II

  Pain bloomed at the base of his skull, slow and rhythmic, a heat that pulsed inward rather than out. With it came sound, a thick ringing that drowned everything else as if his head had been struck and left to hum. Sense returned in fragments. Smell first. The damp rot, the fungus and wet bark. He knew that breath very well by now. He hadn't been taken far, he was still in the forest.

  His body jerked on instinct, the response was immediate.

  But something coarse tightened around his chest and arms, biting deep as his movement pulled it taut. Bark scraped his back, sharp enough to tear skin. A shallow grunt escaped him before he could stop it. Blood ran warm where the tree had broken him open, trickling down his spine in thin lines. He clenched his teeth, jaw locking around a filthy strip of cloth shoved between them. The taste of iron and dirt made him gag.

  Zhar forced his breathing down before it could turn against him. Short breaths wasted strength. Panic burned energy he didn't have to spare. When he finally opened his eyes, pain flared behind them, sharp and electric, like something alive nibbling at the nerves. His vision swam, light stabbing more than illuminating. He blinked slowly, letting the world settle on its own terms. Shapes bled into one another.

  He looked down. Naked.

  Cold sweat clung to his skin, mixing with dirt and blood, raising a chill that had nothing to do with shame. He catalogued the loss and moved on.

  The rope crossed his chest and arms in thick bands, fibres rough and irregular. Not hemp, more like roots or vines. It bit deeper where he shifted his weight, promising worse if he tested it blindly. He didn't.

  Instead, he waited for the dizziness to ease, counting breaths until the ringing dulled enough to think through it.

  A bead of sweat gathered at the tip of his nose, trembled, then dropped into his lap. He lifted his head with care, letting the back of it rest against the tree. The bark was old, ridged, merciless.

  The light that hurt his eyes wasn't moon or star.

  Ahead, a campfire burned low and steady. Beyond it sat a figure. Still indistinct, blurred by heat and failing sight, but close enough to hear the sound of metal drawn against stone. Whoever it was sharpened something without hurry, no rush, like a man who had already decided how this would end.

  The figure didn't look at him. He spoke instead, low and indistinct, words muttered in a tongue Zhar didn't recognise. Not meant for him. Not meant to be heard. He didn't acknowledge that Zhar was awake. But the tone was sharp anyway. Aggressive.

  That told Zhar more than explanation ever could.

  He stayed still, breathing measured around the gag, eyes half-lidded as if pain had claimed him completely. Inside, things aligned. Not neatly, but enough. He began considering his options.

  They were poor. But they were his.

  Feeling returned in fragments. A twitch in his fingers. A faint tightening in his shoulders. Zhar welcomed it without relief. Pain was information. He shifted carefully, millimetre by millimetre, letting the rope rasp his skin, letting the bark bite deeper into his back. He swallowed the urge to grunt. Quiet mattered.

  Then his own body betrayed him.

  Saliva slipped the wrong way, caught in his throat. A dry, ugly gag tore free before he could choke it down. His muscles locked heart sinking low into his stomach. Breath held.

  Nothing happened.

  The figure by the fire kept sharpening. Stone whispered against the blade in a slow, patient rhythm. No glance. No pause. As if the forest itself had coughed.

  Zhar steadied his breathing. His vision, still swimming moments ago, began to harden. Firelight pulled shapes into focus. The blade wasn't steel. It was too pale, too matte. Worked by hands that understood anatomy better than scripture. A hunter's tool made out of sharpened bone.

  More importantly Zhar's gaze shifted to the man holding it. Lean with black skin catching the firelight like polished obsidian. Skin stretched thin over muscle like meat pulled tight on the rack, veins standing dark and alive. He rubbed at one eye with the heel of his palm, set the stone down, then reached behind him. From a small pouch he drew something oily, ran it along the blade with reverence, then slid the dagger home at his hip.

  Only then did he rise.

  Slowly. Unhurried. He wiped his hands on his trousers, adjusted the rope holding them up, and stood with his back to Zhar as if contemplating the fire, or the night beyond it. He breathed in, deep and measured.

  —The prey wakes.—The voice was calm.

  He turned, fire caught in his hair—bright orange, braided and spiked, burning like a warning animal in the dark. His smile came easily, too easily, revealing gold-flecked fangs that were filed, not grown. He tilted his head, studying Zhar the way one studies a wound before deciding where to cut. He didn't move at first. Just watched.

  Zhar felt the weight of it.

  Then the man stepped forward, not walking rather gliding. Cat like feet kissing the earth without sound, every movement deliberate, graceful, obscene in its control. His movement like a form of art. Predator elegance.

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  Honey reached Zhar's nose before the man did. Thick. Sweet. Almost nauseating beneath dirt and smoke. He bent low, close enough now that Zhar could see his eyes properly—yellow, ember-bright, alive and glowing like the fireflies around them.

  —I expected more from you, Zhar.—

  He reached out, gentle as a priest, and patted Zhar's head. Fingernails traced his cheek, slow, intimate, before hooking the rag from his mouth and tossing it aside.

  Air rushed back in. Zhar sucked it down hard, coughing, spitting, dragging the taste of filth from his tongue. The man laughed softly as he watched him struggle.

  —You did what a smart animal does. But that is why you are here.—

  Zhar lifted his head, eyes narrowed beneath his brow. Pain rang behind them, but his voice came steady. —Who the fuck are you? And how do you know my name?

  The man ignored the question. His fingers drifted to Zhar's arm, tracing muscle, rope, skin, as if feeling out where to break him.

  His smile never faded.

  —White meat is my favourite, you know.— The man said it lightly, almost fondly, like sharing a childhood preference. He rolled his tongue across his golden teeth, lips parting in a slow, appreciative smile.

  —Something about the way it slips from the bone. Clean. No fight once it's cooked right.—

  Zhar's body jerked hard against the rope, sudden and violent, like a fish breaking water. The bark tore skin from his back. Blood ran warm down his spine. —What the fuck are you talking about?—

  The man lowered himself to sit across from him, close. Calm. Unhurried. He tilted his head, studying Zhar the way a butcher studies weight and cut.

  —Relax your body. That struggling is wasted effort. Look at you. Dehydrated. Hungry. Bruised down to the marrow.— He reached out and wiped sweat from Zhar's brow with two fingers, then sniffed them. —Sweat and fear spoil the meat. Makes it bitter.—

  —Good news then— Zhar rasped, forcing a crooked grin through clenched teeth. —I've been told I taste like shit.—

  The man laughed, loud and wrong. It echoed too deep, splitting itself, as if another voice laughed a heartbeat behind the first. He pressed a hand to his stomach, shoulders shaking.

  —You are entertaining. I will give you that. But no, I can't let you go even if you're as foul as you say. Now...you asked me who I am.—

  He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

  —I am just a hungry man. A man who survives.—

  Zhar rolled his shoulders again, slower this time. Not panic but adjustment. The rope creaked softly.

  —Alright— he said. —Hungry man to hungry man. Let's be civil. You untie me, I help you hunt something that doesn't talk back. I've seen enough out there to keep you fed a month.—

  The man's eyes narrowed, amused.

  —You will help me hunt?— He clicked his tongue. —Do you take me for a fool? Did you not already stumble into my snare, little rabbit? The forest bent you where I wanted. You walked exactly where I placed the teeth.—

  Zhar said nothing. He couldn't.

  The man's fingers drummed once against his knee. He breathed in deep, nostrils flaring. Something in him tightened.

  —He is begging now,— he murmured, more to himself than to Zhar.

  —I can feel it pulling. I have kept him quiet too long.—

  His gaze lifted, yellow glinting bright. —And besides... despite the rusty taste of iron and chains, vampiric blood is clean. Strong. It sings when opened.—

  Zhar's pupils flared. His heart stuttered, just once.

  —I'm not one of those flying rats, you sick fuck. And who is he?— His voice sharpened. —You know my name. You know who I am. So I'll ask again. Who sent you? I want to speak to him.—

  The man's smile thinned. Something colder slid behind his eyes.

  —He is closer than you think, Zhar. Much closer. And no, you do not want to meet him... Nor do I.—

  Zhar swallowed, then exhaled slow. —If you're set on killing me— he said quietly —then let a dying man have a last request. Even animals respect that much.—

  The man watched him for a long moment. Then he rose.

  —You are very good at buying time.— He stepped closer, lowering himself into a crouch. —But your questions have made me hungry. And hunger is my favourite part.—

  The air changed.

  Zhar felt it before he saw it. A tightening, like the forest itself holding its breath. The veins along the man's temples stood out, pulsing thick and dark. His posture folded inward, predatory. Whatever restraint had been holding him began to slip from its leash. The man reached out slowly. One hand brushed Zhar's bare chest, nails grazing skin with surgical care. —Not yet...—

  Zhar pulled hard against the rope, teeth grinding, shoulders scraping bark raw.

  —I will save the heart,— he whispered. —I want you awake for that.— His hand slid down Zhar's thigh, fingers pressing where arteries throbbed. —We will start here. A gentle opening. A proper first taste.—

  Zhar's knees snapped upward in a sharp, desperate strike. It missed by inches. The man did flinch, but the attack took him by surprise. His face scrunched in disgust, his foot came down like judgment, crushing Zhar's kneecaps into the earth. Pain detonated white and blinding. The sound escaped him before thought could catch it.

  —Keep your eyes open, the man said softly. Do not turn away from your ending.— Nails sharp as knives dug into Zhar's thigh.

  Zhar jerked again. A sound tore out of him as his back scraped the tree. Bark split skin. Blood darkened the wood. The rope shifted -barely- against the slick grain. Zhar felt it.

  He drew himself tight and wrenched once more.

  The fibres screamed and at last, the rope gave out.