The world is red. A haze over my vision, a burning behind my eyes. The magic of the Urog. It screams. It demands.
Kill. Rage. Destroy.
But there is only cold. A wet, biting cold that seeps into my hide, into my bones. The cold is a different enemy. It is a slow, quiet death.
Blade. Fire.
The memory is a white-hot spike. The Dark Elf. The sneer. The twist of black metal in my chest. A star of agony. Failure. I am a failure. Left to die.
The red haze surges. No. Not failure. Rage.
I hiss, a wet, ragged sound. The snow beneath me is pink with my blood.
Scent.
Something new. It cuts through the fog of pain and the smell of iron. It is not elf-stink. It is not Worg-musk. It is not the rot of a Batlaz den.
It is… snow. Clean, sharp snow. And... berries. The small, sweet fialon berries that stain the ground in autumn.
And human.
Small.
My eyelids are heavy, caked with ice and blood. I force them open. The world swims, a vortex of red magic and white snow.
And her.
She is there. A small, pale thing.
Prey.
The red haze screams. Kill her. Tear. Break.
I could. So easily. She is a thing of brittle bones and soft, snow-skin. My hand, my massive, clawed hand, is larger than her entire torso. I could reach out, just one motion, and crush her. Squeeze her small face until her sky-eyes burst.
Her eyes… they are blue. Not the bright, clear blue of a summer sky, but the deep, bruised blue of the mountains just before the blizzard hits. A tired, cold, empty blue.
Her hair is the color of mud-brown earth, peeking from a wrap.
She holds a small, chipped stick in her hand. A weapon.
I hiss again, a low rumble of warning from my chest. Threat?
But she does not smell of iron. No bloodlust. No rage. Her scent is... fear. It spikes the air, sharp and thin. But beneath the fear... something else. Pity? A strange, weak, useless smell.
She is not a threat. She is not a soldier. She is nothing.
She should run. Prey runs.
But she stays. She just watches me. Her sky-eyes are wide, fixed on the star of pain in my chest.
The red haze churns. It does not understand. It wants terror. It wants the chase. It wants the kill. This small, strange female offers only her scent, and the stupid, still beat of her heart.
Cold.
The ice is winning. The black ocean of pain is pulling me under. My strength is gone, bled out into the snow.
The female moves.
