"First rule—don't run. Never. Even if every cell screams for it. Stand your ground. Control your breathing. The sigkhun senses panic, feeds on it. Show fear—you've lost."

  Livien nodded. Her throat had dried.

  "Second—don't look into the empty sockets. Where its eyes should be... If you peer in, you'll see the worst from your past. Memories best left undisturbed. It paralyses more powerfully than venom. Whilst you're seeing your memories, the creature will already have torn out your throat."

  The orc woman stepped closer, placed a heavy palm on the troll woman's shoulder.

  "Third—aim for the maw. The sigkhun's hide is thick, dense. Arrows bounce off like from stone, though weapons of direct impact and Etheric abilities can damage it. But the maw—that's the vulnerable spot. The gullet is soft, unprotected. Hit there—you'll deal damage. Might even kill it, if you're lucky."

  Her hand clenched tighter.

  "Fourth—fire. The sigkhun fears flame. Doesn't kill it, but frightens it off. Take this torch." The orc woman pulled one from her inventory and held it out to the girl. Livien noted it was an utterly ordinary torch. She had an identical one herself, but still accepted another.

  "Now take the oil, coat the arrowheads with it and store them in your inventory. You'll light them just before shooting."

  Banarka held out another item and stepped back. Her gaze slid towards the jungle's depths. In Nemira's hands proved an ordinary-looking flask, save that the neck was wide. Evidently so the arrowheads could pass through freely, the girl surmised.

  "Fifth—never hunt a sigkhun alone. Even I don't risk it. The creature's cunning, patient. It'll kill you if you let your guard slip. You need a partner. One distracts, the other strikes."

  She turned back to the troll woman.

  "We work simply. I draw its attention, you shoot. But there are nuances." Banarka crouched, scooped a handful of earth. Her fingers traced a circle on the packed grass. "The sigkhun's no fool. It sees two of us—it'll dart between us, choosing the weak link."

  She drew a line through the circle's centre.

  "So, we do this. I go out first. The creature will see me, scent me. Focus on me. You stay in shadow, about 130 feet behind. Bow ready, arrow coated with oil. Torch close by."

  The orc woman added two more points—one large, one smaller.

  "When the sigkhun charges at me, I'll retreat left. Fast, sharp. The creature will carry forward by momentum—they're heavy, despite their speed. That's when you light your arrow and loose into its maw. Aim true. One second for the shot, no more."

  Her fingers swept dirt from her palm.

  "If you miss—run right, diagonally. Not back, not forward. The sigkhun will turn to me, I'll manage to distract it. But you won't get a second chance immediately—the creature will wise up, become warier."

  Banarka rose, dusted off her hands on her trousers.

  "Main thing—keep your distance. Hundred feet minimum. Closer—it'll scent you. Further—you won't manage to shoot at the right moment. Watch me, not the beast. When I jerk left—shoot. No deliberation, no hesitation."

  She retrieved from her inventory a small horn, rubbed it with her thumb.

  "If something goes wrong—I blow this. You hear it—bolt to Taviri'Naa. Don't play hero, don't try to help. Just run. But under no circumstances run towards the cursed village!"

  The horn vanished back.

  "One more thing. The sigkhun radiates fear. Physically tangible. It comes close—your legs buckle, your hands shake. That's normal. Everyone goes through it. But you must shoot, even if the whole world swims before your eyes."

  The orc woman stepped closer, leant in so their faces were level.

  "So remember. When it hits, just exhale and shoot. Don't think, don't analyse. Just loose your arrow. Your body will do the rest—your skill's at a high enough level."

  She straightened, her gaze sliding over the girl—appraising, hard.

  "And lastly. If the sigkhun breaks through to me, if it catches me—don't waste time on rescue. Shoot me. Better an arrow in the head than death-soaked fangs in the throat. Understood?"

  Livien swallowed. Nodded.

  "Good. Then coat your arrows and stow them."

  Banarka wheeled and slid into the thickets. Soundlessly, like a shadow.

  Nemira pulled from her inventory a full hundred arrows—her entire supply—and set about methodically dipping the heads into the flask of oil. Each treated arrow she immediately stowed back in her ring, freeing her hands for the next. She worked quickly but carefully, ensuring the oil soaked the metal properly.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The flask lasted only fifteen arrows. By the end, almost no liquid remained—the final three arrows had to be coated by pouring the scant dregs directly onto the heads and rubbing them in with her fingers. Some oil ended up on her skin, leaving a greasy mark, but the girl didn't bother wiping it—there was no time for trifles.

  Having stored the remaining arrows—they occupied a separate inventory slot—Livien paused for a moment, examining the empty flask in her hand. The glass glinted in the uneven light breaking through the tree crowns. Inside still remained several drops of oil, trickling down the walls.

  After brief thought, she threw the empty flask and its stopper into her ring as well. It might prove useful—who knew when she'd manage to obtain such oil again, and an empty container always found use. The items vanished from her palm, dissolving into the magical storage.

  Rising to her feet and brushing off her knees—earth and dry grass clinging to them—the girl looked around. Banarka had vanished into the thickets so swiftly and soundlessly that it seemed as though she'd never been there at all. Only flattened grass and a barely distinguishable track on the damp soil indicated direction.

  Nemira set off in pursuit at a light jog, trying to move as quietly as the orc woman, though she knew—she had a long way to go before reaching such mastery. Branches caught at her shoulders, leaves rustled beneath her feet louder than she'd have liked. Every sound seemed deafening in the tense silence of the forest.

  The jungle changed with each step.

  At first almost imperceptibly—bird cries grew slightly rarer, rustling in the bushes slightly quieter. Then it became obvious: the beasts had vanished. Completely.

  Livien noticed signs—scratches on bark, droppings by roots, trampled grass. But the animals themselves seemed to have evaporated. No roars, no tramping, not even the squeak of rodents. Dead silence pressed on her eardrums, forced her to listen to her own breathing.

  Banarka moved ahead without looking back. Her back was tense, shoulders slightly raised. Her arms were free, but her fingers clenched and unclenched in rhythm with her steps—readiness to snatch her weapon at any moment.

  The air grew colder. Not sharply, but noticeably. The humid stuffiness of the jungle retreated, yielding to dry coolness. Nemira rubbed her hands together, dispelling goose bumps on her skin. Strange—the sun still hung high, breaking through the crowns, but the warmth from it seemed less.

  The vegetation thinned. Trees stood further apart, trunks thinner, crowns less dense. Vines appeared more rarely, and those looked wan, as though draining the last juices from the earth. Grass beneath her feet crackled—dry, brittle. Leaves on bushes paled, edges curling inward.

  Banarka stopped by a fallen trunk, ran her palm across the bark. The wood crumbled beneath her fingers, showered down as grey dust.

  "Long dead."

  The voice sounded hollow, like an echo in a cave.

  Nemira approached closer, peered at the tree. Inside—emptiness. No beetles, no grubs, no signs of rot. Simply dust. She touched the trunk—cold, like stone in winter.

  The orc woman moved on. Her steps became even more cautious, each footfall placed deliberately, soundlessly. The axe hung at her belt, but her hand kept sliding to the grip, checking.

  Livien walked 130 feet behind, maintaining distance. Bow on her back, quiver close at hand. Torch in her left palm—unlit as yet, but ready to flare with one movement.

  The ground beneath her feet changed too. Black soil gave way to grey loam, then sand. Roots jutted from the soil, exposed, as though trees had tried to wrench themselves free and flee but hadn't succeeded. Moss vanished completely—not a single green patch.

  The smell changed. Earlier the jungle had reeked of moisture, rot, flowers, beasts. Now of nothing. Nothing at all. The air was empty, as though scorched from within.

  Banarka stopped at a fork in the path, crouched. Her fingers slid across the earth, lifted a handful of sand. She poured it slowly, watching the grains fall between her fingers.

  "Close."

  One word. Nothing more.

  She rose, dusted off her hands. Her gaze darted back—checking whether the troll woman was in position. Satisfied, she nodded and moved left, turning from the beaten path into the undergrowth.

  Only the undergrowth was no longer the same. Bushes sparse, branches bare. Leaves had fallen, lay in piles by the roots. Dry, grey, as though faded by time.

  The temperature dropped even further. Nemira could see her own breath—white clouds of vapour melting in the air. Her fingers began to go numb from cold. She gripped the torch tighter, feeling the wood warming her palm.

  Ahead showed a slope. Gentle, strewn with stones. Grass grew in patches between bare patches of earth. Banarka slowed her pace, nearly stopped. Her hand settled on her axe, gripped the hilt.

  The silence became absolute.

  Nemira froze, listening. Nothing. No wind, no rustling, no crackle. Only the beat of her own heart, hollow and loud.

  The orc woman turned, looked straight at her. Eyes narrow, focused. Lips moved soundlessly, forming one word.

  'Get ready.'

  Banarka stepped forward. Slowly, deliberately. Each step—a check of the ground beneath her feet, an assessment of the surroundings. The axe slid into her right hand, the blade turning forward.

  Nemira stepped back, measuring the distance. 115 feet. Hundred. She stopped when the distance seemed sufficient. She transferred the torch to her right hand, reached with her left to the quiver. Her fingers found the fletching of an arrow—one of those coated with oil. She pulled it out, clamped the shaft between her teeth, freeing her hands.

  The bow slid from her shoulder. The string stretched beneath the weight of the limbs. Nemira ran her thumb along the wood, checking smoothness. No notches, no cracks. The weapon was in order.

  The orc woman disappeared behind a stone outcrop. A second—and reappeared, already further on. She moved in a zigzag, denying a potential opponent the chance to calculate her trajectory. Clever.

  The cold intensified. Nemira felt her skin covering with goose bumps beneath her clothing. Her breathing quickened—not from fear, from the temperature. Her body demanded more oxygen to keep warm.

  Banarka stopped by a large boulder. She pressed her back against it, looked around. She held the axe in both hands, ready to strike. Her gaze darted left, right, left again. Nothing.

  Nemira pulled the arrow from her mouth, laid it on the string. The head gleamed with an oily sheen—the drops hadn't fully soaked in yet. Her finger slid along the shaft, found the balance. A good arrow, straight.

  The torch in her right hand was ready. One swing—and flame would flare. She rehearsed the movement mentally: bring fire to the head, wait a second for the oil to catch, then draw the string and shoot. Three movements. Fast, precise.

  Lighting the torch beforehand was impossible; the creature would scent fire immediately.

  The orc woman moved on. Another 30 feet. Fifteen. The slope grew steeper, stones larger. Between boulders gaped dark fissures—either dens or simply crevices. Banarka skirted them, not approaching.