Surrounding the beastkin settlement from the north and west exists a strip of mountain colloquially known as “the Ridge.” Whilst not inherently significant at a glance, it is the only geological barrier keeping the anomalous forest that surrounds from creeping closer to the village.

These circumstances are what allow the settlement to exist, it forms a nigh impenetrable barrier around the beastkin. But just as well as it keeps unwanted visitors out, it is equally as good at keeping the villagers in.

With every passing generation, those who have experienced firsthand the cruelty of humanity die out, and those who are blessed to have never experienced such injustices are left ignorant.

One might argue that this is the point, to escape and forget the unending prejudice. A generation that knows not of these concepts is oblivious, and therefore happier.

But ignoring an issue doesn’t fix it. No, the problem is instead left to fester, to create even more trouble as time goes on.

In the Beista’s case, forgetting about the threat of humanity was a completely logical solution. No sane human would dare to set foot into the forest, so why worry?

Or so they thought, until the border war started. And war does not often produce sane men.

Those who couldn’t bear the pressure escaped into the forest, desperate and willing to do nearly anything to ensure their own lives.

Most died, to become nutrients for the flora and fauna.

Yet some, the most tenacious, clever, and ruthless, made it to the village.

They gathered like moths around a flame. Knowing that they could not defeat a village of beasts by themselves, they sank into petty thievery in order to survive.

But more and more deserters were appearing. And even worse, they began congregating. There’s strength in numbers, and with this steadily increasing strength, they grew ever more bold.

On the other hand, the village’s population grew ever more peaceful. Many of the young men and boys were capable hunters, yet not a single one of them truly knew what dangers a desperate human posed.

Thus, the situation would only grow more dire from there.

And unless there was someone to take the initiative, the fate of the beastkin was clear.

***

Three men sat huddled around a small fire.

The midnight woodland around them was frigid, but a stomach full of rum had done well to warm them up.

Their camp sat just meters from the Ridge’s peak, far enough from the village to be concealed but close enough to the peak to avoid the forest’s grasping tendrils.

One of the men took a long swig from a bottle of strong liquor. He was very obviously not sober, likely having drank way past his fill.

“What’s with that old man, hogging such good rum? What a cur!”

The man across from him nodded in agreement, tearing into a particularly juicy sausage as he did so.

“I bet the other boys are jealous as hell, ain’t they?”

“Damn right they are, they’re too scared to pillage further in. Cowards, the lot of ‘em.”

The man chuckled, “Fine by me through, that just leaves the good stuff for us. They can go ahead and have all the jerky they want.”

The two clinked their bottles together, snickering as they indulged in more drink.

The third person, however, sat silent, clutching his sheathed arming sword. He was obviously younger than the other two, and much more hesitant to act in such a manner.

One of the men turned to him, annoyed.

“What’re you acting all serious for? S’pissing me off.”

“...maybe we should be a little more careful. If we keep going deeper they might-”

The other man gave him a solid whack on the back, nearly knocking him into the fire.

“What a pussy! This is the problem with rookies, none of you know how to have a little fun.”

“Go easy on the boy, probably hasn’t even tasted his first woman yet.”

They both roared with laughter, gulping down more and more liquor as the boy rubbed his back, fidgeting with discomfort.

“C’mon, yer a man dammit. And a Khod too! You’ve got raider blood running through yer veins boy.”

“Even though you might not look it.”

They shared another round of laughter as they continued drinking.

“Don’t worry boy, as your elders, we’ll help you out with that problem of yers. Just this time yeah?”

“...you talkin’ about those mutts?”

“Course I mean those mutts idiot! The hell else am I gonna do?”

“...but they’re besita y’know?”

“I couldn’t give less of a fuck whether they’re beista or not. They’ve got all the parts of a woman, so they’ll do. Besides, remember that girl with the black hair? She might be a mutt, but she’s a damn fine one if you ask me.”

“Well...yeah I can see what you mean, but you’d best give up on her.”

“Why’s that?”

The man lowered his voice, leaning closer to the little flame.

“I’ve been hearing that Captain Rudd’s already got his sights on her.”

“Shit, Rudd? That bastard’s getting a little too bold these days.”

“Yeah, he’s trying to gather all the smaller groups to the northern Ridge. Looks like they’re gonna try somethin’ soon.”

“...shit, I guess we’ve gotta give up on that girl fer now.”

He turned to the boy again, grasping his shoulder with a little too much force.

“S’ a shame, but it looks like you’ll have to settle with a lesser woman fer your first, alright?”

The boy nodded, still a little stiff. His eyes were focussed on the ground, avoiding the older man’s gaze as if it were a matter of life and death.

“C’mon now, yer gonna be a man soon! At least meet my eyes, boy.”

After struggling for a bit, he hesitantly brought his eyes up.

Almost immediately, the boy’s face went pale.

“Hah! Is my face that scary?”

The older man heard a retching sound beside him.

Letting go of the boy’s shoulder, he turned to face his comrade again.

“Oi oi, guess you can’t hold your alcohol huh?-”

The man sat eerily still. His shoulders were tensed almost to the point of touching his earlobes and his entire body was quivering.

His expression, which was once relaxed and carefree, had contorted into one of intense shock.

Dribbles of viscous crimson bubbled from his mouth and onto his lap.

The cause for all this was obvious at a glance.

A jagged shard of flint protruded from his chest, clearly having been driven straight through his back.

A person stood behind him, clutching the spear’s shaft with a firm grip.

Before anyone could register what had just occurred, the attacker placed one hand around the man’s neck and tucked the spear tightly under his own armpit, as if he were trying to couch a lance.

Then, with one abrupt push, the spearhead forced its way all the way through the man’s body, exposing the now ruined tip in all its gruesome glory.

A panicked yelp escaped from the older man’s lips as he scrambled for his junior’s sword, ripping it from the boy’s shaking hands.

He threw the scabbard aside and gingerly pointed the blade toward the attacker, attempting to ready for a thrust.

But Malt was quicker, he had already drawn his hatchet and was lunging in for the kill. He ducked under the tapered point and with a single, savage chop the deserter’s hand was severed.

He didn’t flinch as the axe’s jagged edge ripped into the man’s flesh, instead the man’s now userless sword had caught his attention.

Still mid swing, he ditched the hatchet and caught the sword.

The moment his fingers curled around its grip, a feeling of security that he’d long lost returned to him. It was a familiar feeling that was all too natural, as if he’d been missing a part of his body for all this time.

Faster than the deserter’s severed hand could fall to the ground, Malt deftly swung the sword using his entire body weight and momentum, a movement that had been perfected through countless hours of training and experience.

The thin blade drew its arc, tracing through the air far faster than the man could react.

In an instant, the deserter was nearly decapitated. His head violently jerked along with the impact of the blade, nearly causing it to rip itself from the anchor that was his spine.

The man folded upon himself, slumping to a mangled mess in the dirt.

There was no time to rest, Malt’s eyes sprung up, scanning for the last bandit. When he saw the slight glint of metal deep within the forest, he knew he’d found his last target.

Sliding the arming sword into his belt, he nimbly slung the bundle of javelins from his back, hastily unwrapping them. He held three in his offhand and one with his sword arm, primed and ready to launch.

He wouldn’t need the reserves.

He flung the first javelin with all his might and watched as it soared through the air. He quickly readied another one, prepared to send it down range at a moment’s notice.

But a shrill, painful yelp signalled that another one wouldn’t be needed.

The boy was easy to track, his whimpering and moans of anguish were likely to be heard throughout the forest. Even as he approached, the boy wouldn’t stop howling, making it overly evident that the parsnip had done its job.

The boy clutched the barbed arrowtip that had embedded itself into the back of his thigh, he’d never felt pain as persistent and intense as this.

Even despite that, he stared at Malt in dread. But even if he was delirious with pain and fear, he could still recognize a monster when he saw one.

“Y-you! You’re that fucker from Hythe!”

Malt paused for a second, hesitating at the name.

The deserter’s face twisted into one of hatred. His teeth clenched dangerously as his eyes narrowed with animosity.

“It’s all your fault that we’re in this mess in the first place! I swore to my mates that I would FUCKING KILL YOU MYSELF, YOU GOD DAMN SLAUGHTERER.”

He was practically foaming at the mouth at this point, the boy’s rage toward him was apparently so intense that it could take precedence over the intense pain he must have been enduring.

Whatever the case, the boy’s death throes were growing too loud.

Malt drew his sword once again, holding it in reverse in one hand whilst placing the other on its plain pommel.

Seeing this, the boy was quickly dragged back into the reality of the situation. All fight had seemingly left him the moment the sword was drawn.

He held one hand up as his mouth twisted into a desperate grin.

“W-wait okay?! I had to do it to survive, honest!”

Malt ignored the boy’s pitiful pleading. He pointed the tip right under the deserter’s chin. The boy was too weak at this point to retaliate, he couldn’t even muster the strength to push the blade away.

Tears began streaming from his eyes as he realized his time had come.

“W-wait! I was only following orders!”

“So was I.”

His face contorted even more as his lips twisted into a broken smile. He had already gone past the point of desperation.

“P-please! I have a family at home!”

“So do I.”

Before the charade could go on any longer, Malt swiftly pushed the tip into the soft flesh of the boy’s throat.

His eyes grew larger, as if they were going to pop out of his skull. Saliva and viscera bubbled from his lips and from the newly made hole in his throat.

Seeing as he was still hanging on, Malt placed his body weight onto the sword’s pommel, unflinching as the rest of the blade sunk easily through the throat and out the other end.

With this, the boy spasmed one last time, and went completely still.

Now that all had been done, the task had effectively been completed, and with plenty of time to spare as well.

Withdrawing the blade from the corpse’s jugular, he flicked the blood off and slid it back into his belt.

The quiet now that everything had settled was eerie, but preferable to having to hear their vulgar talk.

Now that he had time to actually think, something surprised him.

He felt intense emotions when he killed this time.

Whereas he would usually try and drown it out with other thoughts, this time he was perfectly content with letting the feeling, the memory of the entire deed swirl around his psyche.

After pondering for a second, he’d finally realized the weight of what he’d just done.

He’d killed on his own volition.

For the first time, he killed someone not because he was told to, nor because it was either them or himself, but because he clearly, earnestly wanted to rid them from the world.

And it felt great.

Additionally, it was barely past midnight. With this newfound knowledge that he’d attained, there was no way that he’d allow the night to end yet.