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The soles of my feet slap against the smooth beach rocks as I take off running.

I push myself faster, breaths coming in ragged gasps as I crest the sandy bank and hit the charred earth of the dead forest. Power barrels out of me, forcing the blackened branches overhead to bend and crack, opening a path through the devastation.

The steady rhythm of approaching hooves pounds louder in my ears, matched only by the frantic hammering of my pulse. The riders are getting closer with every passing second. They must sense I’m near—my magic had spilled out unchecked. As clear as a beacon.

I pour on another burst of speed even as pain lances up my legs.

Can’t stop. Can’t slow down now.

Up ahead, the dark edge of the living forest looms. A refuge promising shelter.

Little is visible beyond the first thick line of evergreens, the dense canopy swallowing what meagre sunlight filters down.

The soaring trunks are shrouded in deep shadows—the ideal place to hide and wait.

The pine boughs creak and groan overhead as I sprint beneath their outstretched limbs.

I plunge headlong into that beckoning darkness.

The familiarity of this—preparing an ambush, letting the shadows embrace and hide me—feels like coming home. I’ve done this countless times before. The certainty of it settles my racing heart, steadies my ragged breath. Muscle memory takes over and guides my steps.

Sharp rocks and gnarled roots bite at the tender soles of my feet, but I barely feel the pain. A strange exhilaration sharpens my focus. I pour on another burst of speed and make a running leap. Then I’m through the treeline, swallowed whole by the lightless undergrowth.

The air seems to freeze here. Not a single ray of sunlight penetrates the dense canopy overhead. I feel my way between massive tree trunks, seeking out the inkiest pool of shadow I can find.

Pressing my back against the rough bark, I melt into the darkness and wait.

The riders are close, their mounts’ hooves thudding on the frozen earth as they sweep the treeline. I hear the creak of saddles, the jingle of bridles.

And beneath it all, a whisper of power searching. Hunting. Probing the gnarled trunks around me.

It brushes the nape of my neck, raising every fine hair along my arms. I press harder against the wood behind me, holding still. The power slides over my skin. Testing. As if it can sense the unstable magic churning inside whoever I am now.

With painstaking care, I rein my power in, leashing it tight. The volatile force pulses and strains inside my chest, testing the fragile bonds I’ve imposed. It craves release from the confines I’ve trapped it in.

But not yet. Soon.

I risk a quick peek around the tree trunk shielding me. Through the dense undergrowth, I catch a glimpse of the riders. Their skin shines even in this lightless place.

Unseelie. Their insatiable hunger resonates through the air, familiar sensation to me on an instinctive level. It calls to something feral and unchecked dwelling deep within me. Makes it stir and unfurl, attuned to the ancient song of their lethal magic.

“Here,” one says. “The trail ends here.”

Even from my hidden vantage, I can make out the crimson shade of his hair, the ruthless cut of his jaw. Everything about them screams predator.

“Is it the Queen?” another asks, tone wary.

A low response I can scarcely hear. “Doesn’t feel like her. But she might have sent someone . . .”

The Queen. An image flits through my mind, there and gone before I can grasp it. Another lost relic from the yawning void swallowing my past.

They drift closer to my sanctuary. I watch their controlled movements, the unnatural grace of each step. Not a single stray sound gives their presence away. But they don’t sense me.

I scan the leaf-strewn ground, searching for anything that might serve as a makeshift weapon. My gaze snags on the pointed pine needles littering the earth around me.

My power. I can craft my own blade.

I seize a fallen branch and slice it sharply across my forearm, gritting my teeth against the bright flare of pain.

Crimson wells up in the wound’s wake, rich and redolent. I guide the first hot drops down along the length of the branch, letting my volatile magic awaken and surge through it.

The wood begins to sizzle and steam. Then it twists, warping. Flattening, honing, sharpening into a lethal point designed to punch through armour and part flesh in a single brutal thrust.

Now it’s a thing of terrible beauty. A dagger forged of my blood and power, its edges kissed by an ethereal inner flame. An elegant instrument of death—perfectly crafted just for me.

A familiar purpose settles over me, steadying my heart against my ribs.

This—the hunt, the kill—is part of who I am.

My body recalls it, even if my mind can’t.

I move through the underbrush on silent feet, knees bending to allow swift, gliding steps.

Breath spilling from my lungs in steady exhales so as not to make a sound.

Ready. Waiting for the ideal moment to strike.

The rearmost fae never realises I’m there until my arm snakes around him in a lethal embrace.

My palm slaps over his mouth, stifling any cry of alarm.

In the same fluid motion, I draw the makeshift blade across his exposed throat with a vicious swipe.

He dies quick and clean and silent. I feel his energy spill into me, lighting my volatile magic up from within.

It responds with a heady rush, singing a hymn only I can hear. A song of death and power.

The other two riders pause up ahead, posture stiffening at some subconscious warning from their immortal instincts. But they don’t turn back. Merely exchange hand signals and continue, confident their companion guards their backs.

A fatal mistake.

I lower the slain fae’s body and loop wide around the nearest tree trunk as I close in. He never knew what hit him. Never saw my blade coming until it was too late. His companions won’t either.

I slide up behind the next target on silent feet, one with him now.

My palm claps over his mouth at the same instant my other arm embraces him.

I feel his startled intake of breath warm against my skin.

Then I ram the makeshift dagger up under his ribs, piercing his heart.

He lets out a muffled scream that ends in a wet gurgle.

I hold him close as he slumps, keeping him upright until the last shudders of death subside.

Then I release my grip, letting the corpse fall to the ground.

I glance up as the final fae turns, eyes widening at the gruesome spectacle before him. He sees the glimmering trickle of crimson sliding down my blade, tapping an ominous beat against the ground. Tap, tap, tap.

And in that moment, I know I must look like death itself has come calling.

His features shift, dread bleeding away to something far more chilling. Recognition.

“You,” he whispers.

Minutes ago, seeing myself reflected in those depthless eyes would have given me pause. But I’m too far gone now, lost in the hypnotic melody of my own lethal power. Its wild music pounds through my veins, an irresistible siren’s call.

The fae makes no move to flee, no move to fight.

That’s his second and final miscalculation.

My fingers caress the hilt of my makeshift dagger, finding the perfect grip. I pull my arm back, exhaling slowly. Then I whip it forward in a blinding arc. It strikes true, punching deep through the fae’s throat. He crumples to the ground.

A slain beast brought down by the huntress.

I retrieve my weapon, studying the corpse almost dispassionately as I wipe the mingled blood from the razor edge. This feels like a ritual. Purpose, not slaughter.

Another flicker of power ripples through the air, snaring my attention. This one is lighter, insubstantial as sunshine. It calls to something bright and vulnerable dwelling just beneath the surface of what I’ve become.

Something human.

I turn, searching for the source. There, between the trees. A small sphere of golden light, as fragile as a candle flame. It hovers at eye level, barely substantial enough to fill a cupped palm.

“Aileana,” it whispers.