The axe slashed from the side.

  Banarka crashed into the creature's ribs. The blade passed between bones, stuck fast. The orc woman wrenched it towards herself—the sigkhun swayed; its paws loosened their grip.

  Nemira rolled clear. Away, away from those sockets. Her hands scraped earth; her legs tangled. She wasn't running—she was crawling, panic-stricken, heedless of direction.

  Her head slammed into a boulder. The cold stone brought her round—only slightly. Enough to realise: fleeing on foot was easier than on all fours.

  The troll woman sprang up and ran, heedless of the path.

  The sigkhun threw off Banarka. The axe flew from the wound, clattered on stones. The orc woman rolled, leapt to her feet. Weaponless.

  The creature wheeled towards her. Its maw gaped—a rasp, gurgling and wet. Almost like laughter.

  She had no time to chase Nemira—and the orc woman didn't even try. All her focus compressed to a single goal: survive here, now, in this instant. Nothing else existed. Only the creature. Only herself.

  Her gaze darted across the ground—seeking anything she could fight with. A stone, a stick, anything.

  And found the torch.

  It still burnt. Stood to one side, where they'd left it at the fight's beginning. Flame licked the dry wood, devoured the resin greedily. Light trembled, cast ragged shadows on stones.

  Banarka lunged for it. Didn't run—rolled, over her shoulder, low to the ground. The sigkhun darted after her; claws slashed the air where her back had been a moment before.

  Her fingers closed on the torch's grip. The orc woman wrenched it from the earth; sparks sprayed in all directions. She leapt to her feet, wheeled in one movement.

  The creature was already flying at her. Maw gaping; black ooze dripped from its fangs. The rasp filled the air, churned her innards.

  Banarka stepped forward—towards the leap.

  One step. Her body leant forward; her legs bent; all her weight shifted to her front foot. The torch swept up in both hands. Flame crackled; sparks flew in all directions.

  The creature flew at her—maw gaping; black ooze dripped from its fangs; the rasp filled the air.

  And the orc woman drove the burning end of the torch straight into the sigkhun's open gullet.

  To the hilt. With force. So hard the wood crunched and flame plunged inside, vanished behind rows of fangs.

  An instant of silence. Complete, absolute. Even the rasp broke off.

  Then the sigkhun howled.

  Not like a beast—worse. The sound tore from its throat in layers, in strata of pain, overlaying itself. High screeching mixed with guttural roaring, gurgled through the flame that devoured flesh from within.

  Not with voice—there was no sound. But the scream sliced through space, pierced consciousness. In the orc woman's head, invisible tentacles seemed to dig in, coiled round her brain, clamped down. Pain exploded behind her eyes—sharp, pulsing, unbearable.

  Banarka swayed. Her jaw clenched till her teeth ground; muscles on her neck swelled. Blood pounded in her temples. The torch remained in the creature's maw.

  The sigkhun darted aside. Six paws scraped the earth; its hind legs buckled. The torch protruded from its maw; fire licked its palate, devoured its tongue. Black ooze hissed, boiled in the heat. Smoke billowed from its gullet—acrid, oily, reeking of rotten meat.

  Banarka didn't wait.

  She lunged for the axe. Three steps—a dive—her fingers closed on the grip. The wood was slippery with the creature's blood, but her grip was iron. The orc woman rose, wheeled.

  The sigkhun thrashed against the ground. Its head swung left—the torch flew out, rolled across the stones. The flame died. But the damage was done. The entire maw—a ragged, charred hole. Fangs blackened; gums ran with black slime.

  The creature swayed on its paws. Wheeled towards the orc woman. There were no sockets—only hollows from which ooze flowed. But it saw. Sensed. Knew where its enemy was, though she darted about. Paws jerked; claws scored furrows in the earth. The rasp became wetter, choking.

  Banarka moved forward. Axe in both hands. Step by step, measured.

  The sigkhun darted at her—clumsily, in a lunge. Without its former speed. Without calculation.

  The orc woman dodged aside. A slight shift of her body; her weight on her right foot. The creature flew past; claws slashed the air.

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  Banarka wheeled after it. The axe swept above her head.

  And crashed down on the skull—there, where the split already gaped.

  The blow cracked bone. The blade entered deeper, split the fracture wider. Black ooze gushed in a fountain, doused the orc woman's hands. It burnt—not with fire but with cold, icy and deathly.

  Banarka wrenched the axe towards herself. Tore it from the skull with a crunch; chunks of bone flew in all directions. She swung again.

  Second blow—to the same wound.

  Third.

  Fourth.

  She didn't scream. Didn't snarl. Only breathed—heavily, through clenched teeth. The axe rose and fell. Mechanically. Again and again.

  The sigkhun collapsed onto its front paws. The hind legs still jerked, scraped the earth. Its head swung; its maw gaped—the rasp came quieter. Almost soundless.

  Banarka struck again. The blade passed clean through the skull, stuck fast in the earth beneath.

  The creature stilled. Its paws stopped jerking. From the wound ooze flowed—slowly, thickly. It pooled beneath the dead body, blackened the grass around.

  The orc woman exhaled. She left the axe embedded—she had no strength to wrench it out. Her hands trembled. Her whole body trembled. Adrenaline had burnt out, leaving only emptiness and exhaustion.

  Her legs buckled. Banarka sank onto the stones beside the creature, her back against the boulder. She threw her head back, stared at the tree crowns. Leaves rustled quietly, peacefully. As though nothing had happened.

  Banarka sat for two minutes. No more. Her breathing evened; her pulse slowed. Her hands stopped trembling—almost.

  She fumbled in the pouch at her belt. Her fingers found a vial—the glass warm, something thick sloshing inside. She pulled it out, yanked the stopper with her teeth. Spat it aside.

  The potion smelt of bitter herbs and something metallic. Banarka tipped the contents into her mouth. The liquid scalded her tongue, crawled down her throat. Her body responded almost instantly—heat spread through her veins, drove the exhaustion from her muscles. Vigour returned in a wave, flooded over her head.

  The orc woman rose. She wrenched the axe from the creature's skull—easily, in one jerk. The blade, slick with ooze, she wiped on the grass, shoved it into the loop at her back.

  Her gaze fell on the tracks.

  They led away from the clearing—chaotic, ragged. Nemira had run heedless of path. Heels scraped the earth; toes dug in deep. In places the grass had been torn out by the roots—there, where the troll woman had stumbled and fallen.

  Banarka followed. Step by step, watchful. The tracks read easily—too easily. Nemira hadn't even tried to hide her direction. Simply ran. Wherever her eyes led.

  With each step, unease grew.

  The tracks didn't veer. Didn't weave. They went straight—there, where one mustn't go.

  The orc woman quickened her pace. The axe hadn't stayed on her back long; she took it in her hands again. The jungle around had died completely. The air grew denser. Heavier. It pressed on her shoulders, crept into her lungs as a viscous mass.

  And then she caught the smell, and with each step it grew stronger, swelled with revolting notes.

  Decay. Old, ingrained in the earth. Mixed with ash and something sour. Banarka knew this stench. Cursed places reeked precisely like this—of dead wood and decomposed flesh.

  Ahead showed the village.

  Ver'nala. That's what they'd called it before—before life had left this place.

  The fence—half-rotten, sagging—stretched in a semicircle. Stakes jutted at varying angles; some had fallen completely. Beyond it showed houses. Low, squat, with collapsed roofs. Walls blackened by time and fire. Windows gaped as empty sockets. Doors torn from their hinges, lying in the grass nearby.

  Silence pressed down. Complete. Even the birds didn't sing. Even the wind didn't rustle the foliage.

  Nemira had walked straight through the fence. The tracks led further—between houses, into the village's depths. She hadn't stopped. Hadn't turned aside.

  Banarka froze at the fence's edge.

  Guilt burnt from within—heavy, sticky. She knew: everything that had happened was on her conscience. She hadn't explained properly about the sigkhun. Hadn't checked whether the troll woman understood the seriousness of the threat. Had charged into battle first, leaving Nemira without cover. And when the creature had borne down—the orc woman had thought only of herself, of her own survival.

  The result—a novice had bolted in panic to the cursed village.

  Banarka gripped the axe tighter. Guilt or no guilt—it didn't matter now. Nemira had to be dragged out of there. Alive, if she was lucky.

  The orc woman stepped beyond the fence.

  The earth underfoot crunched. Charred boards, bones—unclear whose. The smell intensified, climbed into her nose, settled on her tongue. Banarka didn't grimace. She breathed through her mouth, shallowly.

  Houses stood on either side—silent, dead. Shadows had condensed between them, didn't disperse even where the sun struck directly. It seemed the darkness had soaked into the timber, into the stone. Had become part of this place.

  The tracks wove between the ruins. Nemira had evidently begun coming to herself—her steps became more cautious, shorter. She was seeking shelter.

  Banarka followed. She held the axe ready. Her eyes raked the surroundings—windows, doors, shadows beneath eaves. Ver'nala was dead, but dead places didn't always remain empty. In some dead places, creatures took up residence—neither beasts nor men. Worse. Far worse.

  Not alive and not dead, trapped between two worlds. They remembered life but had lost it. Remembered warmth but felt only hunger. And that hunger knew no satiation.

  Guilt continued to burn, and the orc woman didn't stop, despite her fear.

  The tracks led to the temple.

  It stood in the village's centre—the only structure whose walls held straight. The roof had collapsed only on one side; beams jutted like charred ribs. The door was absent—the opening gaped as a black hole.

  Banarka slowed at the entrance. She gripped the axe with both hands. Listened.

  Silence. Not even the sound of breathing.

  She stepped inside.

  Light broke through holes in the roof—slanting rays cut the half-light, picked out the dust in the air. The floor was strewn with debris—chunks of wood, stones, something ragged and decayed.

  And in the centre—the Reincarnation Stele.

  Nemira stood beside it. Her arm stretched upward. In her fingers—a crown.

  Simple, without ornaments. Black metal, tarnished with time. Spikes instead of points—thirteen of them, jutting unevenly, as though broken and welded anew. On each—a drop of dried blood. Old. Very old.

  The troll woman examined the crown closely, turned it in her hands. Light slid across the metal, picked out scratches, dents. Nemira's face was focused. Curious.

  Something inside Banarka snapped.

  Horror lashed in a wave—icy, paralysing. Her heart lurched in her chest, began beating frantically. Air stuck in her throat. Her muscles seized with a spasm; the axe nearly slipped from her hands.

  And then came desire.

  Clear. Indisputable. To kill Nemira. Immediately. Raise the axe and strike. With one blow. Finish it.

  It seemed the Sky itself demanded this of her. A voice—not in words but in sensation—hammered into her skull, pressed on her brain. 'Kill her. Kill her now. Before it's too late.'

  Banarka took a step forward. The axe rose of its own accord. Her hands trembled—not from fear, from strain. Muscles were ready to tear the troll woman in half.