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My legs stretched across the distance faster than I've ever gone—placing me right behind the fetid zalkrot within seconds.

Lifting my weighted weapon, I swung it in the direction of the creature's middle and sliced through a waist that couldn’t have been bigger than an apple.

A screech from the pit of its chest cloaked the sounds of the woman's shallow groans as vertebrae separated.

The top half, still hung from the tree by the arm that speared the woman, moved in my direction.

Time slowed down as one of the decaying spears cut through the air, aiming for my midsection.

I launched out of its path, narrowly missing it as the arm caught on my loose tunic instead, ripping the side of it open.

Recalling the long hours spent training with Hugh, I twisted back around, lifting my sword and bringing it down to slice off the spear.

It let out another screech that had me internally cringing at the noise.

With one last slice, the sound ceased—the blade cutting through its neck and last shoulder in one swift movement.

My chest rose and fell with the heavy breaths as I stared at the dismantled pile of limbs. Getting replaced instead by hatred

Hatred that these bastards existed.

Hatred for the deaths of innocents.

And hatred for what they have all done to me.

Rearing back my foot, I kicked the body again, and again, and again until the pain in my toes became too much.

When I stopped, my eyes slowly shifted to the lifeless body beside me.

Bile rose in my throat with each second as my gaze traveled down from the woman's strawberry-blonde hair—drenched in a bright crimson at the ends that fell just below her chin—over to her green eyes.

Even glossed over, they still dripped with unshed tears that joined the fresh streams flowing down her cheeks to mix with the contrasting blood splatter on her porcelain skin.

Her simple face was beautiful, with defined cheekbones and a slim nose above a set of heart-shaped lips surrounded by the start of smile lines.

A rattled breath escaped me and a few of the tears I’d been trying to hold back finally won—spilling out as my gaze at last fell upon her swollen belly.

A huge gash directly under her breasts caused the skin to fold over.

Strings of intestines spilled out, partially hanging from the wound, while the rest were wrapped around a small infant with half of its head missing—no. . . chewed off.

I instantly lost my stomach. I'd finished pulling back the fallen tendrils of my ratted hair just in time for the second wave of nausea to hit me. Forcing me to lose the rest of the food I’d consumed only that morning.

I did my best to pull myself together, but there wasn't exactly a guide on how to get used to seeing mutilated bodies. My fingers found the mushy skin that slid around on the limb—ready to fall off at any moment— and dug deep into the layers as I pulled with all my strength. The arm fought me until I suddenly became weightless, falling toward the sodden dirt. I staggered to get my legs back under me as a wet thud filled my ears from the woman’s body dropping to the ground.

My stomach twisted with the urge to vomit again, but that got shoved away—replaced with chilling dread as I watched the baby spill from the mother. The sight of the bodies was enough to send me spiraling. All-too-familiar panic surged through me, bringing with it my own memories of utter horror.

—

A bright haze covered my vision but my eyes still caught on to the familiar soft brown hair reflecting the light of the sun while it bounced across the meadow.

Laughter echoed out of me as I dropped my basket, and I too began running across the meadow.

Stopping only when I gasped for air to lie on the ground—letting my body be enveloped by the flowers.

Shades of purples and golds danced on the outskirts of my vision while I trained my eyes on the clouds above me. Fresh air, sullen with a sweet aroma of the flowers, filtered through my nose and out my mouth while I worked to catch my breath—and waited to be found.

—

Closing my eyes, I recited, “My name is Mira Ambros, I am twenty-two years old and I live near Brenillin, Drine. My name is Mira Ambros, I am twenty-two years old and I live near Brenillin, Drine.” Over and over again to myself, it quelled the rising panic until my heart returned to its normal pace.

I took a deep breath in and out of my mouth, pushing down the pain to sink myself into a comfortable pit of numbness.

Blocking out the smell, sight, and squelching around me, I finished gathering up the bodies before lighting them on fire—the only way to dispose of the victims and corpses of the monsters.

When I was done, I began to walk back in the direction of the river, stopping briefly to cast one last glance at the woman’s now resting face with the remains of her baby laid in her arms. I watched as the fire licked what remained of their skin off of their bodies, and whispered, “I’m sorry,” before turning my back to them once more.