"They say no one can kill the Beast King," she whispers. "That he doesn't bleed or feel pain. That no one who's ever tried has gotten even close to slaying him."
"Then I'll be the one to finish the job." I step back, hand on the door. "Go home. Forget about me. It's what everyone else in the village will do."
She looks like she wants to say something, like there's some kind of meaningful thing you can say to someone who's about to die violently. Instead she just nods once and runs back toward the village center, blonde hair streaming behind her.
I close the door and lean against it, taking a deep breath in and out, a pang of regret going through me at how cold I just was to her.
It was for the best. I can't afford attachments. Can't afford people caring whether I live or die. It makes this harder.
Better she thinks I'm cold. Better she forgets me fast.
I return to polishing my weapons.
-
The memory comes unbidden while I'm oiling my bow.
Ten years ago. I was twelve.
My aunt Isla stands in the village square, wearing a white dress that looks like a funeral shroud. She's eighteen, beautiful in a way I'll never be—soft features, gentle eyes, everything anomega should be. Her skin isn't tanned or scarred, her hair is blonde and soft, her expression demure, and her curves speak of women's work. Not like my muscles and callouses, my scars and my scowl or the dark hair the villagers say looks smoke-stained and coarse.
The elders chain her wrists with lightweight ceremonial silver. Not the real chains—those wait at the altar. These are just for show, for the walk through the village to the forest edge. A cruel little punchline, part of a long line of tradition.
She looks at me once before they lead her away. Tries to smile, to make it all better, but she's so scared that it doesn't quite work.
I remember thinking: she's already dead. They just haven't buried her yet.
Six weeks later, a dragon swooped down and dropped off her belongings in a wooden box, flying away without even stopping to see if we gave a shit. Her mother's ring. A lock of her hair. A scrap of white fabric so soaked with blood it's nearly black.
My grandmother opens the box, looks inside, and closes it without a word. She never speaks of Isla again. Just keeps that box on a shelf and pretends her daughter hadn't been fed to a monster.
I hated her for that silence. Hated how the village moved on like Isla never existed. Hated how they called it honor instead of murder.
Now I'm walking the same path, only unlike my aunt, I don't plan on putting on a brave smile. I plan on biting that motherfucker's dick off.
I set down the bow and pick up my hunting knife instead. The one I use for field dressing kills. The blade is stained dark from years of blood, the handle worn smooth from my grip.
I can't take this one with me. It's too big, too obvious. Yaern will bring me something smaller. Something that can hide in my hair or clothing without anyone finding it and taking it away.
But I can practice.
I close my eyes and imagine how it'll all go down. At some point, in his rut fever, I'll get access to his throat. Surely in human form he'll be vulnerable, with the same arteries as the rest of us.
My heat will be raging by the time he arrives; it started last night and for the next three days will come with sunset and fade with the dawn. Usually I'd dread that, but the rage that comes with it might actually help—make me faster, stronger, less likely to hesitate. I just have to make sure I get the timing right, that I'm still conscious andmewhen I kill him. Otherwise, who knows what my feral heat-addled self will do.
If I'm going to black out anyway, I might as well black out mid-murder attempt.
-
Yaern arrives at my door with a basket and a determined expression, the sun hanging low in the sky behind her, not long from sunset now.
"You're not spending your last hours alone brooding with an empty stomach," she announces, sweeping past me into the cottage. "I brought food."
"I'm not brooding. I'm preparing."
"You're pacing and staring at knives." She starts unpacking bread, cheese, dried meat, and a bottle of something that makes my eyes water when she uncorks it. "That's brooding."
"It's being thorough."
