The grun'jak tried to rise; its front paws scrabbled at the mud, but its hind legs no longer obeyed—torn muscles refused to bear the weight. The beast crashed muzzle-first, its tail jerking one last time before going limp.

  Nemira circled it from the left, the sword dragging heavily on her arm. Rain drummed on the blade, washing away blood before it could dry. The troll woman's yellow eyes narrowed, tracking every movement of her prey—breathing ragged, shallow, ribs rising less frequently.

  She moved in close. She raised the sword with both hands above her head.

  The blade crashed down, pierced the hide between the shoulder blades, passed through vertebrae, severed the spine. Bone crunched dully; flesh squelched beneath the blow. The grun'jak jerked once—the final spasm of a dying body.

  Livien wrenched out the sword, struck again. Once. Twice. Thrice. Each blow hacked deeper into the flesh, reaching vital organs. Fury overwhelmed her—not at the beast, but at herself, at the ruined hide, at the clumsiness that had forced her to spoil the prize.

  The fifth blow pierced the heart. The body beneath her shuddered one last time, then went completely limp. The health bar that should have hung above the beast's head would now be grey. Only the girl could no longer recall when such things had begun disappearing from the game.

  She lowered the sword. Her hands trembled—not from fear, from exhaustion. Vigour had dropped below half; muscles ached, demanding rest. The troll woman sank into a crouch directly on the dead grun'jak's back, pressed her forehead against the sword hilt.

  Rain lashed her shoulders, ran down her back, flooded the ground around her. The beast's blood spread in a wide stain, turned the mud brown, mixed with water and trickled down the slope in thin rivulets.

  Breathing came with difficulty. Each inhalation resonated with pain in her side—there, where the grun'jak's tail had pierced her mail. A bruise spread beneath her skin; ribs throbbed with dull, insistent pain. Nothing serious, just bruising, but unpleasant.

  Nemira raised her head, looked at the carcass beneath her. The hide was ruined completely—deep cuts scored the back, flanks and belly. From the neck protruded broken arrow shafts; the muzzle had turned into a mess of wounds.

  If she hadn't let herself go at the end, hadn't unleashed all her rage on the already dying carcass, perhaps the hide might still have been of use—if not for her own purposes, then at least for sale. Some craftsman might have bought it, patched the damage, used it for smaller items. But now, hacked lengthways and crossways, slashed with deep ragged wounds, such spoilt loot would fetch no real price. Only the meat would do for stew; the bones could be rendered for fertiliser or bone meal.

  She exhaled slowly, wearily. If she hadn't wanted to do everything neatly, she wouldn't have had to exhaust herself so. She could simply have riddled the beast with arrows to death—quick, efficient. But the hide was worth more, far more than mere meat and bones.

  Now, though—neither hide nor strength.

  Behind her came a dull thud—something heavy landed on the sodden earth. Nemira spun sharply; her hand reached for the sword. Battle instinct flared automatically, despite her exhaustion.

  An enormous figure straightened. Ash-grey skin scored with scars. Muscles, defined and hard, rolled beneath her skin with every movement. The orc woman stepped forward through the downpour; broad shoulders cleaved the streams of water.

  "Hello, friend!"

  Banarka smiled openly; fangs flashed white against dark skin. Rain ran down her face, gathered in drops on her chin, but she seemed not to notice the cold. Eyes burnt with merriment—genuine, warm.

  Nemira exhaled, relaxed. She smiled back—wearily, but just as genuinely. Fingers unclenched on the sword hilt, released the weapon.

  "Excellent work!"

  The orc woman came closer, stopped beside the carcass. She surveyed the dead grun'jak critically, nodded with approval. Kicked the beast with her foot—checking it was truly dead, an old hunting habit.

  "Clean kill, no magic, no help. Respect!"

  She extended her hand downwards, offering to help her up. The palm was broad, calloused, scars crossing the fingers in white lines. Strength could be felt in this hand even without touch.

  Nemira grasped the extended palm, let herself be pulled to her feet. Her legs buckled for a second—exhaustion took its toll—but she held her ground, straightened. Rain instantly flooded her face, made her squint.

  Banarka clapped her on the shoulder—friendly but with force that made the troll woman sway. The orc woman laughed, pleased.

  "Lousy choice of killing method, though—ruined the hide. But at least it was fun!"

  Nemira glanced at the carcass, grimaced. Cuts gaped with ragged edges; flesh showed through the slashed hide. Blood still oozed from deep wounds, mixed with rainwater.

  "Couldn't be helped."

  Her voice came out hoarse from exhaustion. She ran her palm down her face, wiped water from her eyes. Weariness was beginning to creep beneath her mail, work its way under her skin. Muscles ached, demanded rest and warmth.

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  Banarka crouched beside the grun'jak, ran her fingers across the slashed hide. Frowned, assessing the damage. Clicked her tongue with disapproval.

  "Well, it'll do for stew. Bones will serve too. Just won't earn the money you could have."

  She rose, dusted off her hands. Rain drummed on her shoulders, ran down her arms, dripped from her elbows. The orc woman stretched her lips in a grin, showing fangs.

  "But you gained experience, eh? Bet your skills grew too."

  Nemira nodded silently. In her head surfaced semi-transparent notifications she'd dismissed during the fight. 'Light Ranged Weapon Proficiency' had risen by several progress units. 'One-handed Blade Proficiency' too, so the girl, despite her spoilt mood, still noted progress.

  "They grew."

  "There you go!"

  Banarka turned, surveyed the surroundings. The forest stood quiet; only rain rustled monotonously, breaking through the foliage. Trees swayed in gusts of wind; branches creaked uneasily.

  "We'll drag it together. Heavy beast; you'll not manage alone."

  She bent down, grabbed the grun'jak by its front paws. Muscles tensed beneath ash-grey skin; scars whitened from the effort. The carcass jerked, lifted from the ground.

  Nemira circled the beast from the other side, took hold of the hind legs. A jerk—the weight pulled her arms down, made her clench her teeth from the strain. Vigour dropped another couple of units. Her legs slipped in the mud but held.

  Together they dragged the carcass towards the village. Slowly, step by step. Mud squelched beneath their feet; rain lashed their backs; wind tore at their hair. Nemira squeezed her eyes shut, focused on movement—lift a leg, move it, lower it, repeat.

  "Listen, why did you lose it like that?"

  Banarka's voice carried from somewhere ahead, through the rain's noise. The orc woman glanced over her shoulder, cast a curious look.

  "At the end, when you'd nearly killed it. I saw—you were hacking like you were possessed. Something personal?"

  Nemira didn't answer immediately. She dragged the carcass silently, counting steps. Ten, twenty, thirty. Her arms burnt with exhaustion; fingers had gone numb from cold and strain.

  "I was angry. At myself."

  "At yourself?"

  Banarka snorted, shook her head.

  "Strange one, you are, Nemira. Took down a grun'jak alone, yet you're angry. Others would be celebrating already."

  The troll woman shrugged—as much as the burden in her hands allowed. The bruise on her side pulsed with dull pain, reminded her of the mistake. Of the moment when she'd lost focus, let the tail strike through.

  "Could've done better. Faster, cleaner. Without mistakes."

  The orc woman laughed—loud, rolling. The laugh echoed through the forest, drowned out the rain for a second.

  "Stubborn one! Right, right. You know best what you need."

  Further they walked in silence. The forest gradually thinned; through the trees showed the outlines of the first buildings. Taviri'Naa greeted them with the smell of smoke and wet timber.

  The village met them with silence—all sentient beings had hidden from the downpour indoors. Smoke rose from chimneys, dissolved in the rain before it could rise above the roofs. Water ran from thatched roofs, drummed on wooden platforms, turned dirt paths into a morass of mud.

  Nemira and Banarka dragged the carcass to a large canopy at the village's edge—there they usually butchered prey. Beneath the roof it was dry, smelt of old blood and fresh sawdust. On hooks hung hides stretched for drying. In the corner stood barrels of salt.

  They dropped the grun'jak onto a wide table. The carcass hit heavily; the boards sagged beneath the weight. Nemira straightened her fingers with difficulty—her hands had gone stiff, numb from prolonged strain. Blood slowly returned to her muscles, prickled unpleasantly.

  Banarka went to a water barrel, scooped with a ladle, drank greedily. Water ran down her chin, dripped onto her chest. The orc woman wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, exhaled with satisfaction.

  "Listen, Nemira."

  She turned round, leant back against the barrel. Crossed her arms on her chest, studied the troll woman appraisingly.

  "Want me to teach you something? Proper archery, for instance."

  Nemira raised her gaze from the carcass. Water ran from her hair, dripped onto her shoulders. Yellow eyes narrowed with curiosity.

  "Archery?"

  "Yes."

  Banarka pushed away from the barrel, stepped closer. A broad grin stretched her lips; fangs flashed in the canopy's half-light.

  "I saw how you worked at the start of the hunt. With the bow—loosed arrows fast and accurate enough. The grun'jak didn't even realise where they were coming from. Was that an ability of yours?"

  Nemira nodded. She remembered that moment—how she'd drawn the string again and again, how arrows had buried themselves in the beast's hide, made it thrash about, lose its bearings. The first strikes had been clean, precise. Until the duration of her 'Arrow Volley' ability had ended.

  "Yes, it's called 'Arrow Volley'. I received it from Priest Tavarek for completing a task."

  The orc woman whistled with approval. She walked round the table, stopped nearby. She laid a heavy palm on the troll woman's shoulder—friendly but with force that made Nemira sway.

  "Good ability. Useful. But I sense you haven't unlocked it yet. Right?"

  The troll woman shrugged. The ability hadn't yet increased its rank, so apart from seven arrows with ordinary damage, it gave nothing. Except guaranteed hits. 'Volley' worked intuitively—the moment she took the bow in hand, her fingers found the right position on their own; her body assumed the proper stance. But it went no further than basic movements. She simply shot where she aimed. Nothing extraordinary.

  "No, I've still got a long way to go developing it."

  "That's what I'm saying—I'll teach you!"

  Banarka clapped her on the back; the blow knocked air from her lungs. The orc woman laughed, pleased with her own idea.

  "I've got archery levelled quite well myself. I'm an orc woman, after all—practically born with a bow in my hands instead of an umbilical cord." The huntress smiled disarmingly and continued, "I'll show you techniques, give you advice. With any luck, in a month or two you'll be dropping grun'jaks from two hundred metres, won't even need to get close."

  Nemira thought it over. The offer sounded tempting. Archery gave the advantage of distance—she could wound prey before closing in, weaken it, make it bleed. Less risk, more control. And if the ability developed as well...

  "When do we start?"

  The orc woman grinned wider. Her eyes flashed with excitement.

  "Soon as the rain stops—we'll start straight away. I'll show you the range, set up targets. You'll shoot till your fingers fall off. Then we'll start hunting together. Agreed?"

  The troll woman nodded. Exhaustion still pressed on her shoulders; muscles ached, demanding rest. But the thought of new skills, of the chance to become stronger, warmed her from within.

  "Agreed."

  "Excellent!"

  Banarka turned to the carcass, pulled out a knife with a broad blade. She ran a finger along the cutting edge, checking sharpness.

  "Well, shall we butcher it? Or will you rest first?"

  Nemira looked at the grun'jak. Dead eyes stared at the canopy's ceiling; the maw froze in a snarl. Blood had congealed on the hide, mixed with mud and rainwater.

  "Let's butcher it. I'll have time to rest later."