Page 6 of Twisted Fangs

Yet, as I leave the tavern, the heaviness of my decision settles upon my shoulders like a shroud. The sun, now higher in the sky, casts a harsh light on the village. I step back into the shadows, my mind a whirlwind of strategy and bloodlust.

The forest swallows me as I leave the village behind. The information from the tavern burns in my mind like acid.

"A tribute hunt." My voice cuts through the morning silence. "Perfect timing... or the worst possible moment."

I pause at a fallen log and run my fingers over the rough bark. The wood splinters under my touch as my grip tightens. The scent of decay and moss fills my nostrils, grounding me in the present moment.

"Centuries of planning, and now this." I flex my fingers, watching the morning light dance across my scarred knuckles. "The nobles will be distracted, their guard down during the festivities. But they'll also be armed, ready for the hunt."

A crow takes flight overhead, its wings beating against the crisp morning air. My jaw clenches.

"Damn it all." I slam my fist into the log, sending splinters flying. "I can't waste this opportunity. But rushing in..."

The words die in my throat. Strategy has kept me alive this long, helped me survive centuries of guerrilla warfare against the dark elves. But the thought of them celebrating, of more innocent blood being spilled for their entertainment, makes my blood boil.

The forest holds its breath, waiting. Just like me. Just like my revenge.

"Something's coming," I mutter. The words taste like copper on my tongue. "I can feel it in my bones."

The morning wind shifts, carrying with it the scent of change. My muscles tense. Every instinct within me screams that this hunt will be different. That it will alter everything I've planned for.

I shake my head, trying to clear these thoughts. "Focus. Plan. Strike," I say aloud. The mantra grounds me but doesn't quiet the storm brewing within me.

Suddenly, the faintest rustle of leaves draws my attention.

Instinct takes over. My body tenses as I slip into the predator's crouch that I've honed over centuries. I'm not alone. The dark elves from the village tavern, their presence reeks of curiosity mixed with fear. Are they merely intrigued by the stranger in their midst, or have they recognized the threat I pose?

The answer comes swiftly as the first dark elf steps into the clearing, his eyes narrowed and a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Look what we have here," he drawls, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "A lone wanderer in our woods. What business have you, Vrakken?"

I straighten, meeting his gaze with a cold stare that has sent many a foe scurrying for the shadows. "I could ask you the same," I reply, my voice steady and low. "This is not a path frequented by your kind unless you're looking for trouble."

The dark elf chuckles, the sound grating against the quiet murmur of the forest. "Trouble finds those who seek it," he retorts, drawing his blade with a metallic hiss.

My response is immediate and visceral. I let loose a growl that resonates with the primal fury of my kind. In a flash, I'm upon him, my movements a blur of speed and strength.

The first dark elf doesn't even have time to scream. My hand clamps around his throat, lifting him off the ground with ease. His sword clatters to the forest floor. With a savage twist, I snap his neck, the sound echoing through the stillness.

The others surge forward, their faces contorted with rage and disbelief. They're no match for me—a warrior hardened by loss and fueled by an unquenchable thirst for revenge.

I move among them like death itself, my sword singing through the air as I carve a path of destruction. Each kill is swift, efficient, a testament to the countless battles I've fought. I revel in the carnage, the bloodlust coursing through my veins as I tear through the dark elves with ruthless precision.

When the last of them falls, I stand amidst the carnage, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The forest is silent once more. I wipe my blade clean on the cloak of a fallen dark elf, my gaze scanning the surroundings for any sign of additional threats.

Satisfied that I'm alone, I dissolve into the shadows, leaving no trace of the violence that transpired.

As I retreat deeper into the woods, my thoughts return to the tribute hunt. The dark elves see it as a celebration, a display of their dominion over the lesser races. But I see it now for what it truly is—a chance to strike a blow from which they may never recover.

The decision solidifies within me, a resolve as unyielding as the steel of my sword. I will infiltrate their hunt, turn their festivities into a graveyard. And perhaps, in the chaos, I'll findmore than just the satisfaction of my revenge. Perhaps I'll find a way to honor the memory of my fallen clan—to finally lay them to rest.

But for now, I vanish into the embrace of the forest, a solitary figure shrouded in the promise of retribution. The dark elves have made their move, and now, so have I. Let the games begin.

5

RHEA

The forest is a labyrinth of shadows as I'm pushed forward, my hands bound, the trinket on my chest jingling with each step—a cruel reminder of the game I've been forced to play. I can hear the dark elves' laughter echoing in the distance as they prepare for the hunt. My heart hammers against my ribs as fear courses through my veins.

We are given a head start and I break into a run. The forest feels alive with the sounds of my own panic. Branches claw at my face, drawing stinging lines across my skin, and my breath comes in ragged gasps that tear at my throat. The ground beneath me is a treacherous dance of roots and rocks, waiting to trip me up, to bring me down. And it does—my foot catches on something unyielding. Pain lances through my ankle as I twist and fall.

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