The thirst came first.
It started as a scratch in the throat, something she could ignore. But by morning, it had grown into a searing ache—dry and sharp, like needles pressed against her tongue. The air was brittle, her lips cracked, and every breath felt like inhaling ash.
Tanya sat alone beneath the withered tree, staring at the icicles forming along the branches like glass fangs. There was water here, frozen and locked away. The stream she'd passed earlier had been shallow, covered in a layer of dirty ice. Not safe. Not enough.
She wiped her chapped lips with the back of her hand, smearing a line of soot across her cheek. Hunger she could ignore for a day or two. But dehydration would kill her faster than any sword.
She needed water.
She needed a plan.
Her mind raced—not with panic, but with logistics. The forest wasn't empty. She'd seen smoke in the distance last night—thin trails curling into the sky, too narrow for a village. Campfires. Nomads or scouts. Hunters.
Men.
Armed. Mobile. Predictable.
If they had fire, they had water. Maybe food. Maybe more. The risk was obvious. So was the opportunity.
She stood, brushing frost from her stolen cloak. Every step felt heavier than the last, her muscles sluggish, her head foggy. The world swayed at the edges of her vision, like a fever dream. She couldn't afford mistakes.
This wasn't a battlefield with trenches or coordinated maps. It was raw terrain—where the difference between predator and prey was a matter of seconds and steel.
She moved fast.
Tracking the smoke through the underbrush, Tanya stalked low, her breath shallow. The voices came before the sight. Crude Norse dialect—rough laughter, curses, and the unmistakable clang of metal. She knelt behind a moss-covered boulder and watched them.
Five men. Maybe six.
Their gear was mismatched: iron axes, fur cloaks, leather bracers stained with old blood. No banners, no ranks. A hunting party or perhaps stragglers from a raiding band. Their fire crackled in the center of a crude camp, meat sizzling on a spit. A goatskin water pouch passed between them.
Tanya's stomach clenched.
Her mouth watered.
But she didn't move.
She couldn't afford direct confrontation. Not in her condition. Magic was an option, yes—but it cost energy. Energy she didn't have.
So she watched. She calculated.
They'd grown lax. Too much confidence in their numbers. Two of them had taken off their boots. One was dozing by the fire. The others were distracted—eating, bickering, sharpening weapons. They didn't post a sentry.
Stupid.
She circled wide, staying downwind, until she found the perfect spot: a small ditch that sloped into a clearing just beyond their camp. She set a trap there—primitive, but effective. A snare made of twisted vine, sharpened branches hidden beneath snow. Just enough to wound.
Then she waited.
It didn't take long.
One of the men—tall, broad-shouldered, dragging a half-skinned hare—wandered toward the trees to relieve himself. He didn't see the trap until it snapped.
The scream tore through the woods like a gunshot.
The others scrambled to their feet, shouting in panic. Tanya moved like a shadow. She was already behind the furthest one—barefoot, axe half-raised—when she slit his throat with a stolen dagger.
He dropped without a sound.
Another turned just in time to see her—but not fast enough to avoid the shard of sharpened bone she drove into his eye.
Two down.
The rest broke formation. One ran to help the man in the snare, leaving only one between her and the fire.
She didn't hesitate.
Tanya surged forward, grabbing a burning log from the edge of the campfire. She swung it into the last man's face. He howled, stumbled back—then she kicked him hard in the knee. He collapsed, and she drove her dagger into his neck.
The world stilled again.
She stood among the corpses, chest heaving, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the snow.
Blood steamed in the cold.
The man in the snare still screamed—until she silenced him, too.
No joy. No thrill. Just necessity.
She grabbed the water pouch and drank deep. The liquid was lukewarm, slightly sour, but it tasted like salvation. She drained half before forcing herself to stop. She needed it to last.
Then came the food—half-cooked meat, but edible. She tore into it with the efficiency of a soldier, not caring about taste or texture. Calories were currency.
Later, once her body stopped trembling from exertion and thirst, she sat near the fire and studied the dead.
Their weapons were crude. But serviceable. She kept an axe and a short dagger, discarded the rest. She didn't need to carry weight. Only usefulness.
She cut away one of the men's cloaks, wrapping it tightly around herself. The smell of blood and sweat clung to the fabric, but it was warm. That mattered.
When morning came, Tanya buried their corpses in the snow—not out of respect, but to avoid attracting scavengers. The trap she left intact, covering it again.
Let them think it was wolves.
Let the myth grow.
As she moved on—stronger now, colder too—she looked back only once.
Not at the bodies. Not at the camp.
But at the firelight.
It had flickered like a beacon in the night. A small kingdom of heat and food and order. And for a moment, just a moment, she'd ruled it.
The idea stuck with her.
She didn't want to just survive this world.
She wanted to bend it.