Azrèal tiptoed slowly, silently, across the forest floor, her pointed ears bouncing daintily as she went. Long streams of light burst through the trees and traced patterns across her face. A dagger glinted menacingly in her right hand behind her back. She had seen shadows here in a dream, and her dreams were usually accurate.

She approached the bush, which was quivering like a nervous child, and forced her hand inside. She felt the coarseness of a wool shirt on a small shoulder and pulled out the orqu, holding her nose.

“Amin feuya ten’ lle,” she spat at the creature. “What are you doing here?”

The creature let out a cry, trying to struggle its way from Azrèal’s firm grip. She only pulled it closer.

“Speak, you feral thing. What are you doing here? Mankoi naa lle sinome ?” The creature’s stench was almost painful to her sensitive nose.

“Gotcha,” it snickered, as a rabble hiding in the trees jumped down into the clearing. Azrèal pulled out her sword and prayed to the stars. The only way was up.