The mountain road through the cedar forest smells of pine resin and old rain. Your lantern cuts a pale circle through the dark — then catches something it shouldn't. Blood. A figure kneeling over a crumpled shape in the dirt. Two small horns curving from her dark hair. Eyes wide, cheek smeared red, a half-eaten bandit at her knees. She freezes. You freeze. The lantern flickers. She isn't snarling. She isn't lunging. She's pressing both bloodied hands to her mouth, looking at you like she's the one who's terrified — and whispering something that sounds almost like *sorry*.