Her stomach, a hollow, gnawing pit, churned in misery, and she knew she could not continue without nourishment. She needed food, and she needed it now. But first, she needed to find something to hunt with.

  She gave one last glance around the crater that had been her residence for the past month only to confirm again what she dreaded. Her quiver was nowhere to be seen. She had somehow miraculously managed to get her bow functioning again but didn't have any ammunition to use it.

  To her stomach's great despondency, she would have to hold off the hunt to find some ammo. She gripped her newly reconstituted bow tightly, the soft grey fur brushing against her fingers, a faint, pulsing warmth emanating from its magical energy, and hobbled further into the dense forest.

  Of the many lessons left behind by her mother, a congruence with nature was amongst one of the most focused. She had been taught that nature was not just a resource—it was a language, and one she could speak fluently, even in her weakened state. As she walked through the woods, she began to collect materials.

  Her first stop was by a small collection of rocks near the base of that dastardly cliff. She wasn't too fond of the cliff anymore, but the rocks would be useful.

  Weary and unsteady, the girl lowered herself slowly toward the ground, but her body betrayed her, and instead of sitting, she collapsed painfully onto the cold, damp mud.

  With a grimace, she reached out and grasped a small, fist-sized rock, her fingers trembling as she held it. She struck it weakly against another stone nearby, the motion lacking any sort of energy or precision. She swung again sluggishly, failing to rile up any amount of intentful action. She tried again and again, each strike weaker than the last.

  But then, with a flicker of focus, she gritted her teeth, drawing whatever energy she could muster, and with an exhale of frustration, slammed the two stones together.

  The rock in her hand shattered, and the sudden shear tore a large gash across her palm. Pain flashed through her, but it was only a distant murmur compared to the gnawing hunger that had taken over.

  Blood dripped from her wound, mixing with the dampness of the ground below, but her focus never wavered. Her stone victim had exploded into fragments—sharp, jagged flints. Despite the tremor in her hands, she carefully scooped up the largest and most useful pieces, fingers brushing the sharp edges with practiced care.

  With a wince and a strained grunt, she awkwardly rose back to her feet, legs still weak beneath her. Her body ached with every movement, but there was no time for rest. She trudged over to a nearby tree, and after a moment's hesitation, she began collecting branches—gathering whatever she could manage with quavering hands before she collapsed back down in exhaustion, taking shallow breaths as her vision swam.

  Her chest tightened with each breath, the hunger looming over her entire body; without her sustaining gems anymore, she was really flagging under the strain. But she couldn't stop now. Her hands shook as she took the sharp flints and shaved the branches.

  The process was slow and agonizing. The flint shards were poor substitutes for tools, refusing to slice cleanly, each attempt gnawing into her skin. The coarse, jagged edges of the flint often tore through her fingers, leaving bloodstains on the wood, but she barely noticed at this point.

  Every time a flint broke or a branch snapped, she could feel a surge of frustration rise in her chest, but she shoved it back, focusing on the task at hand. Her efforts weren't flawless—far from it—but through sheer stubbornness, she managed to carve a decent set of shafts. They were rough and uneven, but they were something.

  The final piece she needed to craft her arrow was the feather—something she simply didn't have the time or energy to procure. But she needed something to complete the arrows, something to act as fletching.

  Looking around, she spotted the thin bark of the surrounding trees. With a grunt, she tore off a strip, flipped it over to get at the soft inner bark and meticulously peeled it into its individual sheets.

  The wet bark was in desperate need of drying. She initially tried digging a small ditch but soon gave up on that safety net and just piled some leaves and the failed remnants of her branch carvings into a small mound atop it to form a campfire.

  The flints clattered in her still shaking hands as she struck them together, sparking tiny embers. She belatedly noticed how her shaking hands were getting progressively worse with time, but the flint still sparked, and the firelight still flickered, and that's all that mattered. The small soft light cast a pale glow on her bloodied fingers.

  While the bark dried near the crackling fire, she carved small wedges into the wood shafts—imperfect but usable. They wouldn't be pretty, but they would work. She had no choice but to make them work. Then, taking the dried bark, she carefully cut them into long, thin triangles.

  She needed to somehow groove two of these wooden triangles into the end of the wooden shafts she had made. Hours passed in futile attempts. Her tired, food-deprived, and nerve-damaged hands obeyed her desires less and less as the day continued. She pushed on heedlessly, forcing the pieces together in various configurations, each one worse than the last.

  The flint arrowheads, sharp and uncooperative, refused to balance stably upon the shaft tips, and the bark was too brittle to bend properly. Her fingers were raw, her patience thinning, but she refused to stop.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity of failed attempts, she managed to complete her work. Out of all her many flints, branches, and bark, she managed to build one arrow. The arrow was a grotesque thing. The jagged head was uneven and asymmetrical, the barky fletching rough and unpolished, all crudely stitched together with notches packed tight with sticky tree resin. It was ugly, heavy, a disgrace to any true archer, but it was hers.

  She didn't have the luxury of perfection. She had one arrow, and that arrow was all she had. There was no time for regret, no time to mourn her lack of proper equipment. She could only hope that the single, monstrous creation would do its job when the time came.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  At this point, exhaustion was a ubiquitous pressure; she could feel it in her bones, gnawing at her thoughts, draining her will to keep going. Her perseverance could only push her so far, and though she had the equipment to hunt, she didn't have the capacity to go out and do it.

  Her legs were leaden, her breath shallow, her mind sluggish. With a final effort, she found what she hoped was an animal's burrow, a small dip in the ground near a cluster of trees. She sank down against the nearest trunk, her back against the rough bark, and closed her eyes. The world felt distant, as though she were floating on the edges of consciousness.

  She couldn't move anymore. Her body wouldn't allow it. So she sat, the makeshift arrow nocked in her monstrous furry bow and waited. She had come to the end of her strength, and all she could do now was wait, wait until either she died or an animal emerged.

  Soft fur compressed under the intense pressure, its own skin pressing inwards, plunging into the soft organs beneath. The stone razor of the arrowhead pushed deeper, piercing the flesh and lodging firmly into the small creature's heart.

  The small, erratic beats of the heart grew weaker, struggling to push blood around the intrusive foreign object. Every pump only quickened the death, pouring more fresh blood out of the new wound. Soon, the thudding ceased completely.

  The girl's mind went blank as her craven instincts surged forth in a carnal flood. She scrambled toward her prey, casting her monstrous bow aside with a frantic motion. The agonized grumble of her stomach demanded immediate action.

  For a brief second, the civilized woman within wanted to prepare a fire and cook the rabbit. That thought vanished in an instant, overtaken by the raw primal hunger clawing at her. Her hunger had been pushed to its utmost limit already, and she refused to wait a moment longer.

  Without hesitation, she sank her teeth into the tough flesh, tearing and pulling it apart in wild, desperate bites. The meat was rough and difficult to chew, but she didn't care. The gnawing hunger had swallowed her whole, reducing her to an animalistic frenzy.

  Blood stained her face and hands as she devoured her prey with ferocity, sitting over it like a beast. She ravenously scarfed down every thread of fibre she could rend from her prey.

  Hunger truly was the best spice, for this meal was the greatest she had ever known. She tilted the captured beast up over her head as she ate, trying to prevent as much blood as possible from spilling. It was her best source of drinking water so far.

  Temporarily, she lost her humanity, lost in the euphoric gore, savouring each dribbling giblet that rolled down her throat. She hadn't even bothered to remove the creature's fur; her mouth was now coated in the patchy coat, sticking to her elated tongue.

  The last morsel of edible flesh slipped down her throat, yet the hunger remained. It gnawed at her, insistent, raw. But now, with renewed strength, she had the energy to feed it.

  Almost as if waking from a nightmarish slumber, she was human again. The weight of the transition hit her all at once: her mind clearer, her senses reawakened. But everything was wrong. She immediately noticed it was a completely different time of day, and as her gaze swept around, she realized she didn't recognize her surroundings at all.

  Her belly was full, her muscles vitalized. She had an entirely new set of arrows, cleaner with feathered fletching and sharp heads. Her splint was also gone, the only markings left of her fall being calloused stains of scars from a seeming bygone time.

  Her new disposition was not entirely positive; however, she had lost any remnant of her clothes and instead was dressed in a horrifying canvas of dried blood caked onto her body. She wasn't even sure anymore whether it was hers or not.

  Her confusion was abruptly interrupted as nausea churned in her stomach. Without warning, she emptied her stomach, a putrid, red mess pouring from her mouth: crushed bones, feathers, and congealed clumps of fur.

  The gems had saved her life, but with the magical excess, her condition had spiralled into this chaotic state. Oddly enough, her bow remained with her—usually, when she lost herself, tools like this would be discarded, forgotten. But not this time. She hugged the furry bow tight to her chest and counted the blessing.

  With hunger and thirst sated and her body healed, she realized that she could finally begin the long journey back home.

  It was a long trek, but she used the day star as her compass, guiding her steps back toward familiar ground. Days turned to weeks as she camped and hunted, each night spent beneath the open sky. But now, no longer teetering on the brink of survival, she could keep her humanity in check. She wasn't sure she would survive losing it again.

  It took her a few weeks more, but she made it back to civilization. Before approaching the town, she did her best to cleanse herself in the river, scrubbing her skin raw with pebbled mud. Still, no amount of washing could fully erase the stains of her ordeal.

  When she stepped from the forest—naked, gaunt, and streaked with remnants of vital ichor—the townspeople recoiled. Their wariness was understandable.

  It took some cajoling and a tense exchange with the local militia, but eventually, she was allowed through the gates. With a few pelts and fresh meat to barter, she secured clothes and, more importantly, passage home.

  Her father sat slumped on the front porch of their farm, a half-empty bottle of ale dangling from his fingers. His eyes were dead, visage imprisoned in a dour melancholy.

  The second she spotted him, she broke into a sprint. "Papa! Papa!"

  His ears twitched at the sound—words he thought he'd never hear again. He lifted his head, and the bottle slipped from his grasp, shattering at his feet.

  For a brief second, he just stared as if disbelieving the ghost before him. Then, with a choked gasp, he lurched upright so fast he nearly stumbled. But the mess, the drink, none of it mattered. He ran to her. "Biddy—you're alive!"

  But just as their arms reached for each other, a sharp chime of a bell cut through the air.

  In between the reuniting family, a small pink rhombus grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Biddy holding a glowing parchment: It read.