The Bloodlands weren't made to be survived.
Vale knew that.
Every breath out here was a gamble. The wind carried things—whispers, rot, memory. Trees leaned in like they were listening.
But fear?
He didn't show it.
He crouched near a ruined stone arch, threading wire between two old stakes. He'd mapped out this kill zone hours ago—three traps, all aimed at slowing the Unspoken down long enough to make them bleed.
He needed their blood.
He needed control.
His chest was tight with hunger and worry. He hadn't slept. His wounds weren't healing right. The Blood didn't answer him the way it should.
But the streets had taught him something long before this place ever could:
Panic gets you killed.
So he breathed slow. Moved steady.
One of the traps snapped. A scream—low and wet—followed.
Vale stood still, already gearing for an attack.
The Unspoken writhed, caught by rusted nails through its torso. Still fighting. Still dangerous.
He didn't hesitate.
He didn't let the dread in.
He reached for the vial of blood he'd prepared—his own, diluted with ash and iron filings.
He opened it. Let it spill over the creature's wound.
Then he focused.
Blood responds to blood, he thought.
It twitched.
Then surged—briefly—before collapsing into sludge.
His head throbbed. He nearly fell.
Too much effort for too little return.
Still, he learned something. His blood wasn't strong enough. But theirs? The marked?
That was power worth stealing.
He wiped his hands. Ignored the burn in his ribs.
And moved on.
Fear still sat in his chest.
But fear never got the final word.