Even now, all she could think of were the bodies around her and how she wished to rip them apart further, flay the skin from their bones, and spread their ribs apart one by one to look like the wings of a great bird. An impish smile spread across her face at the thought.
“No!” she yelled again, beating the palms of her hands against her head as if she could knock the thoughts and urges from her mind. “Stop it! Stop! You have control. You don’t want to do these things. Keep it separate, lock it down deep.” She began chanting the words to herself, slowing her breathing, but it didn’t work. She snarled, releasing an animalistic sound into the fleeting night. Her head spun to the center of the field. There was a rhythm like the sound of a drum, constant but dying, growing softer with each beat.
A primal growl rumbled from within, and she prowled towards the rhythmic sound until she was standing over it–or rather, him. A man, chest rising and falling with wheezing breaths, stared up at her, eyes frantically darting back and forth. He weakly tried to move away from her, desperately searching for something–anything–to help him. To save him.
Oriana graced him with a feral smile before she tore into his chest. His screams of agony were a symphony to her ears. She heard someone’s laugh, cold and callous, and realized suddenly that it was her own.
As she ripped out the man’s still-beating heart, his screams silenced. His inert eyes remained set on her, full of terror. She held the bleeding organ up to the moon, only to see that the moon had fallen from its place in the night sky, replaced by the golden light of the sun as it slowly rose from its slumber and bathed the blood-strewn field in its warmth.
As if its shining rays had sparked her mind, setting it ablaze with memory, everything came crashing back. It was Anthes. He had done this to her. The memory of his venomous red eyes bore into her, white plaited locks whipping in the wind like errant snakes, and the burning embers of what used to be her home illuminating the axe slung across his back. The scene would be forever etched in her mind.
He was a vile brute that feasted on the utter despair of those who wronged him. He was a trickster and a warrior who exacted revenge no matter the cost. After all these years, he had finally found her, and he had brought his wrath down upon her.
Oriana looked down at herself. Blood dripped down her arm, her hand still gripping the heart she had savagely ripped from the nameless man’s chest. She dropped it as if it were a hot coal. Its weight thunked to the grassy earth with a soft gurgle as the last bit of its blood squirted across her feet.
As the morning illuminated the horrifying massacre surrounding her, the tears began to fall, streaking lines through the gore that coated her face.
The monster had been set free, and it was Anthes’s doing.
Oriana threw her head back, a bellow of fury erupting from her as the glacial wind surged around her, frosting over the pool of her victim's blood puddled at her feet.
2
Garren
30th day of the Tenth Month, 1774
Garren was in a foul mood. After traveling north on the King’s Road for a fortnight, he had finally made it to Randier, which sat at the road's end. It was a petite village at the junction of three major roads–a resting place for weary travelers. The King’s Road from the south, the Loch Road from the west, and the Daylight Road from the east. To the north, it bordered the Bone Loch, beyond which sat the White Giants, the largest and harshest mountain range in all of Svakland. Any attempt to cross the Giants was a death sentence. If the pure freezing conditions didn’t kill you first, an avalanche, wolves, or snow lions would claim you long before you ever reached the other side. He had been heading towards a forest known as the Phantom Wood, and Randier was to be his last stop before that ultimate destination.
Garren’s eyes were heavy with exhaustion from days of travel with little food and restless sleep. All he really wanted was a hot meal and a soft bed to rest his weary head. But good things never came easy. He had barely purchased a room to stay for the night when a great ugly beast had torn through the town, ravaging the streets and heading straight for the horse stall behind the inn that he was to stay in. Just his luck.
As a known demon hunter, Garren would generally be called to eradicate the monster and secure payment in advance, but this demon had left him little choice as it wreaked havoc throughout the village like a rampant storm of claws and fangs. It was unlike any beast Garren had faced before. It ravaged with a hunger that appeared only to grow the more it killed.
It was strange, but new demons had been cropping up at an alarming rate in recent months. His services were being requested throughout Svakland more than ever before. It was worrisome, but good for business.
As the demon had ripped into the inn, Garren groaned in annoyance. All he wanted was to eat a hot meal and sleep the rest of the day away. But unfortunately, the demon wouldn’t simply kill itself. With a heavy sigh, he had reluctantly grabbed the old mare he had ridden in on, gained the beast’s attention, and led it straight out of town on the Daylight Road.
And now here he was, a little over thirty miles outside the small village of Randier, and his horse had gone lame. He had known the mare wouldn’t last long, that this particular horse was far past its prime. He had already ridden it to its limits before arriving in Randier. He had chosen it for that very reason, leading a lamb to the slaughter. One life to save two hundred.
He dismounted, gently stroked the horse’s mane, and whispered sweet words, consoling the hurt and frightened animal before he drove his blade into its skull. It collapsed, instantly a better, quicker death than what would have been if he had waited only a few moments more for the monster to catch up to them.
Far down the road, Garren could hear the distant snarls of the beast steadily scrambling toward him. The demon’s gait was peculiar. He had noticed its limbs bending in unnatural ways, making it much slower than the old mare and allowing him plenty of time to prepare a trap. The horse was part of his plan, and he was just glad the poor mare had lasted as long as it did, providing a significant distance from the town.
He looked out at his surroundings, having already formulated a plan in his mind. Twin blades were secured on his back, a dagger strapped to each thigh. To his right was a large field bordered by a dusting of sweeping hills. To his left was a thick forest spanning as far as he could see, a tall mountain range shrouded in a blanket of clouds–which could only be the White Giants–lined its northern edge.
He looked back at the towering trees of the forest. “The Phantom Wood,” he mused as his eyes took in the dark and foreboding wood. It held an ancient silence, as if all life had left its gloomy depths long ago. He let his gaze survey its edge before resting on a large boulder peeking through the dense pines. The perfect spot to stay hidden and wait.
He knew nothing of this demon other than its taste for livestock. He hadn’t missed how, even though the creature had destroyed everything in its path, it had gone straight for the horses rather than the people enjoying a meal at the inn.
Garren grabbed the hind legs of the dead mare, dragged it out into the center of the road, and pulled it along until it was perfectly in line with the boulder. He sliced the mare from its neck to its belly, spilling fresh blood and entrails onto the road as a tempting feast for the demon. Once he had set his trap, Garren headed for the boulder, climbing its rough-pebbled surface until he reached the top, ensuring he was hidden from view but still able to keep watch over the road and the gutted mare.
As Garren waited, he thought back to the first demon he had ever encountered, far different from the monstrous creature he was about to face. In fact, the first demon he had fought had been quite beautiful. Until that day, he had been led to believe that demons were only a thing of legend. Non-existent beings of death and darkness that supposedly resided in the underworld. Demon stories were told throughout Svakland to deter children from misbehaving, but that all changed many years ago.
He had only been ten years old at the time, and it wasn’t until that day that he realized he was different. He had ignored it for years afterward–the things he had done that day. It couldn’t be possible, not for a boy–hell, not even for a grown man.
The memory materialized before his eyes as if he were right there all those twenty-five years ago.
A strikingly beautiful woman walked into Garren’s father’s smithy, looking for someone to fix one of the wheel rims from her carriage, or so she said. From the first moment Garren laid eyes on her, he knew something was off. Her skin glowed with a slight golden hue, like the rays of the sun were trapped inside, desperately trying to break free. Her ears were strange, elongated at the tips so slightly that if Garren hadn’t been studying her features so closely, he would have most assuredly missed it. But it was her eyes that gave her away. They were far too large, almost catlike. A shiver raked down his spine at the sight, and the hair on his arms raised in fear.
