Standing in the blood of the man who tried to kill him, the boy, almost a man, froze, horrified at what he had done. The head, separated from the body, lay face down in the forest undergrowth. Blood flowed from the open neck onto the mat of decaying leaves. There had been no time. There had been no time to think. No time to plan. Only one would walk away from that confrontation in the woods. The boy had gotten the better of this man who had killed many before him.

When the woman, dressed to blend into the forest, emerged from behind the trees to admire his handiwork, pointing her crossbow at him, he thought he might have killed for naught. Little did any of the handful of people standing in the forest that day know the changes that this one death would put in motion.

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