Herbalists' Cache life feels worse, but good with you in it

the shift is immediate. she feels the moment hawk’s restraint snaps like a tether, and her bones scream in response as their bodies collide.

a sick, primal sort of satisfaction blooms in her chest as hawk meets her without reserve. yes. fight me. hit me like you mean it.

the satisfaction is short-lived, because hawk’s strength is immense. the blow sends her skidding, paws gouging deep into the soil as she fights for purchase, for balance. the world tilts, her vision a blur of tawny fur and ivory fangs, and she knows—knows—if she doesn’t recover fast, hawk will have her on the ground. will have her throat.

fortunate, then, that gjalla did not go down easy.

the bloodhunter grits her teeth, forcing her head to turn, her shoulder lowering into the blow to stop herself from toppling entirely. the pain is sharp—blunt, like striking stone—but she welcomes it. it grounds her. keeps her from spiraling into that bottomless chasm of anger.

her teeth graze but don’t find purchase—and she’s already shifting, already coiling like a spring. in a vicious surge of power, she slams her forepaws into hawk’s chest, aiming to topple her.