Under the velvet cloak of night, the girl was invisible. A charcoal ghost. A dark mirage. Her ink-black fur melded seamlessly with midnight, so that it was impossible to discern from a single glance where the night sky ended and the dark silk of her feathered fur began. Only the merest hint of movement as her lithe form slipped between the trees betrayed her existence—a shimmer as she pushed her way past a cluster of branches, a serpentine twist of the air where her tail sliced behind her, all quick signals that seemed to disappear as quickly as they came. Her paws were silent. Her breathing was measured and quiet. Corax had not been alive long enough to see many things outside the kingdom where she’d been born, but the lass had managed to perfect the art of being a shadow from the time she opened her accursed eyes.

Such a survival strategy came in handy when everyone thought you should be dead.

Corax had shared that belief many times—constantly, actually—and yet here she was, hot on the trail of a someone else’s fresh kill, her traitorous stomach pulling her along as if on a leash. As much as the raven would prefer to die in a hole, her own instincts refused to allow her. Hunger strikes always ended in her perched atop a picked-through pile of bones, choking down the nourishment her hideous body craved. Somehow, the inner scream of live, live, live managed to drown out her unheard cries of die, die, die. Shameful, really. No wonder they had wanted to kill her. Corax’s own selfishness was truly a force to abhor.

Drawing closer to her intended meal tempted a trickle of saliva to drip down her parched throat. Her dainty steps trotted more rapidly over the leaf-cushioned terra, lending her long strides an eerily graceful bounce. No one would call the bizarre kalak girl “pretty,” but she was certainly efficient. Soon her bottomless black eyes were cutting through the indigo shadows to peer at a lone wolf poised over the prone limp form of a slain fawn. The scent of fresh meat reached inside her chest and wrenched pain into every nerve. Eat. Live. Eat. Live. Her silent shrieks pounded relentlessly within her skull. The stranger had not heard her approach—at least, it did not appear that they did—so if Corax worked fast, if she worked smart, some of that lovely bloody meal might end up in her own gullet—

One fine-boned forepaw pressed down on a twig until it broke—a dry, startling noise in the otherwise gentle soundless forest. She had darted from her position not a breath later, aiming to weave a web of crackles and snaps to unsettle the hunter she wanted to rob. One branch here. A rustled leaf here. Look up. Drop the fawn. Run. The damsel’s heartbeat throbbed hard and painful in her breast. There was always the possibility of being discovered. That the stranger would act aggressively rather than fearfully, and seek her out. A shudder crawled over her spine. But she was so hungry . . .