Step by step, I picked my way through the dim, damp pine forest.
Every rustle of wind through the high canopy set my nerves on edge.
My knuckles were white where I gripped my cheap, second-hand wand, held low at my waist.
I was alone in the quiet woods, but I knew that forty yards behind me, hidden under disillusionment charms and disillusioning cloaks, a squad of Wyrm-Breakers was watching my every move.
For the first time, I was serving as live bait.
The poachers had dressed me for the role.
My worn wool trousers and tunic had been smeared with crushed berries, raw meat juices, and a foul-smelling alchemical lure meant to mimic the scent of wounded prey.
I was strapped into a crude leather harness around my chest, enchanted with a spell that would allow the squad’s tracker to pinpoint my location—or haul my mangled body back if things went wrong.
Our target was a Wampus-Lynx—a dangerous, predatory variant of a magical beast native to the ancient forests of Northern and Eastern Europe.
Though smaller than its famed North American cousin, the European Wampus-Lynx was no less deadly.
A solitary hunter roughly the size of a panther, it possessed midnight-black fur capable of absorbing light, tufted ears that caught the faintest heartbeat, and six muscular legs ending in razor-sharp, retractable claws.
Most terrifyingly, it was a naturally magic-resistant ambush predator capable of short-range, instantaneous shadow-stepping.
The poachers had spent three days trying to trap it using enchanted snares and poisoned venison.
But the beast was too cunning; it smelled the magic on their traps and refused to bite.
Desperate to secure its pelt—which fetched small fortunes on the black market for its spell-dampening properties—the squad turned to the oldest trick in the poachers’ handbook: a live, terrified child.
‘If I die here,’ I thought, my heart hammering against my ribs, ‘it won’t even be a footnote in history.
Just meat on a hook.’
Suddenly, the forest around me went dead silent.
The background hum of crickets and distant birds vanished in a single breath.
My brain flared into overdrive, processing the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure and ambient magic.
A micro-gradient of magical distortion rippled through the air five paces to my left.
‘Now!’
I threw myself sideways onto the damp pine needles just as a mass of pitch-black fur and gleaming yellow eyes tore through the space where my neck had been a fraction of a second before.
Six sets of heavy claws clipped the shoulder of my tunic, ripping the fabric and leaving shallow red furrows across my skin.
I rolled onto my back and scrambled up, my breath hitching in my throat.
The Wampus-Lynx turned slowly, its six legs flexing as it crouched low against the mossy ground.
It was magnificent and terrifying.
Its black coat seemed to swallow the dim autumn light, and a faint, purring growl vibrated through the earth beneath my boots.
Its golden eyes locked onto mine with cold, calculating intelligence.
For a second, we stood frozen, staring at each other.
Terror seized me like a vice.
My legs felt like lead, and my mind went entirely blank.
Every calculation, every spell formula I had rehearsed, dissolved under the raw, suffocating instinct of a prey animal staring at an apex predator.
The Lynx twitched its tufted ears and tensed its hind legs to pounce.
‘Move, you idiot!’ my mind screamed.
‘Calm down!
Calculate!’
I forced a harsh breath into my lungs, forcibly reining in the panic.
My internal supercalculator snapped back online, analyzing distances, angles, and terrain elevation in milliseconds.
I turned on my heel and ran for my life, sprinting down the narrow gulley where the poachers had instructed me to lead the beast.
The chase was a nightmare.
A normal eleven-year-old child would have been overtaken in four seconds.
But as I sprinted through the dense brush, my mind mapped the forest in real-time.
I calculated the exact trajectory of every low-hanging branch, every slippery root, and every moss-covered stone, executing precise sidesteps and leaps without losing momentum.
Behind me, the heavy thud-thud-thud of six paws grew rapidly closer.
I could hear the beast’s low, rasping breaths.
Without turning around, I felt the air pressure shift behind me again—a telltale sign of another short shadow-step.
‘Left!’
I threw my weight to the left, planting my foot into an exposed root.
The Lynx materialized in a blur of black fur right beside me, its jaw snapping shut inches from my ear with a sickening crunch.
The sheer wind of its passage knocked me off balance, sending me tumbling down a steep muddy bank.
I tumbled violently, rocks and thorns tearing at my arms and face, before crashing into the center of a small, sunless clearing.
I gasped for air, bruised, bloody, and shivering, as the black cat bounded down the slope after me, landing gracefully at the edge of the clearing.
It blocked my only escape path, pacing slowly, knowing it had me cornered.
Suddenly, shimmering red ropes of crackling magic erupted from the surrounding trees.
“Hold the line! Incarcerous!” a sharp voice shouted.
The poachers burst from their concealment.
Four heavy iron nets, weighted with lead balls and glowing with blue suppression runes, sailed through the air, pinning the shrieking Lynx to the ground.
The beast thrashed violently, its six legs tearing through the earth as it tried to shadow-step, but the runic nets neutralized its magic.
Two duelists stepped forward, their wands tracing synchronized circular patterns.
“Stupefy!”
“Stupefy!”
Red bolts of force struck the netted beast in rapid succession.
The Wampus-Lynx let out one final, low groan before its heavy head collapsed onto the mud, completely unconscious.
I sat in the dirt, gasping for breath, my chest heaving as the adrenaline slowly drained from my system.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the clearing.
A tall woman stepped out from behind an ancient oak tree, bypassing the busy hunters who were already preparing iron chains.
She was a lethal, breathtaking vision.
She had shoulder-length neck-cut hair with a chestnut-to-gold ombre, sharp cheekbones, and dark hazel eyes that held a dangerous, predatory glint.
She moved with the fluid, silent grace of an assassin, a long dark leather coat sweeping around her boots.
Her name was Vanya—a Czech witch known throughout the Wyrm-Breakers as one of Garrik Vane’s most unpredictable lieutenants.
She was infamous for her mercurial nature: one moment warm and sisterly, the next unleashing terrifying sadism on enemies and insubordinate crew alike.
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Vanya glided over to me, kneeling down in the mud until her face was level with mine.
She reached out with a gloved hand and gently wiped a streak of blood from my cheek, her touch surprisingly gentle.
“Look at you, little bird,” Vanya cooed, a brilliant, breathtaking smile lighting up her fatal features.
Her tone was genuinely warm, almost sweet.
“You ran like a frightened hare, but you survived. That was an exquisite performance. Truly impressive for a scrawny little thing.”
I stared at her, my expression carefully masked, though my heart was still pounding.
I knew the truth about Vanya.
She liked me—she sincerely appreciated my sharp mind and my usefulness.
But I also saw the dark, flickering amusement deep in her hazel eyes.
She had thoroughly enjoyed watching my desperate, terrifying flight through the woods, savoring every second of my agony as entertainment.
“Thank you, Madam Vanya,” I managed to say, keeping my voice low and respectful.
“Mmm, polite too,” she purred, patting my cheek with a little too much force before standing up smoothly.
“Get the lynx back to camp, boys. And wash the scent off him before the hounds start drooling.”
By the time we returned to the encampment, dusk had settled over the forest.
The outing had been a true baptism by fire.
I had been forced to push my young body and my analytical mind to their absolute limits, coming closer to death than ever before.
I slipped quietly into our shared tent, avoiding the main campfires where the poachers were already drinking and celebrating the catch.
Finn was waiting inside, sitting on his bedroll.
The moment he saw me hobble in—torn clothes, bloody scratches, and covered in mud—his face went pale.
“Sweet Mother of God, Leon,” Finn hissed under his breath, scrambling over to me with a rag and a bowl of clean water.
“They used ye as live bait for that black devil-cat, didn’t they? Those total bastards!”
“I’m fine, Finn,” I muttered, wincing as I sat down on the straw.
“I survived.”
“Barely, by the looks of ye!” Finn grumbled, gently dabbing the damp cloth against the raw scratches on my shoulder.
“Hold still, this’ll sting a bit. Ye’re mad, ye know that? How in the blazes did ye outrun a bloody Wampus-Lynx?”
“I just… kept moving,” I replied softly, letting out a breath.
“Aye, well, ye’re a lucky little eejit,” Finn said, though his voice was thick with genuine concern and relief as he wrapped a strip of clean linen around my shoulder.
“Just rest up before Jad notices ye’re back. If that miserable turnip sees ye breathing, he’ll have ye hauling firewood till midnight.”
I closed my eyes and leaned back against the canvas wall, listening to Finn curse quietly in Irish as he patched me up.
The wounds burned, my body ached, but as I clutched my cheap wand beneath my coat, one thought echoed clearly in my mind:
I had faced my first real monster, and I was still standing.
So, do you guys like leather?