Pyrik shoved aside a fire-eaten log and fed a fresh log into the hearth. The warmth scarcely found its way to the far corner of the living room. A certain restlessness had kept her from taking any sleep so she went downstairs to wait out this tedious siege. There was much on her mind, and more would come in the morning. It was tiresome to think of yet the pull of sleep would not herald her eyelids to bow. Mixed with the adrenaline from the night attack, the anticipation of seeking out the truth to the voice inside was a powerful cocktail that remedied any chance of sleep. Pyrik looked at the window, desperate for the morning rays to spill in. Yet the sun would not rise for a few more hours, nor would sleep claim her for the night.

The frizzen squeaked each time Pyrik opened to check the pan for powder for the thousandth time. Until that vital spark was spat in the pan, the powder would remain unused. She continued the idle motion nonetheless. It was something to occupy her hands with, to direct the excess energy elsewhere until that river ran dry. Pyrik was still overflowing with thoughts. The red forest had called to her, spoke to her. Knew her! There would be a name to the voice inside, and all that was demanded of her was a patience that was rapidly stretching thin enough to tear. Ridiculous, since she could muster the patience to wait for the killing shot through any downpour or biting cold, wait for the glint in its eyes before pulling the trigger. Except for the voice inside, this particular beast, Pyrik would rather avoid looking into its eyes. She would rather hurry a killing shot and have it finally silenced. Gone.

A sharp snort from a sleeping Hospitaller dragged Pyrik out of the sinking thought.

The Hospitallers spelt close to the crackling fire. Their hooded overcoats were rolled up to use as pillows. Helmets and brigandine vests were laid out neatly along one wall. Like her blunderbuss, swords and rifles were within immediate reach of their owners. She wondered if powder was in their pans too.

The faint scent of heme hung like miasma in the room, though the smell had desensitized her nose long ago to truly bother. Anyways, Pyrik had changed out of her bloodied undershirt for a clean one. A pleasure, given the situation.

Not all of the Hospitallers were asleep though. Potash sat on one of the few chairs in the room, reading what appeared to be a well-worn letter. The other, a Hospitaller she did not recognize, was posted at the window, arms folded carelessly. The chair she sat on was teetering on its hind legs, and each time she pushed off the table she looked ready to fall over backward. Then, when it seemed like it would, the chair fell forward and she would catch the edge of the table with the nook of her boot with a clok! The woman appeared to be a few years older than Pyrik, likely in her early twenties. She had nut brown skin and short, milky blonde hair. The reflection in the window revealed she had a mousey face with the cunning eyes of a cat. When the woman shifted her focus to the peeping girl, Pyrik felt the urge to turn away.

The woman gave Pyrik a casual salute and a sly, disarming grin. “I should thank you. You’ve won me quite a sum of coins.”

Pyrik raised an eyebrow. Coins?

Alarm flashed on Potash’s face and he scrambled to say, “Give it a rest, Menov. It’s enough that I’ve lost a month of wages to you, now I have to listen to your glotting.”

“You shouldn’t have sided against the girl then.” Menov brought the teetering chair back down on all-fours with a loud CLOP! Pyrik cringed, though not a body stirred. She perched her elbows on her knees and looked intently at Pyrik. “Not my fault that I have an instinct for people.”

“Next time you let me in on some of those instincts, yeah?” Potash followed along the creases to carefully fold up the letter.

Finally, Menov returned to the window, removing her talon-like pin on Pyrik. She scoffed. “Not a chance.”

“Why not?”

“Predator instincts tend not to bode well for prey,” Menov said.

“Threaten all you like, Menov. I’ll get my wages back. With interest too.” Potash said, trying to play her words off with some good humour. He dove into his pack and dug out a muffin, catching the eye of Pyrik. Potash noticed. So did Menov, then smirked at him through the reflection in the glass.

“Do you mind if I have some?” Pyrik asked.

“Do you mind if she has some?” Menov repeated.

“This is my last one,” Potash said, though the protest sounded weak.

“You can always make more, can’t you? I thought you loved baking.” Menov had an impossibly wide grin that only Pyrik could see from her angle. A shared secret for only girls, no boys allowed.

Groveling as he walked over to Pyrik, Potash dug his thumbs into the top of the muffin as he tried to split it evenly. One half came apart larger than the other. He tried to offer her the smaller piece, then Menov piped up, “That’s not very gentlemanly of you.”

He shoved the larger piece into Pyrik's hands, grumbling as he did.

The muffin was nice and fluffy and broke apart wonderly as she chewed. There were even blueberries, a delightful surprise. Pyrik wolfed it down in seconds. “This is lovely,” she said through a mouthful.

Potash received the compliment as though she spat out an insult. Pyrik was deeply confused. The muffin was delicious! She wondered if Potash knew how to make honey cake, but after that perverse reaction, she was reluctant to even dare ask.

“You should elucidate to the girl on how you’ve found this little hobby of yours, since you’re already in such a keen mood for sharing.”

Potash grunted, reluctant to respond, then Menov rotated around with that same sly, disarming grin, coercing him without a word leaving her lips. He finished the rest of his muffin and cleared his throat. “There isn’t much to say. We’re usually given rations while on campaign, but the supply lines are fickle sometimes and the troops have to live off the land. That happened frequently in the Arklays. One day our company came across a grain mill, and the miller was none too happy when he saw us marching in. Most everyone made some sort of porridge with the grain. I did too. But it gets boring after a while without much meat or vegetables to throw in the porridge. Some of the brothers were baking bread... so I thought that I might try my hand at it. Found that I took to it better than farming. Soldiering too. I want to open a bakery once my service is done. Happy?” He sniped at Menov.

“The happiest girl in the world.” Menov blew him a kiss.

Potash swatted the kiss like it was a fly. Pyrik imagined it splatting against the nearby wall.

“Lovely, is it not?” Menov said to Pyrik through the reflection. “Some take ages to find their calling in life, like poor ol' Potash here. Some are born already knowing that skill or craft. Some never find out at all, lay dying in their death beds wondering what it could be amongst other regrets. I can sense there’s something special about you, girl. It runs in your blood, marrowed in your bones.”

Sweat beaded on Pyrik’s nape, wrung out like a towel. Can she sense it somehow? Pyrik searched Menov’s face for any kind of intention, good, bad, anything at all. She swiped a sweaty palm on her shirt sleeve. That grin was indecipherable. A stone wall of hidden intention.

“I saw you fight, quite the wild child I’d say. Most Jaegers I know hunt in groups, with long spears and muskets, to kill the beast from as far away as possible. Even as a hunter there’s that prey instinct nested deep within, so human that it’s unshakeable. Not you though. You fight intimately close, with that hacker of yours. That’s an instinct I admire, girl. Some may curse that skill, yet love it or hate it, that instinct makes you a good Jaeger. Can’t deny that, yes?”

With an animal fear, Pyrik slowly nodded.

Satisfied, Menov saluted at the girl. “Try and get some sleep. I’m certain Haldane will need your instincts.”

***

Instinct.

Pyrik did not like that word. Instinct implied a sort of essence, something so essential that a soul was rended nothing without that binding thread.

Would I become undone without it?

She watched the voice inside, she did every night once sleep took over. Her beast always did the same dull thing, hunched over, feasting on its spoils. The bodies were always human, never other beasts. It devoured with carnivorous joy. There was a perverse ecstasy in killing humans. She felt it in the beast, in her, pushing and pulling until it made landfall onto that territory. Pyrik hoped to never set foot in that savage place again. She found joy in killing humans too. This feeling was like wading neck high in rot, inescapable. Pyrik wanted to wake up, yet she was still sleeping. The voice inside continued to feast, and she was forced to watch.