Chapter 7 Thorrin
THORRIN
The attack comes during the deepest part of night, when darkness presses against our small fire like living thing seeking entry.
I'm maintaining watch while the others sleep, ancient instincts keeping me alert despite exhaustion that settles into bones like winter cold.
The forest around us holds normal sounds—wind through bare branches, small creatures moving through undergrowth, the distant call of hunting owl seeking prey.
Then wrongness intrudes. Scent that doesn't belong, movement that breaks natural patterns, presence that radiates hunger and madness in equal measure.
Waira.
But not like any I've encountered. This one moves with jerky, uncontrolled motions that speak of mind fractured beyond repair. His approach lacks tactical thinking, strategic planning, even basic survival instinct. Just raw compulsion driving him forward like moth drawn to flame.
I'm on my feet before conscious thought processes the threat, claws extending as predatory awareness floods through my frame. Behind me, the others stir at subtle changes in my posture that signal immediate danger.
"Wake," I whisper without taking eyes off the treeline. "We have contact."
The attacker emerges from shadows with snarl that carries no intelligence, only fevered conviction that transforms simple sound into ideological statement. He's smaller than me by several inches, younger by decades, but moves with absolute certainty that makes size irrelevant.
"Soft ones," he hisses, voice carrying harmonics that resonate with religious fervor. "Weak ones. Diseased ones who cling to poison and call it cure."
The words pour from him like prayer, like catechism learned through repetition until meaning becomes secondary to rhythm. He's not speaking to us—he's reciting scripture that has replaced rational thought.
He launches himself forward with suicide attack that prioritizes ideology over survival, claws aimed at my throat with precision that speaks of extensive combat experience. But his technique lacks coordination, timing thrown off by whatever madness drives him.
I meet his charge with defensive posture that redirects momentum rather than matching force directly. Centuries of survival have taught me efficiency over dramatic gesture. Let him exhaust energy on empty air while I position for counterattack.
His claws rake across my shoulder, drawing blood that spatters the frozen ground like crimson flowers. Pain flares bright and sharp, but superficial. Theatrical wounds that look worse than they feel.
Behind me, Kaerith rises with fluid motion that transforms sleep into readiness without transition period. His heart-light flares brilliant gold as combat instincts engage, but underneath the surface color runs something darker that I've never seen before.
The infected Waira fights with desperate fury that lacks tactical awareness, making him dangerous in unpredictable ways while remaining vulnerable to coordinated response.
Kaerith circles left while I maintain frontal engagement, our coordination speaking of years fighting together despite recent tensions. Whatever changes grief has carved into him, muscle memory of partnership remains intact.
"The source calls," our attacker pants between strikes that grow wilder with each failed attempt. "The pure one who speaks truth. He shows us what we are, what we must become."
His words carry conviction that transforms madness into evangelism. He genuinely believes he's performing sacred duty, eliminating corruption that threatens some greater good. The certainty makes him more dangerous than simple rage would achieve.
But belief cannot replace skill. When he overextends attempting to reach Lyssa's position, Kaerith takes advantage with strike that shatters his left shoulder, rendering that arm useless while preserving mobility.
The infected Waira staggers but doesn't fall, pain only intensifying his fevered determination. "You cannot stop the cure," he snarls through gritted teeth. "The weak will be cleansed. The diseased will be purified. The source demands it."
"What source?" I demand while maintaining defensive position.
"The first one. The pure one who burns away delusion." His voice carries reverence that borders on worship. "He calls through the wind, through the moonlight, through the consciousness we share. All who truly understand hear his voice."
Kaerith moves with sudden violence that ends the fight before our captive realizes he's been outmaneuvered. Claws find pressure points that induce paralysis without permanent damage—technique that speaks of knowledge I didn't realize he possessed.
When did he learn to disable opponents with surgical precision?
The infected Waira collapses, limbs unresponsive but consciousness intact. Perfect condition for interrogation. Perfect helplessness for whatever methods Kaerith and Elira have been discussing in their private conferences.
"Secure him," Elira says, emerging from shadows with rope that suggests she anticipated this outcome. "We need information about their network, their methods, their leadership structure."
But the way she looks at our captive carries hunger that has absolutely nothing to do with tactical intelligence. Something that recognizes opportunity for practical application of theories discussed in whispers.
What begins as necessary intelligence gathering transforms into something else entirely within the first few questions.
Elira approaches the bound Waira with clinical efficiency that would be admirable if applied to healing rather than causing harm.
She tests restraints with thorough attention to detail, ensuring immobilization without circulation loss.
Professional work that maintains subject viability for extended questioning.
"Name?" she asks conversationally.
"Servant of truth," comes the fevered reply. "Instrument of purification. Tool of the source who cleanses weakness from the world."
"Your real name."
"Names are attachments. Attachments are weakness. I am what I must be to serve the cure."
The response carries absolute conviction despite obvious madness. He genuinely believes identity is corruption, that selfhood must be sacrificed to achieve ideological purity.
Elira exchanges glances with Kaerith—communication that excludes Lyssa and me completely. Then she produces small knife from her pack, testing the edge against her thumb until blood beads bright red.
"Let's discuss your service," she says with voice carrying patient interest. "Starting with how you found us."
"The source shows all who truly listen. Your weakness calls across distances.
Your disease infects the wind itself." The captive's eyes follow the knife with mixture of anticipation and religious ecstasy.
"You think love makes you strong, but it only makes you visible to those who understand truth. "
Without warning, Elira draws the blade across his forearm—shallow cut that opens skin without damaging muscle. The infected Waira's response is immediate and telling: not pain, but disappointment that the cut isn't deeper.
"He wants it," I realize aloud. "Pain confirms his beliefs somehow."
"Suffering purifies," the captive agrees with satisfaction. "Agony burns away delusion. The source teaches this truth to all who accept his guidance."
Elira pauses, studying his reaction with growing understanding. Then she sets the knife aside and produces different tool—thin metal rod heated in our fire until it glows cherry red.
"Let's try positive reinforcement instead," she says with smile that carries no warmth.
The session continues for an hour. Each question met with fevered recitation of ideology.
Each answer revealing more about The Curse's effects on individual psychology.
Each technique teaching Elira methods that have nothing to do with gathering intelligence and everything to do with perfecting control.
By the end, she's learned to break through religious madness using approaches that target identity rather than inflicting physical pain. Systematic psychological dismantling that strips away ideological protection to reveal terrified creature beneath.
The captive weeps when she finishes, not from pain but from loss of certainty that provided structure to his existence.
"Please," he whispers. "Let me believe again. I need the source. I need the cure. I can't exist without purpose."
Elira studies him with clinical interest. "Fascinating. Remove ideology and the personality collapses entirely. Complete dependency on external framework for basic psychological coherence."
She's taking notes. Mental documentation for future application.
The killing, when it comes, happens with brutal efficiency that exceeds tactical necessity by significant margin.
Kaerith approaches the broken captive with measured pace that suggests deliberate savoring rather than simple execution. No urgency. No regret. Just purposeful movement toward conclusion he's been anticipating throughout the interrogation.
"Wait," I begin, though I'm not certain what alternative I want to propose.
"For what?" Kaerith asks without stopping his advance. "He's provided all useful intelligence. Maintaining him serves no tactical purpose. Resources are limited."
The logic makes perfect sense while feeling completely wrong. Professional assessment that reduces living being to cost-benefit calculation.
But it's not the rationalization that disturbs me. It's the expression on Kaerith's face as he kneels beside our captive.
Anticipation. Hunger. Something approaching sexual satisfaction at the prospect of ending life with his own hands.
The infected Waira looks up with eyes that hold desperate hope. "The source will welcome me. My service earns reward. Death brings me closer to perfect understanding."
"No," Kaerith says quietly. "Death just brings silence."
His claws find the base of skull with anatomical precision that ensures instant termination. But he doesn't strike quickly. Instead, he applies pressure gradually, savoring each moment of transition from consciousness to void.
The captive's eyes widen as realization penetrates ideological protection. No reward awaits. No understanding comes with death. Just ending, brutal and absolute.
When the light finally fades, Kaerith holds position for long moment, as if absorbing something from the corpse that only he can perceive.
Then he straightens with expression of profound satisfaction. Not relief at eliminating threat. Not grim acceptance of necessary violence.
Pure pleasure at having taken life through personal action.
"Efficient," Elira observes with approval. "Clean technique. Minimal struggle."
"Experience teaches proper methods," Kaerith agrees, flexing claws that still carry traces of blood. "Practice improves performance."
They discuss the killing like technical exercise in applied anatomy rather than moral choice with permanent consequences. Professional development rather than taking of life.
I watch my friend clean gore from his hands with methodical care, noting satisfaction that radiates from his frame like heat from banked fire. This isn't corruption born of necessity or tactical requirement.
This is appetite awakened by opportunity and fed through systematic indulgence.
Kaerith enjoyed killing. Wanted to kill. Found fulfillment in the act itself rather than merely accepting violence as unavoidable tool.
The realization settles in my chest like swallowed stone. My friend—my ally—my chosen family—has discovered taste for murder that goes beyond strategic thinking or survival necessity.
He's becoming something that takes pleasure in ending life.
And from the way he looks at the cooling corpse, appetite has only been whetted rather than satisfied.