Chapter Sixteen: The mist cat
The Blighted Wildcat lunged with a snarl, claws aimed at your chest, its eyes burning with an unnatural hunger. You twisted aside just in time; the claws whistled past your ear and left only a chilling breeze in their wake. Muscles coiling, eyes alight with a primal fury, you prepared to strike again.
You swung your axe with reckless force. The blade connected with a sickening thud, carving deep into the creature’s flank. It hissed—a guttural sound of pain and fury—but stayed on its feet, driven by unnatural rage. You did not pause. With another savage, rage-fueled blow your axe cleaved through the Blighted Wildcat. The final strike sent it sprawling; with a pained whimper its twisted form dissolved into a sickly mist. The coppery scent of blood began to fade, replaced by the damp, earthy smell of the woods.
Silence settled except for the slow exhale of your chest and the whisper of leaves. You wiped the corrupted blood from your axe on a spare rag, folded it carefully, and tucked it away as evidence for the scholars. The adrenaline ebbed into a quiet intensity.
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Theron stood nearby, pallor lingering but eyes steadier, the shock giving way to grim resolve. He swallowed and, still shaken, admitted the truth you both suspected: the creature’s speed, strength, and maliciousness confirmed the readings from the texts. These beasts were fundamentally wrong. He praised the ferocity of your defense and the timing of your arrival.
You noted Reynard’s burial site lay about a thirty-minute walk from here and proposed making camp there for the night to discuss what had happened. You planned to revisit the farmer and the inn the next day and to send the rag with the beast’s blood to the guild by courier once you returned to Three Pines. Theron agreed. Together you turned toward Reynard’s rest, the path ahead lit by a thin sliver of moon through the canopy.