"FOOTPRINTS! TRACK IT!"

  The shouts fade behind you. Not far enough. Your legs burn. No. Not burn. They should burn. Running this fast. This long. But they don't. They just... move. Faster. Stronger. Wrong.

  The rain still falls. Washing blood from your face. Your hands. The claws retracted. Finally. You don't know how. They just... did.

  Trees ahead. Dark. Thick. Away from the fires. Away from the voices.

  Run. Keep running. Behind you. Dogs barking. Howling. They have your scent. Blood. Mud. Death. They're coming.

  War-bred track hounds of the Veldren kennels. Once a scent is caught, they chase, tire, and tear them apart. Crossbred from wolfhounds and pit mastiffs.

  No. The trees. Death trap. Make distance. Stay on the road.

  You can tear apart some MUTT chasing you with these BARE hands of yours. Rip them APART. Slammed into the tree. Head taken off the bodies. Heart...pulsating in your hands.

  Through the sounds of rain, wind, snarls and your feet squelching on the mud you catch a sound on the edge of your senses. A whinny.

  Horses. Ahead. On the road.

  Patrol. Road patrol. Standard Veldren perimeter circuit. They guard the approaches to the grave pits. Intercept deserters. Bandits. Refugees trying to loot the dead.

  The soldiers sent word. Runner. Killer. Covered in blood. Sprinting on the main road. Armed and dangerous.

  They're waiting. Setting up. Not a perfect ambush. They weren't ready. They weren't expecting. But they're blocking the road now. Dismounting. Taking positions.

  How many? Three? Four? Can't see through the rain and dark yet. But the horses. Multiple. The clink of armor. Weapons being drawn.

  You're running straight toward them.

  The dogs howl behind. Closer. The horses snort ahead. Close. Just visible.

  Boxed in.

  The trees. Left side. Twenty yards. Dense. Dark.

  Forest terrain. Limited visibility. Easy to get cornered.

  CLAW through the men...It will be so easy. Tearing them apart...blood, dribbling down your fingers...

  Your hands are already bloody. You know what happens next.

  You cannot slow down. The dogs are matching your pace. If you do, they will speed up. Thinking you are tired.

  Ahead. Closer now. Shapes in the rain. Four men. Dismounted. Spreading across the road. Blocking it.

  Spears. Two with spears. One with a crossbow. Raised. Aimed. At you.

  The fourth. Sword drawn. Officer. Calling orders. Can't hear over the rain. The dogs. Your own footsteps.

  Sixty yards. Closing fast.

  The crossbow tracks your movement.

  THAT KILLS YOU. TURN AROUND. GO BACK. TREES. ANYWHERE BUT HERE.

  Trees mean unstable footing. Roots. Mud. Can't maintain speed. The dogs gain ground. Cornered against timber. Worse odds.

  Four men, three dogs...one horse. The amount of blood. You wouldn't be hungry for hours. And you're fast now. Strong. The claws tore through that soldier like paper. These are just more meat. Warm. Beating. Full.

  A human, is not, this capable.

  Your hands are already red with the blood of a human. Must you stain it more.

  Fifty yards.

  Three dogs behind. Four soldiers ahead. The dogs. Smaller threat. No weapons. No armor. Just teeth and muscle. The soldiers have crossbows. Spears. Training. Coordination. Three versus four. Better odds.

  Kill the dogs. Fast. Turn the hunters into the hunted. The soldiers will hesitate. Regroup. Gives you time. And the dogs still bleed. Still warm. Not human but... something.

  Turn. Now. Before the bolt flies.

  The decision makes itself. Your foot plants hard into the mud. Slides more than expected. Spray kicks up. Your body twists, momentum shifting, redirecting. Back the way you came.

  The dogs. Closer than you thought. Thirty yards. Maybe less. You can hear them clearer now. Paws pounding. Mud splashing. Heavy breathing. Snarling. Barking.

  Three shapes in the darkness. Rain-slicked fur. Eyes catching what little light there is. Teeth bared. Running full speed. Saliva flying from their jaws. Foam at the corners. Tongues lolling. Pink against dark fur. Teeth visible. Yellow. Sharp. Eyes locked on you. No hesitation. Muscles rippling under wet fur. Powerful. Built for this. For running down prey.

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  They don't slow. Don't stop.

  They're spread out. Triangle formation. Lead dog center. Two flanking, six feet apart. Standard pack hunting pattern. Approach vectors designed to surround. Pin from three angles simultaneously. These dogs are never treated and are more valuable when they carry infections and diseases. Kept under various enchantments.

  Too confident. Assumptions. You don't know them.

  Center dog hits first. Half a second later, the flankers converge. Left and right. 120-degree angles. No escape route. Don't let them close the triangle. Target the center. Break the formation geometry. The flankers lose coordination. Pause to reassess. One point five seconds. Maybe two.

  Their heartbeats. Fast. Racing. Pounding in your ears. Soon to be in your hands.

  Your body knows what to do. Doesn't wait for thought. The fingers extend. Lengthening. The nails sharp. Curving. Black. Claws.

  Ten yards. Five. The center dog leaps. Jaws wide. Going low.

  For the groin.

  Your arm swings. Fast. The claws catch its throat mid-leap. Clean. Deep. Through fur. Through flesh. Through windpipe.

  The head snaps to the side. Nearly off. Blood sprays. Hot. The body hits the mud. Twitching. Dying.

  No pause. No hesitation from the others. The left dog doesn't stop. Doesn't reassess. It launches. High. For your throat. Jaws snapping. Teeth aimed at your neck. The right one goes low. Diving. For your legs. Your ankles. The tendons.

  Not flanking. Not surrounding. Attacking. Coordinated. Precise. Both at once.

  They didn't pause. Incorrect assumptions.

  Your other hand shoots up.

  Instinct. Protect the neck.

  The high dog's jaws snap shut on your forearm. Teeth punch through. Deep. Grinding against bone.

  Good. Feel it. This is what fighting IS.

  You slam it down. Into the mud. Hard. The claws of your free hand rake across its face. Eyes. Nose. Mouth. It yelps. Releases. Jaw split. Skin ripped. Bleeding. Whimpering.

  Dying.

  But even as it falls away, the right dog's jaws are already closing on your calf.

  Block it. Can't. Already committed to the first—

  Pain. Sharp. Bright. White-hot. The teeth sink deep. Through muscle. Scraping tendon. Tearing. Ripping.

  Can't run. CAN'T RUN. The soldiers. The handlers. They're coming. You're stuck. Helpless. Going to die. They'll burn you. Kill you. TRAPPED. No escape. This is it. You're dead.

  Breathe. Center yourself. Pain means nothing. You're still here. Handle the threat.

  Your leg buckles. Gives out. You drop. Knee hitting mud.

  They're just animals. Trained. Manipulated.

  The dog doesn't let go. Already shaking its head. Worrying the wound. Tearing more. More. Blood pouring down your leg. Hot. Wet.

  Something whistles past. Air displacement by your ear.

  Thunk.

  The bolt punches into mud. Two feet to your left.

  Hoofbeats. Pounding. Getting louder. Nearer. One horse. Galloping. A rider. Scout. Crossbow in hand. Already reloading. Thirty yards out. Maybe less.

  Behind him. Further back. More boots. Multiple. Heavy footsteps. Splashing through mud. The soldiers from the road. Running. Catching up.

  Fifteen seconds until the scout reaches you. Five more to reload and fire.

  The dog still tearing at your leg. One dead in the middle. The other, bleeding out.

  Your vision shifts.

  The blood. Everywhere. On the ground. On your hands. On the dog whimpering away, face torn open. Streaming down. And the dead one. Throat slit. Still leaking. Pooling in the mud.

  It looks... wrong. Brighter. More vivid. Red. So red. Glowing almost. Pulsing.

  You want it. Need it. The pull is overwhelming. It's RIGHT THERE. Fresh. Warm. Calling to you. Take it. TAKE IT.

  Feeding requires focus. Head down. Neck exposed. Scout arrives in fifteen seconds. Second bolt in seconds. Current position offers no cover. Probability of being shot while drinking, extremely high.

  Your hand shoots down. Grabs the dog. By the scruff. By the head. Grip tight.

  RIP, IT, OFF.

  The jaws don't want to release. Locked. The teeth tearing more as you pull. More damage. Pain flaring white-hot.

  MOVE MOVE GET UP RUN THEY'RE COMING MOVE NOW

  You wrench it free. The dog twisting. Snarling. Snapping. Still fighting. Bring it up. To your mouth. The neck. Right there.

  That's better. Much better.

  NOT NOW! THEY'RE TOO CLOSE! THE SCOUT! LEAVE IT!

  Your teeth sink in. Through fur. Through flesh. Into the artery. Hot blood floods your mouth. You swallow. Gulp. The dog thrashing. Struggling. Claws scraping at your arms. Whimpering.

  The thought of pulling away. Letting go of the neck. Running. It crosses your mind. But... the taste.

  Slower. Savor it. Feel the life draining. The strength flowing into you. This is what you ARE. Don't rush. ENJOY it.

  ON YOUR FEET! UP! GO!

  Its eyes meet yours. Rabid. Foam at the corners. Bloodshot. But... something else. Accepting. It knows. Feels its life draining away. No more fighting. Just... waiting for the end.

  It's dying because of you. Again.

  You drink. Not gulping. Pulling. Tasting. The warmth spreading through you. Your chest. Your stomach. Down to the leg. The torn muscle. The shredded tendon. The pain fading. Fading.

  STOP STOP THEY'RE HERE MOVE NOW NOW NOW

  You don't stop. Won't stop. The urgency, rain, hooves, whinnies, dying whimpers...fades. Just... this.

  The taste.

  The warmth, the sweet taste of blood with a sharp iron tang. It coats your tongue. Fills your mouth. Each swallow pulls more heat into you, spreading through your throat, your chest.

  The world darkens a bit. Edges blur. Sounds dull, like they’re being smothered. Thought thins. There is no fear now. No chase. Just the pull. Just the warmth.

  Impact.

  Pain. Back.

  Senses snap back. Something punches into your back. Between the shoulder blades. Sharp. Burning. You gasp. Choke. Blood in your mouth. The dog's blood. Not yours

  The bolt. Lodged in your back. Not deep. Two inches. Maybe three.

  Standard military bolt. Steel bodkin point. Designed to pierce mail. Should penetrate six to eight inches into flesh. Lethal at this range.

  But it didn't.

  You drop the dog. Still twitching. Still alive. Barely.

  The leg. Not screaming anymore. Not pulling. Not... wrong.

  No dogs left to track. Horse can't navigate dense forest terrain. Trees provide cover from crossbow fire. Go left. Now.

  You run. Toward the trees. The forest. Twenty yards. Fifteen. The bolt jutting from your back. Jostling with each step. Pain flaring.

  The hoofbeats thunder behind you.

  Ten yards. Five.

  The trees swallow you. Darkness. Cover. Dense undergrowth. Roots. Branches.

  Behind you. The hoofbeats slow. The horse whinnying. Balking. Can't follow. Too thick.

  Shouting. The scout. Loud. Calling back to the others.

  "HOUNDS DOWN! ALL THREE! TARGET WOUNDED! BLEEDING!"

  The scout is loud. Too loud. The voice piercing through the rain, the wind, the distance. Ringing in your skull. Unnaturally clear.

  A pause. Breathing hard.

  "HEADING WEST! INTO THE TREELINE! MOVING FAST!"

  Another voice. Distant. The officer. Shouting orders. Can't make out the words.

  The scout again.

  "UNDERSTOOD! HOLDING POSITION! AWAITING SUPPORT!"

  The crashing stops. He's not following. Not alone. Waiting for the others.

  You keep moving. Deeper. Away. The darkness swallowing you.

  They're regrouping. Coming in force. With torches. Numbers.

  You have time.

  Not much.