Alfred didn't move. His right hand remained hidden inside his torn sleeve, his fingers gripping a sharp, jagged stone. The rough edge cut into his palm, but he didn't feel the pain. He was fighting a war inside his head.

Kiana saw the tension in his forearms. She saw the hidden intent to kill.

She didn't call him out. Instead, she let her head fall back against the cold stone wall and closed her eyes. She made herself look small, exhausted, and harmless.

Heavy, aggressive footsteps crunched on the gravel outside.

Before Alfred could make a decision, the rotting wooden door of the stone room was kicked open with a deafening crash.

Blinding sunlight and hot, dusty wind from the Wilderlands poured into the dark room.

Kiana squinted against the harsh light, lifting a hand to shield her eyes.

A tall man with fiery red hair stood framed in the doorway. Brogan Webster.

Pure, unadulterated hatred radiated from his eyes. He glared at Kiana as if he wanted to rip her throat out with his bare teeth.

Brogan stormed into the room. The heat of the wasteland clung to his skin.

He stopped right in front of Kiana, towering over her.

He gritted his teeth and threw a rough animal-skin parchment onto the dirt floor at her feet.

"Sever the contract," Brogan snarled, his voice vibrating with rage. "Now."

In the corner, Alfred's grip on the hidden stone loosened. The rock slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a soft thud.

Brogan's head snapped toward the sound. His eyes landed on Alfred's bloodied, battered body.

The veins in Brogan's neck bulged. On his collarbone, the branded beast-mark flared with a searing, angry crimson light, mirroring his explosive fury. His hands curled into tight fists, his knuckles popping loudly in the quiet room.

Kiana opened her eyes. She looked down at the dusty animal-skin contract by her boots.

She didn't scream. She didn't reach for the whip that hung on the wall.

Slowly, Kiana leaned forward and picked up the parchment.

She calmly brushed the dirt off the rough surface. Her movements were so steady, so unbothered, that Brogan froze. A flicker of confusion crossed his angry face.

Kiana tilted her head up and met Brogan's furious gaze dead on.

"Look at the situation," Kiana said, her voice dropping into a crisp, analytical tone.

She pointed to her own battered body, then gestured to the open door. "I am severely injured. There are mutated beasts and rival tribes right outside this camp."

She held his gaze. "If we sever the contract right now, without the protection of a family unit, we will all die in the wasteland."

Brogan let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "You're just afraid to die. Stop stalling."

Kiana ignored his insult. She didn't have the energy for a screaming match.

"Three months," she said flatly. "A probationary period."

Brogan stopped laughing. He stared at her.

"You stay and protect me for three months," Kiana continued, her voice unwavering. "In exchange, when the three months are up, I will sign this paper and give you your freedom. No strings attached."

She tossed the contract back onto the floor. "And for these three months, I swear I will not invade your personal space. I won't touch you."

Brogan stood paralyzed. The concept of a modern, conditional contract completely short-circuited his brain.

Alfred stepped out of the shadows. He violently forced down the primal terror and disgust clawing at his throat. Whatever twisted game she was playing, her offer of a three-month probation was their only viable path to survival in this wasteland. His icy eyes locked onto Kiana for a long, calculating second, evaluating her like a dangerous opponent across a bargaining table.

"Agree to it," Alfred muttered to Brogan.

Kiana grabbed the rough stone wall and forced herself to stand. Black spots danced across her vision. The blood drained from her head, leaving her dizzy and nauseous.

Brogan spun around and sprinted out the door before she even fully stood up.

Alfred followed right behind him. His steps were uneven, limping heavily, but he moved fast.

Kiana dragged her aching body out of the stone room. The blinding sun of the Wilderlands hit her face.

A small crowd of tribal members had gathered in the dirt clearing. They were pointing and whispering.

In the center of the crowd, two guards lowered a crude wooden stretcher to the ground.

Gunner Hayden lay on the branches. His skin, usually pale, was a horrifying shade of purplish-black.

A massive, jagged tear ripped straight across his abdomen. The wound was so deep the white of his bones peeked through the shredded muscle. Dark, thick blood poured onto the dirt.

Brogan dropped to his knees beside the stretcher. His eyes turned red. A raw, animalistic growl of pure grief ripped from his throat.

Alfred fell to his knees on the other side. He pressed his hands over the wound, trying to use his Ice Aetheric Signature to freeze the bleeding. But the purple toxin in Gunner's blood instantly melted the ice. His power was useless.

The tribe's elderly Shaman stood over them. He shook his head slowly. "The poison has reached his heart. He is dead."

The females in the crowd began to whisper louder. One of them let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Looks like the wicked matriarch is finally going to lose a consort."

Kiana shoved her way through the crowd. She dragged her weak legs forward until she reached the stretcher.

Brogan lunged up. He blocked her path like a rabid dog protecting its pup.

"Get the hell away from him!" Brogan roared, spit flying from his lips.

He thought she was here to mock them. Or worse, to finish Gunner off.

Kiana's eyes turned to ice.

"Move," she snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. "Unless you want him to die."

The sheer, dominant authority in her voice hit Brogan like a physical blow. He flinched, his brain failing to process the command.

Kiana didn't wait for him to recover. She shoved past his frozen body and dropped to her knees beside Gunner.

She grabbed Gunner's chin, forcing his eyes open to check his pupils. She pressed two fingers to his neck. The pulse was a faint, erratic flutter. The poison was seconds away from stopping his heart.

Kiana took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and reached deep into her soul, pulling on the Viridian Healing Aetheric Signature she had brought with her from the apocalypse.

A faint, pure emerald-green light sparked to life in the palm of her hand.

The crowd gasped. A collective intake of breath sucked the air from the clearing. No one in the Wilderlands had ever seen an Aetheric light that color.

Kiana slammed her glowing palm directly onto Gunner's ruined, bloody abdomen.

The viridian energy shot into his body like glowing vines. The green light wrapped around the purplish-black toxin in his veins.

Right before their eyes, the black rot around the edges of the wound began to recede. The heavy flow of blood stopped instantly.

The shredded edges of his flesh twitched. Tiny pink muscle fibers began to knit together, slowly closing the fatal gap. As the purplish-black toxin receded from his veins, the faint, erratic pulsing of the beast-mark on his collarbone finally settled into a dim, dormant state.

Dead silence fell over the clearing. The Shaman's cloudy eyes bulged out of his head.

Gunner's chest, which had been perfectly still, suddenly rose. He took a deep, steady breath.

Cold sweat poured down Kiana's face. Her skin turned the color of ash.

The second she knew Gunner's heart was stable, she ripped her hand away.

The backlash of draining her energy hit her nervous system like a freight train. The world went pitch black.

Kiana's body went entirely limp. She collapsed onto the dirt right beside the stretcher, completely unconscious.

Kiana's consciousness fought through a thick layer of darkness. Low, muffled male voices drifted into her ears.

She forced her eyes open. She was lying on a hard wooden plank bed inside the stone room.

The dried blood and dirt had been wiped from her skin with a rough cloth. A relatively clean animal skin was draped over her shivering body.

Kiana turned her head. Through the half-open wooden door, she saw Alfred and Brogan standing outside in the dirt.

"Why did she save him?" Brogan whispered. His voice was tight, thick with confusion and lingering anger.

Alfred was quiet for a long moment. "Whatever her game is," his voice was like cracked ice, "she saved his life."

Brogan let out a frustrated breath and ran a hand through his fiery red hair. "I don't buy it. That psycho doesn't just change overnight."

"The tribe's food rations are gone," Alfred said, cutting off the argument. "We have to hunt. Gunner won't survive the recovery without meat."

Brogan grunted in agreement. They grabbed their crude bone knives and prepared to leave.

Before walking away, Brogan shot a complicated, heavy look at the half-open door. Then, he turned and walked into the wasteland.

The crunch of their footsteps faded. Kiana threw off the animal skin and forced herself to sit up.

Her muscles screamed. Her energy veins throbbed with a dull, burning ache from overusing her Aetheric Signature. However, she could feel the lingering traces of her Viridian energy slowly and methodically repairing her exhausted cells. It was agonizing, but it gave her just enough baseline mobility. Furthermore, her ingrained apocalyptic survival instincts made it impossible for her to simply lie down and rot in a filthy, unsecured environment; she had to establish a safe zone.

She dragged her feet across the dirt floor and walked over to a large clay water vat in the corner of the room. She leaned over to look at her reflection.

The face staring back at her from the still water was horrifying.

Dark purple, bruised-looking spots covered her cheeks and forehead. Her skin was sallow, her features twisted and gaunt.

Kiana frowned. The original host hadn't just been ugly. She had been poisoned.

Kiana pushed a tiny sliver of her recovering Viridian energy into her own bloodstream to scan the damage.

It was a chronic toxin. A fragmented memory from the original host suddenly flashed through her mind, supplying a name: Bone-Rot Powder. It meant she had been secretly poisoned for a long time. It destroyed physical beauty and caused severe, uncontrollable bursts of violent rage.

Kiana let out a cold, humorless laugh. The original host's exile to the Wilderlands wasn't a punishment for bad behavior. It was a calculated political assassination by someone in the Imperial Citadel.

She pushed the thought away. Revenge required power. Right now, she just needed to survive.

Kiana looked around the stone room. It was a filthy, chaotic mess of dust, rotting straw, and scattered rocks.

Her apocalypse survival instincts took over. She couldn't live in this filth.

She started moving. She dragged the moldy straw out the door. She stacked the loose stones neatly against the wall.

While clearing a dark corner, her foot hit something hard. She pulled out an old, rusted iron pot covered in a thick layer of grime, and a pair of flint stones.

Kiana's eyes lit up. This was exactly what she needed to break the ice with her consorts.

She dug through a pile of the original host's discarded belongings. At the bottom, she found a few shriveled tomatoes and three speckled bird eggs.

The tribe gave these to females as special rations, but the original host had thrown them in the corner, complaining they tasted like dirt.

Kiana grabbed the iron pot and walked outside. She knelt in the dirt and used coarse sand to scrub the rust and grime off the metal until it shined.

She struck the flint stones together. A spark caught the dry grass, and soon a small, crackling fire was burning.

She sliced the shriveled tomatoes with a small bone knife. She was going to make a hot soup.

When those men came back from hunting, this pot of soup was going to be her first real weapon.