Thalos' gaze darkened, golden eyes flicking over her crumpled form with growing intrigue. Her body trembled, and blood smeared her fingers where the dagger dragged across the earth. The glow beneath her skin pulsed erratically, like it was trying to shield her but also break away.
Fascinating.
He reached out again, slower this time—more curious than cruel—and touched her shoulder. Her skin burned hot, searing like branded iron under his palm, and the forest reacted again.
A wind swept through the clearing, wild and howling, and the trees groaned.
"You're not just some simple half-witch are you?" Thalos murmured.
Sylva forced her head up, pain distorting her features. Her lips parted, and this time, the words barely clawed their way out: "Don't… touch me…"
But, her voice cracked, giving it a pitiful sound.
Still crouched beside her, Thalos tilted his head like a predator studying prey it didn't want to kill—yet. "Half-witch," he repeated, almost to himself. "But with a seal only used on powerful witches. Did they try to hide you or something you possess?"
Thalos was intrigued because everything about her contradicted but they were very interesting contradictions. Ones he couldn't wait to understand.
Sylva tried to crawl back, but her body refused to obey. Her muscles screamed, and her vision danced in and out of focus.
Then she whispered, breathless and hoarse, "Stay away… from me…"
He didn't. Of course, he didn't.
Thalos leaned in, voice low, almost a purr. "You're in no position to tell me what to do."
But before his fingers could touch her again, another sound sliced through the trees—a snarl. Not just one, but many.
The Hellhounds.
They emerged slowly, three monstrous shadows with eyes glowing like coals. They didn't growl at her.
They growled at him.
Thalos stood, rising to his full height, blood still dripping from his neck. He stared them down, unfazed.
"Well, well…" he muttered, licking the blood off his lips with a smirk. "It seems even the beasts couldn't wait until you lose consciousness to protect you."
He cast one final glance at Sylva, who was barely clinging to consciousness.
"Rest, little witch," he said, "I'll be taking you somewhere where we can talk peacefully."
The Hellhounds lunged.
They moved like shadows—fast, furious, lethal. The first hit Thalos square in the side, claws raking across his ribs, teeth snapping for his throat. He twisted midair, catching the beast by its snout and slamming it into the ground with a sickening crunch. Bones shattered beneath his hands, but another was already on him.
It tackled him from behind, fangs sinking into his shoulder, ripping deep. Thalos cursed, golden eyes narrowing as he slammed his elbow backward, dislocating its jaw. The third came from the front, faster than the rest, and swiped its claws across his stomach, tearing through skin.
Blood trickled down.
Thalos staggered, his breath coming out in short gasps. His wounds were deep. His skin burned, his limbs trembled—but his grin widened.
"Now this…" he murmured through bloodied teeth, "this is fun."
Then he grabbed the closest hound by the neck and ripped its head clean off. The spine snapped with a wet crack, blood gushing over his arm like a fountain. He dropped the twitching corpse and turned just in time to catch the second beast by the throat mid-leap.
It clamped down on his arm anyway, and its claws tore into his face. His vision blurred with blood.
Thalos didn't flinch. He twisted his arm, shoving it deeper into the beast's maw—then drove his fist through the roof of its mouth and out the top of its skull.
The forest quieted again.
Thalos stood there, bleeding, panting, surrounded by mangled bodies. Blood soaked his clothes, ran down his face and arms, dripped from his fingertips. The fire behind his eyes hadn't dimmed, but his breath was slowing now.
He tilted his head back and looked up through the canopy, speaking not with rage—but with tired exasperation.
"I wasn't going to hurt her," he said to the forest itself, his voice low and rough. "Not unless she gave me a reason to."
He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Now, let's reach a concession or we can continue doing this but I doubt that will be good for her." he glanced at Sylva, "You can't heal her completely, and she can't go back to where she came from because either someone wants her dead or they already think she is," Thalos finished, sighing as he swept his hair back. He let the silence stretch before continuing, eyes still locked on Sylva's bleeding form.
"I can take her with me and heal her. And when I find out what exactly she is, I will send her back to the human realm. What do you say?"
For a moment, the forest said nothing. Then, the wind shifted. The trees groaned, bark cracking under pressure, and a voice rose from the rustling leaves.
A whisper like old roots stirring beneath the earth.
"You mutts are untrustworthy."
The wind sharpened, biting at Thalos' torn flesh.
"She is a witch. How can she be safe in your palace?"
"You killed your father… and you expect me to believe you?"
Thalos didn't care, the accusation settling in the air. The blood on his skin felt colder now. He looked up, brows furrowed.
"I killed him because he deserved it."
He took a shaky breath, his wounds still dripping.
"I'm not asking for your trust," he added, looking toward the ancient trees.
Then he turned his gaze back to Sylva—bruised, broken, barely conscious.
"She doesn't belong out here. You know that."
"She won't survive another day like this."
His voice dropped to a near whisper.
"Let me take her."
___
Lycian opened his eyes and sat up, gaze locked on the forest's edge. Then he got out of the car.
Seconds later, a figure emerged from the misted treeline—a man soaked in blood from head to toe, strolling out with someone cradled in his arms.
"Your Majesty." Though startled, Lycian bowed deeply. When he straightened, his eyes fell on the limp woman swathed in blood and bruises.
Thalos shifted his neck with a quiet sigh, weariness flickering across his features.
"Your Majesty… she's human." Lycian couldn't mask the confusion in his voice. A human, here? And Thalos, of all people, bringing her out of the Silva Metuenda?
"I thought so too," Thalos murmured, an edge of dry amusement in his voice. "Open the door."
Without hesitation, Lycian obeyed. He watched as Thalos carefully placed the woman across the backseat. But before he could step away, something small and dark leapt onto the seat beside her.
A Hellhound pup.
It sniffed Sylva once, then settled beside her protectively, its glowing eyes locked onto them.
Lycian stiffened. "A Hellhound?" He turned sharply to Thalos. "Your Majesty—"
"Let's go," Thalos cut in, voice leaving no room for argument.
Lycian wanted to ask more, but one glance at the King's bloodied state was enough. He stopped himself, nodded, and opened the passenger door.
Once Thalos slid into the seat and leaned back, eyes closed, Lycian circled around and got behind the wheel.
"I sent the others away, as you ordered," he said quietly as the engine rumbled to life.
"Mm." Thalos didn't open his eyes, but his brow relaxed ever so slightly.
"If I may ask…" Lycian hesitated. "Who is she?"
Thalos didn't answer at first. His hand rested against his thigh.
"She's a half-witch," he said finally. "And that…" His lips curved into a tired smirk. "That thing in the backseat?"
He exhaled, eyes still closed.
"…is a gift."