Alira, wake up.

Hrulinar’s far away, gentle voice woke her with a start. Her mind was foggy, as though she hadn’t slept at all. Her neck was stiff as she sat up, the sun peeking through the foliage around her. Her head throbbed as she looked around her.

“I feel unwell,” she murmured aloud as she rolled to her feet and a wave of nausea overtook her. She doubled over and dry heaved, nothing coming up. Cold sweat burst along her back and face. There was no reply of any kind from Hrulinar and she could feel their tether taut and stretched.

Follow it.

She did as she was asked, first tucking her daggers into her belt. For a moment she panicked, forgetting where she had put the book from her father’s tomb. She had put it in her pack, which was just there on the floor of the tiny clearing. Shaking herself more awake, she followed the long, straight pull of the bond with the spirit.

As she wandered, following the invisible trail, she thought of the memories that Hrulinar had shared with her. She was distracted momentarily by the sudden heady rush of joy that she had felt flying over the heat blasted sand, the way the snow crunched beneath her paws and claws. That joy was what Hrulinar had felt as he bound through the world, part wild animal, part demi-god.

His power was so diminished now that she felt the crushing despair of that loss. To lose that freedom, to have it snatched away in such a demeaning way was unbearable. And to have his joy replaced with subjugated adoration was the darkest kind of domination she could fathom.

The depravity of the Morinn only increased the longer she chased her mother’s shadows. The witches knew no bounds they would not cross.

What a prize Hrulinar must have been for the Morinn. His power was astounding, though admittedly it was nothing compared to Shadesorrow. But somehow, Erin had been worth gifting the son of a goddess to a family. What had they seen in her mother that they traded the First Born of Aethra?

These were questions for Erin, if and when they ever reincarnated her enough to ask them of her. Shaking herself, she returned to the here and now, feeling their tether shortening the longer she journeyed.

She had traipsed for a few more minutes before she smelled it.

Campfire. Cooking food. Her stomach growled and she crouched low.

You’re nearly there. Keep low and quiet. Wondering what he was up to, Alira was about to send a silent reply when a twig snapping to her right made her freeze. She dropped to her stomach and held her breath.

Another snapping, this time closer. She angled herself a little so she could see through the bush she was behind. Waiting, her breath still held, she fought the nausea that was welling up. With another snap, a thin woman in a short tunic emerged.

Her hair, long and dirty, was tied back. Her face was relatively clean but she was starving, her cheekbones sharp and skeletal. She had bruises along the sides of her face, down her arms. Two hand prints encircled her throat, yellowing and faded but in the dappled light Alira knew where those bruises had come from. Darkness crept into her mind, frosting her thoughts.

She knew which of the slaver’s brutes would do this.

A split second decision had her pausing only long enough to nod once to herself. Letting out her breath slowly, she stood and held her finger to her lips as she cleared the top of the short shrub.

With a muffled cry, Miriam met her eyes and clapped her hands over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. Alira beckoned the slave to come closer, her finger still held to her lips. When the familiar woman was close enough, Alira leaned in with her lips to the woman’s ear.

“How many are left?” she asked.

Miriam met her eyes and held up six fingers.

“And the men?”

Again Miriam met her gaze but she didn’t hold up any hands, she merely shook her head. Alira knew her to mean that it was futile, there were too many guards.

“How many?” hissed the former slave.

“Fourteen,” Miriam said finally. Before she could object, Alira pointed to the way she had come and nodded, beckoning her to make a run for it. Miriam stood still and shook her head, gripping the younger woman’s arm so tightly that Alira had to shake her off.

“Run,” was all that Alira said as she followed the other half of her, the tether still taut and singing with Hrulinar’s insistence. The closer she got, the more she felt him filling her, her limbs going nimble, the nausea abating. Something dark and cold slithered along her and she felt the ghost of Shadesorrow’s gift prickling her skin as she stalked toward the slaver’s camp. Remnants of the dark goddess that had somehow been left behind coalesced, dulling her sense of foreboding.

You’ll see me. He reassured her as she drew closer to the camp.

There were four of the women, seated around the two campfires. One was cooking, one was mending some pieces of clothing. The two others were stirring a huge pot of laundry, the dirty grey water bubbling and spitting into the fire.

Where’s the last one? She asked Hrulinar. With a tug on her connection, he pulled her closer to him. She turned to her left and saw him. He was a tiny mouse, glowing bright green in the hands of the sixth woman. She looked unwell, madness setting in. Her eyes glowed with a fervour that lent her a manic air and Alira changed her route, circling the camp toward where the woman was holding Hrulinar.

She thinks I’m here to send her to Aethra. Hrulinar said with weary sadness. She will be a wild card if you’re going to do this. Incapacitate her and then I’ll join you…and we will begin.

It didn’t bother Alira that Hrulinar had already read her emotions, her intent. It didn’t bother her that she might fail, and this one small camp of slavers might end her and the Prince of Beasts. The bruises on Miriam’s neck urged her forward. Bruises she herself had endured.

The only thing that gave her pause was Hrulinar’s immediate acceptance of this half-baked plan of hers. That he was already on the same page made this an easier choice. He would rejoin her, together they would free these six hopeless women. And he didn’t think it was a waste of time, a risk not worth taking.

It’s the right thing to do, Alira. Hrulinar said and that ended her brief moment of hesitation.

Slinking like a ghost in the shadows of the trees, she slithered up behind the woman and launched on her back, cupping a hand over her mouth while wrapping her other arm around her neck, squeezing.

Gently. Hrulinar warned. Unconconscious, not dead.

Either Alira had forgotten the endurance it took to be a slave or she had underestimated the woman’s health but in either case, the woman stomped her barefoot on the inside of her knee, knocking her backwards. She threw her head back and hit Alira in the nose, blood suddenly gushing down into her mouth. With a startled cry, she felt Hrulinar join her, wrap his vines tightly around her resolve and blot out the panic threatening to take her.

She redoubled her efforts, yanking the woman’s hair back and wrapping her arm around her neck again. Before she could squeeze, Hrulinar slipped into her hands and put the woman to sleep. The earthy, clean smell of petrichor followed the hum of the song of quiet in her head. The woman crumpled and Alira dragged her into the foliage and laid her down gently.

“Hey!” The voice rang out in the early morning quiet and Alira froze, her hands held out, clawed and ready. Surprised, she glanced down to see claws much like Shadesorrow’s extending from her fingertips. These were slightly less black, more like a…

Without thinking, she felt herself merge with Hurlinar completely, his entire power soaking into her entire body and with a triumphant cry, he changed their shape. Fur erupted across her body, expanding, growing. Long, yellowed fangs grew in her mouth, her entire face changing to suit the new musculature of the beast. She dropped to her front paws, the claws digging into the loamy soil.

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Hrulinar’s cry escaped their shared throat, the guttural roar of a massive brown bear. With an internal shudder at the memory of the spirit’s last escapade as a bear, she willed herself to focus. In tandem, like a single whole being, Hrulinar and Alira charged the sentry that had seen her.

He didn’t have time to run before they were upon him, his head in their jaws. The crunch was loud but satisfying, his blood and gore only driving her to further violence. She ripped his head clean off, tossing it before pawing at his chest, shattering his ribs. Atop her kill, she roared, waking the entire camp.

The next man that approached had at least thought to grab a sword. His mail armour and rusted helmet were clearly thrown on haphazardly but he held his ground as Alira, now unable to detect where she and Hrulinar ended or began, slowly swaggered forward. The man’s shaking hand was almost laughable and she batted the sword out of his sweaty grip then swiped his legs out from under him. She nosed his helmet off and leaned over him, her bloodied saliva dripping onto his face.

His eyes were wide, the terror filling him so completely he soiled himself. Alira lifted a paw and placed it carefully over his neck and chest, letting the claws pop, one at a time, into the tender flesh under his jaw. His eyes bulged and still she watched. He scrabbled at her massive paw, trying to break free but she leaned into it further until a snap meant his neck had broken and he was gone.

Alira watched with satisfied approval as the women broke and ran, passing her with a wide berth before making it into the trees. She hoped they would find the woman they had knocked out and take her with them. She let them get further away before lowering her head to the body of the dead sentry.

A loud thrum made her lift her head just in time to see a different man lowering the crossbow he had aimed at her. The bolt had gone wide but he was already loading another. He cranked the string back, the clicking of the cog counting down the time she had until he fired. With a frustrated roar, she launched at the man just as he fired.

The bolt hit true, taking her in the right shoulder. With a roar, she swiped the weapon from him but she faltered, the bolt making it hard for her to hold her weight. The animal she had become was fading, the beastial wrath withering as she felt the bolt grind against bone.

Roaring against the pain, she swiped again but missed the man as he leapt out of the way. The noise had gathered the rest of the men, all in mismatched armour and weapons. She stumbled again as she tried to put her weight on the injured leg. Hope waned, washing away in the rush of pain and fright that threatened to take her under.

Use the Light! Hrulinar coaxed and then he melted into her again. Clearing her mind enough to understand his meaning, she reached her head to the injured shoulder, ripped the bolt out with a rush of hot blood, and channelled the healing gifts she had come to think of as Therin’s power.

The camp clearing flowed a bright gold as she gathered the Light around her, bidding it to mend her wound. Something inside her was cowering, cringing, shying away from the heated power but she forced the Light deeper into her wound, wrapping herself in the warmth.

Alira! Hrulinar’s call came from somewhere inside her but felt strangled, in pain. Belatedly she remembered his warning that the Light could kill him. Panicking, she reached for the strange, slithery blackness that had gathered and threw a shield of darkness around her other half, hiding the green vines from the searing heat. She felt the twisted smile of Shadesorrow as she bled the darkness into herself, an image of the dark goddess acknowledging her use of the gift.

“What in the name of Aethra!” shouted one of the men as he watched the glowing bear mend its wound.

“Witches!” screamed another man and he held up a flimsy, poorly made talisman that was meant to deter the Morinn.

“To arms!” shouted another voice. One that Alira recognised.

Within seconds, her shoulder had healed and she let the shadows fall from Hrulinar’s essence. He rejoined her completely as the Light faded, their brown fur gilded by the Light. With a roar, she charged the man who had shot her and disembowelled him.

Not pausing, she tackled the next man, his head thrown wide from his body as she shredded him. She paused and mentally tallied.

Four down. Ten to go.

But she was suddenly surrounded by nine men, all swords pointed at her, some with daggers in their left hands. She slowed, still swaying in a circle, as they came closer. She couldn’t take them all at once, it would have be a methodical–

Smaller form? Hrulinar suggested, glee filling him with such brightness she wanted to laugh. Before she could process his idea, they were melting, shrinking into his favoured fox shape. With a yip of joy, she bound between two of them and escaped the circle. She dashed around the outside of the group of men, yipping and swishing her bright red tail. Their faces were startled but determined. Angry lines of frustration making them all look ape-like.

The same looks that had donned many of their faces when she or the others had dodged a punishment, when they had outwitted their tormentors. The determination always meant something worse was coming. Darkness hovered on the edge of her vision, offering an escape.

Acting on a whim, she ceded the control of her body to Hrulinar, giving him the instruction to just keep dodging while she felt for Shadesorrow’s darkness.

It was there, a small sliver of the power that goddess had, and it was calling to her, asking her to use it to ruin, to destroy, to Unmake.

These men…It hissed to her. They don’t deserve to live. They have been cruel…

Memories of her own abuse, the things she had endured at their very hands chased themselves across her, enrapturing her, keeping her from thinking rationally.

Everything inside her agreed with the darkness and before she could find a reasonable argument to not use it, she latched onto the power and let it tell her what to do.

Their fox body stopped mid leap, landing heavily on small paws. Then Alira’s form appeared, the fox gone, her daggers in her hands. She felt the shadows twisting around her, extensions of her will. With the darkness at her control she blinded the men, all nine of them dropping their weapons to grab at their now useless eyes. Their cries were sweet to her.

Alira… Warned Hrulinar but she shut him down, ripping him from her very blood and binding him in the corner of her mind. She closed her mind off and returned to the shadows.

Their cries of terror were balm to her soul, a gentle wail of righteousness. This was how it should be.

She raised her blind blade and brought it down, feeling the black power inside her well. With a gesture they were all kneeling.

“Good,” she purred and stalked the one closest to her. She trailed her blind blade across his cheek, leaving a line of red before leaning down and whispering in his ear.

“It’s Alira.” She lifted her blade to his neck and let her forehead rest on the side of his head as she breathed in his dirty, manly smell, letting the memories and disgust fuel her rage. “And aren’t you just a pretty thing?” Her arm jerked up and his blood poured as she repeated the words he had said to her once.

Unmake. The dark shard of Shadesorrow whispered.

She circled the men, her body like black lightning as she deftly dispatched each man with a quick slice to their necks. Some of them had not been there when she was taken but most of them had. The darkness grew as each body fell, her detachment from reality growing as she watched their blood coat the floor of the campsite.

Unmake. The whisper was louder, pressing in all around her.

With almost a lazy grace, she turned and faced their leader.

“Alira,” he said and she was impressed that his voice did not tremble.

“Carter.” She stalked closer, her body moving on its own accord now. She watched as an arm that was hers but not hers lifted, the blind blade pointed at his face.

“What can I offer you?” He raised his hands and she slowed to a stop, the tip of her blade just about touching his nose.

“Offer me?” she asked in confusion. He didn’t think he could bargain his way out of his death, did he?

“Anything. Take it.” He kept his hands up and gestured to his tent behind him.

Alira…

Unmake. The voice was a shout now, crushing out the other voice that was begging her to stop.

“Anything?” she asked, her head tilted as she studied the brute who had liked to choke the women into submission. Her own neck had been in those hands. He nodded, snatching at the hope she offered.

“Your hands,” she said simply and let the words fall between them.

“Wh-what?” he coughed out with a slight laugh. “My hands?”

“Both of them.”

He held them out before himself, slowly, unsure of her meaning still.

Alira…

Unmake! Shadesorrow’s voice was a thunderbolt, a direct command as she looked into the eyes of one of the men who had so brutally destroyed her time and time again.

Without hesitation, she honed the edge of her blind blade with darkness, making it impossibly sharp. It passed through his left hand with ease, dropping to the floor before the blood began spurting from his ruined stump. The right was done poorly, and took two hits, one forward and the other backhanded, before it joined its mate in the dirt.

Before he could turn and run, she pounced, kicking his legs out from him and then straddling him. Her nose touching his, she spat on his face and brought both daggers up to his throat. She could see her own fury in his eyes, cold and detached and wholly inhumane.

“I’m not going to let you live, but I want you to suffer for what you’ve done.”

She sliced down each cheek, the blood a poor imitation to the gushing wounds of his arms. She used the darkness to hold down his arms as he stared up at her, horror and terror the perfect mirror of her own at one time.

“If you’re quiet, this will be quick,” she said, throwing his words back at him. “But I’d like it better if you tried to scream.”

The darkness cloaked her as she watched his fright, as she felt his death slip into his heart. He could feel the end was closer, his terror, the shock, the wounds making his heart work overtime. With a gasping strangle, she felt his heart stutter and then give out. The fear in his eyes froze, forever a picture perfect image of subjugation.

She rolled off Carter’s corpse and stood, still wholly detached from herself. With shadows trailing her like a shredded cloak, she put her still-bloodied daggers in her belt and left her past behind her, willfully ignoring the screaming, crying princeling inside her head.