For him to live, a witch must die.
Driven out of his village for the curse he possesses, Tavor is alone. With nowhere else to go, he must venture into the Eylderfell to hunt down the witch who cursed him.
But the forest is dangerous, wild with magic...
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All eyes flicked upwards. A brightling hunched on a tree branch over their heads, gnarled claws sifting through what appeared to be the remnants of a tattered leather bag.
"I say! You there!" the crow barked. "Unhand that satchel!"
The brightling jerked upright, then snarled down at them. "Mine!"
It grabbed the bag in its teeth, turned tail and leapt into the undergrowth, mingling with the shadows.
The cat broke into a run after it, Tavor clumsily following a moment later. Feet and fur crackled through thorny bush and bracken as they scrambled after the fleeing brightling.
"Idiot," the cat hissed, dodging a low hanging branch. "What did you think it was going to do, just hand it over?"
"I thought we were being nice to each other," the crow snapped back.
"Wait a second," Tavor panted. His head was pounding again, and his legs felt sluggish. "It's just a bag, why are we chasing after it?"
"It's Nestani's!" the cat said. She shifted into a girl again, took the crow and pushed him into Tavor's arms. "Hold him for me."
She transformed back into a cat and leapt, black fur rippling like a shadow up the tree bark. The brightling let out a yelp and the branches shook and shivered in the skirmish.
Tavor ran beneath them, tracking them from the ground. He glimpsed flashes of the conflict through the gaps in the bushes, the cat and the brightling locked in a whirling tussle. The brightling raked its claws across the cat's chest and she yelped in pain. It pushed away and leapt from the tree with a crackle of branches.
"Look out!" the crow shouted.
Mind till sluggish, Tavor didn't react until the creature latched onto his chest, claws scrabbling through the fabric of his cloak for purchase. He flung it to the ground with a cry, then lunged forward and stepped on its tail before it could escape. He grabbed the dagger, but the crow had already fluttered down to the ground.
The familiar grabbed the strap in its beak and tried to tug it out of the brightling's grip. "Unhand it," he said. "It doesn't belong to you!"
It whirled on him, eyes flashing with murderous rage. "Mine!"
Tavor stabbed the dagger knife down, but the brightling nimbly dodged the attack. It lashed out, knocking the crow onto his back like an insect.
The bird thrashed, trying to right itself as the brightling lunged. Tavor struck again, and this time the knife hit true. The brightling screamed out in pain and fury as the dagger broke its flesh, and again that vile, acrid scent bubbled through the air. Tavor held the blade down until the creature's screams ebbed away, and its body finally stilled.
He let out a shaky noise of relief. The crow hopped forward, bent and eased the satchel from the brightling's unresisting grip. With his good wing, he brushed dirt from the tattered bag with almost reverential care.
