There is much that Anastasia understands, enjoys. She understands what it means to stalk something, someone, for hours until that perfect moment. She understands what it means to sink her sharp teeth into the neck of a writhing creature and shake until it is limp. She understands what it means when their blood slowly creeps from their body, creating rivers through the dirt that signal that end of life. She knows that she is made for these things in a way that most are not. She moves silently. She gives off no scent. Other than her unnaturally yellow eyes, she blends perfectly into the shadows because she is shadow. She knows that she was bred and built to be a hunter.
It was fascinating to hunt, and she found that she liked it—liked that she was good at it. Her father had taught her the mechanics of hunting and showed her the best way to go into the kill, but she could have done it without him. They both knew that. It might have been awkward at first, but she would have learned in time. How could she not have learned? How could she not be successful at it?
Of course, there are other things that she does not understand. She does not understand the intricate relationships of the souls around Beqanna—the way that they loop around one another and tangle into something that becomes too messy to decipher. She does not understand the loyalties that bind them to one another or, even more strange, to pieces of land. She does not understand how they are willing to bleed and die for their beliefs. Most of all, she does not understand the shades of gray in their convictions.
But she does understand the sharp, metallic scent of blood in the air. Like a hound, she raises her inky head and sniffs—once, twice—before giving a sharp smile. She follows it wordlessly through the meadow until she finds the source of it, the colorful mare standing by herself. Anastasia frowns a little before she does what she always does. She portals close, too close, and butts her nose into the mare’s neck. “You smell,” she says simply in her thick, broken tongue, “like death.”
Anastasia could not say she minded it.
like the moon, we borrow our light
{I am nothing but a shadow in the night}