Rip. Tear.

  The creature came apart in Reyn's hands like overcooked fowl. No more resistance. No more fight. Just flesh parting from flesh, pink blood mixing with water, pieces floating like dead promises. The contrast between the violent scene and the picturesque scenery of a serene lake surrounded by birch and oak was hauntingly beautiful. It looked like a really disturbing painting.

  Boring-boring-BORING.

  Reyn tore another soft chunk free, but it didn't satisfy. The Rage wanted resistance. Screaming. It wanted something that would fight back instead of just... resting in pieces. She was restless.

  Somewhere distant, locked behind red fog, a small voice whispered: Stop. Calm down. It's dead. It's been dead. Breathe.

  But that voice was tiny, insignificant, a candle flame in a wildfire. The Rage consumed it, digested it, and pretended it didn't exist.

  Good Deeds hung loose in her grip, disappointed. The blade had barely been needed. Her hands had done most of the work. Her teeth had done some. The memory of drowning had done the rest. There was something about not breathing that made you slightly pissed off.

  Then Reyn, or the Rage, or whoever was actually in charge felt it.

  Heartbeats. I am Reyn. Afraid. I am me. Death.

  Multiple hearts, beating fast like frightened rabbits hiding from a predator. Contained in a wooden box that pretended to be shelter. They thought walls meant safety. They thought distance meant security.

  They were wrong.

  Reyn stood, pieces of creature sliding off her like slow drops of water. The lake behind her was pink for a hundred yards in every direction. Pretty. Like sunrise. Like spilled wine. Like all the blood inside those heartbeats waiting in their wooden box. She smiled.

  You’re disgusting, Reyn thought.

  You’re boring, Reyn thought back.

  Reyn began walking.

  Not running. There was no rush. The prey had trapped itself. Each step was slow. Heavy. Good Deeds dragged behind her, leaving a groove in the mud. The sound was rhythmic. Satisfying. The Rage was all for theatrics, it seemed.

  Thump-drag. Thump-drag. Thump-drag.

  The small voice tried again: Those are people. Innocent people. Venn is in there. Rast is in there. Calm. Breathe.

  The Rage laughed with her throat. People, not-people, what was the difference? They all came apart the same way. They were all meat. They all made the same sounds when Good Deeds found them. Reyn could feel herself attempting to take back control from somewhere deep inside, just as she easily blocked the attempt with anger and fear and pure instinct of survival.

  And a primal lust for violence.

  The Rage had something that maybe could be considered control, and not just blind, brutish violence, which Reyn fond all the more disconserting.

  Turnip bounded alongside her, chittering with joy. The rabbid was a force of nature. A survivor, just as herself. The mutual agreement was the only thing that prevented them from ripping each other apart. That, and turnips, of course.

  The wooden box grew closer. The heartbeats grew faster.

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  Reyn Caleran, you listen to me!

  A smile crept on her face.

  No.

  ---

  ?This is ridiculous,? the innkeeper said, watching the strangers pile furniture against his door. ?She's one woman! One! My grandmother could handle one woman, and she's been dead for a decade, bless her soul!?

  ?Please,? the healer girl said, her voice shaking. ?Just stay back from the windows. Don't make any sudden movements.?

  ?In my own inn? I'll move however I please, thank you!?

  He pushed past them to the window, determined to see what had them so frightened. The sun had set properly now, but there was enough moonlight to see the shore. To see the figure walking toward them.

  Walking. Not running. Not charging. Just... walking. Like she had all the time in the world.

  ?See?? he said, though his voice caught slightly. ?Just a woman. Covered in... what is that? Is that... blood??

  ?Get away from the window,? the King's Man said quietly. Then he shrugged. ?Or don’t. I don’t care, come to think of it.?

  ?Rast!? the healer gave the King’s Man a stern look.

  ?What? He’s not a pleasant man. Besides, we’re all dead in minutes anyway.?

  The innkeeper couldn't look away. The woman's gait was like a pendulum: Steady and rhythmic. Like inevitability. And she was dragging that massive sword behind her, leaving a line in the earth. Why was her sword so enormous?

  Thump-drag. Thump-drag.

  He could hear it now, getting closer.

  Then she passed through a beam of moonlight, and he saw her face. He wished he hadn't.

  The blood was everywhere, but that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was her expression. She was smiling, but it wasn't a smile. It was the expression of something that had forgotten what expressions meant, trying to remember how faces worked. At least, that was the only way for him to describe it.

  And her eyes...

  ?Black,? he whispered, then looked around as if he was the only one seeing this. ?Her eyes are black. Why are her eyes black??

  ?GET BACK!? the healer screamed, yanking him away from the window.

  The first hit shook the entire building.

  The door, solid oak that had weathered forty years of storms, groaned like a living thing. The furniture they'd piled against it shifted, a chair falling down.

  ?She can't,? the innkeeper said. ?That door is three inches thick. She can't possibly---?

  The second hit cracked the bar. Not bent. Not stressed. Cracked. Like kindling.

  The King's Man threw himself against the door, trying to hold it. He gritted his teeth. ?Everyone to the back! Now!?

  But the locals were frozen, watching the door bulge inward with each impact. The innkeeper's wife clutched their son. Old Herrik the fisherman stood with his mouth open, unable to process what was happening. The healer did her best to get them to move, but there is something mezmerising about looking at doom knocking down a thick door as if it was nothing.

  The third hit destroyed everything.

  The door didn't just break. It exploded. Fragments of oak, splinters the size of daggers; all flew across the room. The furniture barricade scattered like toys. The King's Man was thrown backward, hitting the far wall with a groan.

  And there she stood.

  Framed in the doorway, backlit by moonlight, covered in blood that looked black in the darkness. She towered, with veins bulging from pumped muscles like an exaggerated statue. That massive greatsword in her hand, making other swords feel lesser if they had feelings. A rabbit thing beside her, teeth bared in an expression that matched its owner's.

  ?Is that a rabbit?? someone said.

  ?No.? The healer stood between the patrons and the woman and her pet.

  The barbarian woman tilted her head, studying them.

  The innkeeper knew with absolute certainty that he was about to die. They were all about to die. This thing wearing a hulking woman's shape was going to take them apart piece by piece, and no one could stop her.

  One of the inn's patrons, bless his soul, tried. He jumped toward her with a dagger in hand, but she caught him by his throat without even looking at him. The woman tilted her head and looked at him as she lifted him from the ground, her height enough to make his feet dangle, then she threw him across the room and through tables as if he was a dirty handkerchief.

  The innkeeper found it oddly exciting.

  The woman took a step forward, before suddenly stopping, rotating her head slightly as if she was listening. For a brief second there was confusion in her face.

  Then, from somewhere outside, a voice boomed with absolute authority. Or, it tried to boom, but got out of breath and wheezed.

  Then, it boomed with newfound power.

  Words the innkeeper didn't recognize, that were more sound than words. The words sounded as if they belonged to ancient times, when words themselves had power. The air crackled. The temperature dropped. Every candle in the inn flared blue.

  The woman froze mid-step. Not stopped, not paused, but frozen. Like time itself had been cancelled in her immediate vicinity.

  The rabbit creature made a confused chitter, then it too went still.

  Silence.

  Complete, absolute silence.

  Someone coughed.

  No one breathed. No one moved. They all stared at the tall, terrifying blood-soaked figure frozen in their doorway, one foot raised, with a sword as long as many a man, halfway to its next victim.

  The woman twitched. Dropped the sword, but clenched her fists. She turned around with gritted teeth and heavy, hesitant movement, as if something invisible held her back.

  And from outside, footsteps approached at a slow and steady pace. Either confident, or just holding back while catching breath.

  ?What now?? the King's Man said, forcing himself up from the debris in obvious pain.

  Someone was coming.