Даниил Зверков – The Last Queen Of Noctyra: Awakening Of Aronella (страница 6)

The world became blurred streaks of light and shadow. Air struck her face. Branches whipped at her shoulders. She felt nothing but the target.

Her hands closed around the warm throat.

The stag jerked, tried to tear free, but it was too late. She drove it to the ground, feeling the frightened heart hammering beneath her fingers, the rise and fall of its sides, the trembling in every muscle.

Her fangs sank into flesh easily, almost without resistance.

Blood flooded her mouth—hot, salted, alive.

And the world exploded.

She felt everything—the animals fear, its brief life, the smell of grass, the taste of stream water, the warmth of summer days and the cold of winter nights. It lasted only a moment, but within her it stretched into eternity.

Then there was only blood.

She drank greedily, choking on it, feeling life spread through her body, filling the emptiness, restoring strength, warmth, clarity. Her muscles stopped trembling. Her vision sharpened. Her hearing became painfully clear—she could hear a mouse scratching beneath oak roots a hundred paces away.

At last she pulled away.

Blood ran warm and thick down her chin. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand—and froze.

The taste.

It was different.

Not as it had once been. The blood of animals had once held a purity to it—wild, primal, true. Now there was something else within it, faint but undeniable. As if the very composition of the world had changed, and the blood had changed with it.

She looked at the stag.

It lay on its side, breathing heavily, still alive. Its eyes were open, filled with terror and confusion.

She laid a hand upon its head. The fur was soft, warm, faintly damp.

Live, she said.

Then she rose.

One step. Another.

Her body obeyed perfectly now. Strength had returned. Hunger had receded, replaced by a hard clarity.

She went on, toward the place where the road waited beyond the trees.

The forest ended abruptly—as if someone had sliced through the living wall of trees with a blade.

Before her lay a road.

Broad, hard-packed, cut with deep cart ruts. But it was not the road she remembered.

She stopped at the edge of the forest and stared.

It was wide enough for three wagons, perhaps four. Packed hard, the ruts still holding rainwater. Ditches lined its sides, overgrown with tall grass. Beyond them stretched fields—tilled, cared for, planted in rows with crops she did not recognize.

But that was not what made her still.

Stone.

The road was paved with stone—grey, roughly cut, fitted tightly together without gaps. Once, she had known only one such road—the one leading to Blackspire. All the others had been little more than trampled earth.

Now stone ran everywhere the eye could see.

She stepped onto it. The sole of her foot felt the hard, cold surface—level, almost alien.

She brushed the dust aside with her foot and saw that the stones were scratched, worn smooth, but still held firm, as though they had lain here for decades.

How long?

The thought flashed and vanished, leaving a chill in her stomach. She looked along the road. The grey ribbon stretched toward the horizon and disappeared into the morning haze.

To her left, at the roadside, stood a wooden post.

She went closer. A signboard hung from it, carved with rough, clumsy, but unmistakably deliberate marks. She studied them, trying to make sense of what she saw.

Talirion — 12 miles.

The name meant nothing to her. But the signs themselves there was something familiar in them—distorted, simplified, but still recognizable. Ancient runes that she herself had once created for her people now served humankind.

She ran a finger over the carved letters. The wood was warm from the sun, rough, splintered at the edges.

Further down the road, some twenty paces away, stood another sign. And another beyond that. And another.

She began to walk, taking in everything she passed.

The remains of campfires. Broken wooden crates. Scattered nails. Torn cloth caught in bushes by the wind. Shards of clay vessels painted with unfamiliar designs. Small bones—chicken, gnawed clean and tossed into the ditch. A rusted horseshoe half sunk into the earth.

Civilization had changed.

Humans had built a new world upon the ruins of the old. It was loud, hurried, smelling of sweat and cheap goods.

But it was alive.

She kept walking, staying close to the edge of the road, ready at any moment to slip into shadow if danger appeared.

After an hour, she heard it.

The sound of wheels.

Steady. Rhythmic. Drawing nearer.

She turned. From beyond a bend, crawling slowly up a low rise, came a wagon drawn by an old horse.

She stepped back into the shadow of a tree and watched.

The wagon approached. A man sat on the drivers bench—alone, unguarded, unarmed. An ordinary human, tired from a long road. The horse moved slowly, head hanging low, as though it too longed only for rest.

She could have remained in the shadows. Could have let him pass and gone on alone.

But she needed to know.

To speak. To ask. To understand.

She stepped out onto the road.

The horse snorted and tossed its head—had it caught her scent, or was it merely weary? The driver pulled the reins, bringing the animal up short. The wagon stopped a few paces from her.

Hey! he called. Whatre you doing out here alone? The citys still a long way off, and itll be dark soon.

She looked at him without answering.

The man climbed down. He was perhaps fifty, thickset, with a face carved by wind and road dust. He was dressed simply—a linen shirt, a patched vest, boots worn thin at the heels. His hands were calloused, his fingers rough, but his movements were slow and unthreatening.

He came closer, peering at her.

Howd you end up here? he asked. Nearest village is five miles back, at least. You get lost?

She said nothing.

He frowned, studying her more closely. His gaze moved over her pale skin, her dark hair, the strange clothes on her—nothing like what was worn here.