The forest floor was a soft, black loam that swallowed the sound of their passing. Ancient trees, titans of oak and yew draped in moss thick as a winter cloak, formed a dense canopy that starved the ground of moonlight. They moved through a world of shadow and muted sound, a hunting party of ghosts armed with bronze and steel. The air was heavy, damp, and thick with the scent of decay and wet earth. But underneath it, something else lingered—a sharp, coppery tang mixed with a cloying, musky sweetness that made the hairs on Aella’s arms stand on end. Manticore.

Her hand was slick with sweat around the leather-wrapped grip of her spear. Every snapped twig, every rustle of leaves in the phantom breeze, sent a jolt through her nerves. This was nothing like the drills in the sun-drenched courtyard. This was real. The silence was a living thing, a predator in its own right, pressing in on them, listening. The forest itself seemed to be holding its breath.

Aella marched in the second rank, just behind the vanguard of grizzled veterans. Ahead of them all, moving with a fluid grace that defied the treacherous, root-snarled ground, was Otrera. The Queen wore no helmet, her dark braids a stark banner against the gloom. She carried her double-headed axe, Labrys, resting on one shoulder, its twin crescent blades seeming to drink the meager light. She didn’t seem to hunt the beast; she seemed to be drawing it to her, a sovereign moving through her domain, daring any lesser creature to challenge her rule.

Aella couldn't tear her eyes from her. Every shift of the Queen’s weight, every subtle turn of her head as she scanned the oppressive darkness, was a study in controlled power. The memory of Otrera’s gaze back in the fortress was a hot coal in Aella’s belly. It had been a brand, a claim. I have placed you in the path of the storm. The words echoed in her mind, a mantra of terror and exhilaration. A strange, forbidden warmth pooled between her legs, a damp heat that had nothing to do with the humidity of the forest. She shifted her weight, the leather of her harness creaking softly, the rough linen of her tunic chafing against her hardened nipples. Was it fear? Or was it something else, something darker and more thrilling that the Queen’s presence ignited in her?

Myrine, the vanguard’s captain, raised a hand, her fist clenched. The signal rippled back through the ranks, and the column of warriors froze, melting into the shadows of the trees. Aella’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the suffocating silence. Myrine pointed toward a gnarled oak just ahead. Aella followed her gesture, her eyes straining in the gloom.

There, gouged deep into the bark seven feet from the ground, were three parallel claw marks. Each was as wide as her hand, and they had sheared through the wood as if it were soft clay. Splinters littered the ground below, and the acrid, musky scent was stronger here, sharp enough to make her nostrils burn. A low murmur, quickly suppressed, moved through the women closest to the front. This was no lion, no bear. This was a monster.

Otrera stepped forward, her sandals making no sound. She ran her gauntleted fingers along the edges of the gouges, her expression unreadable. Aella watched the muscles in the Queen’s back and shoulders flex under her bronze cuirass. She imagined that strength, that focus, directed at her. The thought sent another shiver, hot and sharp, right to her core. She wanted to prove herself worthy of that power, to stand in its glorious, terrifying light and not break.

The Queen turned, her eyes sweeping over the vanguard and finding Aella’s once more. It was only for a second this time, a flicker in the darkness, but it was enough. It was a silent command, a reinforcement of the challenge. Do not fail me. Aella gave a short, sharp nod, her jaw tight. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was now overlaid with a fierce, burning resolve. She would not be the weak link. She would not be the girl who froze. When the beast came, she would meet it, for the sisterhood, for glory, and for the searing approval in those dark, demanding eyes. Otrera turned back to the trail, gesturing them onward, deeper into the suffocating heart of the woods where the monster waited.

They moved for what felt like an eternity, but could only have been minutes. The forest grew denser still, the ancient trees crowding so close their branches interlocked like the gnarled fingers of praying crones. The musky scent of the Manticore was now a suffocating blanket, so thick Aella could taste it on the back of her tongue—a foul cocktail of rotting meat, snake venom, and something unnervingly, electrically alive. Her skin crawled. The silence stretched, thinner and thinner, until it felt it must snap.

And then it did.

It wasn't a sound that broke the quiet; it was a concussion. A roar erupted from the canopy directly above them, a physical force that hit Aella like a battering ram. It was a lion’s bellow amplified tenfold, interwoven with the shriek of a bird of prey and something else, something guttural and resonant that vibrated deep in her bones, making her teeth ache. The very ground trembled. Leaves and twigs rained down as a colossal shape dropped from the branches.

It landed twenty feet in front of the vanguard with a ground-shaking thud, its impact throwing up a spray of black soil and rotted leaves. A lion’s body, grotesquely muscled and covered in matted, tawny fur. A man’s face, twisted into a rictus of hate, with a mouth full of shark-like teeth. And a tail, thick as Aella’s thigh, that whipped through the air, ending not in a tuft of fur but in a glistening array of porcupine-like quills, each the length of her forearm and dripping with a viscous, yellow-green venom. Its eyes, small and black and intelligent, burned with a malevolent fire.

For one eternal, crystalline moment, Aella was stone. Her feet were rooted to the forest floor. Her spear felt like a lead weight in her hand, her shield an impossible burden. The drills, the endless hours of practice, the shouted commands of her instructors—all of it vanished, burned away by the sheer, paralyzing terror of the thing before her. Her breath caught in her throat, a strangled knot of fear. Her mind was a white, roaring void. This is it, a small, whimpering part of her thought. This is how I die. The world narrowed to those hateful eyes and the promise of a swift, brutal end. The cloying sweetness of its scent flooded her senses, a perfume of death, and the forbidden heat between her legs went cold with pure, unadulterated dread.

Then, through the chaos, she saw a blur of motion to her left. Otrera. The Queen hadn't flinched. She was already moving, Labrys held low in a two-handed grip, her body a coiled spring of lethal intent. She wasn't looking at the beast; she was looking past it, her gaze sweeping over her warriors, assessing, commanding without a word. Her eyes met Aella’s for a fraction of a second, and in them there was no fear, only a terrifying, incandescent fury. It was not a look of reassurance. It was a demand. Fight.

The spell broke. The ice in Aella’s veins shattered, replaced by a scalding rush of adrenaline. Her training surged back, a tide of instinct that shoved her conscious mind aside. Her legs unlocked. Her left arm, screaming with sudden life, hoisted her shield, the bronze rim catching the faint light. Her right hand tightened on her spear, the worn leather of the grip a familiar, grounding comfort. The roar of the Manticore faded, replaced by the roar of blood in her own ears. The fear was still there, a wild animal clawing at the inside of her ribs, but now it had a companion: rage. Rage at the beast, rage at her own weakness, and a desperate, burning need to be worthy of the Queen who was already moving to meet the storm head-on. She planted her feet, lowered her center of gravity, and leveled the bronze point of her spear, aligning it with the monster’s throat. The world snapped back into focus, a deadly tableau of flashing claws, shouting women, and the promise of blood.

The Manticore’s roar ripped through the air again, a wave of sound and spittle that flattened the undergrowth. It swiped with a clawed forepaw, the motion a tawny blur. Three of the vanguard warriors, shields locked, met the blow. Bronze screamed against horn-like claws. The shield wall held, but just barely. The women grunted, digging their heels into the soft earth, the impact shuddering through their line. The beast was a whirlwind of muscle and fury, its man-face contorted in a horrifying parody of rage, its shark-toothed maw snapping.

Aella’s world had shrunk to the space between her shield and her spear tip. The roaring in her ears was her own pulse, a frantic, driving rhythm. She saw Myrine, fearless and solid, directing the vanguard’s defense, her voice a sharp bark cutting through the monster’s bellows. The Manticore, enraged by the unyielding shield wall, reared back, its barbed tail whipping like a scorpion’s stinger. It wasn't aiming for the shields. It was aiming over them.

A volley of quills shot from its tail, a sound like a thousand arrows leaving their bows at once. They sliced through the air, their venom-slicked tips glinting. Most thudded into the raised shields of the front rank, punching through the bronze with sickening thuds. Two women cried out, one clutching a shoulder, the other her thigh, where the deadly darts had found flesh.

But in that moment, as the beast launched its ranged attack, it exposed its flank. A handspan of unprotected, rippling muscle just behind its massive shoulder. It was an opening that would last for a single heartbeat.

Aella’s body moved without her conscious command. Thought was too slow. There was only the primal scream of her training, the muscle memory forged through a thousand drills. She took one powerful step forward, then another, slipping through a gap in the vanguard as a wounded warrior fell back. Her shield was up, protecting her face, but her eyes were locked on that patch of tawny hide. The stench of the beast was overwhelming, a physical presence that coated her throat.

She lunged.

Every muscle in her body screamed in unison, from her planted back foot to the straining sinews of her arm. It was a perfect thrust, low and powerful, all her weight and terror and desperate yearning channeled into the bronze point of her spear. The impact was a brutal, jarring shock that shot up her arm and into her shoulder. It wasn't like striking a practice dummy. The spearhead punched through thick, leathery hide with a wet, tearing sound, then sank deep into the dense muscle beneath.

A hot, foul-smelling spray of blood erupted from the wound, spattering her face and chest. It was thick and dark, and it steamed in the cool forest air.

The Manticore’s roar of fury became a piercing, agonized shriek. It was a sound of pure pain, and it was the most terrifying and exhilarating thing Aella had ever heard. The beast whipped its head around, its monstrous face contorted, and its small, black eyes found her. For a searing second, the entire battle faded away. There was only Aella and the monster. It saw her. It knew she was the source of its pain.

A wave of pure, undiluted terror washed over her, so cold it felt hot, but mingled with it was a dizzying, triumphant surge of power. She had done it. She had struck the beast. A fierce, wild heat flooded her, centering low in her belly and spreading downwards, a hot dampness blooming between her thighs that was pure adrenaline and something more primal. She felt a drop of sweat, or perhaps the creature’s blood, trace a path from her temple down her cheek like a tear.

The monster’s shriek broke the battlefield’s stalemate. It forgot the shield wall, forgot the other warriors. Its entire being was now focused on the slight girl who had dared to wound it. It swiveled, its massive body surprisingly agile, bringing its claws and teeth to bear on her.

Aella yanked her spear free with a grunt, the blade sucking from the wound. She stumbled back a step, bracing her shield, preparing for the obliterating impact. This was it. She had bought them a moment, and now she would pay for it.

But the veterans did not waste the gift she had given them.

"Now!" Myrine’s voice was thunder. "Hamstring it! Nets!"

As the Manticore lunged for Aella, two heavy, weighted nets, thrown by warriors from the flanks, sailed through the air. They unfurled and dropped over the beast’s head and shoulders, the thick ropes tangling in its claws as it thrashed. Simultaneously, two other veterans darted in low, their short swords flashing. They hacked at the monster’s rear legs, severing tendons with brutal, practiced blows.

The Manticore roared in frustrated rage, its forelegs entangled, its back legs suddenly refusing to obey. It staggered, its lunge turning into a clumsy, stumbling fall. It crashed to the forest floor, still struggling, still lethal, but pinned, wounded, and momentarily helpless. The women of the vanguard swarmed, their spears stabbing, their swords flashing, keeping the beast down. The forest floor was turning into a churned morass of black mud and dark, steaming blood.

The women of the vanguard moved like a pack of wolves, a flurry of bronze and leather descending upon the downed beast. Spears thrust into its thick haunches and shoulders, short swords flashed, and the Manticore thrashed against the entangling nets, its roars of fury now laced with shrieks of pain and frustration. It was a maelstrom of controlled violence, a brutal, efficient dismantling of a nightmare.

Aella stood just outside the circle of death, her chest heaving, her spear dripping with the creature’s hot, dark blood. The world seemed to move in a dizzying, slow-motion ballet. The scent of blood and venom was a thick perfume in the air, coating her tongue. Her own blood sang in her ears, a wild, triumphant song that drowned out the monster’s dying screams. She had done it. She had not frozen. She had wounded the unkillable thing. A dizzying wave of heat, sharp and intoxicating, washed through her, pooling low in her belly, making the linen of her tunic cling to the slick skin between her thighs.

Then, through the chaos, she saw her.

Otrera.

The Queen moved through the press of her warriors, and they parted for her as if by instinct, a wave receding from the shore. They created a path for their sovereign, their grim, blood-spattered faces turning to her with fierce reverence. Otrera didn't hurry. Her steps were deliberate, measured, each one a testament to her absolute command of the moment. She held Labrys in a two-handed grip, its twin blades gleaming, seeming to hum with a hungry light of their own.

Aella’s breath caught. The shouts of the other women, the wet tearing of blades, the groans of the dying beast—it all faded into a distant murmur. Her entire universe contracted to the sight of the Queen. Otrera stopped before the Manticore’s thrashing head. The beast, seeing this new, greater threat, summoned a final reserve of strength, snapping its shark-toothed jaws, its man-face a mask of pure, distilled hatred.

Otrera paid its fury no mind. She planted her feet, her sandals sinking slightly into the blood-soaked loam. Aella watched, mesmerized, as the muscles in the Queen’s back and shoulders bunched and coiled under her bronze cuirass. It was a display of sublime, contained power, every sinew and fiber aligned for a single, perfect purpose. Otrera raised the great axe high over her head, the twin crescent blades carving a deadly arc against the gloom of the forest canopy. For a moment, she held the pose, a living statue of vengeance, the absolute apex of lethal grace.

Aella felt a jolt go through her, a current that was half terror, half a raw, aching desire. To command power like that, to be power like that… The thought was so overwhelming it made her dizzy. She wanted to kneel. She wanted to be the ground beneath the Queen’s feet.

Then the axe came down.

It didn't fall; it struck like lightning. There was a sound that was not a clang of metal or a thud of wood, but a horrifying, wet thump, a percussive crack of bone and a shearing of flesh that cut through every other noise on the battlefield. The Manticore’s head, still contorted in its final snarl, was nearly severed from its thick neck. The spine snapped. A fountain of dark, arterial blood erupted, drenching the Queen’s front from chest to thigh.

The beast gave one last, shuddering convulsion. Its barbed tail drooped, its claws went limp, and its hateful, intelligent eyes glazed over, becoming dull, black stones. Then, silence. A profound, ringing silence broken only by the harsh, ragged breathing of two dozen warriors and the slow, steady drip of blood from the trees, from their weapons, from the Queen’s axe.

Otrera stood over the corpse, her chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm. She was splattered in the creature’s gore, a savage icon of victory. With a grunt of effort, she wrenched Labrys free from the monster’s neck. She gave the axe a single, sharp flick, sending a spray of blood and tissue onto the leaf litter. She did not look at her warriors. She looked at her kill, her expression grim, satisfied, and utterly terrifying in its intensity.

Aella couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. Her heart hammered against her ribs not with fear, but with a kind of religious awe. The sight of her Queen, blood-soaked and triumphant, was the most beautiful and terrible thing she had ever witnessed. The heat inside her intensified, a molten core of adrenaline and forbidden worship. She felt utterly exposed, as if the Queen’s final, brutal strike had laid bare something deep within her own soul, something wild and dark that knelt in adoration before this display of absolute, merciless power.

Later, while cleaning her blade, Otrera gives Aella a curt nod of approval, a rare sign of praise that makes Aella’s heart race. The beat of it is a frantic drum against her ribs, louder than the crackle of the campfire, more insistent than the distant cry of a night bird. She sits across the flames from her commander, her own spear lying clean across her lap, but her hands have stilled. She can only watch Otrera.

The firelight carves sharp angles into Otrera’s face, highlighting the strong line of her jaw and the concentration in her dark eyes. She works with an economy of motion that is mesmerizing, her powerful hands wiping the last of the Manticore’s black blood from the bearded head of her axe. Aella’s gaze traces the lines of Otrera’s forearms, the muscles cording and relaxing with each pass of the oiled cloth. A light sheen of sweat still clings to her skin, mixing with the grime of the hunt. The sight is so potent, so overwhelmingly vital, that a deep, coiling heat ignites in Aella’s belly. It’s a feeling she recognizes, a secret warmth she has nurtured in the quiet of her own bedroll, but never has it been so sharp, so demanding.

Otrera finishes her task, setting the formidable axe down with a soft thud. She looks up, her eyes locking with Aella’s across the dancing flames. She saw Aella watching her. She must have. Aella feels a flush creep up her neck, a mixture of embarrassment and a strange, thrilling fear. Otrera rises without a word, her tall frame eclipsing the fire, and walks around the blaze.

She stops directly in front of Aella, who remains seated on the log, forced to crane her neck to look up at her commander. Otrera’s shadow swallows her whole. The scent of her—pine, sweat, and the faint, metallic tang of blood—fills Aella’s senses.

"You froze," Otrera says, her voice a low rumble. It’s not an accusation, just a statement of fact.

Aella’s mouth goes dry. She can only nod, her throat too tight for words.

"But you moved when it counted," Otrera continues. She crouches down, bringing them eye to eye. Her proximity is suffocating, intoxicating. Aella can feel the heat radiating from her body. "Your spear arm was true. You created the opening." Otrera’s calloused thumb comes up to brush a stray lock of hair from Aella’s cheek. The touch is feather-light but it sends a jolt straight to Aella’s core, and she feels a fresh wave of dampness gather between her thighs. Her breath hitches.

Otrera’s eyes dip, first to Aella’s lips, then lower, to the pulse hammering at the base of her throat. A slow, knowing smile touches her mouth. "That look in your eyes," she murmurs, her voice dropping to a husky whisper that is for Aella alone. "It is the same look you had right before you drove your spear into the beast’s flank. All that terror, all that fire."

Her hand moves from Aella’s cheek to her jaw, her grip firm, possessive. She tilts Aella’s head up. "I want to taste it."

It is not a request. Before Aella can form a thought, Otrera leans in and captures her mouth. The kiss is nothing like Aella could have imagined. It’s not soft or tentative; it is a conquest. It is brutal and demanding, a reflection of the woman herself. Otrera’s lips are firm, tasting of smoke and something wild and uniquely her. Her tongue pushes past Aella’s teeth, plundering her mouth with the same fierce certainty she used to wield her axe. Aella gasps into the kiss, a sound of shock and overwhelming pleasure. Her hands, of their own accord, come up to grip Otrera’s shoulders, holding on as if she might be swept away.

The heat in Aella’s abdomen explodes, spreading through her veins like wildfire. She presses into the kiss, her initial surprise melting into a desperate, answering hunger. She can feel the hard press of Otrera’s chest against her own, the solid muscle of her thighs against her knees. Otrera’s other hand slides down Aella’s neck, over her collarbone, and comes to rest possessively on the swell of her breast, her thumb stroking the peak through the worn leather of Aella’s tunic. Aella moans, the sound swallowed by Otrera’s mouth, her nipple hardening into a tight, aching point beneath the deliberate touch.

Just as suddenly as it began, Otrera pulls back. She is breathless, her dark eyes glittering with a triumphant fire. Aella is left panting, her lips swollen and tingling, her entire body thrumming with an unslaked need.

"Tomorrow," Otrera says, her voice thick with promise as she rises to her full height, "we march at dawn. Get some rest, Aella."

She turns and walks away toward her own tent, leaving Aella trembling by the fire, her world irrevocably altered.