The mist-hoarded sound.

  Mara’s world was a sphere of grey visibility ten feet wide, but her ears pushed past its limits, detailing a landscape that extended beyond sight. She heard the wet drip of condensation falling from needle-leaves. She heard the squelch of mud.

  And she heard the incessant, maddening rattling of Almitad’s bones while she floated.

  "Your gait is uneven."

  Mara gritted her teeth—the leather straps of Zeen’s black armor bit into her freshly healed skin and bruised her bones. The stiff leather rubbed against her fur.

  "Do you feel pain?" Mara asked, not looking back. "Discomfort? Do you feel anything?"

  Almitad took a moment before she replied. "No. Not pain. No… self-preservation instinct remains. Only emptiness, and memories."

  The undead floated closer, and the green-black light of the Mana Bloom under her robe shone out from her sleeves.

  "Is that why you follow him? Feelings?"

  Mara stopped. Her hand drifted to the hilt of the kris knife at her belt—Trenn’s knife.

  “Why else? Why do you do anything without feelings?”

  Almitad drifted in front of Mara.

  “I remember. I remember duty. I remember tragedy. I remember how important vengeance was. Knowledge is what—”

  "Quiet,” Mara said, crouching.

  There. The tracks had been so deep, they were still clearly visible.

  A wide, smooth furrow had been dragged through the black soil, flanked by deep, stumbling footprints. It looked like a heavy log had pulled along the bank.

  "He's dragging the tail," Mara whispered. "He's exhausted. Or hurt."

  Her amber eyes scanned the track. Then they narrowed.

  Crossing Trenn’s drag marks were other signs. Three-toed impressions. Fresh. Deep.

  "A Raptor,"

  She looked at the tracks. Followed a few paces.

  She dredged up the memory of Theron’s lectures in the Dam’s Apothecary tent.

  Golem-Ivy. Coagulated Blood. And a Raptor’s Talon. Ideally, fresh.

  Her hand drifted to her alchemy pouch, fingers tracing the outline of the small clay pot and the crinkle of the dried ivy leaf wrapped in linen. She had the fuel; she just needed the spark.

  She looked at the three-toed prints in the mud.

  "I need that bird," Mara said, standing up.

  She turned to Almitad.

  "Stay here."

  Almitad tilted her skull. "If I stay, you have no claws. You are barely healed."

  "And you are a wind chime," Mara retorted. "You rattle. Your robe snaps. You shine in the dark. If you come, it hears us, and it leaves. Or it drops on us before we see it."

  Mara rested her hand on the kris knife. The sea-monster tooth’s handle was rough against her palm.

  She turned her back on the floating skeleton and stepped into the mist.

  As she crossed the threshold of the Mana Bloom’s radius, the hum in her blood died.

  She looked down at her hands. She flexed her fingers—just flesh and bone.

  She pushed the fear down, burying it under her resolve. She drew her bow. She checked the fletching on her arrows.

  She moved forward.

  The mist swallowed Almitad’s glow.

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  Mara adjusted her breathing, forcing it into a silent rhythm. Her ears swiveled, straining against the damp air.

  She heard the wind sighing through the needles. She heard the distant gurgle of the river.

  She caught a cracking sound. Talons. Wood compressing under a tightening grip.

  It came from above and to the left.

  She moved, placing her feet with agonizing care, rolling from heel to toe to silence her steps.

  A flapping sound. Like a heavy wing adjusting balance.

  She peered up into the grey void.

  A shadow coalesced in the mist—a dark, hunched shape perched on the limb of a dead oak.

  It was massive, easily the size of a man. Feathers the color of storm clouds blended perfectly with the fog. Its beaked head swiveled with jerky, twitching motions.

  Mara pulled an arrow. Her shoulder screamed in protest as she drew the string back, the fused bone aching under the tension.

  She aimed for the shoulder joint of the right wing.

  She exhaled. She loosed her projectile.

  The arrow hissed through the air and struck the large bird.

  A high-pitched, piercing screech shattered the silence. It fell into the ferns ten feet below, rolling in a tangle of feathers and leaves.

  Mara nocked another arrow and shot through the brush.

  It pierced its giant wing.

  It hissed, a sound like steam escaping a valve. Its yellow eyes locked onto her. It scrambled upright and turned to face her. Even grounded, it was a fearless predator.

  Mara drew, the Raptor pounced.

  It covered the distance in a single, powerful hop, talons leading.

  Mara tried to sidestep, but pain flashed through her bones. She fell backward.

  The Raptor landed on top of her, talons deep in her chitinous plates.

  The impact drove the air from her lungs.

  She was driven inches deep into the soft earth soil. The armor groaned under the creature’s strength, bruising the flesh beneath.

  “I built it to keep you alive,” Zeen’s voice echoed in her memory.

  She roared, a sound of pure, animal rage.

  She grabbed the Raptor’s feathered neck with her left hand, ignoring the beak that snapped inches from her face.

  Trenn’s knife flashed in her hand—she stabbed—the serrated tooth-blade caught on the dense feathers of the throat.

  A raptor’s talon surged and crushed her right forearm against her breastplate, pinning the weapon uselessly to her ribs.

  Her left hand was the only thing keeping the snapping beak from her face. She had to choose.

  She released the throat. The beak lunged instantly, tearing a chunk out of her ear.

  Ignoring the pain, her freed hand scrambled across her chest, snatching the hilt from her pinned fingers. She drove the blade blindly upward, sinking it deep into the giant bird’s underside.

  The Raptor shrieked and thrashed. Its talons raked uselessly against her armor. Leather straps shredded, but the plate held.

  She snarled and bridged her hips, bucking wildly. She couldn't dislodge the heavy mass, but the movement destabilized it just enough to free her arm.

  She pulled the blade out and jammed it back under the predator’s jawbone. She sawed.

  Hot blood geysered over Mara’s hand, slick and metallic.

  She didn't stop until the thrashing did. She sawed until the light died in the yellow eyes and the heavy weight went limp on top of her.

  After a moment to gather her strength, she shoved the carcass off, gasping for air.

  She lay on the ground for a long moment, staring up at the grey nothingness as the pain and numbness of her healing body returned.

  She was covered in blood. The notch missing from her ear wept freely, hot rivulets matting the white fur of her cheek and neck. Her leg throbbed with a dull, red pulse.

  She was tired, but she was alive. She had feelings. Satisfaction.

  The emptiness where the forest used to be was filled with the hot, copper taste of adrenaline.

  She wasn’t a Guardian. She wasn’t a Mage.

  She sat up and looked at the dead predator.

  She was a hunter.

  She grabbed the dead bird’s leg. With grim precision, she worked the kris knife into the joint of the largest talon. She carved through gristle and bone, separating the prize.

  She held the bloody hook up to the dim light.

  She reached into her belt pouch and pulled out a clay pot. She held it under the dripping neck of the beast until it was half-full.

  She retrieved a dried leaf of Golem-Ivy from her satchel. Crushing the grey herb between her thumb and forefinger, she sprinkled the dust into the warm red liquid. The blood hissed faintly, darkening and thickening into a gelatinous sludge.

  Satisfied, she corked it tight.

  In the distance, the rooster’s crow broke the stillness.

  It didn’t fade into the grey void. Instead, the echo returned louder, a compounding resonance that vibrated in her chest and rattled the plates of her armor. It crested again, a deafening shout that seemed to come from everywhere at once, before the sound snapped shut.

  Mara rubbed her ringing ears.

  It grinds buildings. Almitad’s warning resurfaced in her mind.

  "A Sonic Fortress," she whispered.

  She stood, her knees shaking but holding.

  She sheathed the knife and limped back the way she came. Almitad was floating near the base of a dead tree, her back to the path. She cradled a flickering wisp of pale light in her skeletal hands—a faint, trembling thing that looked like a lost child.

  She whispered a single, resonant syllable. The wisp shuddered, brightened, and then dissolved into the fog, finally free.

  "The mist is greedy," Almitad murmured, her empty sockets turning as she sensed the hunter's return. "It tries to keep everything. Even souls."

  Mara emerged, blood-soaked, limping, clutching a couple of severed talons.

  "Sorry it took so long," Mara said, walking past the floating skeleton. "Let's go find the idiot."

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