, Catrin. You haven’t got an answer yet?”

She winced. Just how many deities’ tits was he going to reference in one conversation?

“It’s not my place to ask,” she gritted out.

“Then whose is it? Treng’s? Hells.”

“He tells me to go kill demons, I go kill demons.” Satisfied she’d cleaned the blade, she slid it home into its sheath, then shrugged. “I’m a Royal Guard, Doneil. Following royal orders is the main idea.”

“No, saving royal asses is the main idea.” He rolled his eyes. “Come off it, Catrin. You may be undersworn to him, but that’s no reason to act like you’ve been castrated.”

“I can’t be castrated,” she said curtly. He was pushing her, and she knew it. “I lack the parts.”

“Submitted, then. And you only prove my point. Underlings have opinions, even if you don’t care enough to share them.”

“I care plenty,” she snapped.

“Then why—”

“Because, Doneil, although it feels like we’ve been put on an endless cycle of running errands and killing demons, I’m not actually convinced His Highness is wrong. If he thinks it’s better to spend the time and translate that book, then that may indeed be a good thing.”

Extra knowledge was always a good thing. She’d said as such to him once. As much as it chafed to delay their travel, Nales didn’t strike her as the type to needlessly delay. From what she’d seen of him, he’d been pulling all sorts of odd hours in an effort to get through the translation.

Doneil was right, though. She was angry about it.

Every day they waited only increased the chance another messenger came from the Raidt to fetch her. By force, if necessary.

Nales had claimed her in an underswearing. Typically, those happened through official channels, with several chosen rnari to see out the required service similar to a soldier taking a tour of duty. Not on a half-baked spur in a castle courtyard.

Typically, though, the world wasn’t in quite so much chaos.

She had no idea what was happening at the Raidt right now. It was stable, she knew. Most everyone had survived the Abiermar attacks. But she had no idea what kind of political schemes were happening at court and council.

The paranoid part of her wouldn’t put it past King Naine to consider the opportunity. Unlikely, but not implausible. As much as she chafed against the waiting, Raidt elves had chafed much longer under the Cizek’s yoke and banner. With this sudden attack, it didn’t take a great mind to know that Raidt elves, in general, would fair far better against a demon attack than a bunch of humans—especially humans who’d been celebrating a pacifistic festival at the time.

Naine wouldn’t promote a strike, she thought. Not until he knew his borders were secure. But Tarris would. Tarris might not be ascended yet, but the crown prince wasn’t restricted in his power. No, much as she despised the man for what he did—for what he’d presumed—his opinions struck a chord with several factions within the Kingdom, and he’d be spitting fire to press their advantage.

As would the queen.

Catrin would rather be right out of it and on her merry, far-less-reachable way to Mount Sinya’s Vale if her paranoia proved correct. Especially, if word of her underswearing reached Tarris and he decided to make her an example. Again.

She sighed, then pushed the mire of thoughts to the back of her mind. It was easy to get stuck in them. Better to focus on the task at hand.

Besides, Doneil wasn’t wrong, either. They had expected to be off to Mount Sinya before now.

“I’ll talk to him,” she said. “Perhaps he’s made some progress.”

“Perhaps,” the other elf said. He smiled suddenly, teeth wide and grinning. “I am curious as to what’s in that book. We did go to a lot of trouble to get it.”

She laughed. Yes. Breaking into the underground fortress of a demon lord and killing him, amongst other things, had been a lot of trouble. “Me, too.”

He gestured to the bodies on the ground. “What shall we do with these unlovely things?”

She paused, considering. The woods were quiet around them, the urgency of her woodcraft calmed with the death of the demons. No other danger lurked near them.

But one was on its way. Large. Strong. Fast. Hungry.

Boars. Part of the forest’s own defensive network. And the disposal network.

“Leave them,” she said, turning back to where they’d left the horses. “The forest will take care of it.”