Carmilla senses it too. “The mountain’s beating faster,” she whispers.
“Or something bleeds into it.”
We crest a rise. The ledge opens into a shelf wide enough for a dozen tents, boxed on the far side by a spire cracked down the center like giant jaws. Snow drifts lie smooth and untouched. Too perfect.
I lift palm, signal halt. Carmilla stills, eyes narrowing. Her irises shimmer storm-grey, reflecting moon shards. She tilts her head, listening to unseen choruses. Silence rules, but silence itself feels staged.
A low growl—though no wolf would produce such a rust-parched note. From the shadow at the base of the cracked spire, a shape slinks: feline, shoulders rolling like sinew cables, pelt dark as volcanic glass yet threaded with ember veins. Its eyes glow molten gold, pupils vertical slits of rotating flame. Realm-bleed lynx. I’ve heard rumors: creatures forced through ruptures, bodies half-melted, cores burning with unstable magic.
It sniffs the air, locks gaze on my cloak.
“Back off slowly,” I murmur.
Carmilla doesn’t retreat. Instead her hand lifts, fingers shaping a rune.
The lynx hisses—sound sizzling. Its ears flatten, flames flaring inside pupils. Muscles bunch.
I push Carmilla behind me, flare partial shift. Bones stretch, spine elongates, fur bursts down arms. I stop at hybrid stage—heightened strength, hands still usable. Claws unsheathe, black tips catching moonlight.
The lynx leaps.
I meet it mid-air, claws raking across its flank. Fur parting reveals molten rock beneath, glowing fissures. Heat sears my palm; the stench of burning hair fills air. The lynx twists, talons scraping my shoulder, tearing leather. Blood beads, hisses on its ember hide.
Carmilla chants soft syllables. Sigils spiral from her palm, weaving silver netting. It snaps into place over the lynx’s hindquarters, dragging creature sideways.
It snarls, tail a whip of fire, slicing toward her. At last instant the tail meets invisible barrier—rune flare. Carmilla staggers from feedback, crystal veins blazing with mirrored heat.
I surge, shift to full wolf—massive as direbear, fur striped by ember. I slam lynx to snow, jaws closing around its upper spine. Heat scorches tongue, but I hold, muscles shaking, crushing bone. The creature thrashes until sudden stillness shudders through it. Core fractures; flames dwindle. I leap back as body collapses, steam curling where snow kisses cooling magma-blood.
Carmilla kneels beside carcass, breath ragged. She produces small blade of mirrored steel, carves an angled incision below ribcage. “Help me turn it.”
I shoulder dead weight—skin still warm like sunlit stone. Together we roll the lynx, exposing belly. The pelt splits where her earlier rune scored. Beneath fur and cooling veins, letters are carved into flesh—charcoal black against molten orange. Three interlocking sickles surrounding a dragon’s head. Crimson Dawn’s brand.
My gut knots. “They’re branding realm-spawn now.”
“They’re guiding them.” Carmilla traces outer curve of symbol without touching. “Mark placed while skin molten. Likely created this abomination.”
“Corrupts animals, infects wolves, puppeteers humans.” Rage shadows every syllable. “I’ll skin them in return.”
Carmilla folds knife, but her hand trembles. I notice lattice reaching further across throat. Battle adrenaline must have accelerated vision residue.
“You’re burning,” I mutter. She looks up; beads of sweat silver her brow. “We take those ten minutes now.”
She nods, expression tight.
I choose a recess between splintered rocks, creating natural alcove shielded on three sides. Snow here lies thin, ground still radiating warmth from deeper geothermal flow. I flick claws into shovel, carve trench for fire. Twisted cedar branches pulled from pack crackle once flint meets steel.
Carmilla doesn’t idle; she pours black sand from pouch, sprinkling in semicircle. Runes glow soft teal. The obsidian shard I carry throbs, angry. She extends a palm. “May I?”
I unsling pouch, place steaming leather into her hand. She winces at temperature but closes fingers. Crystal at her collar pulses in sympathetic rhythm.
She sits cross-legged, drawing a second circle around herself. Low chant emerges—a melody of vowels sliding into each other, dialect older than I’ve heard outside story. Air thickens; snowflakes pause mid descent around her barrier. The shard’s glow dims, dims, then gutters to sullen ember. Her chant tapers to whisper, stops.
She exhales, shoulders slumping. “Quieted.” She sets shard on frozen ground beside me. No heat radiates. For now.
I prod it with claw. “How long?”
“Until dawn, maybe two dawns.” She wipes brow. “Depends how cleanly grief flows tonight.”
