Water dampened and blotched the frail parchment on the table. The hand-crafted map had the lines and names running to the edge. Isla pulled her sleeve, dabbing the brown and jagged cut paper dry.

For Heaven's sake, she'd dedicated these last years with condensing her knowledge into this masterpiece. The ancient language scribbled on the damp sheet locked her secrets from prying eyes. Simplistic and primal without a defined sentence structure, but enough to thwart the majority.

She sighed, glaring at the serving wench flaunting her half-covered bosom. Intelligence be damned, who slams a tankard of dirty water on the table next to a map? Yeah, she had huddled herself into the cobweb-infested corner of the bar, but still, decency, please.

Her hideaway granted a panoramic view of the backwoods inn. From the creaking floorboards to the ale crusted tabletops, Isla opted for the forest instead. Granted, acquiring two gold coins bolstered her pockets. An infrequent occurrence unless she ransacked a drunkard who stole a pinch. He deserved it. Still, he'd proved again how dirt-covered this world Detra was. A smug, arrogant, incorrigible population, what a great impression.

She tapped the table, glowering at her map. Perhaps leaving Detra and the Mortal realm for another would lead to a discovery. Her search narrowed with each life. Where would she find natural ice-blue haired residents? Add the whitest skin—a sun's untouchable foe—and no wonder she fascinated creeps.

No matter the search, she would find him. She had no choice.

Which world did her father inhabit? Where did he manipulate his cronies from the shadows, ordering them to maim, torture, and kill her? The endless list of questions never ceased to amaze her. She rubbed her eyes, scratching her head.

The hushed murmurs of two seated men huddled in the bar's opposite corner flew towards her. "Tis the second town."

"That soon?" questioned the second but raspy voice.

"Yeah, the offerings be weak."

Isla concentrated on their conversation, keeping her gaze trained on her map. Offerings? The word carried one stinging attachment—Gods.

"Fools. They need ta look around." His scratchy voice elevated accompanied by shuffling.

"Quiet. Y'all be the fool if those rich knaves hear ya."

"Who cares. They be suckin' the life out of us," he hissed.

Isla tapped her mug's rim. She gave them credit. The residents still retained common sense. They had two options to survive: deliver the Gods yearly offerings in exchange for flimsy protection against hungry Demons, or refuse, and risk death by said Demons. But Detra's nobility, like other worlds, held the purse strings. Did the Gods care? No, they only executed their laws.

"Leave Maron, go to da cities, the capital even."

"Don' ya lie. Ya can't escape them."

"Be more coin there."

He clicked his tongue. "It'll catch up; it always does. Look at Lil Reed: boy's lame and retarded. Blame his ma; she had the same idea ya had, go to da city an' the city ate him alive. Who cares if they hear ya, the rich can see ya there. They use and abuse their toys then toss them aside."

His companion sighed. "What d'ya want, then? Life's tough."

"Nothin'. Detra be dyin'."

"Aye, I can drink to that."

They tapped mugs, the froth gushing over.

They were wrong. Detra was already dead.

A world full of weak, mortal Castions bordering the Chaos Realm, what choice did they have? Human survival without magic became brutal against man-eating Demons.

The inn's door banged open, the cold night air colliding with the roaring fireplace's heat. The musky aroma of rain swept inside, accompanied by its unmuffled racket. She spied the intruders, their plump bodies melding into one hulking blob. Weapons peeked from beneath their clocks, identifying them as better than average hunters. They strutted in, boots squeaking against the hardwood floor, cloaks flapping, and mouths blathering.

"Cassie my girl, bring the booze!" the lead man slurred as he deposited himself at a bench near the bar. His two compatriots joined his location, sprawling across the table from him.

The dirty-blond bearded man scoured the bar, his eyes meeting hers. He grinned, yellow-tinted and crooked. "Oh, lookie here, boys. A li'l lass," he tooted, drawing his comrades' attention.

They followed his direction, their mouths grinning and nostrils flaring.

Isla watched the lead man jump up and strut towards her. His belly-flopped and he rubbed the extrusion with both hands. "Why don' we ha' some fun, huh, lass?"

"Buzz off, pest." Isla glared.

"Oh ho, scary." He leaned forward with a sardonic smile. "And if I don't?" His hand shot out, flicking her hood off. The man's jaw dropped, then he licked his fat lips. "Look what we ha' here. Where ya from, lass?"

Isla jerked her hood back, covering her hair. She rolled the map up, tucking the damp parchment inside her cloak's pocket, and stood. She ignored the man, steering towards the exit.

He clasped her shoulder, halting her retreat. "Where ya goin'? The fun's just startin'."

She glanced at his grime, sweat-covered hand, and wriggled her nose. On instinct, her fingers inched inside her cloak, gripping her dagger. "Hands off."

He chuckled. "Feisty, aren't ye, gaile."

Isla drew the dagger, spun the handle and pierced his hand.

The man howled, staggering backward into an open bench. He gripped his wound, whimpering like a broken and beaten dog.

"Next time, hands off." She shoved the door open, stepping into the night.

Isla slammed the door shut behind her and tucked the dagger into its sheath. She scanned the lifeless muddied street, the seams loaded with garbage. The stench whirled alongside the rain, coating Maron with disease. Head one street over, and the scene would mimic the smell—death—a common sight. Add the hole-littered walls, thatched roofs, rat-infested burrows, and Maron became the stereotype of Detra's out-of-touch villages.

Isla slowed her breathing and lengthened her stride. Her path headed east towards the village gate. She paused at the notice board, checking the news, requests, and wanted pages. Her gaze latched onto a fresh pamphlet tacked in the center. She chuckled, finding the Human's modern tongue:

Wanted—Dead

A young woman with light-blue hair and matching eyes, pale white skin, and quick to fight.

She squinted, reading the fine print. The reward would come from Maron's chief.

Isla smirked. What were the chances he knew the real source? Her sword burned against her leg, the bloodlust calling. She ripped the paper from the board, pocketing the abomination.

Thumbing the last gold piece in her pocket, her feet trod the side street north as she skimmed the inner passages. She stopped before a sleeping man blocking her path. A paper-thin rain-soaked cloth draped his body; his gray beard was speckled with mud.

Isla nudged his body. She waited, but no twitch of movement came.

Her search continued another street over. Between a narrow gap created by two houses, a pair of children huddled together. Brown hair peeked out beneath their tattered cloaks. The soft rain showered their bodies, and they shivered from a wanton gust.

"You two," Isla stated, drawing their hollowed gazes. "Where's the village chief's place?" She held up the coin, her thumb flicking the uneven rim.

Their copper eyes shimmered and soared upwards. Standing before her, they opened their palms and pleaded.

She waved the coin. "Take me there first."

The boy nodded, grabbing the girl's hand. "This da way."

He led them through the alleyway onto the adjacent street. His stride lengthened and the girl pulled her cloak closer. Mud and grime covered their face and legs; their feet dirtied black.

Another street back towards the inn and the boy stopped. "That one." He pointed out a clean and unbroken house, grand compared to the neighbors with light peeking from half-closed shutters.

The boy tugged her cloak, palm open.

Isla gazed at his hollow-cheeks. "Is she your sister?"

He nodded and waited.

"Don't abandon her," she cautioned, placing the coin into his outstretched hand.

"Yes, ma'am," he chirped and rushed away with the girl in tow.

Isla watched their retreating forms. Her heart ached knowing today they survived, but tomorrow their battle would continue. In time, the girl would die, abandoned and forgotten by her brother. After all, how else would he survive? Others would do the same.

She shook her head and swallowed the lump obstructing her throat. Maybe the girl would be lucky, unlike herself. She could hope, at least.

Isla focused, drawing her attention to the chief's home. She studied the minimal surroundings, checking for observers, or worse, troublemakers. Their absence made her pause. Earlier the empty streets seemed dismal, dismissive even, but now they spawned watchful ghosts.

The window shutters creaked, and a metal ball clanged against the doorframe. Her gaze flickered down; a rat scurried past, two steps away. She sighed. What dramatic, unneeded effects for this ghostland.

With a final search, she resumed her walk. One stride up, and she knocked hard and firm.

Dropping her hand and adjusting her hood lower, she waited. Her ears perked at a shuffling and the door hinged open. A chain separated her from a short gray-bearded man.

His pale brown eyes narrowed. "Who be you?" he croaked, coughing into his palm.

"I'm here about a posting." Isla raised the flier, hiding her face behind it. "Do you have more information on this?"

He snickered, "What? Ya goin' to hunt her down?"

"No worries, I have companions. We'll make quick work of her. But we need more to go on." Isla lowered the pamphlet, tucking it inside her cloak.

"I don' know anymore."

"How are we expected to hunt her then? Who else would know?" she argued.

He scratched his jaw. "Better off not. The man requestin' ain't normal. That one be different. The work smells fishy, lass."

"Is he dangerous?"

"Aye, but that's all I'll be sayin'. Run along." He waved, glancing away.

Isla reacted, drawing her sword and slashing through the chain barring her entrance.

The old man staggered backward, clearing her strike. She shoved the door open, grasping the knob before impact and swung the wooden slab shut. With her back defended, Isla watched him crawl away.

Stalking behind him, she raised her weapon as he wobbled up from all fours. He leaned forward, against a small wooden chest, fingers twitching as he unsnapped the block open.

She stabbed downward, wrecking the narrow gap he'd created.

"You're the woman. The unkillable monster," he squeaked.

"Unkillable, perhaps. Behead me, burn me, dismember me; my body dies like any other. But for some reason, I live again. However, that is not important. Tell me who he is. Who is paying for my head?" she demanded.

"I don' know anything'"

Isla removed the blade, stabbing next to his head. "Let's try again." She repeated the action moving the tip a lick closer. "Who was the man?"

"White hair, but young, and golden eyes like the sun. I've never seen the like before. But I don' know anything else, I swear."

A man representing the wide expanding sky; who else in unforsaken Detra could have this same appearance? No one but Skye. The damning and torturous man.

She retracted her blade, sheathing the weapon. "It'd be wise to remove that poster from sight, or I may pay you another visit. One with far less kindness." Adjusting her hood again, she turned and left his dwelling.

The night veiled her, the midnight light shrouded and the drizzle soft. She strode towards the village gate, her gaze canvassing the forest entrance. The muddied path continued through the trees, her passage clear.

A chilling wind pelted her body, the tree branches rattling beside her. Her senses tightened further. This situation reeked of deja vu. She couldn't shake the thought. A fresh wanted poster; the first she'd seen around Detra. She knew Skye was near. Like some seer predicting her future decisions, he would arrive.

She sighed, rubbing her chin. Her free hand hovered over her sword's hilt, tapping to her gait.

Her feet halted mid-stride and she grasped the hilt. Of course, what kind of man merely retreated without revenge?

Obstructing her path forward, she glared at the round, hand bandaged brute from the bar. He wore a grin, drawing his sword. Behind him, stood one of his two comrades, joining with a relaxed stance and a torch's swaying flame.

"No second chances, huh?" the man growled.

Isla mimicked his firm and resolute stance. She watched their movements and slowed her breathing. She had no reason to charge ahead, but her body recognized the smell of bloodlust and death. With each life, her instinctive reaction was to kill, but the bloodshed of innocents dragged her sanity back. Still, innocence was easily lost.

The large man inched forward, rain sprinkling his shadowed face. His belly-flopped with each step and his steady stride faltered as he slid.

She waited until her weapon would reach him. One more step and she lurched forward, low and fast. Her nimbleness overcame the slick ground as the buffoon's eyes widened.

He raised his sword, but with his delayed reaction and poor defenses, her sword easily clipped his stomach. The brute hollered, falling backward.

"You should have learned," Isla voiced, stepping towards him with her red-tinted blade. She watched his comrade retreat, high tailing past her and towards the village. "Maybe next time, you'll choose better friends as well."

"Ugh, ya damn witch. Y'all rot in a Demon's belly for this."

"Scary," she mocked, raising her weapon and stabbing downward through his beating heart. Isla drove deep, watching the man wither and scream with each inch more.

Her weapon ceded, the solid earth receiving her tip. The twitching man ended his dance, his open eyes glazing over to Detra's scum.

"That's her!"

Her gaze flickered towards the source, counting five bodies behind the retreating fool's torchlight. Isla gripped her sword's hilt and pulled. Yet, the blade wouldn't budge.

She glanced at the approaching men and one without a torch, readied his bow.

"Shit," she murmured, jumping back as an arrow landed at her feet. Her hands clenched and she looked towards her weapon.

Isla hopped back another step from a second arrow. Her time was up.

She pivoted, sprinting deeper into the woods.