Page 13 of Hellbound

She looked to the distance through bleary, watering eyes.

Separated by several major cities, Ksenia could see the black gothic spires piercing the sky at the heart of Kraal. The architecture grew more ornate the closer one got to Hearth Castle—garish and filigreed, each city trying to outshine the other.

She could navigate the straight and true path from Brannfels, but it was full of people, and she wasn’t exactly in the mood for people.

More than that, every city would demand tithe at the gates: coin, then blood. The first, she didn’t have. The second, she didn’t want to give, no matter how immune she was.

Travelers would cough up a fee and then prick their finger upon their own blades or the one proffered by the city guard and surrender a single drop of blood into a crystalline vial held at the gate.

Ravens then flew to Hearth from their posts, carrying vials strapped to their clawed feet.

It was a ritual of “loyalty” that the kingdom had made as ordinary as breathing.

By the time someone reached the throne room, they’d have bled multiple times.

To the citizenry, it was just a macabre show of sacrifice to their king.

But bondsmiths knew what it really was.

Radegast’s hellbound power of compulsion had no godlike, sweeping dominion over the land, but it worked quietly, elegantly; those within its reach found Karsan able to compel an honest answer if he asked the right question, to believe his will to be their own when he needed it most.

And that second part was how the butcher king rewrote history itself.

Her throat made a visceral sound as it closed, preventing bile from reaching her tongue.

Her feet moved without second thought.

Cobbled paths turned to cracked stone, cracked stone to hard-packed dirt, roots splitting the path like exposed veins.

Ahead, the forest waited. It was around a day’s journey on foot, and the sight of the reaching branches snapped tension down her spine—she’d bled out under similar trees not even a day ago. Still, she’d rather be eaten alive by the beasts and hunters and whatever else lurked in the darkness than the alternative. She’d take her chances over bruising her ego.

A light rain filtered through the dense canopy, turning the daylight a hazy, grayish-green. The floor was a carpet of sodden leaves releasing their perfume of decay with every step.

Water ran in rivulets down the tree trunks, pooling in the hollows that gaped like empty eye sockets—lifeless and weary in the daylight. Whatever menaces had tracked her every movement the night prior now appeared dormant—just another feature of the landscape. Vibrant green moss cushioned every fallen log and rock. The cool, damp air clung to her skin and seeped into her clothing.

Fog began rolling in, filling the uneven ground with hazy white pools and strips.

Occasionally, she passed landmarks: the splintered barrel, banded with ivy and rusted iron. A shrine to a minor god of merchants, its eyes scratched out, offerings rotted black in its hands.

A faint metallic tang wafted to her—blood? Or perhaps old iron, buried deep. Her sense of smell had never been so strong.

Now, her senses caught everything, and it revulsed her.

She remembered her own blood spilled onto the muddy forest floor and empathized a little more with Danika’s disdain for the outdoors. She pressed her palm against the closest tree, catching her breath as she fought back the nausea.

When she resumed walking, her boot squelched and the mud threatened to yank it clean off her foot.

Ksenia froze. She had stepped square into a rusted metal trap opening, its jagged teeth covered with moss and leaves, but still capable of snapping her shin in two.

Her vision narrowed as she spotted the hairline fractures in the metal, where it had been crudely tempered. The rusted coil appeared welded in place by water and time. These woods were a trove of traps, laid by hunters of big game: bears, wildcats, and boar.

She wrenched her foot out, taking care not to disturb the device.

A metallic crack broke the silence.

An unmistakable scent hit her—sharp, coppery, and immediate.

Fresh blood.