Still held tight by the strange arms, she opened her eyes in an unknown region. The skinwalker was moving across unfamiliar nds, covering the vast distance with each stride. Bleached rock and yellow sand were under her feet, and the sun shone brightly over the scorched wastend. Wherever Aranea looked, she could see no greenery, no roads, and no sign of the great work of the Recmation Army. It was as if they had entered another realm altogether.

  And then she noticed a thing that frightened her to the bone. Mom’s right arm was back. Aranea was sure that Mom had lost her limb during the escape from the fortress, yet here she was, running ahead, both hands in pce. No cuts, no scars, and not a hint of dried blood cortex marring the unnatural white skin. Could everything that had happened have been just a nightmare?

  “No,” Aranea told herself. What had happened was real. The ground was a blur underneath them as Kaisa ran faster than a train.

  “Where are we going?” Aranea asked Mom, but received no answer. Drool dripped onto her temple as the creature both ran and jumped. Aranea shuddered in fear.

  What if they will keep on moving like that, beyond all known horizons, until one day she’ll die of hunger and thirst? The skinwalker gnced at her, further frightening the girl. There was no recognition in that stare. It reeked of an alien conscience examining an unfamiliar object, with no more regard for the child’s welfare than it would have for an ant. The jaws opened wide, eliciting a wail of terror from the girl. What if…

  The skinwalker stopped abruptly, and Aranea turned her head.

  Before them stretched a ragged camp hidden within the shade of three hills. Tents with small military insignia were visible here and there, and a lone stone building stood at the edge of the camp. Bck-furred Wolfkins lined up to defend the pce, pointing their oversized rifles at Kaisa. Most of them wore pieces of power armor, but their suits differed drastically from the sleek and slim shells of the Order. These models were crude and bulky, their edges sharpened, ammunition belts wrapped around their waists, their mouths, paws, and feet left open. Not a single melee weapon was in sight; the local Wolfkins formed a firing line, keeping a respectful distance from the intruder.

  Kaisa’s mouth opened with a loud snap, and she roared into the sky, a roar that resembled a summoning. A cruel and merciless queen called her subjects to attend her court.

  And they answered. Two explosions of sand rose upward, and before they could separate, two heavy forms had nded near the skinwalker. One was enormously huge, easily matching Kaisa’s size. Her armor resembled a mobile keep rather than a suit worn by a warrior. Bareheaded, with one mighty paw holding an oversized axe, inelegant to the point of appearing to be a rge tooth lodged upon a steel stick. On her back was an energy rifle. Talismans dangling from an armor encrusted with countless letters of prayers and twin eyes on the pauldrons, the second Wolfkin removed her helmet, watching the skinwalker with respect and half-hidden dignity. The amber eyes of both hardened immediately upon spotting Aranea.

  Kaisa roared again, and the rger Wolfkin nodded, casting aside her axe and extending her left arm without any hesitations. The skinwalker closed her jaw about the paw, biting it up the wrist. Without a warning, her own hand struck, cwing at the Wolfkin’s lower jaw and ripping it away in a shower of gore and splintered bone. The tongue helplessly spttered on the chest piece, but the woman stood stubbornly, refusing to topple despite grievous wounds. Her blood poured in a stream from the injuries, but now she raised the remaining paw in silent demand as Kaisa hungrily devoured the torn jaw, crushing the fangs in her mouth. She handed over Aranea, and the trembling paw retrieved her, gently passing her to the woman in the ornate armor, who received her with a divine reverence, immediately licking the girl clean of any scent marks.

  “Offered and received!” She snarled. “Ours!”

  Kaisa shook, her muscles violently contorting beneath her skin, the snap of bones out of alignment. She shrank in size with a loud crack, the second row of fangs sinking into her pate, bck fur growing over her body, legs shortening, arms thinning. Within seconds, a second copy of the wounded Wolfkin stood over Aranea, watching her with recognition.

  “Yennifer,” Kaisa sternly said, uttering a command, “shaman, take care of Kaisa’s da…” she growled, screamed in pain as vessels popped in her eyes, and her voice reverted to Mom’s voice. “My daughter. Precious Aranea. Janine. Raise her. She is not at fault.”

  “You have returned to us, Kaisa.” Bowed the Wolfkin in the ornate gear. “And attained divinity.”

  “Divinity?” Kaisa yelled, her body tearing through the fur as she reverted back to the skinwalker’s visage. “This is no divinity!” She shed the fur; the madness returned to her gaze. “My mind, my memories, everything is about to be gone; only anger will remain. I strove to atone, to care and protect, and now… “This... this... is no blessing,” she paused, panting. “Torture!” The skinwalker spat and jumped, hurrying to disappear in the endless desert.

  The shaman did nothing but nod.

  “Dispy forbearance on a path to understanding. You are the closest to the Blessed Mother.” She turned toward the other Wolfkins. “What are you standing here for? Carry the warlord to the medics, lest she bleed to death! Alert Lacerated One, send the message to Wyrm Lord, and call Alpha and Zero. Summon Sonya immediately!”

  “Already here.” A bck-furred wolfkin with brown stripes across her fur approached the shaman, yawning and holstering the weapon on her back. The shaman handed her Aranea, and the woman yanked her into the air by the arm.

  “She is now of your pack, Wolf Hag Sonya. She is old enough not to be in the pits, so you will teach her our customs and make sure to teach her proper!” The shaman whirled, abandoning the two.

  “What am I supposed to do with such a weird creature?” Sonya asked, looking in the eyes of the shocked Aranea. “Well, let’s see what you are made of.”

  She dragged Aranea into one of the tents and snapped her cws. Two Wolfkins pced a rge bowl of tasty-smelling meat on the floor, and Sonya released the girl.

  “Eat. If you can.” She gave the girl a light kick, and Aranea approached the food on unsteady legs.

  The situation almost screamed trap or test, but hunger drove her to action. As she knelt to test the broth full of floating slices of meat, a blow followed by a bite on her arm knocked her to the side. Another Wolfkin, slightly smaller than the girl, tried to shove her away from the bowl.

  “Why are you biting me?” Aranea asked, more shocked than hurt. Small droplets of blood covered her arm as she jerked it free, stepping away from the cwed swipes.

  “Oh, for the love of the Spirits.” Sonya said in annoyance. “He is just a male, you dumb cusack. There is nothing to be afraid of. Trample him already; he’s barely older than you. Are you really this weak?”

  The Wolfkin growled again and lunged, seeking to bite the girl’s neck.

  “Stop it already, you asshole!” Aranea snarled, releasing all her frustration of the past few days in a burst of rage.

  She grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck, smming him into the ground, moving too fast for him to react. Obeying a sudden instinct, she closed her jaws on her neck, tasting his blood on her fangs. The Wolfkin whimpered, stopped struggling, and y still. Puzzled by her reaction, she stepped away from him, saying quickly:

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Really!” She offered him a paw, but the kid remained prone. Feeling sick and disgusted at the taste of his blood on her fangs, Aranea tried to speak calmly and gently: “You can stand up. It’s fine. I am not angry.” The kid met her look and took the offered hand, standing up.

  Her heart pounded hard, sending a rush of adrenaline through her veins in a familiar sensation that followed her victories over Keyl and her friends. Aranea’s muscles tensed, the skin prepared to stretch…

  “No!” she shouted, scaring the kid. “I don’t want it. Screw you!” Aranea grabbed herself by the shoulders, forcing the change to go back. Her about-to-be-strengthened muscles rexed, almost begrudgingly, begging her to let the strange force alter her, but Aranea remained adamant. This power inverted Mom and turned her into that monster. She’ll never take anything from it anymore, and from this day on, she will succeed or fall on her own merits.

  She didn’t belong to anyone. Least of all to these… skinwalkers.

  “I am sorry,” Aranea said softly to the frightened boy as that ‘power’ subsided. “You wanted to eat too? We can share the food. What is your name?”

  “Gin,” the wolfkin boy responded warily.

  “Nice to meet you, Gin. I’m Aranea.”

  “He’s just a male,” Sonya said, raising an eyebrow. “The Abyss do you care? His lot is to die on the front line as a meat shield.”

  “I won, right?” Aranea asked stubbornly. “So this means I get to decide what to do with the prize?”

  “Your truth.” Sonya shrugged, disappearing in an instant. She closed in on the girl faster than Aranea could so much as gasp. The jaws closed around her neck, then lifted her into the air before smming her down with such force that the girl squealed in pain as her insides quivered in agony. “Lesson number two. Always bare your neck before a wolf hag. If you refuse or forget, it means you are challenging her.” The woman sniffed her, massaging the girl’s neck to help her breathe. “Irritated. Enraged. That’s a fine spark. Savor the humiliation. Turn it to desire to succeed. Turn it into a desire to succeed. Today you lost because you were weak. Until you embrace your power, you will remain inferior.”

  “We shall see,” Aranea whispered angrily. “I’ll beat you with my personal strength and skills one day.”

  Sonya merely ughed, letting the children eat in peace. She tended to their cuts and bruises ter, showing Gin and Aranea how to bite properly without risking an opponent wrestling a limb free or losing fangs in an accidental move. The boy was sent to sleep with the other youth, but the wolf hag led Aranea to her tent, gifting her the field clothes of the girls who had grown out of them and assigning her a sleeping pce on her bed, while she herself had chosen a barren patch of ground.

  “Tomorrow Zero herself will come to visit,” Sonya said in the evening. “Be honored. Not often does she take an interest in worthless maggots.”

  “Why would she come?” Aranea whispered, tugging at the bnket. What if they send her back to the Ice Cave, to that bsted cold?

  “Think they’re telling me?” Sonya chuckled. “Rex, little one. Whatever happens, it’ll be your choice. No lie. The Wolf Tribe stands by their own.” She leaned closer. “No idea what has happened to you, but there is no harm in crying now. Tears only cloud your vision, and we are not at war. Grieve and tell me what happened ter.” She released her set of cws. “So I could rectify any insult incurred upon my pack.”

  “I don’t feel like crying,” Aranea growled. “That woman who saved me…”

  “Warlord Janine. If you forget her name, I’ll scar you.”

  “Sure. Will she be okay?”

  “Sure she will. Don’t worry your head over nothing, the…” Sonya stirred on the floor and darted outside. Aranea heard a faint cry and a loud sp. “Olesya! Weren’t you supposed to help your parents deliver that milk?”

  “Did it hours ago, Wolf Hag! Can I see the Outnder? They say she has a cursed eye! You know, a crimson one!” said a youthful, eager voice, and Aranea turned to look at a slice in the tent showing the moon.

  A cursed back home, a cursed here. Maybe the people were right.

  “Who exactly said that, Olesya?” Sonya asked steely.

  “Uh... I just heard it somewhere, can’t remember where…”

  “I see. You and I are going to Warlord Martyshkina.”

  “What? Why? I wasn’t misbehaving!”

  “So I can get permission from her to squeeze answers out of you. Aranea is not cursed. She is part of my pack, and anyone daring to spew poisonous rumors will soon have their tongues pulled out. Kostya! Watch over the female in my tent; she is not to set foot outside. And you with me.”

  “They didn’t mean anything bad, Wolf Hag, I swear…”

  Hearing the voice fade, Aranea stretched out her paw to the pale disc in the clear sky. “Aranea Wintersong is no more. From now on I am Aranea. One day I will reach the top. One day I will be strong enough to bend others to my will. I will become so strong that no one will ever take anything or anyone away from me anymore. And when that day comes…

  ****

  Time of war.

  “…I will come for you, Tilden, and I will feast on your insides. I will make you pay and see your precious future reduced to ashes. Then I will hunt this Academician, devour him, and spend as long as it takes to find and return those he took.” Aranea whispered, grasping the moon above. The dead called for vengeance, the kidnapped wailed for liberation, and this was her duty.

  But tonight her duty was different. Fifteen years had passed since Mom had brought her to the Wolf Tribe. Fifteen long, painful, restless, and incredible years. She refused to give up and dominated others, denying the toxic gifts of her power. Scars spread widely under her fur, yet her unnatural healing aided in the swift recovery, and she had achieved a long-awaited scout rank. Her second step toward her dream. And on this day, she would test everything she had learned in actual combat.

  “Everyone in pce.” Came a message on the secondary HUD on the vambrace. She stood on a high rock, seven meters above the entrance of the cave. A shardgun and grenade uncher were strapped to her back. Wyrm Lord had provided the Tribe with the armaments better suited to their fighting style, and not the least of his gifts were the new models of power armor, slender, not overly bulky, and providing the same measure of protection.

  Aranea itched to stress-test these beauties and backflipped, rexing in the pleasant breeze that blew through the fur of her snout as she fell. She nded nimbly, not experiencing the slightest strain. The helmet slid down and closed around her face, covering it completely and leaving enough room for her to wield her fangs in battle. The red lenses fshed, matching those of her pack.

  “Time to start the massacre, then.” She smiled. This was such a good night.

  ****

  “Tensions are rising between the Recmation Army and the Resistance,” said a smartly dressed Iterna newscaster, showing the armored groups heading toward Fort Uglo. “The Dynast has officially accused the local authorities of the Ravaged Lands of svery, kidnapping his subjects, supplying the recently destroyed arena, cannibalism, and staging a terrorist attack against our trainees. Experts say the conflict is inevitable and that it threatens to become the rgest conflict between Abnormals in recent years. Our diplomats are trying to mediate a sting treaty…”

  He pressed the remote, changing the channel.

  “…Outrageous! The Dynast cims we are savages, yet insists that we are sophisticated enough to stage an unexpected attack far beyond his borders, using Old World technology no less? What is this Schr?dinger view of our nations? Ridiculous to anyone capable of independent thought!” An armored figure told an Iternian reporter. “Where is his proof? If it exists, why hide it instead of presenting it? He has nothing because we would never stoop to his level. He accuses us of trying to harm the innocent children of our dear ally! Not only is he trying to shift the bme for the utter incompetence of his minions, but this fiend is trying to spin this incident to sow discord between allies! Don’t buy it!

  “This so-called trial of his is merely a mockery of justice to behead me and our brave champions so that his cronies can invade and y waste to our weakened homend! I say nay! My dearest friends, though my kind parents named me King, I am but a humble servant, elected to lead the Resistance in these challenging years. I pursue no dreams of conquest; my sole intention is to protect those who have pced their trust in me. To them I serve, for them I stand! The Recmation Army is a ravenous beast seeking to end any freedom that exists outside the feet of their wretched monarch. If we fall, who’s to say you won’t be next? If you cannot send us troops, then give us supplies, medicine, or weapons to fight with so that we may act as a shield of peace!”

  A touch of his finger changed the image to the energy pilr rising from outside the outer walls of Fort Uglo. The skyscraper of light merged with the cloud above, obscuring the one inside, but the golden illumination revealed a single wing wide enough to cover a modest settlement with its mere touch. On the wall itself stood the bck and the blue wyrms.

  And on the pin before them assembled itself a massive force. Blessed, including Wolfkins, mutants, and thousands upon thousands of Normies, most of them issued from the region known as the Wastes, located south of the Ravaged Lands. The expert camerawork took care to show the viewers arrayed tanks, APCs, mobile artillery, and missile unchers. Priests and shamans walked between the rows of troops, carrying censers, religious symbols, or simply speaking prayers, blessing the people. And yet, out of the hosts serving the Recmation Army, this was but a fraction of their capability.

  “The Dynast has spoken,” a voice, deep and assured, came from inside the shimmering pilr, reaching the ears of every trooper and the reporters filming the event. “For too long, the people of the Ravaged Lands have suffered unjust oppression. For too long we have been denied justice. This affront to humanity will go no further. The Ravaged Lands deserve better. Our diplomats have brought reasonable terms to the proud tribes poputing this magnificent region. For the sake of peace, I beseech the rulers of each settlement to see reason. Behold the gathering of cultures and faiths under the banner of the Recmation Army, and know that you need not worry about losing your nguage, identity, or traditions. Snder and libel of our brutality are unfounded. We offer you medicine, food, water, protection, and a safe future for your children, free from the predatory tithes enforced by the Resistance, while they are incapable of providing even a fraction of what we give away for free. The wealth brought in by your traders from our nds proves my cims. Your leaders can continue to govern you. The Third awaits King’s response. There is need not for war. Let us negotiate.”

  “What a mess is brewing,” said Lord Steward, turning off the dispy.

  “Will we be providing assistance to the Ravaged Lands?” asked Ruba eagerly.

  Three crusaders knelt to the president in his office, hands on their sheathed swords, the tips pressing against the carpet. Two were Trolls, their gray faces dispyed not a hint of emotion, but their leader, the recently promoted Blessed Ruda, gazed inquisitively at her superior. Her skin was as dark as coal, and the points of her long ears peeked through the foliage of bck hair. Bck was her armor, cloak, and tabard, but as her personal emblem, she had chosen a golden seahorse.

  To their left was a less usual company. A boy of fifteen years old pyed with wooden toy trains, assembling and disassembling them under the supervision of a sister of the Pnet Church from the mending wing dedicated to the restoration of mind and body.

  “No, I sense a foul stench about the thing.” Lord Steward pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bare minimum we shall give to King. No more. Have you found them?”

  “Factotums tracked them to the Resistance-controlled areas, sir. On her hints, they torched several covens.” Ruda bowed her neck.

  “Factotums, eh?”

  “They take our crests but remain cautious about swearing the oath.” Ruda smiled. “Trustworthy bunch. We stand ready to set out at your behest!”

  “Grishechka,” Lord Steward addressed the white-haired kid instead of answering. “What are the positive odds of retrieval if these crusaders will handle the situation?”

  “39 percent.” Grisha distracted from the toys, wiping sweat from his brow. His lips pursed, and the face concentrated. At st, he exhaled. “Variables are their willingness to comply with bad demands and the interference of the warring forces. Countries.”

  “Bad?” Ruda asked.

  “Hurting others is no good,” the kid said stubbornly.

  “Thank you very much, Grishechka. Ran me the chances if I would take over the operation,” Lord Steward asked.

  “98 percent of success. The primary factor is your willingness to enforce your will!” Grisha smiled broadly.

  “That’s a good boy!” Lord Steward praised. Himself that was, then. It had been a while since he had st stretched his body to its full size. “And here is an easy one. The st one for today, I promise,” he added to the sister’s disapproving look. “What are the chances of Wyrm Lord successfully completing the conquest?”

  Grisha’s face changed, arousing concern in Lord Steward. The boy wrapped his hands around his torso and rocked back and forth. Profuse sweat covered his face, his breath heaving, drool bubbling on his lips. He moaned, forcing words out:

  “42 percent chance of his survival. Variables are… variables are… so much… Ancient tools walk the earth, used, perverted, and maddened; powers coalescing into one, and a ray of death scorches the ground!” he yelled, hitting the sides of his head. A hypodermic syringe containing a concoction that temporarily deactivated the powers slipped from the green and white sleeve of the sister’s robe, but Lord Steward was quicker.

  Grisha hated needles and syringes. At the age of three, a gang of svers had invaded his hometown, done unimaginable things to his parents, and taken him away, coveting his unique power. Since then, he had spent twelve long years hooked up to a crude LSS, while his captors exploited his talent, feeding him drugs and not caring in the least about the permanent damage to his psyche.

  Ruda’s unit fought their way to the group, ending the svers in a rather undignified and less-than-legal manner, and returned their prisoners. A decade of ensvement had stunted Grisha’s development, and Lord Steward doubted he’d ever recover, but the brothers and sisters, skilled in the art of psychotherapy, insisted the boy would be rehabilitated and happy. While his power was potentially priceless to the nation, the priesthood hawkishly controlled its usage, ensuring the well-being of a ward entrusted to their care. Outside the doors of the president’s office, a now eternal companion of the young Blessed, stood a sister-vanquisher, ready to smite any evil that dared to extend its talons toward the boy.

  “That’s okay, it’s okay, little guy,” the president said, taking the boy by his shoulders. “You’ve given me enough.”

  “But I can! I can discern the exact variables!”

  “And I believe you.” Lord Steward jokingly swiped on his chest. A chance that an S-Css could die, huh? It would be best to swiftly complete the job and stay clear of such nuisances. “But why bother? It’s lovely weather outside; go take a dive in the sea, chat with pretty girls…” The sister coughed disapprovingly. “… I meant py with the adepts, take a sunbath, and eat a cake or several.”

  “Really?” Grisha beamed, letting go of his trains. “I can swim?”

  “Sure. Under observation.” The president smiled. Every year, the same event repeated itself. Tens of thousands from outside the Land of the Oath flocked to marvel at their beautiful innd sea, and inevitably many of them nearly drowned in it. “Have fun. A stale room full of old farts…”

  “Sir,” Ruda compined. “I am thirty-three.”

  “…is no pce for a young d. Explore the world, cause mischief, make friends, and give your power a month or two of rest. Let’s not stress it, okay? Okay. Love you, sonny.”

  Lord Steward let him go, waited for the doors to close, and spread his arms wide. Waves swept over his business suit as its organic matter-imitating fabric changed. Soon he stood dressed in his street outfit: a bck leather jacket, jeans, and boots, all grown from his biomass. His skin tanned to appear more like an inhabitant of the faraway country, and the muscles enrged a little so as not to be scary and so as not to seem like a wimp.

  “You heard the man.” He fshed a smile at the crusaders. “Hand me over the contacts of our operatives. I go on a field trip.”

  The Oathtakers always paid their debts, and if that meant he had to act himself, then so be it. Another S-Css will roam the deserts of the Ravaged Lands, hunting the one whom they had wronged, seeking the dear friend they had lost, and preparing to unleash vengeance upon the guilty. And if anyone, even Wyrm Lord, tries to bar his passage…

  He might just end up being a tasty snack.