Nemira slammed into the throng of corpses shoulder-first. Knocked the first one down. Her fingers dug into the second—into the eye sockets, deep. The skull crunched when she tore out a piece.

  The jawless orc latched onto her arm. It had no teeth, but its gums clamped down hard. Black saliva ran down her blue skin.

  She swung. Hurled the corpse aside—it bowled over two more.

  Her fist crashed down on the elf woman's head. She crumpled. The skull cracked, caved inward.

  Claws raked Nemira's back. Deep furrows, from shoulder blades to waist.

  Pain flared—sharp, searing.

  But instead of a scream, laughter tore from her throat. Hoarse, deranged.

  Blood gushed down her back. Hot. Sticky. Ran in rivulets, dripped to the floor.

  Something stirred in the depths. Ancient. Ravenous.

  Nemira wheeled. Seized a corpse by the throat. Squeezed. The windpipe burst with a wet squelch.

  Claws slashed her flank. A ragged wound, shallow. But blood flowed in a fresh stream.

  Drops struck the stone floor. Spread in dark patches.

  And twitched.

  Nemira didn't notice. She drove her elbow into a troll's temple. The skull bones yielded. Its head jerked aside—too far, unnaturally.

  The corpse fell. And she was already lunging at the next.

  Her nails sank into an orc woman's flesh. Tore open her stomach. Entrails spilled out—black, putrefied.

  The stench struck her nose. Cloying, acrid.

  Her stomach clenched, but no nausea followed. Only fury blazed brighter.

  Nemira seized the corpse by the ribs. Wrenched them apart. Bones cracked, parted. The ribcage flew open like gates.

  Blood poured from a dozen wounds. Back, flank, shoulder, thigh. Deep cuts, ragged bites.

  Each drop that touched the floor froze for a second. Then quivered. Rose.

  Took shape.

  Pools of blood on the stones boiled. Darkened, thickened.

  Stretched into thin needles. Sharp as glass shards.

  Nemira swung. Her fist slammed into a troll's jaw—it flew back, knocked down three more.

  And the needles rose from the floor. Hung suspended in the air.

  Trembled.

  And shot forward.

  Buried themselves in the corpses. In eyes, in throats, in chests. Pierced the rotting flesh clean through.

  Nemira didn't see this. She tore out an orc's throat, snapped an elf's arm. The world narrowed to the roar in her ears, the heat in her veins, the meat beneath her fingers.

  Fresh wounds covered her body. A blade slashed her back—from shoulder blade to spine. Teeth clamped on her leg—fangs closed round her calf.

  Blood flowed faster. Flooded the floor, spread in pools.

  And each drop came alive.

  Rose. Stretched. Took form.

  Blades grew from the pools. Curved, uneven. As though someone had forged them hastily, from whatever was to hand.

  They cleaved the air. Crashed into the corpses—into limbs, into torsos. Hacked off arms, pierced stomachs.

  Nemira seized a troll's head in both hands. Wrenched. Vertebrae crunched. Another wrench—the neck snapped.

  A sickle grew from the blood at her feet. Curved, with a jagged blade.

  Rose. Described an arc.

  Severed the undead orc woman's head.

  The troll woman snarled. Tore, broke, crushed. Felt no pain. Only heat in her blood, fury in her chest.

  Wounds multiplied. Blood poured in rivers. Spread across the temple floor, rose as crimson mist.

  And then something changed.

  The air trembled. Vibrated.

  Blood on the stones boiled. Rose as a cloud—in the finest droplets, so fine they seemed almost weightless.

  Began spinning round Nemira. Faster and faster, denser.

  The vortex gathered strength. A bloody blizzard whirled round the troll woman—cutting, blinding.

  Droplets took shape on the move. Became thin plates. Sharp as razors. Red petals spinning in a dance of death.

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  Corpses fell into the vortex. Petals sliced through rotting flesh—in hundreds of small cuts that became deep wounds. Severed fingers, opened muscles, slashed tendons.

  Nemira stood at the storm's centre. Eyes blazing with yellow flame. Blood ran down her body, but no longer fell to the floor.

  Rose. Poured into the vortex. Spun faster still.

  Banarka froze by the wall. The axe trembled in her hands.

  "What the..."

  Words stuck in her throat. Before her unfolded something beyond her comprehension. A bloody hurricane filled the temple, ground the corpses to pulp.

  And at the centre stood the troll woman. And smiled.

  The vortex compressed. Condensed. Red petals transformed into a solid wall.

  Corpses fell one after another. Arms severed at the elbows, legs at the knees. Bodies fell apart in pieces, as though a butcher worked with invisible blades.

  Nemira stepped forward. The vortex moved with her—a bloody sphere that ground everything in its path.

  An undead troll woman lunged at her. Petals met her halfway. Slashed her face. The nose detached; the cheek caved in. Another flurry of strikes—and the head slid from the shoulders.

  Nemira didn't stop. She walked through the temple, kicking aside remains.

  A one-armed orc tried to bite. The vortex tore away its jaw. Then its neck. The body crashed at her feet.

  Blood continued flowing from the troll woman's wounds. But she felt no pain. Only warmth spreading through her veins, as though molten metal had replaced her blood.

  A woman swung a rusty blade. A petal severed the hand before the blow could land. Another sliced the throat. A third ripped open the stomach.

  The undead fell. Nemira stepped over the finally laid-to-rest body.

  The vortex narrowed with each second. Pressed closer to her skin, sharper. But didn't cut. Only spun, protecting, slashing everything that came too close.

  Banarka retreated to the altar. Fingers gripped the axe haft till her joints ached.

  "Nemira!"

  The voice sounded dull. The troll woman didn't react.

  The orc woman tried again:

  "Nemira, snap out of it!"

  Yellow eyes slid in her direction. Empty. Crazed.

  Banarka realised—the troll woman didn't recognise her.

  The final corpses surrounded Livien. Seven. Trolls, orcs, humans—a mixture of rotting flesh and exposed bone.

  They charged as one. With roars, with snarls.

  The vortex exploded.

  Red petals transformed into spikes. Long, twisted, more resembling frozen lightning. Burst outward in all directions simultaneously.

  Pierced the corpses clean through. Chests, stomachs, heads. Bodies jerked, hung suspended on bloody spears.

  The girl raised her hand. Fingers clenched into a fist.

  The spikes snapped back. Sharply. Corpses flew towards her—drawn by invisible force.

  Collided mid-air. Tangled in a heap right before the troll woman.

  She lowered her hand.

  The vortex crashed down upon the pile of bodies. Sliced, tore, pulverised. In seconds. In an instant.

  When the bloody shroud dispersed, of the seven corpses only pieces remained.

  Livien stood amongst the remains. Her chest heaved. Blood ran down her arms, down her legs, dripped from her chin.

  The vortex thinned. Petals became more transparent, blurred in the air.

  The yellow glow in her eyes dimmed. The troll woman blinked. Once. Again.

  The roar in her ears subsided. The world returned—sharp, too bright.

  Pain followed.

  Her back blazed with fire. Flank, shoulder, thigh—each wound announced itself at once.

  Nemira swayed. Her legs buckled.

  She fell to her knees. Her hands braced against the stone floor—slick with blood, with chunks of flesh.

  Her stomach twisted. A wave of nausea rose to her throat.

  The troll woman coughed. Spat blood. Her own—dark, almost black.

  Her eyes slowly focused. Hands. Floor. Remains all around.

  Memory returned in fragments. Corpses. Fury. Blood.

  And something else. Something dark, hungry. That had answered the pain and seized control.

  "What did I..."

  Her voice broke. Nemira raised her hand. It trembled. Covered in blood to the elbow.

  Banarka approached cautiously. Axe lowered, but ready to rise at any moment.

  "Are you with us?"

  Nemira closed her eyes. Her breathing tore raggedly; her throat burnt.

  "Yes. Yes, I'm... here."

  The words came with difficulty. Her tongue wouldn't obey, as though swollen in her mouth.

  Banarka lowered herself nearby. Fingers slid to her belt, retrieved a vial—green glass, with a wax stopper.

  "Drink."

  Nemira took the vessel. Her hands shook so violently she had to grasp the vial with both palms. She yanked out the stopper with her teeth, spat it aside.

  The liquid inside smelt of herbs and something sharp, burning. She tipped the potion into her mouth.

  It scalded her throat. Spread warmth through her chest, flowed to her stomach, to her limbs.

  The wounds on her back hissed. Skin drew tight, as though someone had stretched it over the wounds and sewn it with rough thread. An unpleasant sensation, but the pain retreated.

  Nemira drew in air. Again. It became easier.

  Banarka held out a second vial. Blue glass, almost black.

  "This too."

  The troll woman didn't argue. She took a sip. This time the liquid proved sweet, cloying. Stuck to her tongue in a sticky film.

  But strength returned. Muscles filled with energy; her head cleared.

  She rose to her feet. Swayed, but held. The wounds drew tight with scabs—fresh, bright red. Beneath them it itched, as though thousands of ants crawled beneath her skin.

  Banarka also stood. She surveyed the temple. The floor was strewn with remains. Chunks of bodies, blood, bone fragments.

  "We need to leave. Right now."

  Nemira nodded. Words failed her. Nor were they needed.

  They emerged from the temple. The street met them with silence. No sound, no movement. Only wind stirred the ash on the ground.

  The orc woman moved forward. At a brisk pace, almost running. Nemira hurried after her.

  "Why such haste?"

  Banarka turned. The scars on her face looked deeper in the dim light.

  "We were bitten."

  "And?"

  "Post-mortem infection. Do you even know what that is?"

  The troll woman thought. She'd read something. In passing, when studying game guides, but right now she couldn't say anything on the subject beyond the basics she remembered.

  "Turns you into the undead."

  "Correct. And if we don't cleanse the blood within the next few hours, we'll become just like them."

  Livien felt cold in her stomach. Not fear. Something else. Understanding.

  "Where do we find a cure?"

  "Not a cure. A blood caster. Vaaro. He lives in the jungle. If we manage to run there before dawn, he'll be able to help."

  At the mention of this name, Livien flinched.

  They passed the square. The well jutted from the centre—a collapsed roof, blackened beams.

  Nemira glanced back. The village was vanishing into the darkness behind. No lights, no signs of life. Only a dead husk, filled with foreign malice.

  Banarka quickened her pace. Nemira kept up.

  "How much time do we have?"

  "Six hours. Maybe less. Depends on how many times we were bitten and how deep."

  The troll woman recalled the bites. Dozens. Ragged wounds that teeth had left on her arms, her legs, her flank.

  Her stomach clenched again.

  "How far to him?"

  "Three hours at a brisk pace. Maybe less, if we run."

  They emerged beyond the dead radius round the cursed village. The forest met them with a solid wall. Trees interwove their branches; not even the sun's light broke through them.

  Banarka plunged between the trunks. Nemira followed.

  Shadow closed round them. Roots caught at their feet; branches lashed their faces.

  "Are you sure he'll agree to help?"

  The orc woman smirked. The sound came out dry, devoid of mirth.

  "Vaaro's not the type who refuses. Especially where blood's concerned. He's obsessed with it. But we'll have to pay."

  "With what?"

  "You'll see."

  The jungle swallowed them. Footsteps echoed dully between the trees. Somewhere in the distance a beast howled—drawn-out, eerie.

  Nemira shivered. The wounds itched more strongly. Something stirred beneath her skin. Pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

  She clenched her fists. Ran faster.

  Banarka kept pace.