The Ascended — Chapter no 20

Chapter 20

The Hunt

WEAPONS AND TOOLS DOTTED THE GROUND BEFORE ME.

I dropped to my knees, hands flying over scattered steel and wood. Each bow hummed with life beneath my fingers. My thumb found Thorne's brand

burned into every grip.

Move. Fast. Now.

The command roared through my bones. Instinct. My hands obeyed before my mind could catch up, snatching a compact snare from the pile and clipping it to my belt.

The forest spread before me in all directions, but I forced myself to stop and orient. The sun hung low in the west behind me, its light filtering through the canopy. To the north, glimpses of a distinctive triple-peaked mountain showed through gaps in the trees. Eastward, beyond the endless green, came the faint but unmistakable sound of running water—a river or

large stream.

Light exploded through the forest.

It poured between the trees in ribbons. Birds fell silent. Insects stilled.

And through that blinding brilliance, she came.

Davina.

She stood tall and lean, her presence bending reality around her like ripples through water. Her skin shifted with each heartbeat—warm brown, then moss green, then a shade between them. Flowers bloomed in her hair only to wither and die and bloom again with every breath she took.

And then there were her eyes. Ancient. Golden. Lit from within. When they found mine, it took everything in me not to cower and recoil. If the energy surrounding the Legends had been stifling, this was maddening. It won out in the end, and I fell to my knees.

"Welcome, blessed children." Her voice rolled through the clearing like honey-dipped thunder, sweet and terrifying in equal measure. "Welcome to the first of your Trials, where you shall prove yourselves worthy of the gifts you've been given."

A wreath materialized between her fingers—delicate silver branches twisted and curled into the shape of a crown. She glided toward me, each step making the earth itself shudder with recognition of its mistress.

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could only kneel there in the dirt like the mortal I was as she placed the tiara upon my head.

"You will hunt for me," Davina continued, and her smile revealed teeth too white, too sharp, too many. "Three creatures sacred to the wild places.

One golden stag crowned with crystal. One silver eagle bearing wings of light. One moon-hare with eyes that see too much."

"Hunt well." Her laugh shattered through the wood. "For in my domain, all things must serve their purpose. All things must prove their place in the natural order."

She dissolved back into that hungry light, leaving only the lingering scent of wildflowers and something underneath that smelled like rot. Like death. Like the dark, wet places where things went to decompose.

I glanced down at the rest of the tools laying scattered on the ground before me. I could forge any of them out of starlight, but instinct pulled me to take them. My luck, I’d end up needing them. This all seemed too simple.

Thatcher.

He was tugging on our bond from somewhere across the forest, his intent blazing through me like fire. He was coming to find me.

I grabbed the quiver of arrows and melted into the tree line. Footsteps to my left made me slow. It wasn’t the careful movement of a hunter.

Someone was stumbling, trying to find their footing. Another contestant, close but not pursuing. They moved parallel to my path for a few moments before veering away, their breathing ragged.

And then the forest swallowed me whole.

My feet found their rhythm within a dozen steps. Years of scrambling across wet rocks and treacherous tides had carved balance into my bones,

and this was easier. Softer.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. That eyes tracked my movement from every shadow, every hollow, every space

between leaves.

A rustle to my left— I pressed against a massive oak, bark rough against my palms, heart hammering so hard I was certain every contestant in a mile radius could hear it. My hand burned as tiny stars formed, power tingling in my fingertips, ready to blaze to life at the first sign of threat.

Liquid dripped onto my forehead. Once. Twice. Warm and viscous.

I looked up to find purple sap oozing from a wound in the tree's bark, thick sickeningly sweet. Ernbrisk tree. Xül's voice echoed in my memory.

The sap hardens into a resinous seal when exposed to air. Keeps out disease and insects that would feed on the soft wood beneath.

I wiped it away with the back of my hand, grimacing at the tingling sensation it left behind.

The rustling came again, and this time I saw the source—a fat gray squirrel rooting through fallen leaves, cheeks bulging with acorns.

I let out a breath and pushed away from the tree. Time was wasting, and I had creatures to hunt.

The ground beneath my feet changed—soft moss giving way to packed earth worn smooth. My boots found the depression naturally, following the gentle curve between the trees. Deer tracks pressed deep into the dirt, overlapping with smaller prints from rabbits and foxes. Broken twigs had been pushed to either side, creating natural walls barely knee-high.

A game trail.

It curved northeast, winding gradually upward. Through the trees, I caught glimpses of those triple peaks, closer now but still distant. Still a few miles away at least. The sun had shifted lower.

I crouched beside a narrow point where two logs had fallen. Perfect for a snare. My hands moved without conscious thought, muscle memory from Aelix's lessons taking over. The knots nearly formed themselves.

I settled behind a tree twenty paces away, bow across my knees, and waited. The forest had gone quiet again. Minutes crawled by like hours. A bead of sweat traced down my spine despite the cool shade.

Then a crack.

A foot had snapped a branch somewhere behind me, loud enough to send birds fleeing from the canopy. That particular combination of determination and recklessness could only belong to one person.

"You're going to scare everything away," I hissed as Thatcher emerged from behind a curtain of hanging moss, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

His crown of metal leaves sat crooked on his dark hair, a few twigs caught in the strands. There was a smudge of dirt across his left cheek.

"Sorry," he said, not looking sorry at all. That grin tugged at his lips, the one that had gotten us into and out of trouble our entire lives.

A rustle from the direction of my snare had us both freezing. I pressed a finger to my lips, and both sets of eyes fixed on the trap.

Has everything been going to plan? His mental voice brushed against mine, familiar as breathing.

It was a rough start to say the least. I muted my emotions, not letting him feel the bone-deep exhaustion. But yes. Making progress.

Same. Still don't have full control, but I've been practicing.

I bit back a wince. What did such practice entail? Did I even want to know?

Thatcher narrowed his eyes. Not anything you’re thinking. More like breaking down the structures of other living things. Plants, a few animals.

Nothing crazy.

Another rustle had us both stilling, watching the trap. After a few moments, we slumped in disappointment.

Is that how Chavore described it? Breaking down structures?

That's how it looks to me. Visually… Confusion bled through the bond.

Chavore is a surprisingly decent teacher. I’ve been trying to keep an eye on

him.

Anything to report?

Well, not much, truthfully. Thatcher admitted. But for the Aesymar of

Strategy, he's remarkably…

What?

He has the memory of a goldfish.

Well, he was born an Aesymar after all. Never had to actually prove himself. Perhaps he's not that bright. Nepotism and all.

Maybe. He's traveling to Sundralis tonight. I assume he’ll see Olinthar.

Must be strange, I managed, keeping my mental voice steady. Being around Chavore. Knowing what he is to us.

I try not to think about it. But I caught the edges of what he didn't say— the constant awareness of shared features, shared blood.

There's something I need to tell you, I said finally.

His eyes sharpened, giving me his full attention.

I found texts in Xül's library. I kept my thoughts steady. Your power—it

hasn't existed since the Primordials.

His face went very still.

There was one called Vivros. Cataclysm Incarnate. He could manipulate living matter at the fundamental level. Turn armies to paste with a thought.

Reshape flesh like clay.

Thatcher swallowed hard.

I met his eyes, making sure he understood the gravity of this. And it took all Twelve working together to kill him.

The color drained from his face as the implications hit.

Does Chavore know? His thoughts were laced with sudden fear.

We have to assume he might. We have to assume they all might.

Fuck. He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing his crooked crown.

You have to be careful, Thatcher.

I have been.

Good. I let out a long exhale, because I wasn’t done. There's more.

He looked at me like I'd already stabbed him and was now twisting the

knife.

Xül knows about us. About Olinthar.

"What?" The word burst from him aloud, too loud in the quiet forest.

I grabbed his arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Quiet. He figured it out. But he's keeping the secret. For now.

Why? Suspicion and hope warred in his mental voice.

I think he's going to use us to humiliate Olinthar in some petty power play. I rolled my eyes. Little does he know, we have other plans.

You didn't tell him about — Of course not. I squeezed his arm again, gentler this time. I'm not an

idiot.

A sharp snap — My snare triggered, something thrashing in its grip. I was up and moving before thought caught up, starlight already gathering in my palm in

case— A giant moon-hare struggled in my trap, its fur silver-white and its eyes… gods, its eyes were wrong. They reflected not just my face but other things. Other versions of this moment. In one reflection I was dead, throat torn out. In another I was crowned with light. In another I was weeping over Thatcher's body.

I looked away before those visions could root too deeply in my mind, snapping its neck as I winced.

One down, I sent to Thatcher, trying for lightness.

He was already pulling his own catch from his pack—another moon- hare, its dead eyes mercifully reflecting nothing. "Got mine on the way here. Lucky catch."

Lucky. Right. But nothing about this felt like luck.

"This is too easy," I said aloud, unable to keep the words trapped anymore. "Think about it, Thatcher. This is supposed to be deadly."

I saw my own unease reflected in his eyes. "The weapons were just…

lying there."

"Exactly."

"So what are we missing?"

"I don’t know."

We need to be ready, I sent through our bond. For anything.

Always am, he replied, but I felt his tension ratchet higher.

We started moving again, keeping an eye out for signs of another game trail. I fell into the rhythm Aelix had beaten into me—silent steps, reading wind direction from the subtle turn of leaves, avoiding the patches where twigs lay like traps for the unwary.

The forest grew denser as we traveled, ancient trees so massive that six people holding hands couldn't wrap around their trunks. The canopy wove together so thickly that we moved through dimmed sunlight, green-tinted

and dreamlike.

Then I slipped.

My foot found a patch that looked like ordinary moss but felt like oil- slicked glass. I went down hard, tailbone meeting earth with enough force to send stars across my vision—the painful kind.

"Graceful," Thatcher commented, offering a hand up.

I took it, grimacing at the deep ache that would definitely bruise. The moss clung to my palms—thick, slimy, reeking of rotting fish. Gods it

reeked. I inspected it, rubbing it through my fingers then looked down. I scraped away a patch of the moss with my boot, revealing pale threads like spider's silk woven through the dark soil beneath. Hylock moss. Shields fungal veins from the elements.

Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have known that.

Perhaps I’d absorbed more of Xül’s teachings than I thought.

A cry split the air above us. We both looked up to see a flash of silver between the leaves. The eagle. It circled once, its wings trailing light like a comet's tail, before disappearing into the canopy.

Catching that won’t be as easy, I murmured, frustration bleeding

through the bond.

Not at all, Thatcher replied.

We pressed on, heading northwest now, the ground beginning to slope upward. After maybe half a mile of steady climbing, a stone mass appeared between two trees. It sat in a natural depression, sheltered by the rising slope behind it—a perfect spot between two of the northern peaks' foothills.

Smoke rose from a chimney. The door was solid and bound with iron, and when I tried the handle, it didn't budge.

"This is strange, Thatcher." My voice came out raspy, jagged with growing panic. "Why is there a building here? Why the smoke?"

He examined it, running his hands along the stone. "I don't know…"

We both stared at it for a moment longer.

Keep moving, Thatcher sent. Whatever this is, we can't afford to get

distracted.

And so we did.

A clearing opened ahead, and we decided height would give us an advantage. Thatcher laced his fingers together, and I stepped into the makeshift stirrup, letting him boost me up.

I had to stretch to reach the first solid branch. Once I had my footing, I

leaned down to help Thatcher up— But we weren't alone anymore.

Another contestant perched in a neighboring tree, settled into the crook of two massive branches. His bow was drawn, arrow nocked, aimed at something above us. Everything about his posture screamed competence.

Patience. A trained hunter?

When he shifted his grip on the bow, I caught sight of black ink on his wrist—crossed swords beneath a crown. The mark every soldier received

upon entering the royal forces. Not a volunteer. Not a hunter. Military.

Our eyes met.

My heart stopped. Started. Stopped again.

He was older than us—maybe thirty, with stoic features and dark hair pulled back in a knot. I recognized him vaguely from the Choosing, though we'd never spoken.

His gaze held mine for one breath. Two. Three.

My hand burned, sparks tingling my skin, but I knew any sudden movement might trigger him to loose that arrow. Behind me, I felt Thatcher go equally still, his power coiling like a spring.

Then, without warning, the other contestant simply… relaxed his draw.

Lowered his bow. He held my gaze a moment longer before melting back into the foliage. One moment there, the next gone, as though he'd never existed at all.

Well, I sent to Thatcher, trying to calm my racing heart. Someone didn’t want company.

We should move somewhere else just to be safe. We’re sitting ducks now if he has a change of heart.

We found a different section of forest to continue our hunt.

"Someone else is in this area," Thatcher observed, pointing to boot prints crossing our path. "Recent." I studied the tracks. A dragging left foot.

Someone favoring an injury.

A figure darted between distant trees—brown hair, that same nervous gait I'd noticed before. He was maybe fifty yards away, moving carefully but not carefully enough. When he paused to check something in his pack, I saw him pull out what looked like a dead moon-hare.

So he'd had some success. Good for him.

That's when we heard it.

Metal on metal. Sharp.

"I was wondering if this would turn violent," Thatcher muttered. And we shared the sentiment. We hadn’t been charged to hunt each other. Not yet, at least. But it didn’t mean someone wouldn’t take the opportunity.

The sounds came from the east, toward the river. We'd been running parallel to it for the last twenty minutes, the sound of water growing stronger.

"Should have stayed in whatever hole they dragged you from," a man snarled.

"Three against one," came a dry, familiar voice. "How very sporting of

you."

Marx.

I was running before the name fully formed in my mind. Branches tore at my jacket, roots tried to trip me, but I pushed through it all. Thatcher crashed through the underbrush beside me, both of us following the sounds of combat.

We dropped behind a thick screen of ferns just as the scene came into view.

Marx stood with her back pressed against a tree, blood painting her arms in scarlet ribbons. Three contestants circled her—two men and a woman whose skin seemed to ripple and flow.

Even bleeding, even outnumbered, Marx looked bored.

"Ivene said to cull the dangerous ones early," the woman purred, her voice distorting as her throat shifted between solid and liquid states. "Can't have wildcards making it to the final rounds."

Marx's blade flashed out, but it passed through the woman's torso like she was made of mist. The woman laughed, reforming instantly.

"Cute trick," Marx commented. "Mine's better."

But even as she spoke, one of the men raised his hand. The air around Marx crystallized into diamond-sharp spikes, pressing toward her.

Behind her, a shadow peeled away from one of the men, rising from the forest floor and taking its own shape. It rose into a mass of darkness that reached for her throat with too many fingers.

She dodged, twisted, slashed—but there were too many attacks from too many angles. Blood bloomed across her shoulder as a crystal spike found flesh. A tendril of shadow wrapped around her ankle, dragging her off

balance.

She was going to die.

Marx, who'd saved my life not a week ago. Who'd faced down a pack of Grief Hounds with nothing but wit and will.

I snarled through the bond. We have to help her.

How? Thatcher's mental voice was tight with the same sick realization.

We can't just disable them. That makes us their next targets.

The words tasted rotten in my thoughts. I know.

The crystal spikes pressed closer. One was inches from Marx's throat now, and she'd run out of room to dodge.

Starlight blazed to life in my palms before I'd even consciously called it.

For a heartbeat, I was back on Draknavor's black shore, Xül's voice cutting through dawn mist. "A sword of starlight is impressive, but predictable. It needs to be small. Something they won't see coming."

A throwing knife materialized between my fingers.

Thais. Thatcher's urgency pulsed through our connection. Now or never.

I didn't hesitate.

The knife left my hand like a falling star.

I watched the blade spin through shafts of green light, watched the crystal-wielder's eyes go wide as he spotted death blazing towards him. He tried to dodge, but momentum was a cruel mistress.

The knife took him in the chest with a wet, searing thud.

His scream cut off as starlight erupted inside him, burning from the inside out. The smell of charred meat filled the clearing. He looked at me, surprise and fear swirling in his eyes before they went glassy.

And then he fell.

I'd killed someone. Not something, someone.

But there was no time for the horror of it, because the other man’s shadow was already turning. His darkness abandoned Marx, flowing across the ground toward us like spilled oil.

"Shit," I breathed, scrambling to form another blade.

Thatcher descended. No hesitation, no doubt—just terrible purpose.

Through our bond, I felt him reach out with that Primordial gift.

The shadow-wielder made it three steps before his own blood turned traitor.

I watched vessels burst beneath his skin in spiderweb patterns, watched his eyes go wide with shock as his body betrayed him from within. He dropped to his knees, hands clawing at his throat as if he could hold his life inside by will alone.

He couldn't. His body hit the ground hard.

The liquid woman backed away, her form wavering between states as panic finally showed on her shifting features. "This wasn't supposed to—

you weren't supposed to—"

Marx struck.

I still don't know exactly what she did. Her fingers danced in subtle patterns, her lips moving but no sound coming out. Suddenly the woman's constant flux accelerated.

She screamed—or tried to. Hard to scream when your throat keeps melting and reforming. Her flesh flowed faster and faster, unable to hold any shape at all. In seconds, she dissolved into a steaming puddle.

Silence crashed over the clearing.

Three bodies. Three lives ended in heartbeats. The metallic stench of blood mixed with char and whatever foul essence the liquid woman had become.

"Well," Marx said, examining the blood on her arms. "That was efficient."

She kicked the acidic puddle that had, moments ago, been a person. Her boot left ripples on the surface. "Thanks for the assist. I'll try not to make a habit of needing rescue."

But beneath her casual tone, I caught the slight tremor in her hands. The way she kept glancing at the bodies like she expected them to get back up.

She looked at Thatcher. Then at me.

“The brother, I presume?” She drawled, any lingering nerves

abandoned.

“Thatcher.” He nodded in her direction.

“Pleasure. I’m Marx. I heard you killed a god.” She smiled, sizing him up with a playful smile.

"We need to move," I interrupted. "That was loud."

"Fine." Marx sheathed her blades. "Lead the way, heroes."

We pushed deeper into the brush, putting distance between us and the carnage. The forest changed as we climbed the gradual slope—thick undergrowth giving way to older trees with little ground cover. The temperature dropped, and our breath began to fog. We were heading toward the mountains, the terrain growing rockier with each step.

My mind kept replaying that moment—the knife leaving my hand, the surprise in his eyes, the wet sound of impact.

Is this what you wanted, Xül? I thought bitterly. Your perfect little killer, forged and ready?

We found another clearing. My nerves were shot, every sound making me reach for weapons, every shadow potentially hiding another ambush.

That's when I saw him again. The same contestant from the trees, bow drawn on a golden stag that grazed peacefully in the meadow beyond. Its crystal antlers caught the light, throwing rainbow patterns across the grass.

But it was too far to shoot. He was waiting for it to get closer.

There, I sent to Thatcher, pointing.

He followed my gaze. The golden stag stood maybe thirty yards away.

What if there aren't enough prey to go around? Thatcher's mental voice carried an edge. If resources are limited and he gets that stag…

Gods. Is that the catch?

Could be.

Thatcher's expression darkened. We should take him out. Quick strike before he knows we're here.

"No,” I said. "He could have killed me earlier when I was climbing. He didn't."

Marx's eyes flicked between us. "Are you two having some kind of silent conversation right now?"

I met her gaze briefly. "I'll explain later."

"Twins are strange," Marx remarked, spinning a dagger through her fingers. "Whatever you're debating, decide fast. Contestants are already forming hunting parties. Turning on each other. If you don't take what you can now…"

She didn't need to finish. We both knew what she meant.

"He's not threatening us right now. We're not executioners." I locked eyes with Thatcher. "We find another way."

That was before three people tried to murder Marx. Before we added to the body count. Thatcher's jaw tightened. The rules are changing.

Marx sighed. “Some of us prefer our conversations audible."

"We're debating whether to kill him," I said bluntly.

Thais, don't forget we have a goal at the end of this. We have to become ruthless. Become people that we're not. We made a pact, remember?

Marx's laugh was sharp. "Debate faster. He's about to take the shot."

She was right. The contestant had drawn his bow to full extension, muscles steady. A heartbeat from loosing.

“I'm not above stealing that stag.” My voice was steel. “But we’re not killing him.”

I can try to lock his muscles, Thatcher sent. Make it so he can't release.

Can't move at all.

"Do it," I whispered aloud.

I watched Thatcher work, though there was nothing visible to see. No grand gestures or glowing effects. Just intense focus as he reached out with senses that shouldn't have existed anymore.

The change was instant.

The contestant's bow string went slack.

"Go," Thatcher gritted out, sweat beading on his forehead. "Can't hold him forever."

I was already moving, Marx beside me, both of us sprinting for the stag.

The creature's head came up at our approach, crystal antlers chiming softly as it moved. For a moment, it just looked at us.

Then it ran.

"Shit!" I pushed harder, legs burning as I tried to match its speed.

Marx’s hand went to her belt, came back with a glittering blade, and she

threw.

The knife took the stag in the haunch.

It screamed—a sound no deer should make, high and keening and almost rabid. Golden blood sprayed across the grass as it stumbled, crystal antlers ringing as they struck the ground.

I reached it first, star-sword already forming in my hand. The stag looked up at me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, and drove the blade home.

The stag convulsed once, twice, then went still. Its antlers dimmed, cracked, and fell from its head.

“You take them,” I told Marx. “You’re the one who slowed it.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” she said, stuffing the antlers into her

sack.

One down. Two to go.

I looked back to see Thatcher releasing his hold on the contestant. The man collapsed to his knees, gasping, hands shaking as control returned. He looked up at us—at me standing over the dead stag, at Marx cleaning her blade, at Thatcher swaying.

Understanding dawned in his eyes. We could have killed him. And we'd

chosen not to.

He gave us a single nod.

"Well," Marx said, nudging the dead stag with her boot. "So what's next

on our mystical scavenger hunt?"

A horn sounded.

Every muscle in my body locked tight. Beside me, Thatcher went rigid as stone. Even Marx's nonchalance cracked, her face going pale.

"Is it over?" she breathed. "No. It's too soon. We haven't—"

A voice boomed through the forest. Not Davina's honeyed tones, but a deep thunderous voice of a man. Thorne.

"Time is up. The forest has turned, and you are marked for the chase.

Run as the deer runs. Hide as the rabbit hides. Your weapons will not save you, but they may yet serve."

What the fuck does that mean? Panic threaded through Thatcher’s

mental voice I never got to answer.

Agony erupted across my scalp—white-hot, blinding, absolute. I screamed, hands flying to my head as the metal crown came alive. The silver wasn't just heating; it was moving. Flowing like quicksilver, reshaping itself with my skull as the mold.

I dropped to my knees, fingers scrabbling uselessly at metal that had become liquid fire. Warm wetness ran down my face—blood, so much

blood—as the crown reformed.

Something burst through my temples.

The pain transcended anything I'd ever experienced. Bone parted like water. Skin split with wet tearing sounds. And through those wounds, they grew.

I could feel every inch, every branching point, every moment as they

thickened and spread.

Antlers.

The weight was staggering. My neck muscles screamed as they tried to support this new appendage of metal and bone.

"Thais!" Thatcher's voice cracked with his own agony.

I forced my eyes open to see him doubled over, hands pressed to his temples where his own crown was reshaping. His spiraled into thick ram's horns, curving back along his skull in brutal arcs.

Marx fared no better. She stayed on her feet through what must have been sheer will, but her hands shook as she touched the new growths— silver antlers like mine.

"This is bad," she said, and the understatement would have been funny if we weren't all bleeding and changed and terrified. "This is very, very

bad."

The ground began to shake.

It was rhythmic. Like footsteps, if feet were the size of houses.

A silver shape dove from the sky—the eagle we'd been hunting, its wings trailing through the mist. But instead of landing, it slammed into the stag's corpse.

The stag's body convulsed, twisted, changed. Its golden hide rippled as silver feathers pushed through from within. Wings erupted from its sides in fountains of golden blood. And then it grew. And grew.

The stag's legs stretched and warped, hooves splitting into talons that gouged deep furrows in the earth. Its neck elongated, thickened, metallic scales replacing fur as the eagle's head merged with the deer's skull. The resulting face was a raptor's beak lined with flat grinding teeth, and eyes that burned with amber fire.

The abomination stood, testing wings that spanned twenty feet.

"We need to run," I whispered.

The contestant from earlier—the one we'd spared—emerged from the treeline. His own metal horns curved from his temples, blood matting his dark hair. He hadn't run. He’d stayed to watch, maybe to help, or maybe he was just too stunned to move.

Now he raised his bow with shaking hands.

The arrow flew true—a perfect shot that would have dropped any mortal beast. It struck the abomination's eye dead center, sinking deep into

amber fire.

And dissolved.

The contestant's face went slack as the beast turned its full attention on him. But he didn't run. Instead, frost began gathering around his hands. Ice erupted from his palms in jagged spikes, each one roaring towards the monstrosity.

The creature staggered as the cold bit deep. Frost spread across its wings, weighing them down. Ice crystals formed in the joints of its legs.

The contestant pressed his advantage, and his breath came in desperate clouds. Ice formed beneath his feet, spreading outward in fractal patterns.

Massive frozen spears materialized in the air above him, then launched

forward.

The abomination screamed again.

"He might actually—" Thatcher began.

The contestant froze mid-cast.

His eyes went wide, hands clawing at his throat.

His skin split, peeling back like old paint, revealing darkness beneath.

Wood.

Branches burst from his mouth with such violence that teeth scattered like broken pearls. More erupted from his ears, his nose, the corners of his eyes. They grew, reaching toward the sky as if desperate for light.

His scream cut off as wood filled his throat from the inside.

In seconds, where a person had stood, there was only a tree. Young and healthy and fed by the blood of its birth.

"Davina," Marx breathed, and in her voice I heard something I'd never expected from her—fear. "We’re no longer the hunters. We’re—"

The abomination turned those burning eyes toward us.

"We’re the prey." I finished, scrambling to my feet.

"Run," Thatcher said.

We ran.

Behind us, the creature's scream devoured the quiet whole.