Her lack of control would be her downfall.

This simple notion Mylena refused to accept. Her inner thoughts, the very drive to keep living, empowered her. It forced her to breathe, it forced her heart to beat, it forced her to hunt every single day. She would be nothing without that instinct. A mere wild fox of the type she frequently encountered could never have risen to the level she’d achieved. Mylena took pride in the voice in her head that told her to hunt.

Certainly, it had the capability to pose a great threat to both her safety and the safety of the forest over which she presided. There were times where Mylena could not remember how many animals she had slaughtered, how many creatures she’d nearly driven to extinction because of her insatiable hunger. How many times had she woken up with violent and often agonizing dyspepsia, to the point that she couldn’t think through all the pain? How many times had she awoken to find her abdomen so grotesquely distended that she herself was frightened of the outcome? That was only the first of a series of punishments Mylena would have to undergo because of her lack of control. The voice in her head, while at first glance seeming to be helpful if not downright life-saving, would become the very last nail in her coffin.

However, none of this mattered or even came into consideration during a hunt. Mylena had picked up the scent of a single soldier, not very far from her location. The darkness had descended on the land like a disease—sudden, unrelenting, and deadly. The air around her swirled like a thick, black, murky soup. With every powerful step toward her prey, her breath became more ragged. With every powerful step, her hands flexed; the claws glistening with blood that wasn’t her own. She growled: a guttural sound that sounded to have come from a hellish abyss rather than a living creature. With the amount of innocent souls Mylena had consumed, such a conclusion could not have been far from the truth.

Her vision swam, filled with bright sparks that grew, collapsed, and exploded like dying stars. Her face split into a smile that exposed her knifelike fangs.

Come out, little soldier. You cannot run away, you cannot hide. You do not have to make it harder on yourself. She called out into the murk.

Slowly, inch by inch, a head appeared over the rim of a crater off her flank. A helmet, then a forehead, then a pair of eyes, then a nose, then lips, then a chin…

There you are. Come to me. She beckoned, curling one finger in toward herself.

Her smile hadn’t worn away yet—in fact, it only grew wider.

I won’t hurt you. You have my word. She continued, drawling.

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The boy emerged from his hiding place, drenched in the glistening yellow mud that coated this broken landscape. His eyes were filled with fear; they darted left and right as if looking for someone, anyone , to save him.

There would be no saving. Only an end to a comparatively worthless life. He would struggle for a time, perhaps try to fight back, but every single one of the others had succumbed in time.

The boy trudged forward, his feet gouging into the liquid mire. In the silence of the battlefield, the only sounds that could be heard were the buttons on his coat dinging together, like the song of a church bell.

He came closer, and closer, and closer. The boy’s scent—a heavy, sweet scent of blood and the stink of filth—swam through the air, wafting into Mylena’s nostrils.

Eat him, Mylena. Eat him, Mylena. EAT HIM. Her thoughts screamed at her.

Her mouth opened wide, her glistening teeth dripping rancid saliva onto the ground. Then, she ate.

She ate and she ate until her stomach—nearly rent open by the amount of meat she consumed—growled at her “no more”. She crouched on her haunches, tenderly rubbing her stomach to quiet its forceful churning. The young soldier, once in dire need of medical help, wincing with pain, flailing dumbly at her like a lame sheep, was no more than a pile of bones sinking into the liquid mire beneath her. Mylena had ended his pain. She had helped him, didn’t she?

In all of her mirth, Mylena didn't hear the crack of the rifle aimed at the back of her head.

It was a poorly aimed shot, grazing her left ear, but its effect was palpable.

The bullet tore through the thin skin and flesh, leaving a ragged hole. It continued into the night, never to be seen again.

In an instant, a bolt of pain flashed through her assaulted ear, causing her to cry out.

Mylena’s hand covered the pulsing wound as she whipped around, furious. And there, barely visible through the wall of fog, the boy stood. He hadn’t lowered his rifle; in fact, he was preparing another shot. His gloved hand quaked as he tried to force another bullet into his weapon's internal magazine. But he wouldn’t get another chance to fire.

Mylena tore toward him, letting out a roar from deep within her. She ran, ripping up the muddy soil in her wake. Her coat—soaked in mud—trailed behind her. She leapt into the air, soaring above him. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Mylena's momentum carried her the remaining few meters toward her target. Claws outstretched, Mylena's eyes glowed in a bloody craze. The fox made impact, practically shattering the boy's ribs. It forced him back into the mud; the two tumbled back in a weird dance of mud and blood. They came to a skidding halt at the bottom of the crater whence the boy came with Mylena on top, breathing raggedly. Her thoughts ran circles around her, chanting with ever growing ferocity.

Take what is yours. Eat him, Mylena. He is your prize. CLAIM YOUR PRIZE, FOR YOU ARE HIS GOD.

She let out a deep growl that shook the boy to his core. His bright blue eyes stared up in horror at the creature on top of him. He didn't move. He couldn't move. His little whines of pain amused her.

You are a courageous little boy. Mylena drawled, just barely sane. I will enjoy what little time you have left.