The Blackmire Morass. Gods, I hated this festering shithole.

  Every breath was thick, heavy, clinging to the back of my throat like grave dirt. It smelled of things long dead and still dying – rotting wood, stagnant water, the cloying sweetness of decay that promised only disease and misery. Thick, grey fog coiled around the gnarled knuckles of cypress roots, swallowing sound and sight, turning the world into a suffocating, monochrome hell. Water dripped endlessly, a maddening symphony of tiny splashes against unseen surfaces. Mosquitoes and worse things whined incessantly, drawn to the promise of warm blood. My blood.

  I was perched twenty feet up on a slick, moss-covered branch, thicker than my thigh, trying not to fucking breathe. Not because of the stench – I was used to worse – but because it was hungry. Starving. And when it starved, it screamed inside my skull.

  Feed. Kill. Consume.

  The thoughts weren’t my own, not really. They were raw, jagged urges scraping against the inside of my mind, demanding release. A sharp, stabbing pain radiated from my gut, low and deep, a physical manifestation of the emptiness clawing within me. My left hand, clamped tight around the rough bark, trembled uncontrollably. Sweat, cold despite the humid air, beaded on my forehead beneath the edge of my hood.

  Down there, the presence whispered, not in words, but in a sickening lurch of instinct, a sharpening of focus that felt like grit rubbed into my eyes. Life. Warm. Waiting.

  My vision flickered at the edges, a brief, terrifying flash of deep, unnatural violet. The colour of its satisfaction, or maybe just its influence bleeding through the cracks in my control. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, clenching my jaw so hard I felt teeth grind. No. Not yet. Not until I decide.

  Control. It was the only thing that mattered. The only thing separating me from… well, from it. From the ravenous, mindless thing coiled inside me.

  My enhanced senses, the price and poisoned gift of my survival, were cranked to eleven, drowning me in the swamp's foulness. Beneath the general miasma of rot, I caught the specific musk – acrid and reptilian – of my quarry. A Gloomfang Lurker. Six legs, tough hide, disposition like a kicked hornet nest, and a venom that could lock up your muscles faster than you could scream. A decent bounty in Stonehaven, enough to keep me fed and supplied for another week or two.

  But the coin wasn't the main driver tonight. Not even close.

  The Hunger needed the life force. Potent life force. The kind thrumming inside a predator like the Gloomfang. Smaller prey, swamp rats or oversized insects, barely registered anymore. They were like trying to quench a furnace with a thimbleful of water. It only made the gnawing emptiness worse, angrier.

  Closer, the instinct pulsed. I could hear it now, beyond the drip-drip-drip and the insectile drone. A wet, slithering sound. The faint thump-thump… thump-thump of its cold-blooded heart, echoing unnaturally loud in my ears, a morbid drumbeat in the fog. It was near the base of my tree, obscured by the thick vapour clinging to the water's surface.

  Focus. Ignore the trembling. Ignore the pain. Ignore the alien presence whispering murder inside my head. Just hunt. Like I always did. Before.

  Before the Incident. Before the screams and the blood and the thing with too many teeth. Before this… parasite… burrowed its way into my soul to save my worthless life.

  Survivor's guilt was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Survival was the only currency that mattered now. And survival had a price.

  Slowly, deliberately, I shifted my weight, testing the slick branch. My movements were silent, unnaturally so. Another 'gift'. Years of training with the Iron Gryphons had made me quiet, but The Hunger made me a ghost when I needed to be. My muscles, lean and wiry beneath the worn leather and reinforced fabric of my gear, coiled and released with fluid precision.

  Peering down through a gap in the mist, I finally saw it. The Gloomfang Lurker. Maybe eight feet long, its segmented body a mottled pattern of black and deep green, blending almost perfectly with the slime-coated roots and murky water. It was partially submerged, only its ridged back and multi-faceted eyes visible above the surface. Faint, bioluminescent spots along its flanks pulsed with a sickly yellow light, mesmerizing and deadly.

  It wasn’t focused on me. Not yet. It had cornered something else – a giant marsh frog, puffed up in terror, paralyzed by fear or perhaps an initial spray of venom. The Lurker lowered its head, jaws gaping slightly, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth.

  Now.

  Letting go of the branch, I dropped. Twenty feet straight down. No sound. No hesitation. The Hunger surged with predatory glee, a thrill of anticipation that wasn't mine. I landed cat-footed on a rare patch of solid ground hidden amongst the cypress knees, my worn boots sinking only slightly into the damp earth. No splash. No snapped twig. As if I were part of the fog itself.

  In the same fluid motion, my hands went to the crossed hilts at the small of my back. Twin short swords, perfectly balanced, extensions of my own arms. The worn leather grips felt solid, familiar. A comforting weight against the churning void inside me. My tools. My skill. Not its.

  The Lurker’s head snapped up. Its cluster of eyes, reflecting the faint ambient light like chips of obsidian, swivelled towards me. It had sensed me. Or maybe it sensed the alien thing riding shotgun in my soul. Sometimes, I wasn’t sure which drew more attention.

  It abandoned the frog, which promptly vanished into the muck with a terrified croak. With a low hiss that vibrated through the damp air, the Lurker whipped around, its six legs churning the stagnant water into brown foam. It moved with surprising speed for its bulk, low to the ground, a nightmare scuttling out of the fog.

  It lunged. Not a bite, not yet. A spray. A thick glob of viscous, green-tinged venom shot from its maw, arcing through the air. I twisted, enhanced reflexes screaming danger milliseconds before the attack. The venom splattered against the trunk of the cypress I’d just vacated, sizzling like acid, eating into the bark with an audible hiss. Fuck. That would have been unpleasant.

  The dodge, however, cost me. Another wave of nauseating weakness washed over me, the demand from The Hunger intensifying. Feed! Now! My knees buckled slightly. The stabbing pain in my gut clenched like a fist. Shit. I was weaker than I thought. Starvation was making me sloppy.

  The Lurker didn’t wait. It charged, jaws snapping, its heavy tail whipping through the air like a spiked club.

  Time compressed. The world narrowed to the space between me and the beast, the fog-shrouded swamp becoming a deadly arena. My swords flashed, deflecting the snapping jaws, the steel ringing faintly against tooth and chitin. I danced around its clumsy rushes, using the uneven terrain to my advantage, my boots finding purchase on slippery roots and islands of semi-solid ground where a normal person would flounder.

  Faster, The Hunger urged, lending strength to my limbs, speed to my dodges. Stronger. Kill.

  The Lurker was relentless. Its hide, tough as boiled leather, deflected glancing blows. Its multiple eyes tracked my movements, making feints difficult. It spat venom again, forcing me into a desperate sideways leap that landed me knee-deep in cold, stinking water. The chill shocked me, momentarily clearing my head.

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  It lunged into the water after me, jaws wide. I brought both swords up in a cross-block, catching its upper jaw just behind the teeth. The impact jarred my arms to the shoulders, raw strength against honed steel. Its fetid breath washed over me – rot and something metallic, the tang of its venom.

  My muscles screamed in protest. The trembling in my left hand returned with a vengeance. The Hunger roared, sensing weakness, sensing proximity to the kill. Let go! Let ME!

  Pain flared along my side. Sharp, tearing. I hadn’t fully dodged its last rush. A glancing blow from its heavy, segmented tail had caught me across the ribs. Not broken, probably, but definitely bruised, maybe cracked. Breathing suddenly hurt.

  The pain acted like fuel on the fire of The Hunger's desperation. My vision whited out for a heartbeat, replaced by a searing, violet-tinged rage. Pure, undiluted predatory instinct surged through me. A snarl, low and guttural, ripped from my throat – a sound not entirely human. KILL! FEED! MINE!

  Images flashed behind my eyes – tearing flesh, gulping down hot life, the ecstasy of consumption. My grip tightened on my swords, knuckles white. My muscles bunched, preparing to unleash a savage, uncontrolled frenzy.

  No!

  With a monumental effort of will, like shoving back a physical weight threatening to crush me, I forced the instinct down. I slammed the mental door shut, gritting my teeth until I tasted blood – my own, from biting the inside of my cheek. My control was slipping. Badly.

  But the struggle, the raw adrenaline dump from fighting it as much as the Lurker, had a side effect. A burst of desperate strength flooded my limbs. A gift, maybe, or just a byproduct of the internal war.

  Using the surge, I shoved hard against the Lurker’s jaw, throwing it off balance for a precious second. I ducked low, ignoring the fire in my ribs, letting the murky water close over my head for a moment. Disorienting, but it broke line of sight.

  I exploded upwards, water sluicing off my cloak. The Lurker was momentarily confused, its head whipping back and forth. My opening.

  I lunged forward, driving my right sword deep into the softer chitin beneath its foreleg joint. A sickening crunch echoed in the sudden stillness. Blackish ichor welled up around the blade.

  The creature shrieked, a high-pitched sound that grated on my enhanced hearing, thrashing wildly in the water. It tried to bring its head around to bite, but the angle was awkward, the wound debilitating.

  Ignoring the flailing limbs, I yanked the blade free with a wet schlick. As it reared back in pain, exposing its throat and underside, I pivoted, bringing my left sword up in a precise, practiced arc. The target wasn’t the heart or brain – too well protected. It was the cluster of pulsating sacs near the jawline. The venom glands.

  My blade sliced clean through the tough membrane connecting the primary duct. Thick, green venom spurted uselessly into the water, dissipating instantly. Its main weapon, neutralized. That was usually enough to break their fighting spirit.

  The Gloomfang Lurker shuddered, its movements becoming sluggish. The fight drained out of it, replaced by the primal instinct to flee, but the wound in its leg joint hampered it. It stumbled, collapsing half onto a muddy bank, its breathing ragged and wet.

  I approached cautiously, swords held ready. Its multiple eyes tracked me, filled now with primal fear rather than aggression. Good.

  No wasted movements. No flourish. Survival wasn't pretty. I stepped forward, placed the tip of my right sword at the vulnerable spot where its skull met its spine, and drove it home with all my weight. A final convulsion, a long, drawn-out sigh, and then… silence.

  The sudden quiet pressed in, heavy and profound, broken only by the incessant dripping of water and the buzzing of insects already gathering. And my own ragged breathing, each inhale sending a fresh stab of pain through my ribs.

  Then, the other pain returned. The one deep inside. The Hunger, denied its bloody takeover, was now screaming for its payment. The stabbing in my gut intensified, doubling me over. It felt like hooked claws tearing at my insides, demanding, demanding.

  Feed. Now. Give it to me.

  There was no fighting this. Not this part. This was the price.

  Ignoring the slime, the blood, the black ichor matting the creature's hide, I knelt beside the cooling carcass. My hand still trembled, but this time it was anticipation – The Hunger’s, bleeding into mine. I reached out, hesitated for only a second, the familiar wave of self-loathing washing over me. Then, I pressed my bare palm flat against the Lurker’s flank, over where its life force felt strongest, densest.

  The sensation began instantly. Cold. Invasive. A sickening leeching. It felt like icy tendrils sinking through my skin, through muscle and bone, latching onto the fading energy of the dead creature. The energy flowed, not like warmth, but like a current of freezing water, up my arm, coiling deep within my core where The Hunger resided.

  It wasn't pleasant. It never was. It felt fundamentally wrong, a violation of some natural law I could no longer afford to respect. But the effect… the effect was undeniable.

  The stabbing pains vanished instantly, evaporating like mist in the sun. The gnawing emptiness was replaced by a cold, satisfying fullness, a quenching of that terrible thirst. The trembling in my hand stopped. My vision cleared, the violet edges receding. The intrusive urges quieted, sinking back into the recesses of my mind, becoming a low, almost content background hum. A wave of profound physical relief washed over me, so potent it almost made my knees buckle again.

  But relief was tangled inextricably with disgust. I snatched my hand back as if burned, leaving a pale handprint on the dark, ichor-stained hide. The skin where I’d touched it tingled unpleasantly.

  Gods, I hated this. I hated what I was. What I had to do to stay alive. To keep it quiet.

  Shakily, I pushed myself to my feet. My ribs protested sharply, a painful reminder of the fight. Just bruised, I hoped. Regeneration would kick in soon, fueled by the Lurker’s life force, but it would take time. And energy.

  I wiped my hand clean on the creature's own hide, the texture rough and cold. Business now. Pragmatism. It was the only way to keep moving forward.

  Drawing my skinning knife – sharp, practical steel – I set to work. The intact venom sac was the prize, carefully excised and sealed in a specially treated pouch at my belt. Alchemists in Stonehaven paid top coin for pure Gloomfang venom. Several of the largest claws followed, chipped free with leverage and effort. Finally, I cut away a large patch of the iridescent hide from its back, the part least damaged by the fight. Less valuable, but every copper counted.

  I bundled the parts securely in oilcloth, strapping them to my pack. The carcass itself, I left for the swamp's other scavengers. Less to carry, and hauling an eight-foot reptile corpse through miles of morass wasn't exactly feasible. Besides, the Watch got twitchy about unregistered monster carcasses near the city limits.

  Shouldering my pack, feeling the weight of my grim harvest, I turned away from the dead Lurker. Exhaustion settled deep in my bones, a heavy cloak layered over the lingering ache in my ribs and the ever-present weariness of the symbiosis. But the gnawing desperation was gone. For now. I was sated. We were sated.

  Stonehaven was hours away, north-east through the treacherous edges of the Blackmire, then across the soggy expanse of the Fenwater Flats. A long, miserable trek. But it was the way back to something resembling civilization. A place to sell my haul, buy supplies, maybe even find a dry bed for a night. A place to pretend, for a little while, that I wasn't this… thing.

  I started walking, picking my way through the cypress knees and sucking mud, the fog swirling around me like a shroud. One step at a time. Survive. Control. That was the mantra.

  Hours later, the oppressive gloom of the Blackmire finally began to recede. The gnarled cypress trees gave way to reedy marshland, the fog thinning under the first, pale hints of dawn painting the eastern sky a bruised purple. The air smelled slightly cleaner, less choked with decay, carrying the scent of damp earth and wet grass instead. Ahead, I could just make out the muddy track that marked the swamp's edge and the beginning of the Fenwater Flats – the long, dreary road back to Stonehaven.

  My boots squelched as I pulled them free from the last patch of thick mud, dripping swamp water and gore onto the relatively firmer ground of the track. Relief warred with exhaustion. Almost out. Almost back to the dubious safety of the city walls.

  Then I froze.

  My hand instinctively dropped to the hilt of one of my swords. Ahead, maybe fifty yards down the track, three figures stood silhouetted against the growing dawn light. Lanterns cast pools of yellow illumination around them, cutting through the lingering mist. Dark, soaked leather armour. Steel caps. Spears held loosely but ready. City Watchmen.

  Shit.

  They were blocking the path. Waiting. One figure stood slightly ahead of the others, broader, squarer. Even at this distance, I recognized the stance, the set of the shoulders. Captain Borin. Head of the Stonehaven City Watch. Grizzled, by-the-book, and harbouring a deep-seated suspicion of anyone who operated outside his neat little lines of authority. Especially solitary hunters like me. Especially me.

  His gaze, sharp and assessing even through the gloom, fixed on me. It travelled down, taking in my mud-caked state, the dripping water, the bulge of my pack likely smelling faintly of monster parts and swamp. His hand rested casually, deliberately, on the pommel of the sword at his hip. His expression, illuminated by the lantern light held by the man beside him, was hard granite, etched with distrust.

  The quiet of the pre-dawn was shattered by his gruff, carrying voice.

  "Hold it right there." A command, not a request. "Out hunting late, aren't we?"