8
LYSSA
Sleep refuses to come despite exhaustion that settles into my bones like winter cold.
I lie in my bedroll staring at stars that offer no comfort, mind racing through events that feel like descent into nightmare. The infected Waira's fevered words echo in memory—talk of sources and cures and purification that transforms murder into religious duty.
But worse than his madness is the growing certainty that something similar might be happening to us. To Kaerith specifically.
Has The Curse infected him somehow? Not through the mystical consciousness the captive described, but through proximity to violence that feeds appetites I never knew existed? Each act of brutality seems to strengthen something dark in him while weakening whatever restraints once guided his actions.
Beside our banked fire, Kaerith and Elira sleep with peaceful expressions that mock my anxiety. They look like the people I've known for years—familiar faces carrying no hint of the transformation I witnessed during today's interrogation and execution.
Maybe I'm imagining changes that exist only in paranoid fear. Maybe grief and stress are creating patterns where none actually exist. Maybe the gentle correction they offered earlier was right—I'm too naive to understand harsh necessities of survival.
But the memory of satisfaction on Kaerith's face while killing refuses to fade. That wasn't grim acceptance of necessary violence. That was pleasure, pure and undisguised.
When did my friend develop taste for taking life?
The question circles through my mind like trapped bird, finding no answer that provides comfort. So I rise quietly, careful not to disturb the others, and seek solace in movement through forest that holds fewer terrors than the thoughts pursuing me.
The place I discovered earlier today lies half a mile from camp—small meadow surrounded by ancient trees that creates natural sanctuary from the harsh world beyond.
Even in darkness, it feels different from surrounding forest. Peaceful in ways that have nothing to do with tactical advantage or defensive position. Just quiet beauty that exists for its own sake rather than serving practical purpose.
I settle on fallen log that provides natural seating, letting silence wash over me like balm for wounds I can't name. Here, surrounded by growing things that know nothing of ideology or corruption, I can almost pretend the last few days were nightmare rather than reality.
Almost convince myself that Kaerith's changes are temporary responses to extreme stress rather than permanent transformation into something I don't recognize.
Almost believe Elira's clinical cruelty represents adaptive strategy rather than fundamental alteration of everything she once valued.
The stars wheel overhead in patterns that predate all human concerns about morality and survival. Constant points of reference that remain unchanged while everything else transforms beyond recognition.
I breathe deeply, drawing forest air into lungs that feel cleaner here than anywhere else since we began this hunt. Whatever peace this place offers, I need every fragment I can gather before returning to camp where questions wait without comfortable answers.
For just a few minutes, I can sit in darkness and pretend my friends are still the people I chose as family.
The sounds reach me before I see their source—rhythmic, primal, unmistakably human despite the location.
Grunts and gasps that speak of physical exertion, of bodies moving together with desperate urgency. At first, my mind refuses to process what I'm hearing. Who would choose this remote clearing for intimate encounter? Who could find passion amid the horror of recent days?
But recognition follows quickly, bringing understanding I wish I could reject.
I know those voices.
Moving with careful stealth learned from too many dangerous situations, I approach through undergrowth that provides concealment while allowing observation. Part of me wants to retreat, to preserve ignorance over devastating knowledge. But larger part needs to see, needs to understand what's happening to the people I thought I knew.
The clearing comes into view through gaps in winter foliage, revealing scene that transforms intimate encounter into something else entirely.
Kaerith and Elira move together with violent passion that borders on combat, their joining more battle than affection. But it's not their savage coupling that freezes my breath in my throat.
It's the corpse.
The infected Waira from tonight's interrogation hangs pinned to ancient oak through his chest, arms spread wide in grotesque parody of crucifixion. His face has been systematically destroyed—features carved away with artistic precision that turns death into sculpture.
Blood covers both my friends like war paint, dark arterial flow that decorates their skin while they rut beneath their victim's empty gaze. They've made altar of murder, sacrament of violation, communion of corruption that binds them together in ways I cannot comprehend.
This isn't love. This isn't even lust.
