Undead. Deadra. Beasts or the Afflicted. Caiden Voros spent a lifetime hunting the wicked and warding the innocent, until betrayal brings an end to everything he's held dear. With the snap of chains and a howl, Caiden finds himself turned into the very thing he's sworn to fight: a monster, its hunger greater than any he's ever known.

No lock will keep her out, she likes to think, and no purse hides from her nimble fingers. And she'll tell you it's all for good fun, because if there's one thing Sadja ever truly thought herself terrified of, it's boredom. Then she meets Death under a coat of pitch black fur, and things get a lot more complicated.

Taffer Notes: This one isn't just mine, but written together with Maverick-Werewolf, and together we form the Maverfield Conspiracy, where no one is really sure if we are really separate entities. We are though. Promise. Anyway.

Thousand Mile Night is a co-authored piece of fiction based on Elder Scrolls Online, with a cast of original characters taken from our respective works. A great deal of what happens in it is inspired by role play sessions in the actual game, so you'll find references to in-game quests and characters here and there, but mostly we will be following an original story line tailored to fit our characters.

Caiden Voros is part of Mav's Wulfgard series.

Sadja is plucked right out of my a Shielding Thing.

Sun down on the sorry day

By nightlights the children pray

I know you're probably gettin' ready for bed

Beautiful woman get out of my head

I'm so tired of the same old crud

Sweet baby I need fresh blood

The moon shines on the autumn sky

Growin' cold the leaves all die

I'm more alone than I've ever been

Help me out of the shape I'm in

After the fires before the flood

My sweet baby I need fresh blood

Whatever trepidation you may feel

In your heart you know it's not real

In a moment of clarity

Some little act of charity

You gotta pull me out of this mud

Sweet baby I need fresh blood

Fresh Blood -Eels

Hircine's Gift

Another night, another attack.

Same every time: someone or another would report a mauling on the outskirts of a town, somewhere within twenty leagues of where the Silver Daggers operated. Like it – like they were taunting them.

Caiden sat in silence in the corner of their little guildhall. Open, welcoming, and smelling eternally of pine, mead, and roasting meat, the hall was occupied primarily with tables, chairs, and a large hearth for warmth and cooking.

It was just a meadhall, really. A very quiet one, with only the lamps on the walls for company. And he did exactly what one did in meadhalls: drink.

He glanced at the parchment beside him on the table. All it did was tell him the same thing as the last message the Jarl had sent: someone had reported another missing person, and it was their job to find him. That meant they'd, almost certainly, failed again. The letter went on to detail just how the Jarl was losing patience. But this was the first time the Daggers had ever failed him, and that was the only reason they still had his support.

The bodies were piling up. Or they would've been, if anything had been left of them. All they ever found was blood and gore, and maybe some bones the monster hadn't bothered with. Sometimes cloth and leather and shoes, torn off in the struggle and not worth eating.

Three farms attacked. Three families dead. One merchant caravan slaughtered. Always whenever the Daggers were patrolling somewhere else entirely. Like the monsters knew their movements.

Well, maybe they did. Maybe they'd studied them in advance… but he had trouble believing that.

Or maybe he shouldn't put it past a werewolf pack to be so tactical.

The door swung open with a creak, letting in a gale of frigid wind that put out a few candles mounted to some support beams near the door. Storming in with the breath of freezing air were three Silver Daggers, professional monster hunters. All of them like him, though none quite so experienced.

Not even Hofern, a hunter with grey hair who sauntered over to him and took a seat at the table, mussing his beard to send snow and drops of water flying this way and that. Caiden wordlessly pushed a spare tankard of mead toward him.

"Thanks." Hofern sighed as he picked it up and immediately took a long swill.

"More dead?" Caiden asked. Not that he needed to.

"Four travelers last night, trying to take a shortcut off the roads," replied another hunter, Borgg, who took a seat – and reached over to rob Caiden's plate of its bread.

Caiden shot him a harsh glare with his one eye.

The third hunter came around the table and plucked the bread from Borgg's hand before it ever reached his mouth. She dropped it back onto Caiden's plate, where he quietly picked it up and all but swallowed it whole. Which was really the only way to keep Borgg from trying to snatch it again.

"Haven't we taught you not to steal Caid's food, Borgg?" asked Rosga as she too sat down.

Borgg opened his mouth to answer that with some remark or another, but he paused and then, suddenly, asked something else entirely. In a tone far too demanding for Caiden's tastes.

"How are we sure it's werewolves?"

"The doors are practically shattered – not many things can do that," Hofern pointed out.

"Bodies eaten," Caiden added.

"They only attack at night and they're smart about it," Rosga threw in.

Borgg frowned, but from the way his murky green eyes kept searching their faces, he still had questions.

And he blurted, "What about vampires?"

"Vampires don't eat the whole person, son," Hofern said with a chuckle. "Much less smash into houses like that… Well, most of them, anyway."

"Not the stealthiest werewolves ever," Rosga commented.

But Borgg was on a different line of thought. "So… it might be that werewolf that killed Skarvald?"

Silence.

Caiden stared at his empty plate. Too bad there wasn't more food on it. Because he'd rather think about food than what had happened to Skarvald. Watching the werewolf reach him – tear him to pieces and throw him in a river. Caiden almost felt the icy touch of the water again, remembered trying to find the body…

Rosga finally shattered the stillness.

She said simply, "I'm still not really sure that werewolf ever meant to hurt anyone."

"It fuckin' meant to hurt Skarvald," Borgg cut in. Hotly, like he was looking for a fight. "Does it matter what a gods-damned werewolf does or doesn't 'mean' to do?"

"Easy, Borgg," muttered Hofern. "It doesn't even matter now what anyone wanted…"

And then they broke into arguing. Arguing over a werewolf that had killed one of their own and moved on before any of them could catch it. One of the few they'd let get away… Which might've partially been Rosga's fault for taking pity on it.

They kept arguing. Getting worse.

Pointless.

Caiden grunted. Loudly – almost a growl.

That made everyone quiet down, but Borgg looked ready for more. So Caiden stood and said, "That's enough."

They kept their eyes on him. Good.

"They know the way we think, the way we move," Caiden continued, now that he had their full attention. "So we need to change it. We need to hunt like them, not like we would."

"People are getting frustrated, Caiden," Hofern said slowly. "Some even blame us for all this, and the Jarl's threatened to stop throwing us his spare silverware. Lorkild left and said he's never coming back. The order's falling apart."

Caiden set his jaw. He knew all that, but they didn't need to focus on their order right now. They needed to stop the werewolves.

"It'd make sense for the werewolves to attack from the north, since they hit the south," he went on. Had to keep them focused. "So far, they've alternated sides. But they'll change their pattern, try to throw us off. We're going to the Daglsson farm tonight."

Instantly, Borgg threw his hands in the air. "Ridiculous! They just attacked a southern road – there's no way they'd be stupid enough to take the Daglssons with the extra patrols down there!"

"We've seen them kill guards before," Hofern pointed out solemnly.

"And learn patrol patterns," added Rosga.

Caiden wasn't in the mood to debate. He rarely was.

With finality that even Borgg didn't protest, Caiden said, "Let's move."

Gearing up was no problem for him. He had it down to a routine. Check his blades – sword, axe, dagger, second dagger, silver dagger – sharpen them if he had to. Check his bolts, steel and silver. Check his crossbow…

Rosga appeared on his right side, leaning against the wall beside him. She was already suited up – probably didn't double-check everything, as fast as she did it.

"Hanging in there alright?" she asked, lifting a thin brow.

Caiden paused, looked at her for only half a second, and grunted. He tried to make it sound dismissive. He was worried… But he didn't want her to know that.

Still, not like he could hide it. Not from her, anyway.

So she frowned and reached up to put a gloved hand on his, the one checking his crossbow's trigger. Caiden froze. His mind did, too, his breath getting stuck somewhere in his throat.

At first, he kept his eye on the crossbow in front of his face. But Rosga's hand stayed there. Why? What did she want from him here at the last second? Some kind of confession?

Maybe the one he'd been fighting with for months now? So he could admit it and feel like a fool, think about that the entire time they were on a hunt as important as this one?

He swallowed, trying to choke down some of those emotions stirring around again – even if there were already plenty making themselves at home in the pit of his stomach like a lead weight. And, finally, he flicked his gaze over to her.

She just looked back at him with her steady green eyes. Her fingers threaded through his, and he clenched his jaw against the odd little jump in his heart. This was insane. Ridiculous. Maybe even a little stupid.

"We'll be fine," Rosga said quietly, giving him a subtle smile that sent a little blood gathering his neck, and thankfully not any higher than that. He was glad to currently be wearing a fur that covered up the blush. Mostly.

Words came to mind but got garbled somewhere in his gullet, so he grunted instead. A bit softer than he usually did – which Rosga seemed to notice, if her smile growing a tad was anything to go by. Or maybe she saw the blush.

Probably both.

Dammit.

But Rosga slid her fingers from his and moved past him. Caiden threw a look at her over his shoulder and caught a stare from Borgg, who had just ascended the stairs leading down to the bunks. Borgg pursed his lips as he watched Rosga go to stand and wait by the door, then looked at Caiden again.

Caiden readjusted the silver brooch near his neck, holding his fur there: a little shield, its emblem a dagger poised over the neck of a snarling wolf. All of the Silver Daggers wore one. Not just to show their allegiance, but to show they were meant to protect people from monsters. Even Borgg had made certain his own brooch showed on his cloak, bold and prominent.

They finished gathering by the entrance: all four of them. The only four left, between things gone wrong and all the discouragement. They'd have to be enough.

Caiden, taller than all the rest, gave each of them a quick once-over. Everything in order. Everyone bristling with weapons, potions, and poisons. Everyone looking ready for a fight, all eyes on him to lead the way. His eye twitched, just once.

No pressure.

With a nod, he turned and headed out.

On the way out of town, guards had delayed them. They'd stopped the four of them in the street, ordered them to halt, sounding very much like a bunch of drunks asking for a bar brawl. Something about making certain the great Silver Daggers weren't the werewolves themselves.

And they made them stay there until after sundown, no matter what any of them said. Protesting only seemed to get the guards angrier. Caiden's burning need to disregard their authority and leave anyway would've cost them all the Jarl's support and possibly even branded them as fugitives – both things they couldn't afford.

Finally, when night fell and no one started sprouting fur, they had reluctantly opened the gates and let out the Daggers.

Caiden was afraid it would make them too late.

And it did.

A few minutes was all it took. By the time they reached the Daglsson farm, it looked like all the others: door smashed, all occupants dead and devoured. There wasn't much evidence.

Claw marks. Blood. Some scraps of clothing, shoes, some belts, all ripped off the victims before they were eaten… Three victims – one small, based on the clothing left. A child.

And that had made Caiden's guts twist. Painfully.

There were almost no remains – a pack of werewolves rarely left much. Caiden didn't know for sure, but he had a guess they worked on a kind of wolf hierarchy. Pack leader got first pickings, all the others had to pick up afterward.

And werewolves had quite an appetite. Enough for a small family, between however many werewolves there were.

But the kills were fresh, because the place still stank of blood. Very fresh blood.

Caiden's guts weren't the only ones that had twisted. The other Silver Daggers had been upset. Which was understandable. But they had to keep going.

"Only thing faster than a werewolf is another werewolf," he remembered Borgg saying as they first entered the devastated home.

That was true. Entirely so. Painfully so. Running, attacking, tracking, it didn't matter. Werewolves were better at it. Stronger, faster, tougher. They had every advantage.

Which was precisely why they were out here fighting for all the people who needed them to. It didn't take being equal to the monster, because that was impossible. All it took was the courage to fight them. The dedication to put one's entire life toward that purpose: protecting people who couldn't protect themselves, who didn't deserve living in fear of these monsters every single day… Or night.

Ultimately, it was Borgg's phrasing that had bothered Caiden. It implied things he didn't much care for. He'd had a mind to grab Borgg by his collar and pin him against the nearest wall to get a full explanation for that shitty remark.

Only they didn't have time for that.

Because before Caiden could say or do any of those things, Hofern knelt by some tracks by the back door, which lay on the ground – outside, not in. The werewolves had gone out there. They'd been sloppier this time, not made any effort to cover their tracks.

"We need to follow them," Hofern said quickly, rising to his feet and looking back at them. "The trail's still fresh."

A cold wind whistled through the open farmhouse, chilling Caiden's bare elbows. Or it would have, if he wasn't so used to it. Borgg shivered, even in his armor and his furs, but Caiden wasn't sure it was from the wind.

"They walked single-file to cover numbers," Rosga pointed out, nodding down toward a pair of werewolf tracks still imprinted in the dirt. Almost purposefully so, Caiden thought.

There was a smaller pair within the first one. Those also seemed too perfect, like someone trying to leave a neat footprint in the snow for the hell of it.

"I don't like this," Caiden said, narrowing his eye at the tracks. Werewolves weren't this obvious. Not about anything. They were too smart for that.

"Maybe they ate too much and got lazy," Hofern said as he got to his feet again, brushing himself off. "Or maybe they're getting overconfident without Skarvald trying to trap them."

Even Rosga murmured something about missing Skarvald's elaborate traps. He had always been their best trapper – and the subtlest. Stealthiest. Caiden didn't do subtle.

"I'd sure be confident by now, if I were them," Borgg added.

Caiden felt a hot flare of anger. His lip twitched, but he kept his eye ahead, on the trail.

But Borgg added, "Not like they're meeting any fuckin' opposition, is it?"

"Get in line," Caiden snarled, throwing him a glare this time. Borgg shut his mouth and cleared his throat.

Everyone else went silent, too. Rosga sidled up next to Caiden and gave him a look that reminded him she could read every emotion behind his eye. It wasn't a reminder he really wanted right now.

"C'mon," he said, loading a silver bolt, dipped in poison made from belladonna, into his crossbow as he set off on the trail.

It was stupid. He shouldn't have done it. But he didn't know what else to do.

The trail led into the forest.

The dark night and the cold wind didn't make for an inviting combination. All around them, the branches of the assorted conifers rustled, needles brushing together like the movement of an animal and setting them all on edge.

Sparse starlight leaked through the well-spaced, old trees, but not enough to make the forest look any less like a thousand lurking silhouettes reaching out toward them with thin, greedy fingers.

Deeper they went, thinking occasionally they would lose the tracks, Caiden knowing the entire time that they should have. This was a trap. The werewolves were leading them into their territory, their hunting grounds. They wouldn't just have every physical advantage, they'd have the environmental ones, too.

On the way, he'd made sure to let the others know that. They'd assured him they would be ready. He knew they meant it.

Trouble was, the trap wasn't what any of them expected. Not a werewolf up in the trees, waiting for an inexperienced hunter who didn't look up. Not a sudden howl that sent forth monsters from the darkness, surrounding them on all sides. But something much more mundane.

Caiden was the first to see it – or, at least, to see one of them. Keeping an eye on all parts of the dark forest around them, he looked up and saw something in the trees: a carefully crafted mace trap made of stone covered in sharpened sticks tied on with rope, all strung up to a trigger somewhere…

Somewhere a few feet in front of them, where Hofern had pulled ahead of Caiden. Only Hofern didn't see it.

"Hofern!" Caiden called, picking up the pace to reach him. "Don't move!"

Too late.

Again.

Two things happened. A tripwire snapped, right in front of Hofern's leg. And a trigger clicked under Caiden's foot.

Neither of them had time to move. The wooden mace swung down from the trees with a whoosh and a sickening crack, lodging itself firmly into Hofern's side and knocking him clean off his feet.

Caiden couldn't reach him. A leghold – a man-trap, a bear trap's nastier father – snapped up around his right ankle, clamping tight and crunching through his boot, all the way to the bone.

He tried to keep moving anyway, yanking the trap against the stakes fixing it to the ground – and pulling himself right off his feet, landing on his chest with a grunt and a fresh surge of pain lancing up his leg.

Something snapped to his left – then to his right. He heard Borgg yell and swear, heard something collapse and a muffled shout from Rosga. Caiden twisted on the ground, still gripping his crossbow, rolling over onto his back, ignoring the pain throbbing in his leg and the hot blood oozing down it.

Movement. It came right at him, swift and silent. Too fast for him to move. Not that he could, not with the steel jaws crushing his leg.

In a flash of shadow that briefly blocked what little starlight filtered through the canopy, something kicked his crossbow from his hands. Kicked, because it was a foot. A human one. Wearing a boot. He felt the sole of it scrape against his gloves, heard it thud back onto the underbrush beside him.

Caiden blinked. He should've taken a potion to see in this darkness. Didn't matter now.

He reached for his sword, drawing it so fast the figure – human figure – had no time to react. A quick slash, right across its legs, sent it stumbling back with a yell. A human yell.

"Skar!" a voice called – one he recognized. His mind raced.

Lorkild. A new recruit, from just a few weeks ago. Got discouraged and left.

And he wasn't alone.

Something huge came for him then, every inch of it covered in muscle. He heard its breath, felt it hot and wafting over his face as the hulking thing poised itself right over him. Huge, heavy hands slammed down onto his wrists, gripping, twisting his arms – both of them – until the sword fell from his hand and sickening pops tore from his shoulders. Caiden grunted, even louder than before.

Weight slammed down onto his injured leg. Hard. Slammed, stomped, got the teeth in his leg to dig in and scrape his bone. A fresh rush of blood warmed his already sticky boot. His head spun, his teeth ground together. Caiden writhed, just for a second, a groan of pain squeezing up his throat and escaping through his clenched jaws.

The weight atop him shifted, moved, stood off to one side. Caiden tried to focus, but he felt claws on his shoulder – sharp, digging in, sticking right through the fur and leather – drag against his flesh, snatch at thick muscle they found there, and throw him over onto his chest again. It twisted his leg in the trap, rattling the chain staking it to the ground. Caiden almost screamed – almost.

The world wanted to go dark, even darker than it already was. His ears throbbed at him. Caiden sucked in a breath and fought it, even as he felt things moving around him. Someone messed with the trap. Lorkild.

He removed it. His leg was free. Hurting, impossible to stand on, but free.

So he tried to stand on it anyway.

Caiden surged to his feet in one sudden motion, ignoring the pain, ignoring the darkness creeping in at the corner of his vision and making it even harder to see. He saw enough: he saw Lorkild, standing over him. Caiden aimed right for him.

He slammed into Lorkild, sending him into a tree. Caiden's arms hurt, his shoulder bled, his ankle was replaced with nothing but pain. But the hot rage burning in his mind gave him blind strength enough to ram his forearm into Lorkild's throat, pinning him, his other hand going for his dagger—

The claws were back.

They slashed him this time. Across the back, ripping through everything to leave trails of pain and blood, sending him sprawling once more into the cold tangle of roots underfoot. Caiden stood again – on one foot, grabbing a tree to haul himself up – and turned to face exactly what he had expected.

A werewolf. Huge. Towering. Covered in dark fur, silhouetted against the spindly trees. Eyes all but glowing, catching what little light there was and sending it back to him in a flash of red.

They moved at the same time.

Caiden drew his silver dagger in a reverse grip, raising it immediately, wanting to impale it as it threw itself forward – he heard it growl, deafening— he hadn't gotten the blade up in time. Felt it pierce something, but not its heart. Claws raked his chest, threw him again.

He tasted dirt and old pine needles, landing face first on the ground. The werewolf should've been on top of him by now, but it wasn't. So Caiden tried to stand again – it was harder this time, with no trees around to grab onto.

The werewolf stood there, watching him, a wall of fur and muscle in the darkness. Where the other hunters were, he had no idea. He still had one dagger – it wasn't silver. The silver one was stuck in the werewolf's flank, but that hadn't slowed it for a second.

And then an arrow pierced his chest.

Caiden grunted and staggered from the impact. At first, he barely registered what had happened. His body had shut off pain, and he faced a werewolf, not an archer. But the dull numbness throbbing in his torso made him look down, see the shaft and the fletching.

The werewolf came forward to knock him to his back again with one swipe of its arm. This time, when he hit the ground and it knocked the breath from his lungs, he wasn't sure he could get back up.

His best guess was that he was dead.

But he wasn't.

The arrow was still there. So was all the pain, which meant he was still alive. How, he wasn't sure. It should've pierced his heart.

But he woke with his bleeding back scraping against the harsh bark of a tree, his arms behind him in chains that kept him there. Everything hurt. Every inch of him, every muscle and down to the bone.

The werewolf was gone, replaced by a tall Nord he knew too well, even in the dim bluish haze of the night. He was shirtless, scars bared, especially that huge bite on his shoulder.

Here Caiden was: supposed to be dead, and looking at a dead man.

Skarvald paced before him in the clearing. Caiden quickly gathered his surroundings: his friends, all chained to trees around him. Spaced several feet apart. Other figures stood free: humans… or at least wearing the shapes of them.

Something else lived in those shapes, too. Caiden didn't have to see the fur and the fangs to know that.

"A touching reunion," Skarvald said, rubbing his hands together, fingers stained dark with blood. He turned to Caiden next, pale brown eyes smiling at him. "I'm glad you're still with us, Caid. You're the one I would've hated most to lose."

"Sorry, Skar," Lorkild, who stood nearby, muttered, a bow hanging from one shoulder.

Skarvald waved him silent, focusing on Caiden. "You won't live long with that arrow… Try to pull it out and you'll bleed to death. Lorkild's a better shot than he gives himself credit for. But don't worry about that, because I can save you."

Caiden stared at him. The months hadn't been kind to Skarvald. He was worn, haggard, with a dark, untamed stubble growing into a beard. But it hadn't dimmed that lust in his eyes – that love of the hunt.

Once he managed to suck in some breath – his chest protesting incredibly, he briefly thought it might explode – and find his voice, Caiden's response was simple.

"You… son of a bitch."

Skarvald smiled again, more apparently this time. "I'm offering you a new start, all of you—" he turned, looking at Rosga, Hofern, and Borgg.

Caiden could barely see them through the darkness and the throbbing in his head. Rosga seemed alright, if bloodstained. And she moved, twisting her wrists in the shackles. Hofern didn't move much, but he was farthest away. Borgg, Caiden had to crane his neck to see, but he was motionless.

"We deserve one," Skarvald went on. "The Jarl wants to disband the Silver Daggers. And why shouldn't he? Not even Caiden, great hunter that he is, could outsmart Skarvald and his pack, or the traps he set."

"You a Khajiit now?" Rosga spat. "'Skarvald sets fancy traps, yes. Skarvald is good hunter.'"

Skarvald chuckled. "Obviously I didn't think you'd understand yet," he replied. "But you'll come around…"

His pack of three others moved. Caiden couldn't tell what they were doing – Skarvald stood in the way, blocking his vision. He heard someone hiss, as if in pain. Then Lorkild went to Hofern, holding something… and again Skarvald stepped in front of Caiden's vision. Caiden growled, pulling against the shackles.

"…once you accept Hircine's gift," Skarvald finished.

Hofern choked and sputtered. Caiden stopped moving, straightening his spine against the tree, looking over Skarvald's head, barely enough to see Hofern start twisting, a scream ripping from his throat…

Caiden's eye went wide. He heard a gasp from Rosga, and something like a gag from Borgg, not too far off.

Hofern's chain snapped. Something huge fell away from the tree, a shape not wholly man and not wholly wolf that charged off into the night, crashing madly through the forest.

"Hofern always did comment on that werebear we killed a few years back," Skarvald commented casually. "Now he has all that power and more."

For once, Caiden's mouth shot off before his mind caught up. "You sick bastard!" He growled, pulling his chain taught, his arms and chest protesting so badly he wanted to scream. But he didn't scream, gnashing his teeth as he tried to rip free.

Skarvald started back a step, mockingly, that same taunting little smile on his face. "You're not too far removed from a wolf, yourself, Caid— you ever thought about that?"

Borgg's shackles rattled as Skarvald's packmates approached him next. Caiden heard him spit at them, something about, "Get back—!"

But Skarvald kept going, moving toward him, getting right in Caiden's face and blocking the scene from his view. "You lead your pack, you'd give your life to protect them, and you're like a watchdog for all those little people out there," he gestured vaguely back in the direction of the farmlands, "without ever asking for more than some food in return…"

Another scream – popping cartilage, ripping cloth – then another snapping chain. A howl pierced Caiden's soul, but even as another werewolf was sent ripping through the forest, Skarvald barely paused.

"You even have your pent-up rage, just like an animal. And you're so damn stubborn about dying. You'd chew your leg off so you could go pitch yourself in front of an arrow for someone else inste—"

Caiden threw his head forward. It wasn't smart, considering it was already throbbing and wanting to give out on him. But despite it making his ears ring even louder, his skull slammed into Skarvald's face hard enough to make him stumble back with a yelp, clutching his nose.

Worth it.

Skarvald snorted, wiped his bloodied nostrils on the back of his arm, and lifted a brow at Caiden. "That's gratitude for you," he muttered. "I'm about to save you from that arrow and give you unimaginable power. This is my thanks from an old friend…"

"Shut the fuck up," Caiden half growled, half grunted.

"Aye, Captain," Skarvald replied dryly. "I'll let you watch in silence instead, if that's what you prefer."

With that, Skarvald moved off, and Caiden finally saw what it was that Lorkild carried: a simple clay cup… stained with blood.

And he stopped beside Rosga, Skarvald drifting over to join him. Again Caiden straightened up, the anger briefly leaving his face. Rosga's eyes caught his, and it nudged that pain in the pit of his stomach again – woke it up from its fitful sleep. Now worse than ever.

"Skar…" Caiden started.

"Don't beg me, Caid," Skarvald shot back. "That wouldn't be like you."

"He's right," Rosga said calmly, simply. "It wouldn't."

She closed her eyes, let Lorkild move right up to her and take her jaw to force it open.

Caiden pulled at the chain around his arms – once, twice, thrice – his entire body protesting and the arrow in his chest reminding him he'd die if it got lodged in a slightly different direction, but he didn't care. He pinched his eye shut, putting all his strength into it—he couldn't watch.

Something inside him pulled at a chain, too. Something he never let free and everyone else did. Emotions.

The chain inside him snapped. The one outside didn't.

Rosga screamed. Caiden threw back his head and roared. As if that would help – as if it would make him able to pull free.

A chain broke. Hers.

More feet – now inhuman, running on all fours – pounded off into the night. Her gait was lighter than the others, her passage quieter but no less feral. Running off with her was a little piece of him that he didn't know he'd take with her when she went.

But she did. And it left a hole, one more painful than the arrow still sticking out of his chest.

Footsteps. They crunched the dead needles and the underbrush, stopping right in front of him. Skarvald.

Fucking bastard—

He had a cut on his arm, fresh and bleeding. A cup in his hand, stinking of blood.

Caiden would kill him. He'd kill him. His nostrils flared, his punctured chest heaving and struggling for breath. He had never, not once, felt such a powerful desire to feel another man's neck snap in his hands.

Skarvald didn't say a word as he reached up to grab Caiden's jaw.

Caiden grunted, tried to jerk himself free, but Skarvald's hand was like a vice. He grunted again, louder this time, yanking against the shackles and uselessly kicking his one good leg in Skarvald's direction as his skull was shoved back against the tree and his mouth was forced open.

The stench of blood filled his nostrils, acrid and coppery – and he got a mouthful of it a second after. It choked him, made him gag, and he did his best not to give in. He wasn't swallowing a drop.

But it kept coming. Some of it spilled down his face, over his chin, hot and reeking and leaving a sticky trail of bright red. He could only choke for so long before he swallowed enough to suck in a gasp of air.

The second he did, the hand released his face and Skarvald moved back. Caiden spat and shook his head, hoping, praying, willing it to be true that the sickening warmth trickling down through his chest wasn't that twisted monster's blood.

"Enjoy your new life, Caiden," Skarvald said, tossing the bloodstained cup away. "I know I have."

Pain. Sudden, shocking – blinding. Powerless, he pinched his eye shut and tried not to cry out. But he did cry out. The sound tore from him long before he could consider stopping it, the pain far too immense. It was like nothing he had ever felt.

His chest exploded. His head split down the middle. His spine became a spire of agony.

He writhed, he spasmed, his bones popped, cracked and twisted like they wanted to rip free of his flesh – his muscles twitched, jerked—pulled against each other and kept growing until he felt his skin would burst. Fire pulsed under his skin, hotter than anything, trying to get free, coursing through him with the frantic pumping of his pierced heart.

All he could do was scream.

Somewhere during it all, the chains around his wrists snapped.

Caiden was free.

And Caiden was lost.

Daylight.

He awoke with a start, as if nothing had ever happened. The pain was gone, almost forgotten, like his mind tried to shield him from it. It felt like a nightmare. Nothing felt real, and what little there was – sounds, feelings, sensations, a burning rage and an even greater hunger – faded fast.

Still, everything was wrong. He had no wounds, not even in his chest. All that remained was an ugly scar, another one to throw into the collection.

And he was covered in blood.

At first, Caiden didn't move. He felt a weight in his stomach of a meal he had no memory of eating. He didn't even know what it was… but everything stank, and tasted, of blood.

Everything was sharper – every scent, every sound—even the sunlight felt almost blinding, opening his eye again after what seemed like so long and yet so instant. The air was alive with scents: pine, birds, deer, a boar somewhere a ways off, berries, detritus scattered all over the forest floor.

There were no words in the languages of men or mer to describe this array of smells and sounds, this assault on his senses. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced – or even heard of – before.

How he knew these smells, these scents so powerful he practically tasted each one, he had no idea. Something told him, some instinct he knew he shouldn't have. But it was there – and it told him something else, too.

Rosga. She was close. He could smell it.

Caiden ignored everything. The few tatters of clothing still hanging from his body and covering nothing, the blood on his face and his hands and spattered on his chest, even the fact that he could walk on both feet again, much less breathe. He ignored all of it.

Rosga. Gods-dammit—

The world was different, so fresh, so alive, so full of colors and sights and sounds – little movements, little smells, little things previously so unnoticeable that they couldn't possibly have existed before.

None of it mattered.

He found her lying under a pine tree stained with blood. The blood was his, but he wasn't sure how he knew that. Maybe the smell. This was the tree Skarvald had knocked him away from the night before, leaving a light spatter of Caiden's blood from the wake of his claws. It was when he'd left his silver dagger in Skarvald's side… The one missing when he'd seen Skarvald in human shape again.

Rosga didn't move. Caiden stopped in his tracks barely a foot away. She lay crunched up, hands clutching something. She wasn't breathing.

Caiden swallowed against the knot growing his throat, blinked against the unusual mist forming in his eye. His breathing stuttered and faltered.

Then he inched forward and knelt to gently lay a hand on her shoulder that jutted so sharply toward the sky. Bracing himself for what he already knew, he turned her onto her back.

A silver dagger jutted up from her chest, stabbed through her own heart and still gripped by both her cold, bloodied hands. It was his dagger – the one that failed to kill Skarvald.

For a long moment, Caiden sat there, motionless. He forgot how to move. He forgot most everything. He even forgot how to not feel, and how to seal away those emotions that found a way through.

Yet he didn't forget the anger. The hatred. The burning need for revenge. The vow he swore right then – to himself, and to her, wherever she was now. The one purpose for which he now allowed himself to continue to live.

Those were the feelings he wanted to remember.

But as he carefully closed Rosga's eyes, he knew he'd always remember something else, as well. That part of him she'd taken. That part, that giant chunk of his soul he now felt sure he'd never get back. Never feel again.

That little part, not so little after all. Something called love.