Chapter 1: The Lure of the Forest Hut
The forest was a labyrinth of whispers and shadows, but Ciri navigated it with the sharp edge of a warrior’s instinct. Her boots crunched against the pine needles as she followed the gnarled figure of the Old Man of the Woods, who called himself Lesovichok. His hut, a ramshackle affair propped up by poles and patched with whatever scraps he could scavenge, loomed ahead like a beast crouched in wait. Skins—pig, perhaps—clad its walls, and a crude wooden frame stood before it, flanked by a low table and a stump with an axe buried deep in its heart.
‘Behold the abode of Old Lesovichok,’ the man croaked, jabbing his knotted staff at the structure with a pride that bordered on mockery. ‘Here I live, sleep, and cook—when there’s aught to cook. A hard life, lass, scraping sustenance from these wilds. Tell me, does a wandering beauty like yerself fancy a bowl of pearl barley?’
Ciri’s stomach growled traitorously, but her smirk was all steel. ‘I fancy anything that doesn’t bite back. Got some meat to go with it? A bit of fat, maybe some crackling?’
‘Mmm, meat and fat,’ Lesovichok mused, his rheumy eyes raking over her lean frame with a hunger that had little to do with food. ‘Yet I see no meat on yer bones, girl. Skin and sticks, that’s what ye are. Hah! And what’s that peeking over yer shoulder, eh?’
Ciri half-turned, caught by the oldest trick in the book, and paid for it dearly. The old man’s staff cracked against her temple, a brutal strike that would’ve split her skull if not for her raised arm dulling the blow. She hit the dirt, dazed, the world spinning like a drunken carousel. Before she could recover, Lesovichok was on her, his staff swinging again. She blocked with both arms, pain exploding as her left wrist screamed—likely fractured. Another blow to her gut doubled her over, a cry ripping from her lips as she curled into herself.
The old bastard pounced like a vulture, flipping her face-down, his knees pinning her into the grit. Ciri thrashed, her elbow snapping back in a vicious arc. She caught him, drawing a feral yelp, but his fist slammed into her nape, driving her face into the sand. He yanked her hair, grinding her lips and nose into the earth until she choked on dust and desperation. Her sword was torn from her back, tossed aside, and then she felt his claw-like hands fumbling at his trousers.
‘Heh-heh,’ he wheezed, his breath hot and rancid against her ear. ‘What a fine little ass I’ve snagged! Been a long, long time since ol’ Lesovichok had a treat like this.’
Ciri snarled, spitting sand and fury, her body trembling not with fear but with a boiling rage. His dry, gnarled fingers grazed her skin, and she bucked harder, her voice a blade of ice. ‘Touch me again, you rotting sack of bones, and I’ll carve that shriveled cock of yours into bait for the crows!’
He cackled, undeterred, his grip tightening as he wrestled her trousers down, exposing her to the cool forest air. Her pulse thundered, every muscle screaming as she fought his weight. She could feel him, hard and repulsive, pressing against her, and her mind sharpened to a lethal point. No way in hell was this decrepit fuck getting the better of her. She twisted, her good hand clawing for leverage, her thighs slick with sweat and determination.
‘Keep squirming, lass,’ he panted, his voice a vile hiss. ‘Makes it all the sweeter when I—’
His words cut off as Ciri roared, her body surging with a strength born of pure defiance. She wasn’t just wet with rage—she was dripping with the need to turn this fight into his funeral. And as her fingers found purchase, ready to flip this twisted game on its head, the forest seemed to hold its breath for the explosion of violence—and raw, primal heat—that was about to erupt.
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