Page 45 of The Huntmaster

Sora hesitated. "Once, many cycles ago... they may have been of our blood. But they turned away from the harmony, and now they are something completely different. Something hollow and violent."

Before I could ask more, a heavy thud echoed across the bridge. Toren came sprinting onto the platform, his chest heaving, his blue markings pulsing with a frantic, overstimulated rhythm. He was covered in black, foul-smelling ichor that didn't look anything like the silver blood on my hands.

"They are gone!" Toren gasped, doubling over to catch his breath. "We managed to run the few of the Severed off.”

The Severed, another name for the Vakras. It made sense—cut off from the tree, cut off from the light.

"They were testing us," Toren continued, his eyes scanning the wounded. "They normally wouldn't dare go past their own territory, especially during the Alignment. They must have been testing to see if our Huntmaster was near. They know Kaelen isn't here, but they aren't bold enough for a full strike. Not yet."

He gestured to the other Tribe members, who moved in with practised ease to help lift the injured hunters. They began moving them toward the Healers' Hut, their movements gentle despite the tension in the air.

As the hunters were carried past me, the lead male—the one who had hissed at me earlier—stopped. He looked at his closed wound, then up at me. He bowed his head slightly, a small but significant gesture of respect.

"Ma-una," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

The others followed suit, a soft chorus of "Ma-una" echoing across the platform as they disappeared into the shadows.

My chest tightened in a way I didn’t understand.

Sora placed a hand on my arm, her markings glowing with a warm, appreciative violet. "You did well, Ly-ra. Truly. You have saved their sight, and perhaps their lives. They do not give the 'Ma-una'—the gratitude of the Pulse—lightly."

I looked down at my blood-stained hands, the adrenaline finally starting to ebb, leaving me feeling hollow and cold in the moonlight. "I just did what I could, Sora."

"You did more than that," Sora whispered. "You showed them that even without the Pulse, you can heal the broken."

I looked out into the dark forest, wondering if Kaelen, wherever he was, could feel the shift in the air. The Vakras lurked, the moons rose, and I was no longer just a prisoner in this world.

Chapter 31

Kaelen-Thul

The scent of my forest was changing. Usually, it was a tapestry of ancient wood, sweet nectar, and the steady, grounding thrum of the Pulse. But as I breached the outer perimeter of the southern canopy, the air was stained with something foul. It smelled of stagnant water and old rot—the unmistakable stench of the Severed.

My blood, already simmering from the lunar fever, boiled over into a cold, lethal rage. I didn’t care about the fatigue in my muscles or the way the moons were trying to fracture my focus; I only cared about the intrusion. Every shadow looked like a blade, every rustle of the leaves a threat to the woman I had left behind.

I moved through the upper branches like a ghost made of shadow and gold. My senses, heightened by the Alignment, picked up a localised disturbance near the secondary hunting trails. A snapping of a dry twig. A breath that didn't sync with the leaves’ rhythm.

There.

Tucked into the hollow of a lightning-scarred trunk was a shape that did not belong to the song of this forest. It lacked the vibrant, shifting bioluminescence of my people. Instead, it was a creature of the gutter-roots.

This Vakra was young—frighteningly so. It looked as though it had been pulled prematurely from the dark, a fledgling, lean and shivering, learning how to survive on its own in a world that offered it no warmth. Its skin was a sickly, translucent grey, stretched tight over spindly bones like wet parchment. It had the look of something on high alert yet strangely fragile, its movements jerky and uncoordinated as it nursed a mangled leg. It looked like a newborn beast trying to find its footing in a gale, abandoned to the elements.

Splashes of iridescent silver blood—my people's blood—were drying in patterns across its chest and thin, grey arms, a vivid contrast to its dull skin. It was an unearned badge of violence that made my vision swim with red.

It had been spying. Waiting. Using its own small, pathetic frame as a cloak in the undergrowth.

I didn't give it the mercy of a warning. I dropped from the branch above, a silent weight of gold and fury.

The Vakra shrieked, a sound like grinding stones, and tried to scramble away on its three good limbs. It was fast, fueled by the desperation of a bottom-feeder, but I was the Huntmaster. I intercepted it mid-leap, my hand closing around its narrow, corded throat and slamming it back against the trunk with a force that rattled the wood.

"Give me a reason not to end your hollow existence right here," I growled, my voice vibrating with a predatory resonance that made the very leaves around us tremble. My markings flared a blinding, aggressive crimson—the colour of a killing moon.

The creature hissed, its milk-white eyes darting frantically. It smelled of sulfur and fear, its breath coming in short, rattling gasps. It clawed at my wrist with blackened nails, its jaw working as it fought the instinct to remain silent. In the dark hierarchy of the Vakra, silence was survival, but the pressure of my thumb and the heat of my markings were breaking its fragile resolve.

"Search..." it finally wheezed, a moment of sheer panic shattering its composure. "Search for... scrap... from fallen star. Master wants the metal… says it sings like the Tree. But we... we saw the star-woman. Saw her light."

My grip tightened, the cartilage in its neck creaking. The mention of Lyra and her ship sent a jolt of protective electricity through my spine. They weren't just scavenging; they were targeting her. They were looking for the very things that made her an alien in this world.