My blood has turned to ice, my breath a frozen stone in my lungs. They move with an unnatural silence, their iron paws making no sound on the damp earth. They are wrongness made manifest, a walking violation of the living world. The air around them feels dead, sucked clean of the vibrant, silvery energy that now animates my senses. I am hidden, shrouded by my novice's ward, but I know, with the chilling certainty of prey, that it is only a matter of time.
The three Iron Hounds fan out into the clearing. They move with a pack intelligence, but there are no yips, no growls, no communication. Just a cold, silent purpose. They sniff the air, their heads turning in jerky, unnatural movements. Their soulless pits of eyes seem to scan right over my hiding place behind the oak, the ward holding. But they don't move on. They are agitated, circling the clearing, sensing the echo of the magical flare I so foolishly released. They know something is here.
The Moon-Fox, crouched low beside me, is a bundle of trembling fury. A low, continuous growl rumbles in its chest, a sound that I feel more than hear. It knows what these things are. It understands the threat in a way I am only just beginning to comprehend.
One of the Hounds stops, its head cocked. It lets out a sound, not a howl of a living wolf, but a low, grinding screech of iron on stone. It's a noise that sets my teeth on edge, a sound that promises nothing but destruction. And I realize the horrifying truth. My simple hiding spell won't last. They will not tire. They will not give up. They will search this clearing, inch by inch, until they find the source of the scent. My ward is a temporary shield, not a solution. It's a closed door that they will inevitably break down.
Panic, cold and sharp, threatens to overwhelm me. I can stay here and wait for death. Or I can run. But the journal's warning echoes in my mind: they hunt the scent. Even if I fled now, they would be on my trail in moments. They are tireless. Relentless.
So there is only one other option. One insane, suicidal choice.
I can fight.
The decision settles in my soul with a strange, cold calm. The trembling in my limbs stops. My breath, which was trapped in my chest, evens out. If I am to die here, it will not be cowering behind a tree. It will be on my feet, with a weapon in my hand. My gaze falls to the small, silver-bladed knife clutched in my white-knuckled fist. It's a pathetic weapon against three monstrous beasts. But it's what I have.
And I have more, the new, quiet voice inside me whispers. You are not just a girl with a knife.
In a single, fluid motion, I rise from my crouch. I am not a warrior. I am not an Alpha. I am an omega who has spent her life making herself small and invisible. But the moment I decide to fight, something changes. I draw a deep breath and erupt from my hiding place, shouting a raw, defiant cry that is torn from my throat.
Surprise is my only weapon. The three Hounds jerk their heads toward the sound, their reaction a split-second too slow. I don't run at the pack. I lunge for the closest one, the one on the left. It snarls, its mouth opening to reveal rows of black iron fangs, and raises a paw to swat me aside.
But I am not aiming for its body. My memory is seared with the image of the rusting iron trap. My power destroys the dead things. The unnatural things.
Instead of dodging, I dive in low, slapping my free palm flat against the iron claws on its front leg. The effect is instantaneous and horrific. A violent hiss, a plume of acrid black smoke. The creature lets out a high-pitched shriek of agony as its own weapon turns against it. The black iron claws corrode, bubble, and decay into a shower of foul-smelling dust, leaving behind a mangled, bleeding stump.
The beast stumbles back, crippled and screeching. One down. But my small victory is short-lived. The other two, their shock lasting only a moment, converge on me. They are terrifyingly fast. I have no time to think, only to react. I backpedal, stumbling away from their synchronized lunges.
One lunges high, the other low. A classic pack tactic. I throw myself sideways, landing hard on my shoulder. The iron fangs of the higher beast snap shut just inches from my face, the sound like a bear trap closing. My heart leaps into my throat.
I can't fight them both head-on. I need to separate them. I need to use the world around me. The weavers of life, the journal called my ancestors. I am in a forest. A living, breathing place. And these things… these things are a walking profanity against life itself.
I scramble back to my feet as the second Hound charges, its soulless eyes fixed on me. I can't meet it head-on. I turn and run, not away, but towards the gnarled oak tree I was just hiding behind. Its roots are thick, ancient, and spread across the forest floor like the hardened arteries of the earth.
Help me, I plead silently, not to any Goddess, but to the living ground beneath my feet. I stomp down hard with my heel as I run, and I don't just put my weight into it; I pour my will. I push a sliver of that silver, lunar energy from my core, down my leg, and into the earth.
An ancient, gnarled root, as thick as my thigh, erupts from the ground directly in the charging Hound's path. It is not a gentle rising. It is a violent, explosive upheaval of earth and wood. The Iron Hound, moving too fast to stop, crashes into it, its legs tangling. It is sent sprawling with a deafening clang of metal on wood, landing hard on its side.
This is my chance. I pivot, ignoring the downed hound for the moment, and rush back towards the first one, the one I crippled. It is still screeching, disoriented by the loss of its claws. It doesn't see me coming until it's too late. I leap onto its back, my weight barely registering to the massive beast. I wrap my arm around its thick neck to hold on and drive the silver knife down with all my strength.
The blade is not iron. It is pure, blessed silver, a metal of the moon. It sinks into the creature's mangy hide, seeking a gap in the spine. The beast thrashes wildly, trying to throw me off, its powerful body a storm of muscle and rage. I hold on, gritting my teeth, and push the blade deeper. There is a wet, tearing sound, a final, gurgling screech, and the monstrous body goes limp, collapsing beneath me.
I killed it. The realization is a shock of ice and fire. I have never taken a life, not even an animal for food. I feel a wave of nausea, but there is no time for revulsion.
The cost of my victory comes immediately.
While I was focused on the kill, the second Hound has untangled itself from the root. It charges me, its movements filled with a cold, vengeful fury. Before I can even scramble off the corpse of its packmate, it is on me.
Pain, blinding and absolute, explodes across my side. It's not the sharp, clean pain of a normal claw. It is a dead, burning cold that seems to sap all the warmth and life from the point of contact. I scream, a raw, piercing sound of pure agony.
I'm thrown from the corpse, landing in a crumpled heap. My vision whites out. I clutch at my side, my hand coming away slick with my own hot blood, but the wound itself feels… icy. I look down. Four deep, black gashes run along my ribs, and the flesh around them is already turning a bruised, grey color. The wounds are not just bleeding; they feel like they are rotting from the inside out. They feel like the iron they are made of.
Through the haze of pain, I see the third Hound, the final one, now stalking towards me. It moves with a slow, deliberate confidence. It knows I am wounded. It knows I am finished. The second hound, the one that wounded me, stands beside it, and they begin to advance together.
I try to push myself up, but my arm gives way. The cold from the wound is spreading, a creeping numbness that makes my limbs feel heavy and unresponsive. I am helpless. I have fought with everything I have—my power, my wits, my desperation—and it wasn't enough.
The final Hound lowers its head. It opens its maw, the black iron fangs glinting in the dim light. This is it. This is the end. I have survived rejection, exile, and starvation, only to die here, torn apart by soulless monsters in a forgotten corner of the woods.
Time seems to slow down. The black iron fangs of the last Iron Hound fill my vision, inches from my throat. I close my eyes, bracing for the end. A blur of grey and black explodes from the trees to my left, slamming into the Iron Hound with the force of a battering ram and sending it flying sideways.