He moved with mechanical certainty, but there was no triumph in him. Despite the passing years and countless victims, he had never grown numb enough to take pleasure in the act. Something within still resisted—a buried fragment of long-lost humanity that refused to fully embrace the brutality. When it was done, he let the body slump into the softened earth.
The black dog, which had been circling the killing ground in restless arcs, padded forward immediately. Its golden eyes gleamed with feral excitement. Lightning flickered across its wet fur, and its muscles quivered with barely restrained savagery. It tensed, ready to pounce on the corpse with frenzied eagerness—until a sharp glance from the man stopped it cold.
-
Easy.
The unspoken word hung in the air—more commanding than any shout. Grym bared his teeth for the briefest instant, a flash of displeasure, but then obeyed. He lowered himself, settling into a calmer, more deliberate gnawing of the remains.
The scene was macabre, but for them, it had become a ritual—brutal, yes, but essential. Over time, they had formed unspoken rules. The man insisted their violence remain swift, efficient—never cruel without cause. Grym, driven by raw instinct, understood the silent code. Even if he sometimes needed reminding.
Another thunderclap split the sky, casting the chaotic landscape in stark, momentary light. The man stepped back cautiously, scanning the road ahead, where wind whipped through the trees in violent gusts. There was no one in sight. The storm, once a curse, had become their trusted accomplice—erasing every trace.
When the dog had finished, he shook himself violently, spraying mud and blood in wide arcs. The hunger had been sated—for now. A few days of quiet would follow before the need returned, gnawing at their insides.
— That’s enough — the man said quietly, but with firm finality.
He looked once more at the body. For a heartbeat, hesitation flickered across his face. He knew the rain would cleanse the ground—but still, something gnawed at him. A vague, irrational unease. He clenched his jaw.
— Enough — he repeated, louder this time, as if to silence his own thoughts.
They moved on. The man adjusted his cloak, feeling the rain soaking through the fabric, dragging at his limbs like dead weight. Behind his eyes lingered bloody fragments—the victim’s final memories, not his own. Foreign terrors that passed into him like parasites with every hunt. And lately, they were harder and harder to distinguish from his own.
He exchanged a glance with Grym. They rarely needed words. The dog trotted faithfully at his side, lifting his head now and then to catch the scent of spring rain and churned earth.
The hero slowed. He was full. And for that fleeting moment, peace returned. No hunt. No need. But he knew—as always—that the hunger would come back. It always did.
That was the order of things.
And yet, in recent weeks, he’d noticed something… different.
There were moments when he locked eyes with his prey and saw something beyond fear. A flicker of recognition. A softening. At times, a single glance seemed enough to drain their will to flee or resist. Once, while hunting a deer, the animal had merely trembled—frozen—allowing him to approach unchallenged. There had been something in that moment, something unnatural.
And something that, though he couldn’t explain why, gave him pleasure.
He sighed, then quickened his pace slightly—as though walking faster might banish the thought. Time moved on, indifferent. And still, they balanced along that narrow line between savagery and the fading embers of humanity—clinging to whatever illusion of dignity remained.
For now, only one thing mattered: finding shelter. Surviving the night.
And waiting for the hunger to return.
Without a glance behind, they disappeared around the bend—leaving nothing but the fury of the storm and the lingering questions that would, sooner or later, come for them again.
*
The night dragged on, relentless and enraged. The rain, instead of relenting, hammered the earth harder still, pounding out a steady, thunderous rhythm. Narrow rivulets coursed from every direction, churning mud beneath the feet of the hero and his dog as they moved through the storm’s howling violence. Every so often, lightning cleaved the sky, briefly unveiling the towering silhouettes of distant mountains and the frantic thrashing of tree canopies bent under the weight of the wind.
The man, hood drawn low over his drenched hair, kept close to the edge of the path, trying to avoid the deepest pools. But every step was a struggle—a slow, slogging resistance against nature’s fury. At his side, the black dog plodded silently, occasionally shaking its head to fling away the sheets of water. They were alone. Just the two of them, and the unceasing downpour, loud enough to drown thought itself.
Yet up ahead, amidst the darkness, something flickered.
As they drew closer, the path widened into a clearing encircled by towering, rain-slick trunks. At its center, raised atop a low stone base, stood a shrine. Even in the gloom, its steep, peaked roof revealed intricate carvings—winding leaves, spiral patterns, symbols that hinted at thunder and lightning. At the crest where the beams met, a six-pointed star was etched into the wood, its grooves now filled with running water.
The hero looked up just as another bolt of lightning illuminated the scene. For an instant, the details leapt into sharp relief—the delicate scrollwork, the smooth stone within the niche—and nestled there like a precious relic, the statue of the Virgin Mary. She glowed faintly in the stormlight, her figure carved from pale stone, now darkened slightly by the rain. Even so, she held a quiet grace, her features softened by a profound and inexplicable sorrow.
In the gentle curve of her arm sat a gromnica- thunder candle—long and slender, its flickering flame impossibly steady. Wind screamed. Rain battered the world. But that tiny flame remained. It trembled but did not die, as though sheltered by a fold of her stone garment. Water coursed over her face and hands, but still she cradled the light.
From afar, the scene looked unreal. The storm painted the clearing in shades of grief, and the trees loomed like sentinels. But in the center of it all, stood the shrine—and within it, a pale mother figure guarding a single flame in defiance of logic, of nature, of despair. The dog stepped forward, ears perked, sniffing curiously at the glow. The man raised his hand to stop him. He couldn’t explain why, but some instinct urged reverence. This place demanded it. Even if only for the quiet defiance it embodied.
A crack of lightning struck close by, and for a moment the Madonna’s features lit up in full. Her stone profile looked so lifelike that the hero held his breath. The light glanced across her cheekbones and lips, giving the illusion that her eyes—half-closed in eternal mourning—were fixed on him. There was no miracle, no movement. But still he felt her gaze. Gentle. Knowing. Forgiving.
A sudden pressure bloomed in his chest, as if something deep within had stirred—something long buried, long denied. He tried to suppress it, as he always had. But her face brought the question roaring back: What was the point of all this? What was he becoming? Where did this path lead?
He had pleaded before. Once. Long ago. And had heard nothing in return.
But now, staring at that flickering flame and the stillness of her stone face, he felt the weight of his dead—felt the hunger, the ruin, the echo of a self that might never return. And for a moment, just one, he longed for warmth more than blood. For something to answer the void.
The rain kept falling. The world remained cruel. But he stood motionless, staring at that candle as though it alone had meaning. As though it alone might carry some final truth.
His knees buckled. He sank to the mud, letting it seep into him. Cold. Clinging. He didn’t care. He lifted his eyes to the statue, hand trembling as he reached out—not to touch, but simply to reach.
— Give me... give me a sign — he whispered. The words broke apart in his throat, lost under the downpour.
— Tell me... is there still a path for me? —
He knew how foolish it was. But still he knelt, hand sunk in the dirt, waiting for anything—anything at all. Around him, the storm raged. But between them and it stood the flame, still alight, still defiant. He stared at it, desperate to believe that something saw him.
Then came the flash.
Lightning tore the sky. The air cracked like a whip. The dog flinched and growled low, instinct rising. But the hero’s eyes were locked on the statue. And there, just beneath her sculpted eyes, he saw it.
A line of water—no, darker. Thicker.
It couldn’t be…
Blood?
He blinked, disbelieving. Lightning again. Crimson trails ran down her cheeks.
He raised a hand to his face. It came away slick. Not with rain, but something warm. Something red. Impossible.
— Mother... — he choked, his voice lost. His soul screamed without sound. But before he could process what it meant, thunder shattered his thoughts—and the world snapped back.
Grym rose suddenly, ears sharp, nose twitching.
The man turned toward him. The dog’s body had gone still, tense. Something was out there.
And then, unmistakably, a cry. Human. Desperate. Muffled by the storm, but real.
The hero froze.
His plea still echoed in his skull. Give me a sign.
Now someone was screaming.
Was it coincidence? Or an answer?
He rose quickly, mud sucking at his knees. His fingers wiped across his brow, and came away red—but fading, already vanishing in the rain. A moment ago he had begged for mercy. Now, someone else was crying out.
Another scream.
Grym snarled low, ready to move.
— Whatever it is, I must... — the hero muttered, not knowing what he meant to say. He turned one last time to the Madonna. Water traced her face. Rain alone, he told himself. And yet...
It looked like she was crying.
Another cry echoed from the trees. The dog curled its lip, vibrating with tension.
He clenched his jaw, heart torn wide open.
— Come — he said at last.
They ran toward the sound—one man caught in a storm of sins and omens, one beast driven by instinct. Behind them, the shrine faded into the rain, but the flame—small, stubborn—lingered like memory.
And though the hero no longer knew whether hope could be trusted, something in him believed the flame had seen him. Had answered.
Even if all it promised was another trial ahead, waiting in the dark.
**
Somewhere in the night’s downpour, beyond the edge of the trees, another scream tore through the rain — clearer this time, laced with desperation.
The man and the dog flinched at once, a shiver crawling up their backs as if death had brushed past them. They exchanged a look.
The chapel’s silence was behind them now — without hesitation, they ran toward the sound, through the soaked forest floor.
Rain drummed against the canopy. Lightning carved the slopes and branches in sharp, fleeting flashes.
Nature had opened the gates of its fury — every drop a blade, every tree a barricade.
The man moved with an inhuman lightness, a shadow gliding between trunks.
The dog, sleek and alert, ran close behind.
Before they reached the camp, the man climbed into the branches.
The wind rocked the boughs, but he seemed to weigh no more than smoke.
He wanted to see everything from above.
The dog circled below, hidden in the undergrowth, ready to strike from the dark.
Below — chaos.
Wagons overturned, frightened horses trapped in mud, merchants in bright foreign garments attacked by a gang of mountain bandits.
The roar of rain mixed with screams, the clash of weapons, the wailing of beasts.
In the flashes of lightning and swinging lanterns, blades gleamed — axes, knives, short spears — as men fought savagely, without mercy.
And then he saw her.
A woman entered his sight — tall, powerfully built, with broad hips and muscular legs.
Short black hair clung to her skull, her skin gleamed in the stormlight like obsidian.
He had never seen anyone with such dark skin.
She was like a living statue — strong, proud, high-cheekboned, moving with a wild and fluid grace.
But in her eyes there was a shadow, a weight no warrior could bear.
Their gazes met.
She — furious, wounded, foreign.
He — a silhouette among leaves.
For a heartbeat they stared at one another; she froze, sensing in him something not entirely human.
Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
– Lougawou! – she cried, her voice a thunderclap steeped in legend and rage.
Her movements betrayed her status — the rough weave around her hips and chest spoke of command, not choice.
Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but with a cold, enduring hatred.
One of the horses screamed; lightning split a nearby branch.
In the same instant, the woman seized a stone and tore open her forearm.
The skin split under the pressure; blood burst forth, hot and metallic in the rain.
Pain and defiance mingled on her face — a reflex of rebellion, even in the face of the inevitable.
Their eyes met again: she below, he hidden in the canopy.
For a moment — shock.
She saw a shadow with an unsettling aura.
Vilk dropped beside her — silent, feral, as if born of the storm itself.
He seized her hand; her blood flared within him like living fire, flooding his mind with visions: cages, ships, lashes, curses in unknown tongues.
He cried out, feeling her pain as his own.
When he raised his head, his eyes burned with someone else’s fury.
The battle became instinct.
Driven by her memories, Vilk lunged at the raiders.
His movements were swift, bestial.
Grym joined in, ripping throats apart.
Screams drowned beneath the deluge.
The merchants panicked at the sight of them — man and beast as one.
Vilk, drunk on blood and Sika’s rage, fought without mercy.
With every strike, his wildness grew.
Throats torn in a single motion, flashes of dark ships and broken bodies — the hell of slave markets burned behind his eyes.
It all pulsed within him like molten fire.
At last, the bandits broke.
The dog brought down another; Vilk moved like a specter.
The slaughter was brief but enough — most lay dead, the rest fled into the forest.
Only two remained — neither fighting, nor fleeing.
They stood suspended between life and death.
Vilk stared at them.
In their eyes he saw not defiance, but surrender — the same resignation he had seen in dying animals.
A heavy silence fell.
The men slowly dropped their weapons; their faces emptied of expression.
They turned and walked into the woods — wordless, joyless, like sleepwalkers led by something they could not comprehend.
Vilk was left with their fear — foreign, clinging, something he had never wanted to feel.
Sika watched him through narrowed eyes, rain and blood streaking down her skin.
Silence descended suddenly.
Thick. Unnatural.
The world after the carnage stood still.
Hero did not move. His eyes still burned with borrowed anger.
He tasted her blood in his mouth; her memories coiled in his thoughts like snakes.
Beside him stood the woman — the one who had torn her own flesh moments earlier to reclaim a fragment of her will.
Her gaze had changed: not only suspicion now, nor only fear.
There was admiration there.
And a wrath that had not yet burned out.
— What did you do to them? — she asked quietly, her voice tight.
Vilk said nothing, watching her — strong, proud, wounded.
— I only looked — he said, not entirely believing his own words.
— You looked? — she echoed. — And that was enough? —
He nodded.
— Why Lougawou?
Sika straightened, still ready to fight.
— Lougawou… that’s what they called them. Monsters who destroy without needing to touch.
Hero was silent. Her pain roared in his head.
Sika glanced at her bleeding hand, then sat on a fallen trunk, her eyes never leaving him.
Vilk crouched slightly, closing the distance.
The silence between them was heavy — not peaceful, but a truce.
Grym prowled among the corpses, sniffing from a distance.
Sika faced him, tense as a cornered beast.
— I won’t kill you — hero said quietly.
Sika lifted her chin, but didn’t step back.
— And why not?
— You are the reason.
Her lips tightened; water ran down her face and shoulders.
— You have my blood — she said. — But not my consent. —
Vilk nodded.
— I know, Sika.
She froze.
— How—
— Blood speaks louder than words.
A pause. Storms still raged in their eyes.
— You know who I am — she said. — But I know nothing of you.
— They call me Vilk — he answered. — For now, that will have to do
— That’s not a name. It’s a warning.
— Maybe.
Grym approached, growling at one of the survivors, whom Vilk sent away with a glance.
— We should move — he said. — Grym’s finishing up, and the night won’t be merciful twice.
Sika looked over the battlefield.
— I can’t stay here. The smell, the mud… this isn’t a place for talk.
The Hero was silent for a moment.
— There’s a road beyond the ridge. I know the path. We can clean the wounds and…
— And decide what comes next — she finished. — Fine.
They moved among the bodies without a word, gathering what could still be used — saddlebags, weapons, food.
No prayers, no mourning. Only need.
They took the horses — a black stallion and a chestnut mare.
The animals offered no resistance, as if eager to leave the slaughter behind.
Grym circled the corpses, knowing what to do.
Vilk didn’t need to say a word.
— I don’t care what you do with the dead — Sika said, stepping over a pool of blood. — Just don’t let me see it
— You won’t — he replied.
When everything was packed and ready, they looked at each other once more.
There was nothing warm between them — but a thread had formed, one that could no longer be cut.
They rode into the forest. Grym vanished among the trees.
Behind them remained the mud, the blood, and all that’s left when there is no choice.
It was not yet an alliance.
But they were no longer strangers.
***
The storm had begun to fade, but rain still dripped steadily from the high branches, falling in soft, persistent splashes onto the soaked earth. Vilk and Sika had found shelter in a hollow between two fallen trees, protected by a thick lattice of overhanging branches. Grym circled them in slow, measured arcs, sniffing the air and pricking his ears at every sound. Their horses stood a short distance away, calmly grazing—but their muscles twitched at the slightest shift in the night.
Vilk sat down heavily, his back against the trunk. He was soaked, bone-tired, the last of the battle’s adrenaline slowly bleeding out of him. With it came a deeper breath, and the faint ache of wounds not yet noticed. Across from him, Sika crouched with her injured hand clenched tight, struggling to bind the gash with a scrap of torn fabric.
— Do you need help? — he asked quietly—more out of habit than compassion.
Sika shot him a sideways glance. Her eyes, tight with pain, held no gratitude—only suspicion. After a pause, she shook her head.
— I’ll manage — she replied flatly, without flinching.
Vilk gave a short nod and said nothing more. For a long moment, the two of them stared into the fire between them. It crackled and spit, offering warmth and flickering light, but doing little to dispel the weight hanging in the air.
— Your name, — Vilk said at last, breaking the silence. What does it mean?
Sika hesitated. Then she raised her gaze, meeting his eyes directly—as if searching for something behind them.
— In my homeland, it means ‘gold.’ My mother gave it to me, hoping my life would be worth something. That I wouldn’t live as she had. — Her voice hitched almost imperceptibly. — But I learned early that even gold can be bought and sold.
Vilk looked into the flames. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes made it clear—he was listening.
— What happened back there — Sika said slowly, her tone cautious now. — By the wagons. That look you gave them… it broke something in those men. I’ve never seen anything like it.
Vilk was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged, his answer gruff and dismissive.
— I don’t know — he said. — Lately, something’s been happening to me. When I meet people’s eyes... sometimes it’s like I take something. Their will. I don’t understand it.
Sika winced, not from the wound—but from the answer. There was no fear in her eyes. Just a sharpening wariness.
— You’re dangerous — she said.
— Yes — he replied without hesitation. — But not to you. I won’t harm you.”
— And I’m supposed to believe that?
— No — he said calmly. — You’re not. But if I wanted to hurt you, I already would have.
Their eyes held again. Long enough to test intent. Long enough to weigh risk.
Eventually, Sika looked away and let out a breath.
— I’ve survived too much — she murmured. — I don’t trust anyone without cause. But I also know I can’t make it on my own. I need someone who can keep me alive. Someone strong. Someone who knows how to kill.
Vilk turned toward her, studying her with renewed attention. The anger had faded from her features—replaced now by calculation. A kind he recognized.
— You want me as your bodyguard?
— Not a bodyguard — she said. — An ally. You have power. I have eyes and ears. I know how to listen, where to look, what to notice. You know this land. I don’t. But I understand people.
Her voice was steady, but her breath faltered for a moment, weighted by something invisible.
— I don’t know these forests. I don’t know their words. Everything smells wrong. Even the rain feels strange here.
She turned her head slightly, as though listening for a voice from far away.
— When I speak, people flinch. Men see me as something to buy. Women, as something to fear.
She paused.
— I have no friends. No map. And I don’t speak your language. If you hadn’t tasted my blood, we wouldn’t even be speaking now.
Vilk`s brow furrowed slightly. He said nothing. He listened.
— I know what I look like — she continued. — I know I won’t last here on my own. I want to survive. And I’m not ashamed to know my own worth.
Her gaze dropped to his hands—scarred, calloused, twitching slightly from the fight.
— People will fear you. Good. Maybe that way they’ll stop looking at me.
The silence between them deepened.
Vilk lowered his eyes. Firelight licked across his face, casting fractured shadows. Doubt tugged at him. He could walk away. He could say it was too risky, too complicated. He’d made this mistake before. He’d paid for it.
He clenched his jaw. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Then Grym stirred.
The dog, silent until now, rose and padded around the fire, nudging Vilks’s leg with his head—an insistent, impatient prod. Vilk blinked, surprised. Grym rarely interfered.
— What? — he muttered. — You don’t like that I’m hesitating?
The dog stopped, staring up at him. Not demanding. Not aggressive. Just... waiting.
Vilk looked at Sika again. She sat still. Calm. Not begging. Not pleading. Simply watching. Offering nothing—but asking even less.
That, he realized, was what had given him pause.
She wasn’t a victim.
She was someone setting terms, even though she had nothing to bargain with.
He sighed. Quietly. Almost a whisper. His fingers flexed in the dirt.
Finally, he nodded.
— For now, we’ll try — he said. — But don’t expect more than what’s necessary.
— What more would I want? she answered flatly. — I’m not looking for a savior. Just someone who won’t die in the first fight. Or mistake me for a reward.
The fire cracked.
Sika rose slowly, careful of her injured hand. Grym returned to Vilk’s side and laid down again, content. His work was done.
Vilk watched the flames. This wasn’t an end—it was the beginning of something. Grym, as always, had known it first.
— It’s settled, then — Sika said quietly. — I need to wash. I smell of blood and fear.
Vilk didn’t move. He only watched as she slipped beyond the edge of the firelight and vanished into the dark.
Grym gave a low, weary huff and laid his head down beside him.
Vilk remained still, eyes fixed on the embers. He had long since stopped believing that anything could change. But tonight had reminded him—surviving wasn’t the same as living.
There was no hope in this arrangement.
No trust.
Only necessity.
And for now—maybe—that was enough.
****
The stream murmured somewhere at the edge of hearing, as if even it had grown weary of this night. The fire gave warmth, but it did not chase away all shadows—not the ones stretching across the ground, nor those lurking behind closed eyes. Vilk sat still, hunched, hands resting heavily on his knees. He felt the damp gradually leaving his clothes, his shoulders slowly regaining strength, yet the cold inside him remained.
Closer to the flames, Sika wrapped herself in the wet cloth. She stretched shamelessly, with relief—like a creature finally finding solid ground. Then she settled back on her heels, chin tucked to her knees, staring into the fire. She sought answers in the flames, not in people.
The silence between them was thick. Not awkward—it was heavy, dense with everything they had left behind that night, and with all that remained unspoken. Vilk stared into the embers, feeling not her gaze on him, but her presence—solid, warm, persistent.
The fire cracked and spat sparks. Clouds drifted lazily above the treetops. Horses snorted somewhere in the distance, their breaths softening, as if the world had paused for a moment.
Sika spoke first, her voice low, dropping words into the fire like stones into water:
— You’d better be a killer, Lou. Otherwise, they’ll eat you alive.
Vilk looked at her, eyebrows slightly drawn.
— I was a soldier… Lou?
A half-smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
— That’s what we call you. Lou-ga-wou. Monster. So you know how to hold a sword. What comes next?
Vilk shrugged, adjusting a stick in the firelight.
— Next… scars. And a few stories no one wants to hear.
Sika laughed shortly, without warmth.
— I had no weapons. Only my mouth and my thighs. Scars are still here, and no one asks where they came from.
Silence followed. Vilk looked at her from the side—she was honest, bare, unshielded. She didn’t belong in this world. Neither did he.
— I’ve seen men like you — she said suddenly. — In towns, in squares. A hooded man, avoided by everyone. I thought it was fashion… until I saw one take a man’s head off. Maybe it’s better to have no friends.
Vilk smiled crookedly.
— No one loves executioners. They see too much. Know too much.
Sika shrugged.
— I don’t even know if my name matters here. Back home it meant gold. Here? Maybe a curse.
Silence again. Fire popped softly in the ash. A raven called in the distance. Sika didn’t move, staring into the embers.
— Don’t worry, Lou — she said. — I had to sell myself. You kill. The world’s simple. Just choose who you’ll devour before they devour you.
Vilk snorted under his breath, shaking his head, as if to rid himself of the night’s remnants.
— At least you can speak it aloud.
— Because I have nothing left to be ashamed of — she replied, calm, sharp.
They sat quietly again. But this silence was different—softer, stripped of fear. Somewhere far off, horses shifted and breathed. Leaves whispered overhead. Sika stretched once more, giving a small, tired half-smile.
— Maybe the world needs a few monsters — she murmured, more to herself than him. — Just to keep it from falling apart.
Vilk said nothing.
They watched the fire—neither friends nor enemies. Not saviors, not sinners. Just people who had survived the night.
Somewhere deep in the forest, a raven cried again—perhaps the echo of those who had never had a voice.
The world kept moving, heedless and hungry.
But for them—for now—it had slowed, even if only for a single breath.
*****
The night hung heavy and damp, the air still bearing the scent of storms—lightning echoes etched into sodden earth. Among fallen trunks and tangled branches, they had carved out a narrow refuge, a patch of ground only slightly drier than the rest, barely enough to breathe without drowning in mud and memory.
The fire crackled softly, throwing wavering shadows across their bodies—filthy, bone-tired, yet bound together by shared survival. Vilk sat motionless, his eyes drifting between the embers and the dark beyond. Grym lay beside him, ever watchful, golden eyes fixed on the shifting gloom.
Across from them, Sika sat wrapped in a damp scrap of cloth. She rubbed her shoulder where a fresh wound throbbed, her face sharp and unreadable. She wasn’t resting—not truly. Her posture held readiness, like an animal that knows the forest never really sleeps.
— I’ve spent too long being looked at — she said abruptly, voice dry and flat. — Too many times I had to pretend I wasn’t even there. And still, they looked. Merchants. Soldiers. Men.
She glanced at Grym—who didn’t so much as blink—then back to Vilk.
— And don’t tell me you haven’t looked — she added—not with accusation, but with cool certainty.
Nobleman didn’t deny it. He said nothing at first, his jaw tightening as if bracing against some truth growing steadily inside him, since the moment he’d first seen her.
— But I’m not waiting behind you, waiting for you to turn your back,” he said eventually, voice low. — That’s the difference.
Sika offered a faint smile—sharp-edged, mirthless. Just air escaping her lungs with irony.
— Maybe. But the line’s thinner than you think. And you… you cross lines. Whether you mean to or not, something about you pushes.
— I won’t hurt you,” he said, flatly. And he meant it. Not as a gesture. As a vow.
They stared at each other in silence. There was distance, yes—but not coldness. Wariness. Like two predators circling, not sure yet whether the other might bite—or save.
— I’m going to wash — she said, rising smoothly. Despite exhaustion, her movements were fluid, self-contained. — You coming?
— You go ahead. I’ll follow.
Something held him back. He didn’t know what.
As she passed, he caught the outline of her hips—full, muscular, impossible not to notice beneath the damp fabric. He cursed himself inwardly for the way his eyes followed her. Embarrassment knotted with curiosity. With something else.
He soon heard the soft splash of water.
He closed his eyes.
It didn’t help.
She was there in his mind: standing at the stream’s edge, her skin slick with moonlight. He saw her plunge her hands into the water, drag them across her face, push wet curls from her forehead. Grym circled her with almost teasing grace, brushing her legs, nose lifting toward her skin—testing boundaries.
Vilk opened his eyes. The stream was close enough to see her through shifting reflections and half-light.
He shouldn’t be watching.
But he could smell her—the sharp scent of sweat and rain, of salt and skin, the memory of her pain still humming beneath his own ribs.
This wasn’t just want.
This wasn’t hunger.
These weren’t even his own images. He knew that. They’d seeped in when he drank from her—her memories, her fury, her shame. Her hatred of being watched, of being reduced to flesh. He couldn’t be one of those men.
He turned away, fists clenched.
Grym, still by the stream, caught a piece of her fabric between his teeth and tugged. Playful. Insistent. She hissed and tried to shove him off, but the dog held firm, tail wagging, as if enjoying the game far too much.
The cloth slipped lower.
Her hips, thighs, and glistening back emerged—curves carved from strength, from survival, from defiance. The fire in Vilk’s chest tightened.
He didn’t move.
He should have.
— You little bastard — Sika muttered, yanking the fabric back—but not in haste. Not in shame.
She raised her head and looked directly at him.
— Grym. — His voice came sharp, rough.
The dog stopped, glancing once at his master, then released the cloth. It floated, slow and silent, across the water’s surface. Sika’s eyes lingered on Vilk—mocking, maybe, but not unkind. Not closed.
Something shifted.
She didn’t cover herself. Didn’t flinch or flee. She let him see—not in surrender, not in provocation, but in challenge. For a single second, she offered him a choice.
Look away.
Or accept what he saw.
Vilk didn’t look away.
She turned, slowly, deliberately, her posture proud. The water slid down her back like light across onyx. There was no apology in her gaze. Only strength. Only the question: What will you do with this?
Vilk clenched his jaw and turned away.
But the image stayed.
Grym gave a huff that could have been laughter, then settled near her on the stones. Vilk stared into the fire, trying to bury it—her silhouette, her eyes, the echo of something stirring where nothing had stirred for too long.
Sika said nothing more.
But she had seen it.
The moment of hesitation. The storm beneath the silence. The part of him he hadn’t dared name.
This was only the beginning.
And they both knew it.