There was a thud from behind him, and he turned to see her fall to the ground. Black mist wreathed around her, the same black mist from when he had freed the dead from the black shard. It was that same numbing black mist from his dreams that had accompanied the devouring shadows. He stopped abruptly, turning and sprinting back over to her hurriedly. The shard in his right arm was horridly cold, pulsing ice that throbbed numbly.

The shroud over her body writhed and twisted, ever-shifting the longer one looked at it. He hesitatingly extended a hand to touch her, all sensation fleeing from his flesh the moment that it met the blackness. A slow hiss escaped his mouth as he recoiled instinctively, slow steam curling in wisps from the tips of his claws. Yet as his hand touched the air once more, it suddenly felt incomparably frigid.

He howled in unfelt pain, clutching at his wrist as every heartbeat drove more and more ice into his veins. It was a raging blizzard, more and more steam pluming off the surface of his skin as he thought he might freeze alive. Slowly, he gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to tear at himself and rip at his own flesh. He felt like he was ice and stone, but he fought the numbness and dug into the black smoke covering her body once more.

It was difficult, lifting her, since his arms felt foreign and unresponsive. He was forced to judge based on resistance, but it proved an awkward endeavor. Eventually he managed to secure his arms underneath her chest and he lifted her up off the dirt, but that black mist continued to surround her.

He did not know what to do. He did not know how to remove this haze that swallowed her, did not know if she was even able to breathe with it around her face. Her unresponsive nature meant she was asleep at best, dead at worst. He would have to have faith.

Trust, he had told her. The concept was new to him. Before he only ever had to trust himself. This time, he would have to trust the flame of her life to continue burning. Thrice now she faced death. She had survived before; he would trust that she could again.

With a low grunt of exertion, he slung her over his right shoulder, sinking onto three legs from the weight. His shoulder became numb as well, the unfeeling sensation creeping to encompass the entire right side of his body, but he ignored it. The Skal’ai were still behind him, and they would come seeking fresh meat.

They needed to run.

He loped across the plains on threes, heading south away from the Skal’ai as he followed the river. The Hope, he remembered it being called vaguely in memories that had not been his. The trickling water ran alongside the base of the mountains, and as long as he stayed close there would be water at least. It was their most pressing resource after time; food could be made without for weeks at best, but water only days.

As the day wore on, his muscles began to burn from the strain. Her weight on his back felt like more and more, but he pressed on. To slow would be to give the shadows from time to chase, and he knew that they would be chasing. They had marked him—it had marked him—and they would follow no matter how far he ran. He knew it.

He remembered the dream, remembered the vague corpse that he had seen. It had touched his forehead, and even as he recalled it a blistering pain racked his skull. It was an intense cold, so frigid it burned, and his body swooned from the force. Collapsing all of a sudden, momentum carried his muzzle into the dirt as he tumbled forward. Her body was thrown forward, off his back to sprawl on the earth. He did not notice, his vision spinning and his body unresponsive.

Time passed as he lay there panting, struggling to catch his breath and reorient himself. Just a single thought had been enough to send pain through his mind—just what was that corpse? Silently, he cursed his body for failing him at this critical time. Every moment longer that he waited was another step closer to death. He needed to stand. He needed to run. He could not be waiting.

They needed to run.

She too would die if he was caught—this he suddenly realized. Too long he had lived alone, but now she too was here. And now even more so, death came for her too when it chased his brand. His death would likely mean hers as well.

They needed to run.

The single thought of self preservation managed to shock strength back into weary limbs. There would be time enough to sleep later, when the earth rose up to reclaim his corpse. For now, he needed to live. They needed to live.

He stood on shaking legs, the muscles screaming in protest. The complaints fell on deaf ears as he stepped forward slowly. One step, then another. His blurred vision began to focus on the scene before him, squinting through the too-bright sun.

Her bag had shaken itself free from her body when she fell, landing some ways away in the grass. That black haze had fallen away from her flesh, instead pluming around tall grass where the bag lay. He fought a sharp hiss as realization struck him, that there was something inside from which the black mist came.

Slowly, he stepped forward, kneeling as he reached out towards the smoke. His claws found the leather, and he opened it carefully. As he did so, there was a writhing in the back of his mind. The dead woke from tired slumber, and they spoke with their frigid voices.

Sin. More brothers trapped. More brothers broken. They must be freed. They must be FREED. Give us vengeance.

The clamorous voices grew louder and louder as he upended her bag, letting the contents spill out. Salted meat and bottles clattered onto the grass, flasks stoppered with liquids and short blades that folded in on themselves. But his vision was drawn to the smoke pluming from a small gem. A small black gem, much like his own.

Brothers. They must be freed.

The dead were restless, agitated like vipers with stirred nests. Yet as he reached out a hand to pick up the stone, a low groan emerged beside him.

Turning quickly, he saw her beginning to stir from her sleep. Sweat covered her forehead, soaking her clothes thoroughly. Her skin was flushed scarlet, wisps of steam curling from exposed skin. Her lips were cracked, hopelessly dry, and her chest fell with little hiccupping gasps.

Our brothers, the dead hissed, but he ignored them. He might be losing a sister here instead. Rummaging through the grass hurriedly, he pulled out a leather flask with water. His claws fought the cap awkwardly, and eventually he managed to wrest the damned thing open with his mouth. Quickly holding the opening to her mouth, he watched as a small stream of water trickled past her lips. Her throat worked once, twice, and then she began to cough.

Sitting up gingerly, she fought hard for breath, wasted water running off her chin and falling to soak the grass below. He capped her flask once more, turning to put it back when a sudden scent caught his attention on the wind.

“W-what h-happened.” she coughed out,turning to face him. “Whe—where are we?”

He raised a clawed hand to stop her suddenly, his body stiff as he took in a deep slow breath. Wind was blowing in from the west, and he smelled the heady musk of blood on it. It was not the scent of fresh blood, but rather the pervasive odor of ever-present dried blood that accompanied a predator. Only for it to be this strong meant either an incredibly successful killer, or a pack.

“Hunt.” he growled softly motioning for her to be quiet.

“H-hunt? What? You are hunting something?” she stammered, clearly failing to understand the message of being quiet.

“They. Hunt us.” he hissed lowly, hoping that she would stop her chatter. It worked, and she fell silent as he sunk low into the grass.

Closing his eyes, he felt for their spirits like he had done before. Knowing where they were coming from, he reached out with spindling fingers, with dancing ribbons, and suddenly he saw them. Small, white, they pulsed with rapid light. Coming in from the west, there were four of them. A pack, indeed.

Options flashed through his mind, quick as wind. He could wait here, or he could run. Waiting did nothing, and gave them every advantage. They would approach unhindered and attack unhindered. These were not his lands, and the flat plains gave no cover. To wait would serve no purpose.

To run, then. He could run away, or charge towards them. Running away would prove impossible for her. Her flesh was weak, and she would not be able to manage a sprint for more than a few hundred paces. So the only option left was to run towards them.

He was downwind; they would not have wind of his arrival. Stalk in the grasses, and ambush one. Kill it in a flash, and switch to the second. Disable the second quickly, then commit to the third. Kill the third, then finish the second. The fourth would flee in panic, and the kill could then be made if needed.

For these hunters to chase him while upwind meant that they were either extraordinarily confident or incredible fools. Regardless of either, it would be best to engage on his own terms. And so, leaving her behind, he sprinted off towards the west with a loping gait.

“W-wait!” she shouted in panic, but he ignored her. His head was to the ground, his claws digging into the earth. His heart was pumping, his blood surging. The hunt was in him once more, and its grasp was as euphoric as ever. He ran slightly north, intending to come upon them from the side. Indeed, it was no longer than twenty breaths before he saw their figures on the plains.

They were verin, hound-like creatures perhaps of stomach height. Short, coarse fur covered their bodies, brown and yellow to match the grasses. Their eyes were sharp and their ears large, their paws possessing short claws ill suited for more than running. Instead, sharp tusks jutted out of their lower jaws, curving downward and hideously serrated. Studs of bone dotted their heads, and their tails were long and whip-like.

These beasts were quick, fighting with sharp slashes of their tusks and dancing around larger foes. They preferred to bleed their prey out, delivering slowly lethal blows before running them dry. Their skulls were tough, their bodies nimble, but there was weakness in that speed. A single blow to the back could cripple them, and their tails—so needed for balance—were exceedingly vulnerable.

These fools would be simple. His claws were faster than theirs, and his he struck them by surprise, they would not be able to turn quick enough in response. They had no scales, no armor to protect against his swipes. His fangs would tear out their throats with ease. Even their eyes could be blinded, their ridges of bone doing nothing against his claws.

Corded muscle tightened as the hunt sent adrenaline racing through his system. Bloodlust flickered behind mismatched eyes as slaver began to drip from his fangs. He took a deep breath, feeling his heartbeat drive strength through his limbs. There was no confusion in this, no hidden questions. There was no magic, no dead, no spirits, no voices, no damnable dreams. This, he knew. This dance of blood and death, he knew. And as the anticipation of meeting an old friend grew within his body, a low ripple ran down his spine.

Ambush the first and cripple the second, he thought to himself as they drew closer. The fools were still unsuspecting, still foolishly charging forward as if blinded. Yet they suddenly stopped, the one in front letting out a sharp, baying yelp. Doubt struck his stomach like a slash. Had they seen him? Had something gone wrong?

“Bastards!” came a shout to his left, and a slim figure rose out of the grasses.

“I’ll make you bleed, you crow-cursed dogs!” she cried, twirling steel fangs in her hands, and the verin charged forward with ringing howls.