"I have sent help, fear not, little flower."
The first voice returns. I slow, and the scent of others reaches my nose—elves.
But why?The deeper, ancient voice asks.They are the obstacle. I have need of them.
I furrow my brow, confused at who to follow.
They stand in your way. Crush them, and then you can reach the voice and complete your task.
“I cannot kill them,” I whisper back, even as my mouth waters. “I have no weapons.”
The deep, second voice inside me chuckles.
You do not need weapons. Let me show you.
My fingers curl into fists, and my teeth gnash as the bloodlust surges within me. It’s familiar, the need to rip and tear, to spill the life from others. My legs respond, driving me forward in a run.
Five elves stand at the base of the mountain. Three hold swords, two with bows.
They share the same glossy, unnatural features.
I should be afraid, and yet I am not.
“Little flower, wait,”the first voice says.“They are friends. Go with them!”
Instead, the rage builds inside of me, and with one violent motion, I lash out. My arm strikes like a whip, and before any of them can react, one elf falls. My hands grip his throat with unrelenting force. His windpipe collapses and I tear out a chunk of his neck. Blood sprays across the snow, warm and thick.
The remaining elves freeze, their eyes wide in shock. The scent of blood sates my hunger, and I can feel the fear radiating from them. They hesitate, but I do not.
I charge again, but this elf grabs me. Before he has time to think, I shove but he doesn’t let go.
I roar, my voice a violent storm inside the body, but the elf does not relent. He pushes me into the ground and brings out a blade.
It is pressed into my throat.
“Stay still,” he grits out.
A searing pain shoots through me.
“You do the king’s bidding, human,” the elf says with cruel certainty.
I writhe. The elf’s smirk widens, but it doesn't last.
Thud, thud, thud.
The ground trembles. A familiar, powerful force pounds through the trees. My vision clears just enough to see him before I retreat entirely.
I know him. Vann.
I snap backinto full consciousness and find myself pinned under an elf. But King Arion’s soldier isn’t looking at me.
No, he looks up as Vann charges down the mountain. Vann leaps from a boulder with a roar, his cleaver raised high, his gaze dark and fierce. His tail whips behind him, cutting through the air like a living extension of his will, helping him balance as he lands with a heavy thud.
The elf with the knife to my throat snarls. Then he pulls me to a proper standing position. “We must go!” he demands, trying to move me.
But before he can pull me further, the first elf raises his sword. Vann is fast, his cleaver cutting through the air with deadly precision. His tail sweeps out behind him, steadying his posture as he slashes downward, parting the elf’s chest in one clean stroke. Blood sprays, and the elf crumples onto the dirt. Vann doesn’t stop.
Before I can even take a breath, the second elf swings his bow at Vann. But Vann is too fast. He arcs his cleaver downward, slicing the elf’s arm off. His tail lashes out in a whip-like motion, helping him pivot with fluid speed, and he drives the blade deep into the elf’s chest.