Chapter 10: Chapter 10: The Clash of the Innocent.

The walk lasted just over thirty minutes—but with nerves taut and every sound suspect, it felt like an eternity. Suddenly, Ninka heard a low growl—close, far too close, only inches from her left ear. She instinctively dodged to the right, snapping her gaze toward the source of the sound—only to hear laughter.

Damir's spear nearly pierced Ivan's throat in his warrior's reflex, while Sir Bosko had already raised his crossbow, scanning for a target.

"Hey, calm down—it was only a joke,"

Ivan said.

"Did you fall off a cart full of fools, boy?"

Yasen muttered.

"That would explain a lot,"

Ninka added dryly.

"You should've seen the look on your face!"

Ivan laughed.

"I didn't make any face, rust-for-brains,"

she shot back.

"You need to learn to laugh at yourself, skinny. You'll be happier for it,"

he said, his laughter finally fading.

"Enough, Ivan,"

Sir Bosko cut in, his voice firm.

"If you want to be treated like a man—especially like a warrior—then start acting like one."

"Yes, sir,"

Ivan muttered, straightening his posture.

∞∞∞

They felt a shift in the air. They weren't far now—fifty meters from the clearing maybe. By now, the trees should have been opening up to reveal the cave. But instead, something else caught their attention.

"Someone's waiting for us up ahead,"

Damir murmured.

"Must be one of the taken villagers,"

Ninka said.

"Is he watching us?"

Ivan asked.

"Before, they were all obsessed with staring at the cave."

"That's true,"

Ninka agreed.

"I assumed that by now, the tree would have consumed them."

"You all should have explained this situation to me better,"

Sir Bosko grumbled.

"I've had enough of riddles and half-truths."

"It's just as I said, Sir,"

Ivan defended himself.

"They were all facing the cave, completely fixated."

The man ahead muttered something, but the words were too faint to be understood. His milky-white eyes, devoid of iris or pupil, followed their every movement.

"Did he say something?"

Ivan asked.

"Maybe he's breaking free from the Spirit's control,"

Damir suggested.

"Wait a damn minute—I know that bastard!"

Yasen suddenly exclaimed.

"That's Nikolai, the Eel-Eater! I thought he'd gone upriver last week to fish, not that he'd been taken by that cursed spirit."

Yasen stepped forward, heading straight for the man. Halfway there, the others followed.

"Stay away from her!"

the man suddenly shouted—this time, clear enough for all of them to hear.

"What? Away from who? What the hell are you babbling about, Nikolai, you river rat?"

Yasen called back, still amused.

No one reacted in time to what happened next. The sheer disbelief on Yasen's face left him completely exposed. Nikolai—or what was left of the man who once answered to that name—charged at him. Not like a person. Like a beast. In seconds, he struck the first blow—a punch so powerful that the air seemed to vibrate around it.

Yasen tried to retreat, eyes wide with shock, but there was no stopping the madman's advance. The impact slammed into Yasen's chest, followed by a series of blows, each as ferocious as the last, hurling him to the ground. The chainmail did its job, absorbing much of the impact—but the sheer force of two feral arms, striking with primal coordination, was enough to knock the wind out of any man.

With only the hard ground to cushion him, Yasen struggled to breathe. Then, the human beast lunged for his throat, like a Beowulf closing in on its prey. Before his teeth could sink in, Damir and Sir Bosko seized him by the arms, yanking his body backward. Both men had spent their entire adult lives fighting and protecting. Their physiques had been shaped by the demands of military discipline. And yet, even they struggled to hold down a mere villager.

"More are coming!"

Ninka shouted.

Damir glanced over his shoulder—two more villagers, consumed by the same frenzied rage, were charging toward them from about twenty meters away. That was when he made a hard decision, one the others would likely hesitate to make. He drew the dagger from his belt and, with a single, precise motion, plunged it into Nikolai's neck, severing the neck artery. Sir Bosko froze for a moment, caught off guard. It took him a few seconds to process what had just happened. Meanwhile, Damir pulled the lifeless body aside, dragging it off of Yasen, who was still gasping for air.

"Captain!"

Damir called, already raising his spear toward the oncoming attackers.

The seasoned Ivanove guard captain had already grasped the severity of the situation. He reached down, hauled Yasen to his feet, then cast a sharp look at Ivan. Ivan understood immediately. He stepped forward, axe and shield at the ready.

The first attacker to reach them was a woman. Sir Bosko's crossbow bolt struck her in the gap between her chest and right armpit. The impact halted her charge, but it didn't stop her. Meanwhile, another attacker rushed ahead, charging straight at Damir. With a swift, practiced motion, the man-at-arms drove his spear into the assailant's abdomen. Yet, despite the wound, the villager thrashed violently, impaled but still fighting.

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Ivan stepped forward and, with a precise swing of his axe, buried the blade into the man's temple. The blow sent him crashing to the ground, finally releasing Damir's spear. The very next moment, the wounded woman threw herself at Ivan, both arms swinging in a furious, unrestrained strike. Before the impact could land, Sir Bosko raised his round oak shield, blocking the attack and dropping his crossbow to the ground. The captain's mace came down hard—but not hard enough to stop her unnatural momentum. It took several brutal strikes before she finally collapsed, her face left a mangled, unrecognizable ruin.

Still stunned by the scene, Yasen seemed, at last, to awaken to the reality of the fight. He tightened his grip on his spear and stepped up beside Ivan, exactly as he had been instructed. More of the forest spirit's puppets were closing in, converging on the group of defenders.

Ninka counted six approaching from different directions. She considered using the thaumaturge's enchanted gloves—but hesitated. The thought of watching those people burn unsettled her. Yet, she forced herself to shove that feeling aside. This was life or death. She couldn't afford to care more for the villagers than for her own companions—and above all, for Lissa, who depended on her. Then, a second thought struck her—this one rational rather than emotional—and she hesitated again. She had no real experience wielding the artifact. If something went wrong, her own allies might end up as victims of the flames.

As Ninka grappled with indecision, the villagers collided with the defenders. Most were stopped with brutal efficiency, but one slipped through. It was a young woman, no older than eighteen, who charged straight at Ninka. Luckily, Ninka's reflexes were quick. She dodged and, without thinking twice, turned and ran back the way they had come.

Each step echoed through the trees, her footfalls crushing dry leaves and fallen branches. Behind her, the pursuer followed, driven by a feral strength, gaining with every stride. Her gaze fixed on Ninka like a starving predator, gleamed with an unnatural intensity. Ninka could hear her heavy breathing growing closer.

Panic surged through Ninka's limbs, but she kept running, dodging low branches and jagged rocks. With each near stumble, her determination sharpened. Then, after what felt like an eternity, her eyes found it— A gap between the thick roots of a towering pine. A dark space, narrow but just big enough. Without hesitation, she slid inside, pressing herself tight, trying to quiet her ragged breath.

Her pursuer slowed as she approached, sniffing the air like a hunting beast. Heavy footfalls crushed the earth beneath her, and with every step, she ripped at branches, her feral growls cutting through the silence. Her milky eyes swept the area with a feverish intensity.

"Stay away from her!"

the woman roared—a cry that sounded less like a plea and more like an instinctual command.

Ninka remained still, her heart hammering in her chest. Swallowed by darkness, she held her breath with all her might, waiting as the predator prowled nearby. Silence and shadow finally won. With a frustrated snarl, the woman wandered off, moving aimlessly, driven by blind compulsion.

As the footsteps faded, Ninka allowed herself a moment of relief. With the utmost care, she reached into her satchel, moving as quietly as possible. Her fingers brushed against something she recognized without needing to see it— The thaumaturge's enchanted gloves. The strange texture confirmed her intuition. She slipped them on quickly but carefully, inhaling deeply before slipping out of her hiding place.

Moving with ghost-like lightness, she crept around the trunk of the pine, scanning her surroundings for any sign of danger. For a fleeting moment, she thought she might be safe. Then, a savage scream tore through the night—from her right flank.

Before she could react, her predator was upon her. The blows came fast, wild, and relentless—striking her face, shoulders, and chest. Stunned, Ninka lost her balance and fell. Her body ached, her skin scraped raw, and her hair tangled and matted with dirt. The world spun around her, and pain throbbed through every inch of her flesh.

Still on the ground, Ninka acted on instinct—a desperate flick of her wrists ignited the thaumaturge's gloves. The attack was clumsy, the flames barely grazing her attacker. The weak tongues of fire licked at the woman's face, scorching her cheeks, but they did not stop her advance.

Terror gripped her limbs like ice. She scrambled backward, pushing off with her hands and heels, her gaze locked on the raging predator as she closed the distance. Then—suddenly—her retreat came to a brutal halt. Her back slammed into the rough bark of a pine tree. The woman stopped in front of her, unblinking, her milky-white eyes boring into Ninka. The scorched skin on her cheek had peeled away, exposing raw flesh beneath. Drool glistened at the edges of her lips, hanging thick and unnervingly eager.

"Stay away from her!"

she roared again—a voice filled with rage... and something almost protective.

And in that moment, an idea sparked in Ninka's mind. A flicker of hope. Only one individual would be immune to the villagers' madness. And she knew the shape of her very well. Taking a reckless gamble, Ninka abandoned her own silhouette—and became the very person they had come to rescue. The one who—ironically—had just saved her.

The shift in form brought an unexpected relief. One of the things Ninka appreciated most about her ability was that along with the usual agony of transformation came a kind of healing. Most of her injuries faded away, as if the cuts and bruises were nothing more than flaws in the perfect replication of a new form. Her renewed body was free of the pain that had weighed her down just moments ago. And for that, she was grateful.

The pursuer hesitated. The blind rage that had consumed her face melted into confusion, like a beast confronted with something that defied its instincts. Ninka took advantage of the pause and slowly rose to her feet. A tense silence stretched between them. Then, carefully, she took the first steps back toward the group, her movements measured, her senses sharp.

As she passed the woman, she felt the weight of her gaze. It was almost as if she was being scented, tested, like a hound sniffing out the unfamiliar. Still, the pursuer did not attack. And so, Ninka kept moving, careful not to make any sudden gestures that might rekindle her aggression.

But the woman had not given up entirely. Now, she followed Ninka at a disturbingly close distance—a silent, ominous shadow. Her obsession had merely shifted. The pine forest was heavy with silence, broken only by the soft crunch of their footsteps. The cold bit into her exposed skin, each breath escaping in small clouds of vapor, vanishing quickly into the icy air. Above, pale moonlight filtered through the tall branches, casting long, flickering shadows across the needle-strewn ground.

Then—suddenly—a sharp, metallic scent hit her nostrils. Blood. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and the cold around her felt even sharper. When her eyes finally took in the scene ahead, a tight knot formed in her throat.

At first, they were just shapes among the fallen leaves. But as she drew closer, the gruesome details emerged. Bodies lay scattered across the frozen earth. One of them clutched a broken spear. Another gripped the handle of a bloodied mace, his stiff fingers locked around it in the final throes of rigor mortis. Their faces, frozen in expressions of exhaustion, told the story of a brutal fight. And around them—the villagers. A dozen or so, in a pitiful state. Fingers and mouths stained red. Broken nails. Chests pierced. Skulls split open. A grotesque display. A testament to the savagery that had taken hold of them.

Ninka averted her gaze, unable to bear the sight any longer. And yet, she stepped forward, hesitant but determined to continue. Then—movement. Leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree was Ivan. Still breathing. But barely. His face was waxen-pale, his clothes torn and soaked through with blood. Deep wounds marred his neck and legs, and dark rivulets dripped steadily from him, staining the leaf-covered ground. His eyes—open, but glazed—stared into nothing, locked in silent agony. Still, they slowly shifted toward Ninka. He tried to speak, but only a weak, rasping whisper escaped his cracked lips.

"Lady... Vasilissa..."

Before Ninka could react, her pursuer noticed Ivan. With a guttural shriek, the woman lunged at him, a feral force unleashed. But just as she passed Ninka, her charge was intercepted. Ninka's leg shot out, catching the woman off balance. The pursuer crashed to the ground, hard. Ninka didn't hesitate. She threw herself onto the woman's back, straddling her in a frantic motion. She knew she couldn't hold her down for long—but she didn't have to. Her fingers tangled in the woman's matted hair, gripping tightly. Then, she called upon the gloves' magic. The reaction was immediate—and brutal. The woman howled, writhing beneath her like a wild animal. With a desperate burst of strength, she threw Ninka off, sending her crashing violently to the ground—as if she had tried to mount an enraged taurine.

But the spell had taken hold. Fire erupted, consuming the woman's hair and flesh. She let out a scream of pure terror, stumbling away, thrashing, her body ablaze with unnatural flames. Then, blinded by pain and panic, she bolted into the forest, staggering wildly into the darkness— Until she was gone from sight.

Ninka drew in a deep breath, her chest rising and falling in a frantic rhythm. There was no time to waste. She hurried toward Ivan, stepping around the horrors surrounding her—both with her feet and her gaze. When she reached him, she knelt beside him, struggling to find the right words. None seemed right.

"...We came here... to rescue you, m'lady..."

Ivan's voice was low and broken, barely more than a breath.

"Don't speak. Save your strength, please."

Her voice shook, but she fought to keep herself composed.

Ivan coughed—a wet, painful sound. His eyes, though clouded, still held that familiar determination.

"Where... is Ninka?"

he gasped.

"She needs to see you... we did it... she'll be so glad..."

A sharp ache seized Ninka's chest. Each word felt like a blow she couldn't deflect. She inhaled deeply, trying to hold back the tears that were already slipping down her face. His voice was barely a whisper, his lips pulling into a weak, trembling grin.

"That... skinny... she finally gonna smile..."

Those were the last words of Ivan Svantson. Known to Ninka in childhood as Rusty, hotheaded and the blacksmith's spawn— He would be remembered for the rest of her life as a dear friend— And a hero.