Author’s Note: This piece was shaped with a little help from AI. It provided assistance on things like the structuring, some names, shortening some verbose language/ideas as I'd written, and gave me the odd turn of phrase here and there. The heart and shape of the story are my own, but I realise it is important to be transparent about my use of AI support in producing it ultimately.
“Beware the joy of killing young one, for it leaves a hunger that no justice can ever fill.” — Imparted to Naridalis as a child by her father Ceneshar
Diary of Naridalis
Meluinen. After Midnight.
The taste of blood does not leave the tongue easily.
Not when it is your own.
And, not when it isn’t.
I remember the moment before the killing began. We were already wearied when it found us, already half-soaked from walking into the mire, the cart groaning from its journey, the shell of Cara’s breakfast monster still nestled like a joke atop our supplies.
The river pulled at my cloak as I carried Cara across the shallows, her tiny hands steadying on my shoulders. The water rose cold around my knees, the current tugging at me like a child eager to play. I remember thinking how light she was. How easily she could be taken. How soft the world still seemed in the morning light.
But then came the goblin cry, the sudden flight of arrows, and we were no longer travellers. We were targets.
Tay and I responded quickly. Ivy shouted for us to protect the cart. Cara disappeared into her shell, yet defiant in using a slingshot. Vae was moving to counter. And for a time, it was simple. Knock. Aim. Loose. Kill. Knock. Aim. Lose. Kill. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Goblins are foolish creatures. Their charge was broken before it began.
But then the ground shifted. I felt it before I saw it, a change in the air, like something enormous had stepped into the fray.
And then it, the troll…. not just monstrous in form, but in presence. Like a mountain that had learned to walk. It reached for Cara, lumbering and leering, and something inside me… shifted.
I have fought before. Taken life before. But this was not the same. There was a heat in my veins. Not anger. Not defence. It was desire.
I wanted to hurt it.
When I leapt, I did not leap to protect. I leapt to strike. Not to ward off a blow, but to punish the thing that dared raise its hand against us.
Against her.
I do not remember dropping my bow. Only the taste of metal as I drew my blades. The feel of earth underfoot as I ran. The clarity… so sharp it sliced through thought itself. My body moved with need.
I remember the troll’s skin: thick, mottled, stinking of damp rot and old blood. My knives found no gaps. Only resistance. Its hide repelled me like bark weathers the rain. I moved faster. Lower. A twist beneath its swing, a slash along the thigh. My pulse rose like a drumbeat in my skull.
I felt the thrill of it, my blades, their weight no longer tools but extensions of my will. The first good cut was shallow. The second, deeper. The third…. I aimed for the joint, knowing full well it would lame the creature.
And still, it didn’t fall.
So I kept going.
It struck me, flung me bodily into the water like I was made of leaves. I hit hard. The river rose around me, swallowed my ears, dulled the world.
And for a moment, I simply lay there.
The mud beneath me was soft. The reeds bent overhead. I could have stayed there.
I wanted to stay.
Something inside me… watched. Not the fight. Not the troll. But me. I looked at my hands beneath the surface, at the shape of myself through the water’s blur. I did not recognise who I was. I felt... unfamiliar. A stranger within my own skin.
And when I rose… it was not to survive. It was to finish.
I did not call out. I did not warn. I leapt straight onto its back and drove the blades into its shoulder with all the weight my body could muster.
I saw the panic in its eyes then. It had known hunger. Rage. Even pain.
But it had never known me.
The beast turned to flee. Limping. Wounded. Beaten.
It should have ended there.
But I followed.
I chased it down, over the bank and through the trees. It whimpered as it ran.
That sound… it stays with me. Like a child caught in the wrong. Like a thing that knew it had been broken.
And still, I struck.
I remember where I hit it. Not by chance. By choice. The thigh, the gut, the places where it would hurt most. Where it would remember me.
My blades moved not with grace, but with cruelty. There was a moment, brief, but sharp, where I knew it was fleeing. I knew it…. that it had lost…. and I struck anyway.
I killed not to survive.
I killed to satisfy something in me that I do not understand.
And I do not feel proud.
The others were kind. Ivy spoke no judgement. Tay only asked if I was well. Cara called me brave.
But they did not see what I saw.
Not the blood. Not the troll.
But Me... or what was me.
I am not afraid of battle. But I am afraid of what I felt in that moment.
Afraid that I might crave it again.
Afraid that somewhere, beneath the surface…. it waits.
With eyes. Watching.
—N.
Image created using AI
