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willing to lend a hand or an ear when necessary. His greatest concern was his only daughter, Claire. Even aged twenty-five and a hunter of perhaps equal or greater skill he was protective almost to a fault. He respected her independence but she was the only family he had left and like any father his daughter meant the world to him.
    “Wolverine? She’s taken those down before. She’ll be fine.” Sevaur’s face cursed with a perpetual smile failed to reassure. Jorge did not share his amusement.
    “It’s not a wolverine!” He yelled as another gust of wind whistled past them. “It’s a werebeast in the shape of a wolverine! I was trying to hunt it myself but—”
    “You sure?”
    “Positive. I’ve been checking around, no wonder it’s so damn smart. Reckon it was someone from this village, years ago — decades even. Must’ve gotten cursed.”
    Sevaur hesitated. Curses were almost unheard of in Caelholm. But a werebeast could have an easy time hiding on the island in the miles and miles of forest, the tundra to the north and the mountain ranges. All he knew were that they varied from person to person: some became werewolves, others werebears or any other animal you could imagine. The animal they became — the nature of their transformation all different depending on the person. No two werebeasts were the same.
    “Even so, she’s a smart girl—”
    Jorge reached into his hunting jacket and removed one of his many knives without a word. In a single fluid motion he threw the knife towards Sevaur spinning end over end. The blade spun passed him and embedded itself into the skull of a heavily decomposed body dragging itself towards them. Its shuffling and groaning advance lost to the overbearing sounds of the gale-force winds racing across the sea and cutting through the village port.
    He mouthed his thanks. The hunter waved his appreciation away and clenched his jaw, the worry never leaving his eyes.
    “Your brother up at the temple?” He asked staring at the distant shapes of the fortress-stronghold in the mountains. “I reckon they’re hit just as hard as us.”
    “He’ll be okay.” Sevaur replied. His brother was a lot of things but when it came down to it — his dedication, almost obsession made him difficult to take down. Though never the bragging type he’d always won their duels and sparring sessions. He trained and perfected his craft to the exclusion of almost everything else.
    “Soon as we’re finished I’m going to find my daughter. You’re welcome to join me.” Jorge yelled as he trudged through the mounting snow towards the church. Sevaur followed pulling his cape close around him, between the biting cold and the sweaty intense pockets of fighting he was at risk of exposure. He opened his left hand revealing his intricate metal gauntlet. Though dulling with age it was still intact and conjured a small ball of flame between his fingers. The heat washed over him blowing in the strong winds but refusing to extinguish. With careful control he tended to the flame as they turned a corner and stepped over the fallen bodies of the undead. As long as his concentration did not waver the flame would warm but not burn him. They neared the church defended by the few remaining warriors and guards, the steps littered with corpses and rotten brown flecks of blood. Fresh snowfall masking the worst of the horror.
    “Looks like we’ve got our help after all.” Jorge yelled back to him. Pointing in the distance with his huge fingers at the two squads of Caelites rushed towards the village, spears drawn. “About time!”
    With the help of the fresh Caelites the last few pockets of fighting soon fell silent and the bodies removed. Cremation was uncommon in Caelholm — the followers of Adranos preferred it and few Adranites ever frequented the island of Caelumons. Given the circumstances the villagers made an exception. In theory all gods were worshipped here but most chose one god above the others to