The silence in the refuge was heavy, broken only by the short, erratic whistle of his own breath. The man remained still on the cot, though every fiber of his body screamed to be alert. His eyes, once warm brown but now bloodshot and brimming with lethal distrust, began to scan the space with relentless precision. There was no panic in his gaze—only tactical calculation. He was measuring every inch of the room, deciding whether it was a cell or a sanctuary.

His hands roamed the surface he lay upon, brushing the rough textures of animal skins. His dagger was gone. The emptiness at his belt twisted his stomach. Yet he did not pause. His fingers glided over nearby objects: bowls streaked with congealed blood, stone mortars still holding the green residue of crushed herbs, and the pungent, almost offensive, smell of poultices.

In the cabin’s shadowed corners, cats watched him. They didn’t move; only their pupils tracked him. He recognized immediately what he had to do: survive.

The creak of the wooden door opening cracked through the air like a whip.

The woman entered, bringing with her the cold breath of dawn, a bowl of herbs in her hands. Their eyes met for the first time—an instant that stretched to eternity. She froze, noting that his face held not gratitude but an alien adrenaline, a gaze she had learned to recognize for survival: predator. Electrically compelled, she tried to flee again toward the freedom of the forest. But the man, his flank still stitched, was faster. His hand shot out, seizing her before she could cross the threshold.

He yanked her inside with a brutal jerk that drew a grunt of pain from himself. They struggled on the dirt floor. She did not scream for mercy. Instead, voice strained from the effort, she managed to say:

“I obeyed! I did what you asked!”

The words threw him off. Confusion flickered in his brown eyes for a second, but his response was pure defensive violence. 

“Shut up!” he ordered, authority cutting through the air.

There was no care, no gentleness. He bound her, pressing the fabric over her mouth with such force that it sank into her cheeks, forcing her to swallow her fear and silencing any other protest. She looked at him with wide, frantic eyes, feeling the weight of the linen and the pressure of his body on her chest.

But she did not relent. As he tried to dominate her with his weight, she found the weak spot. Even with her hands bound, her fingers plunged into the wound on his flank she had stitched the night before. The man convulsed in agony; the pain was a white flash. For a fleeting moment, his iron grip loosened. That was the crack she needed. With a desperate move, she clawed at his face, leaving three red scratches that bled immediately, and ran for her life.

She burst out of the cabin into a hidden meadow, a corner of unreal beauty. Thousands of tiny white flowers carpeted the ground like a map of terrestrial stars. The contrast was grotesque: her feet, smeared with blood and mud, crushed delicate petals, leaving a trail of misery, while morning dew splashed her legs.

He caught up with her there, in the very center of that sea of purity. He knocked her down again. They fell heavily, breaking stems and sending petals into the air. But she gave no quarter. Before he could regain his breath, she struck the side wound again, harder this time. Her hand plunged with the precision only someone intimately familiar with muscles and nerves could achieve. The pain doubled him over.

When she finally sensed he could no longer rise, she dug her nails into the open flesh, tearing the edge of the wound further. She did not act in blind rage, but to mark him—to ensure he would never forget that the life he had was a gift from her, and one she could just as easily take away. The pain was unbearable; when she stood, he was reduced to a heap of flesh and broken will. She paused only for a moment, taking in his suffering, watching the hunter become the prey, before disappearing into the green depths of the forest for the second time.

The man remained alone, kneeling in the meadow of white flowers, blood staining their purity. One hand pressed against his open flank, the other dug into the earth, his eyes fixed on the path she had taken. The warmth was gone from his brown eyes; now they burned with darkness, a promise of retribution beyond duty.

Soon, the silence of the meadow was shattered by the rhythmic clang of horseshoes against the ground. Soldiers in gleaming armor, flanked by somber-faced aides, emerged from the trees like specters. Seeing their leader, they dismounted in urgency, yet paused before the intensity of his gaze.

Two aides approached him with slow, almost ceremonial movements, carrying a garment heavy with judgment: a dark, rigid cassock edged with an ancient austerity. They draped it over his shoulders, covering his wounded torso, the blood, and the mud.

With superhuman effort, he rose, the cassock hiding the mark she had left but not the hatred now pulsing in his side. He looked toward the deep forest. No longer a survivor of the fire, he was an Inquisitor.

In ancient times, white anemones were known as the "Devil’s Nails."

The sap of these flowers is highly irritating, and if it enters the bloodstream through a cut, it causes severe inflammation and a sharp, stabbing pain.

Now there is a scar that, thanks to this plant, will take much longer to heal...