It was the woods but it was not the woods. Night sounds swaddled dying embers then the clearing was claws and maw and roaring. In the wood-dark with dagger in fist I leapt towards the screaming. Behind me Hafghar swore at his axe and stumbled into a muffled embrace. In moments it was over: Freysa dead, Narthgale’s hand mangled, my shoulder shred, an owlbear limp against a sapling. Hafghar’s laugh split the air before he turned and vomited. I waited for the shivers. They never came.