07-24-2025, 09:42 PM
Grym didn’t move far. She just watched, mostly watched the channeler.
She was sworn to hunt men like him. Monsters. Channelers. Gods who defied their place.
But she’d also seen the way he’d moved through that lair. Not like a man high on power. Not like Zholdin. Giovanni hadn’t reveled in the pain. He hadn’t sought glory. He just acted. And when it was over, he stepped back like it meant nothing.
That, somehow, was more dangerous.
Her gaze flicked to Zholdin next. He lounged like a king among bloodied soldiers, his leg stretched out, a duffel bag heavy at his side. The Dreyken’s head. Grym’s stomach tightened.
She had rules. Strict ones. Born of necessity, burned into her by tradition and survival. Monsters died, and the evidence disappeared. You didn’t parade it around. You didn’t take teeth for necklaces or mount heads on your walls. You buried the horror with the corpse, or you risked everything.
And that crew had hunted the thing. No training. No understanding. Just vodka, testosterone, and big guns. They hadn’t even known what it was. They thought it was a bear. Children playing soldier in the dark. Her lips pressed into a tight line. She wanted to tear into them. Shake them by the shoulders. Ask them if they knew what would’ve happened if she hadn’t followed. If Giovanni hadn’t acted. If Zholdin hadn’t... well… been the beast they needed to survive a worse one. Instead, she said nothing.
She stayed in the corner of the recovery room, arms crossed, eyes scanning the space. The duffel bag was near Zholdin’s chair, just slightly behind him. He hadn’t taken it far. Maybe for show. Maybe because he didn’t trust anyone else with it.
She memorized the bag. The color of the canvas. The type of zipper. The bottom corner was already darkening with leaked blood. Eventually, they’d sleep. Or drink. Or look away. And when he does… That head couldn’t leave this place. Not in one piece. The Atharim wouldn’t tolerate it. She wouldn’t.
Grym exhaled slowly, then finally stepped forward, her boots quiet against the mat-covered floor. Zholdin noticed her approach. Of course he did. His eyes were calculating. Amused. Expectant. She didn’t offer a hand. Didn’t smile.
“Call me Grym,” she said simply. No last name. Then she glanced at the duffel bag behind him. “I'll be taking that head with me,” she said coolly. “If you want a trophy, hunt lions on safari like a normal person.” She didn’t wait for an answer. Her eyes swept over the rest of the room, bodies being patched, jokes murmured through cracked lips, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Everyone was alive. Barely. She shook her head once.
“Next time you want to play,” she muttered, “try not to be so fucking stupid about it.”
And with that, she went to stand near Giovanni, already plotting how she might separate man from monster before the sun came up.
She was sworn to hunt men like him. Monsters. Channelers. Gods who defied their place.
But she’d also seen the way he’d moved through that lair. Not like a man high on power. Not like Zholdin. Giovanni hadn’t reveled in the pain. He hadn’t sought glory. He just acted. And when it was over, he stepped back like it meant nothing.
That, somehow, was more dangerous.
Her gaze flicked to Zholdin next. He lounged like a king among bloodied soldiers, his leg stretched out, a duffel bag heavy at his side. The Dreyken’s head. Grym’s stomach tightened.
She had rules. Strict ones. Born of necessity, burned into her by tradition and survival. Monsters died, and the evidence disappeared. You didn’t parade it around. You didn’t take teeth for necklaces or mount heads on your walls. You buried the horror with the corpse, or you risked everything.
And that crew had hunted the thing. No training. No understanding. Just vodka, testosterone, and big guns. They hadn’t even known what it was. They thought it was a bear. Children playing soldier in the dark. Her lips pressed into a tight line. She wanted to tear into them. Shake them by the shoulders. Ask them if they knew what would’ve happened if she hadn’t followed. If Giovanni hadn’t acted. If Zholdin hadn’t... well… been the beast they needed to survive a worse one. Instead, she said nothing.
She stayed in the corner of the recovery room, arms crossed, eyes scanning the space. The duffel bag was near Zholdin’s chair, just slightly behind him. He hadn’t taken it far. Maybe for show. Maybe because he didn’t trust anyone else with it.
She memorized the bag. The color of the canvas. The type of zipper. The bottom corner was already darkening with leaked blood. Eventually, they’d sleep. Or drink. Or look away. And when he does… That head couldn’t leave this place. Not in one piece. The Atharim wouldn’t tolerate it. She wouldn’t.
Grym exhaled slowly, then finally stepped forward, her boots quiet against the mat-covered floor. Zholdin noticed her approach. Of course he did. His eyes were calculating. Amused. Expectant. She didn’t offer a hand. Didn’t smile.
“Call me Grym,” she said simply. No last name. Then she glanced at the duffel bag behind him. “I'll be taking that head with me,” she said coolly. “If you want a trophy, hunt lions on safari like a normal person.” She didn’t wait for an answer. Her eyes swept over the rest of the room, bodies being patched, jokes murmured through cracked lips, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Everyone was alive. Barely. She shook her head once.
“Next time you want to play,” she muttered, “try not to be so fucking stupid about it.”
And with that, she went to stand near Giovanni, already plotting how she might separate man from monster before the sun came up.
‡‡ GRYM ‡‡