The fight went better than anything we’d managed since arriving in this hell-forest.

  For the first time, Tom’s drills actually looked like drills instead of a bunch of terrified civilians trying to copy movements they’d seen in movies. We had a real shield line, ten people bracing themselves in a tight arc, shields overlapping, spears stabbing through gaps in the wood. Behind them, eleven more fired bolts or flung spells in frantic bursts of colour and sound. It wasn’t elegant, but it was somewhat coordinated, and out here that made all the difference.

  Quinn and I held the right flank, where the trees thinned into a narrow channel that practically begged the gorg to charge. Predictable creatures. They always took the clearest path, big, lumbering, and confident in their size. Good for beginners. Perfect for practice.

  I didn’t kill a single one.

  I didn’t want to.

  Let the others get their levels. They needed it more than I did. In my personal experience, I found myself approaching level ten too closely, and until I addressed a few more significant issues, advancing a level or two wouldn't significantly alter the situation. Besides, holding back gave me room to experiment.

  So I focused on disabling strikes, shattered kneecaps, cracked wrists, dislocated shoulders, sweeping their legs out from under them. I especially intercepted the fighters, their weapons a greater risk compared to the brutes. No mages were present, at least, or the fight would have ended worse than it did. I let the others deal the final blows. It let them feel powerful, let them see they could win, and it kept my levelling under control.

  But I didn’t waste the opportunity either.

  While I moved, I forced mana through my skills, or spell, really; I still didn’t know the difference. I tested new patterns. New angles. A few risky attempts at double casting that burned like I’d dragged molten wire under my skin. Every time I pushed a gorg backwards into the dirt or forced energy to empower a spell, something inside me clicked, tiny adjustments, micro-corrections, executions smoothing out.

  By the fifth takedown, I felt two skills level up in clean, satisfying jumps. I didn’t even need the system to tell me.

  Worth the pain.

  And then Alya joined the fight.

  She darted to my flank, having taken up a sword from a fallen gorg, her hair wild, and her breath sharp and ragged. But what hit me wasn’t her arrival, it was her expression.

  She wasn’t scared.

  She wasn’t frantic.

  She was furious, every movement sharp with purpose, every stab aimed for maximum agony. A thrust straight into a gorg’s groyne. Another rammed under the ribs, angled upward. A third jammed through the fleshy part of the thigh, twisting as she yanked it out.

  While the others fought to kill, she fought to kill them while making them suffer the most she could.

  Trauma had crystallised inside her, not into fear, but into a single, blistering thread of rage.

  And honestly?

  Impressive rage.

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  Three minutes later, the last gorg collapsed, and the clearing fell dead silent except for ragged breathing and the groans of the injured. A few people in the shield line were bruised; one was thrown nearly ten yards by a kick, he’d have a spectacular bruise by morning. Hopefully nothing is broken. We couldn’t afford another ritual, not after Rhea burned through basically all of her reagents.

  The clean-up started quickly. Bodies dragged away from camp, gorg always smelled like something had died inside something that had already died, flawsome and heavy enough to cling to your clothes.

  Once we had dealt with the worst, I proceeded to discuss matters with Tom and the core group.

  Alya was already there.

  Tom was doing his best imitation of calm leadership, gentle voice, soft hands, trying to look supportive even though it clearly wasn’t his forte.

  “If you need a moment,” he told Alya, “there’s no shame in stepping back. It’s normal to feel unsettled after-”

  Alya’s face twisted like he’d just insulted her mother.

  “I’m not a coward who runs from problems,” she snapped. “Contrary to some people here.”

  The words hit the group like a dropped torch in dry grass.

  A few people stiffened. Tom blinked, visibly thrown.

  A blond spellcaster, late thirties, always hovering around the back of the group with a perpetual sneer, stepped forward, anger flushing his cheeks.

  “We saved you,” he shot back. “We risked everything for you! We made that grand ritual for you! And this is how you thank us? By spitting on us?”

  Uh-oh… Big mistake, man. I knew what was coming. You always think that people, at least after a certain age, have learned the fine art of shutting the fuck up, but again and again I’m proven wrong.

  Alya turned towards him slowly, eyes narrowing like she was seeing him for the first time… and finding him particularly disgusting.

  “YOU,” she said, voice rising.

  Here it comes…

  “You were the first to run like a coward. We were outmatched, and you bolted without even trying to cast a spell!”

  The blond man recoiled as if slapped.

  Alya wasn’t done.

  “We only survived by a miracle!” she shouted. “Five people died! Five! And if Elias hadn’t taken on the mage alone, we’d be dead too! If the healers hadn’t stayed with us, we’d be dead. If Rhea hadn’t done the ritual, dead again. If Elias and Quinn hadn’t come back with the sacrifices, guess what? Dead again!”

  She jabbed a finger at the entire group watching her with wide eyes.

  “What did you do to save me? Nothing. You’re just a pathetic bastard who doesn’t even understand what’s at stake! We’re protecting you, not the other way around. If we walk away, you’ll all be dead by sunset. So shut up and start being useful!”

  Her words cracked across the clearing like a whip.

  Silence fell. Thick and heavy.

  Embarrassment rolled through the group like a wave. A few looked down. A few looked away.

  The blond man flushed a deeper shade of red, anger sharpening his gaze to a point.

  He spat, “You bitch!” and lunged.

  I moved before he even got close.

  Partly because of the curse pulsing under my ribs.

  Partly because if I let him hit her, we’d have a riot on our hands.

  I caught his wrist, squeezed just hard enough to warn him, and held him in place.

  “Stand down before I make you,” I said calmly.

  His eyes flickered, fight, then fear, then resignation. He sagged, all his bravado draining out. I let him go.

  He stumbled backwards, glaring venom at Alya before slinking off like a dog beaten for barking too loud.

  He’d be a problem; of that I’m sure.

  The others, at least, had enough sense to look ashamed.

  I turned to Alya. “I know you could’ve handled him. But violence between us isn’t an option right now. We can’t afford it.”

  Her jaw tightened. For a second, I thought she’d argue. But she exhaled instead, shoulders dropping.

  “…Fine,” she muttered. “You’re right.”

  Tom cleared his throat loudly. “We need to focus on pressing matters. We’re low on water. If we don’t find a source soon, we’ll be in trouble.”

  The doctor nodded. “And shelter. Sleeping out here is dangerous. Spending the night in the open is excruciating for my ageing bones.

  “Food too,” Mary added. “Rations will last maybe a day. Two if we ration it.”

  All concerns I already knew about. Concerns I’d been pushing down in favour of more immediate, life-threatening issues.

  I sighed. “Then we move. Water first. Shelter second. Food after.”

  Quinn volunteered to scout. Another fighter went too. They slipped into the trees, quiet and fast, while the rest of the group broke down camp with the sluggish movements of the exhausted.

  I had my own things to attend to, too.

  Because now that the gorg had attacked us again, the curse was whispering to me to help them find a solution to this terrible situation.

  And honestly?

  What better help could I give than cutting the problem out at its root?

  20 chapters ahead!