The crows found her first. They circled above the treeline like slow, black omens — not shrieking, not warning, just watching. When they returned to him, silent and unsettled, Regis understood. Something had happened. The village lay broken beneath a pale sky. Smoke curled through empty windows, and blood soaked the earth in crooked shapes. He moved quietly, as he always did, until he reached the ruins of the barn. She was there. Half-buried in ash and straw, pierced through with aspen stakes — three of them. Driven by human hands. Poorly aimed, but with conviction. Her companions had long since vanished. Perhaps they'd left her for mercy. Or for punishment. But she had not fed. Not even in self-defense. Her wounds should have killed her, yet she remained — pale, bloodless, unmoving — still clinging to something deeper than instinct. Regis did not hesitate. After a convincing speech to the infuriated villagers and a subtle use of hypnosis, he persuaded everyone that he was the only one who knew how to deal with the monster. He removed the stakes one by one, slow and steady, and when her eyes fluttered open for a moment, he said nothing. Just carried her away.