Tavarek sealed the temple's massive doors, lowering the heavy bar. Iron scraped into place with a grating sound. The tattoos on his forearms pulsed in time with his heartbeat—dark blue spirals coming alive in the torchlight.

  The priest walked to the centre of the hall, where rays from all the gods' altars converged. Stone slabs beneath his feet had been polished to mirror-brightness by millions of pilgrims. Here, in the temple's very heart, the air trembled with sacred energy.

  Tavarek dropped to his knees and straightened his back. The white sleeveless tunic exposed arms covered in a solid carpet of tattoos. Each symbol told a story of service, each line—a prayer burnt into flesh.

  "Twelve, accept the meagre drop of strength from your servant..."

  He closed his eyes and seemed to sink into meditation.

  At first nothing happened. The temple was silent, statues of gods frozen in their niches. Torches in stone hands burnt with steady yellow flame, neither flickering nor wavering.

  Then the fire trembled.

  Flame in the First's hands stretched in a thin stream towards the priest. A golden tongue broke from the torch and floated through the air, writhing like a living serpent. Tavarek felt warmth on his face but didn't open his eyes.

  The Second followed the First's example. Red flame left its torch and streamed towards the hall's centre. Blue fire from the Third followed, then green from the Fourth.

  One by one, all Twelve extended their fiery tongues to the priest. Flames of different colours wove through the air, creating a rainbow crown round Tavarek's head. The tattoos on his body glowed from within, responding to the divine fire's touch.

  Hours passed in silent ritual. At some point distant sounds reached Tavarek. Pounding on doors. Shouts. Someone's desperate voice begging for help, for protection. But the priest couldn't interrupt the ritual. The gods' ritual demanded complete devotion, absolute concentration.

  The sun rose over Taviri'Naa, flooding the village with morning light. The temple torches burnt low, but fire continued streaming to the priest, as though the statues were draining his last crumbs of strength.

  The sun climbed higher.

  By noon the final tongue of flame dissolved into air. Torches in the statues' hands went dark, leaving only smouldering embers. Tavarek opened his eyes and saw the empty temple plunged in half-darkness.

  His strength was spent.

  The priest tried to rise, but his legs wouldn't hold. His arms trembled, tattoos faded, becoming ordinary black lines on pale skin. He collapsed onto the stone floor, arms flung wide.

  Breathing came in gasps, his heart beat weakly. Tavarek lay in the hall's centre, surrounded by extinguished torches, and stared at the ceiling. The ritual was complete. The gods had accepted his sacrifice.

  But what that sacrifice was—and why it had been needed—he'd learn later. If the Creators showed him mercy.

  The temple sank into silence. Outside, life continued its course, but here, amongst the statues of the Twelve, time seemed to stop. Tavarek closed his eyes and sank into unconsciousness, unhearing the sounds of the daylit village beyond the thick walls.

  ***

  Having finished the roof repairs long before midnight, Vaaro settled directly on the freshly laid fern fronds and unhurriedly lit a long pipe of time-darkened wood. He didn't often bring it out—only in those rare moments when he needed to consider something truly important. And today's encounter certainly demanded unhurried, thoughtful reflection.

  So he pondered, inhaling the light bitter aroma of herbal smoke, his gaze fixed on the boundless celestial canvas generously scattered with countless myriads of cold glimmering stars. The night breeze blowing towards the ocean rustled palm fronds nearby and carried refreshing coolness.

  Suddenly his palm blazed with unbearable heat, as though he'd touched red-hot coal.

  Vaaro instantly understood the sensation's source. The young troll woman's blood was calling—the one he'd killed today at the cave entrance. The blood mage had deliberately not wiped away the dried stains all this time—he'd wanted to test a suspicion that had formed in his mind immediately after the incident.

  "Such incredible strength..." The troll muttered, studying his palm in the starlight. "Can affect even at such distance, after so many hours!"

  He didn't doubt for a second that such a nimble, aggressive specimen with incredible fighting spirit would certainly begin actively hunting and killing beasts in her very first night in this new, alien world. He'd become genuinely interested in observing this process, seeing with his own eyes how the ancient power of troll blood manifested in action.

  Unhurriedly tapping out cooled ash from the pipe's bowl with light strikes against a wooden beam, Vaaro returned the smoking instrument to his spatial ring. Then without the slightest hesitation he leapt down from the very edge of the sloping roof, skilfully reducing the dangerous speed of his rapid descent with deft catches of several sturdy branches and flexible vines along the way.

  An important detail should be noted—his modest hut itself was located not on the ground but high in the massive spreading branches of a tree, rising above the jungle a good hundred feet.

  Standing on the familiar path worn by years of use, the troll immediately ran towards the village, moving easily and confidently through the dense darkness of the night jungle.

  Despite the event-filled day full of unexpected incidents, one couldn't say he was truly tired or felt the slightest fatigue. His run remained as swift, light and smooth as if Vaaro had just awoken after long rest.

  High gnarled tree roots he leapt over with single precise movements, sometimes nimbly running up thick lower branches of spreading trees without slowing pace, skilfully using sturdy vines hanging from the jungle's upper tiers.

  Unlike the dangerous nocturnal inhabitants of Maoru'Kai who might pose a threat to an ordinary traveller, anyone who could encounter him in these wild, impassable jungles at such a late hour represented no serious opponent or even obstacle worthy of attention to the experienced blood mage.

  When the first rays of dawn sun broke through the tree trunks, Vaaro reached the outskirts of Taviri'Naa. The village greeted him not with familiar morning silence but with an anxious hum of voices. The air trembled with tension, as though a storm cloud hung over the settlement.

  The mage slowed his run, listening to scattered fragments of conversation. Women's voices rang shrill, men's—dull and angry. Somewhere a child cried. Metal clanged against metal—residents were arming themselves with whatever came to hand.

  The first person he encountered on the narrow path between huts was Kortan—a stocky young man with fleshy hands who ran the bakery in the village centre. Only instead of his familiar wooden rolling pin, the lad clutched a long spear with iron point in his fist. The blade gleamed in the morning light.

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  "Hey, blood mage! Vaaro!"

  Kortan noticed the troll running past and waved his free hand.

  "What are you doing here? Doesn't matter, you're just in time! We need any help we can get!"

  Vaaro stopped, studying the baker's agitated face. The lad breathed heavily, sweat standing on his brow despite the cool morning air.

  "What happened?"

  "Kosh'daran's been spotted on the slope!"

  The mage frowned. That name hadn't been heard in Taviri'Naa for over ten years. Kosh'daran—a creature the size of a large house, covered in scales the colour of solidified lava. Four mighty paws with claws the length of a grown man. A maw capable of swallowing a troll whole.

  And most importantly—incredible speed for such a behemoth. The creature could cover short distances with frightening swiftness, overtaking prey faster than it could recognise the danger. The only salvation for potential victims lay in the fact that between attacks Kosh'daran moved deliberately, almost lazily, as though conserving strength.

  One could still flee from a slowly advancing monster, if spotted from far enough away without losing time. Only where to run and where to seek shelter when the beast purposefully moved straight towards your home, your village?

  The last time such a creature had appeared, Vaaro had still been a youth. Then the monster had demolished half the village before the combined forces of warriors and mages managed to stop it. Last time they'd been fortunate—only destruction, no deaths.

  "Who saw it?"

  "Old Veremi. Was gathering herbs on the upper paths before dawn. Says the creature was moving towards the village. Slowly but surely."

  Kortan pointed with the spear at the slopes of the extinct volcano, hidden in morning mist.

  "We've already sent a runner to Tavarek, but the temple's locked. The priest doesn't answer knocking. Maybe he's praying or something."

  Vaaro nodded, digesting the information. Kosh'daran only attacked when something disturbed or interested it. These creatures preferred deep caves in the mountain's heart, emerging to the surface only seeking food or new territory.

  "How much time has passed since Veremi spotted it?"

  "An hour, maybe more. Took her a while to get here."

  The troll mentally calculated the distance. If the creature truly was moving towards the village, it would arrive by noon. Little time remained for preparation.

  "Where are the others?"

  "They're gathering everyone able-bodied at the central square. Sending the elderly and children to the underground storerooms beneath Veremi's shop—the walls are thicker there."

  Kortan gripped the spear shaft tighter.

  "What do you think, blood mage? Can we fight it off?"

  Vaaro didn't answer immediately. His gaze slid across the village, where people hurried between huts, hauling weapons and supplies. Faces tense, movements sharp. Everyone understood—if Kosh'daran reached the houses, few would escape unharmed.

  "Show me where the creature was spotted."

  The baker had no burning desire to go towards the beast with only the blood mage for company, but nor did he dare show his fear. Sighing imperceptibly, he beckoned Vaaro with his hand and ran.

  The path to the upper trails proved steeper than the mage expected. Kortan scrambled up the slope with desperate determination, grabbing at protruding roots and stones with fleshy hands. The spear caught on fern thickets, slowing movement. Sweat poured down his back in streams, but the baker stubbornly dragged himself forward.

  Vaaro followed without haste. The troll's long legs easily covered distances that came hard to the human. The silver nose ring gleamed in sunlight breaking through the foliage.

  The higher they climbed, the thinner the air became. The smell of sulphur tickled nostrils—a reminder that the volcano still lived, merely slept. The slopes here were covered in sparse growths of harsh grass and low shrubs.

  Kortan stopped on a narrow ledge, pressing his back to the cliff. His chest heaved rapidly, face flushed from exertion.

  "Further... I won't go further."

  His voice trembled, but his eyes looked straight ahead. The baker wasn't ashamed to admit his fear.

  "Veremi said the creature was... there."

  He pointed with the spear at a gentle valley between two slopes. A place where rocky soil transitioned into stunted growths of thorny bushes.

  "Return to the village."

  Vaaro nodded curtly to the baker and moved on alone, not watching as Kortan began his descent back to the village. The mage's long fingers slid across bone amulets hanging at his belt—a habitual gesture that helped him focus.

  His blood already responded to danger's proximity. Vaaro felt it with every fibre of a blood mage's being—a faint but distinct pulsation somewhere at perception's edge. Like distant drumbeats carrying through earth's thickness. Blood magic was sensitive to the presence of powerful creatures, especially those whose life force flowed with primal, untamed fury.

  Having climbed onto the narrow path winding along the rocky slope, Vaaro froze in place, giving himself a moment to catch his breath and look around. His keen gaze slowly slid across the valley below, catching every shadow, every movement amongst the scattering of boulders and harsh shrubs. The mage peered into the space, methodically seeking the beast that, according to Veremi, should be somewhere here.

  Between grey stones surrounded by sparse vegetation moved a massive shadow—heavy, angular, clearly belonging to a large predator. But even at distance, even without making out all the details yet, Vaaro understood: this wasn't Kosh'daran. Not at all the monster he'd feared to encounter.

  The creature proved smaller, though still imposing in size. Grun'jak—a mountain predator with an elongated snout bristling with rows of crooked teeth. Grey-black hide covered in bony growths on back and flanks. Four powerful paws with claws capable of churning rocky soil. A long tail with spikes at the end beat the ground, raising dust.

  A dangerous creature, certainly. Capable of tearing an adult troll in half if they proved insufficiently agile. But not a catastrophe for the entire village, like Kosh'daran.

  The mage squinted, studying the situation. The grun'jak was clearly enraged by something—its snarling carried across the slopes, echoing off the cliffs. The creature spun in place, trying to catch something that flashed between stones.

  Vaaro concentrated, catching the beast's every movement. Blood magic responded instantly, weaving into the surrounding space as an invisible web. And he felt it—a second pulsation. Familiar. That very blood that had left a stain on his palm yesterday.

  A blue figure darted from behind a boulder, crossing open space. Yellow hair streamed behind. The girl ran in an arc, staying just at the edge of the beast's reach. The grun'jak lunged after her, but the troll woman had already vanished behind another stone.

  The creature roared in fury and ran after her, heavy paws crushing earth. The tail whistled through air, but the troll woman had already emerged from the other side, describing a wide circle.

  Vaaro frowned, watching the runner's movements closely. She wasn't simply fleeing. Each sprint, each turn was calculated. The young troll woman was leading the beast along a specific trajectory, forcing it to move in circles round a central point.

  The mage lowered his gaze to the ground beneath the grun'jak's feet. Rocky soil. Hard but riddled with cracks. And in the centre of the circle the troll woman described gaped a chasm—a narrow fissure between stones. Deep, judging by the darkness within.

  The girl appeared from behind the boulder again. This time she ran slower, almost walking. Taunting. The grun'jak lunged after her with redoubled fury, jaws gaping. Saliva flew in clumps, settling on stones.

  The troll woman wove back and forth, tightening the circle's radius. The creature followed, entering ever deeper frenzy. Earth shook from heavy paw strikes. Bony growths on the beast's back trembled.

  Vaaro crossed his arms on his chest, leaning one shoulder against the cliff. His long fingers drummed on tattoos—the only sign of interest. He could intervene. One spell would suffice to stop the grun'jak.

  But the mage simply watched.

  The troll woman completed another circuit. Her yellow eyes flashed, assessing distance. The grun'jak pursued her in blind fury, noticing nothing around. Only prey. Only this impudent prey that dared taunt him.

  Another circle. And another. The fissure drew closer.

  Vaaro distinguished tension in the huntress-pretending-to-be-prey's figure. Muscles coiled like springs, ready for the decisive sprint. Breathing quickened, but steps remained sure.

  The mage tilted his head slightly, studying her tactics. Interesting. Very interesting.

  The troll woman sharply veered left, pivoting on her heels with such speed that pebbles flew from beneath her feet. The grun'jak didn't manage to react—inertia carried the carcass forward, claws already scraping the fissure's edge.

  The beast tried to brake, driving claws into soil. Stones crumbled beneath paws. Hind legs slid, the tail thrashed convulsively, trying to catch hold of anything. But it was too late.

  With a deafening roar the grun'jak plunged into the chasm. The crash of the fall rolled in echoes across the slopes. Dust billowed from the fissure in a column, obscuring the view. Somewhere below came a dull impact—the creature had reached bottom.

  The troll woman froze at the edge, breathing heavily. Her chest heaved, sweat gleamed on blue skin. For several moments she simply stood, listening to the fading sounds below.

  Then her face split in a triumphant grin. Yellow eyes flashed with a hunter's joy at cornering prey. She raised her hands to the sky, as though greeting invisible gods, and laughed—ringing, fierce, victorious.

  Vaaro observed this performance with stony expression. The corner of his mouth twitched in a faint smirk. The girl clearly believed it was over.

  The mage turned his gaze to the fissure. His blood magic already sensed what the troll woman would learn in a few moments. Vaaro narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms on his chest. His long fingers drummed on tattoos again—the only sign that he was deciding whether to intervene or not...