The forest did not breathe.
That was Helene von Auen's first impression as they pushed deeper into the Blackthorn Forest. The air was a syrupy rot clinging to her bare skin like a cold membrane. Every breath felt like dragging venom into her lungs.
A shrill shriek tore the dead silence.
Three shadows erupted from the underbrush, slick as oil on murky water. The black thorn-vines behind them lashed the air, then froze instantly, as if the forest had merely blinked to hide its crime.
"Thornstalkers!"
Rurik bellowed.
"Left!"
Helene halted, the heels of her soft leather boots sinking into the damp muck. Her emerald eyes narrowed beneath her hood. Her thumb rhythmically stroked her index finger inside the folds of her ashen cloak, destructive magic already pulsing in her palm.
Thornstalkers. Squat aberrations covered in moss-green scales and razor spines. Thick drool dripped from their jawless maws, sizzling like acid against the dead leaves.
Rurik Brandt didn't retreat an inch. The giant mercenary planted his boots and swung his heavy battle-axe in a brutal, sweeping arc.
Crunch.
Steel cleaved through bone. The first beast collapsed before its filthy claws could graze Rurik's shin. Using the momentum, Rurik pivoted, driving his iron-shod boot directly into the second creature's chest. It flew backward, skidding across the wet leaves with the sickening crack of caving ribs.
Across the clearing, Kaspar Voss danced a far deadlier waltz.
He glided over the rot like dark smoke. When the third monster lunged, Kaspar simply shifted his weight. A lazy, perfectly timed pivot. As the beast shot past, his twin daggers flashed in the twilight, carving two wet, red smiles across its throat and Achilles tendon.
Hot black blood sprayed in a wide arc. The monster crumpled, twitched twice, and lay still.
Quick. Clean. Merciless.
Helene watched the slaughter with an icy gaze, but her senses were cataloging far more unsettling details. The mist coiled around her ankles like greedy fingers. Every tiny sound was swallowed by the trees with terrifying speed.
A hot breath brushed her nape, followed by the familiar scent of leather and steel polish.
"Imperial Countess."
Daniel Keller's deep, rigorously controlled voice murmured right behind her.
"It is safe."
Daniel stood like an impenetrable wall at her back, his drawn sword respectfully angled toward the earth.
"The hides on these bastards fetch good coin."
Kaspar laughed, a throaty, raspy sound. He crouched and casually wiped the sticky blood from his blades on a clump of wet grass.
"The tanners at the border will get rock-hard just looking at these spines."
Rurik snorted and slid his bloody axe back into its harness. He kicked the largest carcass onto its back and began carving out the valuable innards with his hunting knife. No hesitation, no disgust. Just meat and coin.
Helene ignored the steaming pile of guts. The forest radiated a foul, fermenting heat. Her fine linen underdress, woven with silver thread, already plastered itself to her skin, mapping every curve. A single bead of sweat traced a slow, agonizing path from the nape of her neck down her spine. The oppressive humidity fueled her magic, but it forced her physical senses to a razor's edge.
The squelch of Rurik's knife. The rustle of dying leaves. Daniel's heavy, constrained breathing inches from her ear. It was a suffocating heat designed to strip away logic and awaken primal instincts.
Rurik straightened, shaking the gore from his coarse hands, and squinted up at the impenetrable canopy. The last dregs of daylight were fading fast.
"Gonna be dark soon, Imperial Countess."
He grunted.
"The stink of fresh blood will draw bigger vermin. We can't camp here. Over there. The ground's tight enough for a decent defense."
He pointed a massive finger toward a distant, towering rock formation.
Helene gave a fraction of a nod. Her flawless face remained a mask of aristocratic ice, even as her analytical mind registered a new threat: the wind wasn't blowing; it was crawling along the ground, deliberately carrying the stench of blood in one specific direction. Like an invisible noose tightening.
"Lead on."
The group moved out. Daniel remained her loyal shadow. Every time they navigated the uneven terrain, his armored shoulder lightly brushed her cloak—a forbidden, electrifying friction of hard steel against yielding silk.
Her boot caught on a massive, moss-slicked root blocking the narrow path. As she stepped high to clear it, the heavy cloak shifted.
The daring slit of her combat dress fell completely open.
It bared the full length of her right thigh, all the way to the hip. Against the rotting filth of the ancient forest, that expanse of pale skin was a blinding contrast—silken, bare, and utterly defenseless.
For half a heartbeat, Daniel's breath hitched. A harsh, jagged sound.
She heard the faint creak of his leather gauntlets as his grip turned white-knuckled on his shield. The knight ripped his gaze away, staring rigidly ahead, his jaw locked so hard the bone popped. The heavy, unmistakable bulge straining against his armored breeches betrayed the violent war he fought to suppress his sudden arousal.
But Kaspar wore no such chains.
The mercenary didn't even blink. His dark, abyssal eyes locked onto the exposed flesh, tracking the curve all the way up to where the pale skin vanished into the shadows between her legs. It felt physical—a rough, insolent tongue dragging directly over her bare skin, tasting the heat simmering just beneath her cool facade.
Helene felt the burn of Kaspar's stare. She heard the agonized stutter of Daniel's breathing.
Yet the Imperial Countess didn't flinch. She made no move to adjust the fabric. With freezing arrogance, she let the silk sway open with every graceful step, forcing them to endure the torment of looking at what they couldn't touch.
Suddenly, Helene stopped. Her piercing gaze locked onto the dense, swirling mist ahead.
Crack.
A dry, heavy snap echoed in the distance. A thick thorn breaking. Then, the unnatural deathly silence rushed back in.
The group marched on in absolute silence. Only deep beneath the heavy folds of her cloak did Helene von Auen's slender fingers clench into a white-knuckled fist.