A young woman stands opposite of the enemy. Her eyes prick the outline of its form. The cruel angles of the beast stand starkly apart from its surroundings. Gravel mixes with fur and crimson drips openly from its maw. Her heart fills with fear, then empties routinely. The atmosphere sticks into her skin and gathers under her armor. She searches for its heart under mounds of matting and whiskers. A paw swipes for her abdomen. She parries, shield clattering on the ground. She rolls to the left, limping back to her feet. She grimaces as blood and sweat are smothered by cotton. With a huff, she lunges. A snip at its chest triggers a cry, open and throaty. She winces and breathes into the moment. The Beast trembles, backed into a corner. A helmet smacks into her feet, sent rolling by its wildly whipping tail. A final roar leaves its mouth and breaks in the air. Anticipation bubbles in her blood. Gold and sinew lace her vision of the following year. Organza wraps her shoulders, held up by soft hands. One last breath. She raises the sword in the midst of all the chaos -a glimmering beacon for the dread in the air -and plunges it into the soil. The Beast pants and coughs tentatively. Numbness pulses through her chest, hands lingering on the handle. She slips backward. Four moons align, then fall away. The sword clatters on the rock. Her mind leaves the cave years after her feet do.