This Story Is True
The Moon was a place of violence, for it was there—emerging from the Moon Shadow—that the remnants of dead gods refused to acknowledge that they were already dead. The scampering beast, body twisted and bulging with the weight of its own repugnance, was making the same mistake as many who had come before it: it looked at Lycan territory and thought their land would offer it mercy. She had been the one who tasted the first strike, ready to cut the true face of the spawn loose from their skin suit. She had not been precise enough to make it the only strike, and so her elders told her to chase, to cull, to kill. “You are Irraka. You are a killer first.” That was the revelation in the Moon when she first became a monster. The ghost-feel of opening its stomach to spill dark, festering blood licked at her claws. She could see her attack play out across her eyelids with every blink. Not enough weight behind the momentum—never hit them like you expect them to get back up. The god spawn was moving slower now, trying to be quieter, thinking that the tree shade would hide its shadow and that the undergrowth would mask its footsteps. It settled onto its oversized haunches, trying to seize what air couldn’t escape it. The pulsing of its jugular was almost beautiful: quick, like a spirit-talker weaving debt with their mouth. Quick, the way a pack catches the scent of something that doesn’t belong where they rest their claim. Quick, like the blood screaming out of its throat as she landed the only strike. Quick, like the smaller bodies that swarmed from its corpse. Quick, like the flames from the fire bomb that turned forced them to face their overdue deaths. “You are a Hunter in Darkness. You are a destroyer of that which would despoil our home.” That was the revelation bestowed by her elders when she returned, a monster with meaning.