The wilderness was not merciful.
Each step on the frozen earth and brittle pine needles felt blessedly real after the treachery of the river ice—ice that had offered nothing to the void gnawing inside him. The river was behind him now, its cold silence replaced by the restless groan of the woods. Here, the ground crunched and snapped beneath his boots. The wind scraped through blackened branches, carrying scents sharp enough to slice: rot, sap, distant blood.
His body screamed with the agony of unfinished transformation, but pain was a whisper compared to the hunger. It hollowed him, a savage emptiness clawing at the core of his being. It was not the hunger of the starving, nor the thirst of the dying. It was a need deeper than marrow, roaring in his blood, demanding to be fed.
Ignore it. He forced one foot in front of the other.
The night clung to him like wet ash. Trees hunched like broken things against the bruised sky, casting twisted shadows that seemed to flinch away from his passage. His senses—sharpened to an unbearable pitch—caught every whisper of wind, every shift of the earth, every stuttering heartbeat not his own.
That's why he heard them long before they attacked.
The scavengers.
Three shapes slinking through the woods, the stink of unwashed skin and iron weapons carried to him on the cutting wind. He caught the scrape of leather against bark. The quickened breathing. The metallic rasp of a blade drawn from a sheath.
The first rushed him from the side, a raw yell tearing from his throat as he charged, crude axe raised high. For Nikolai, the world seemed to fragment, motion elongating, the descending axe hanging like a morbid pendulum.
Instinct, not thought.
He sidestepped with effortless, liquid speed. His hand shot out—an extension of pure reflex—and clamped around the attacker's thick wrist. Surprise flared in the man's wide eyes, instantly swallowed by panic.
Nikolai twisted, feeling the sickening give of bone through his palm, a wet crack sharp in the sudden quiet. He drove his elbow directly into the man's throat.
Break.
A choked gasp, eyes bulging.
Crush.
Nikolai released the wrist, already turning as the man collapsed, his senses flaring, pinpointing the next threat.
Move.
The second attacker lunged from the shadows behind him, letting out a high-pitched shriek, knife aimed low. Nikolai spun, a disorienting whirl of motion that felt both alien and innate. The blade tore through Wanda's cloak and scraped a shallow line across his ribs—a brief sting already fading beneath the cool surge of unnatural vitality.
Too slow.
Before the attacker could press the advantage, Nikolai grabbed a handful of the man's greasy coat, hauled him off balance, and met the startled, hate-filled eyes for a fraction of a second before smashing his forehead into the bridge of the scavenger's nose.
Bone disintegrated under the impact. A wet crunch. A strangled noise cut short. The man crumpled, blood erupting from his face.
The third scavenger—a woman, quicker than the others—hesitated. Saw what he had done. She fled into the trees without a sound.
Good. Run.
Nikolai watched her go, chest heaving.
The world tilted.
Blood.
It pooled in the frozen dirt, steaming faintly. It painted the shattered faces of the fallen. It sang to him, louder than the howl of the wind, louder than the pounding of his own heart.
Feed.
The hunger clawed at him, ripping through his will with desperate, aching talons. His vision narrowed. Every muscle in his body trembled with the effort of restraint.
He dropped to one knee, clutching his head, snarling like a wounded animal.
Feed. Feed. Feed.
He could smell it—iron, salt, life. He could feel it crawling along his skin, thickening the air.
No. Not like this.
With a hoarse cry, he forced himself upright, reeling from the temptation. The blood was a trap as much as any ambush. He would not lose himself here. Not yet.
Shoving away from the bodies, he stumbled through the woods, every step a war between the remnants of the man he had been and the thing he was becoming.
A new scent cut through the madness: woodsmoke.
Another trap? He slowed, forcing breath through clenched teeth, pushing past the frenzied haze of hunger. Up ahead, through the trees, faint firelight flickered.
A camp.
Cautious now, he crept closer, every sense straining.
Five figures ringed a low fire. None of them spoke. They sat, weapons loose in their hands, their gazes fixed on the darkness beyond the fire's reach.
Waiting.
For him.
The realization hit like a slap of ice water.
Her hand's in this. Smells like her work.
The way they sat—too still, too expectant. They had been placed here, baited like snares in the dark.
He watched them for a long moment, weighing his options.
The hunger snarled, urging him forward, promising easy prey.
No. Not tonight.
He slipped back into the trees, silent as smoke, retreating into the wildness that now seemed more a part of him than the human shell he wore.
The night closed around him, thick and cold. He moved deeper into the woods, the flickering firelight fading behind him.
Above, the stars burned like distant eyes.
And somewhere beyond them, the Eye watched.
The hunger burned. The cold gnawed. His enemies gathered.
Nikolai moved through the wilderness, a broken thing stitched together by rage, hunger, and a will that refused to yield.
The hunt had begun.