Amalfi

Chapter Three: Fury of a Beast, Pride of a Tyrant, Heart of a Nymph

She sucked in a breath. It did little; its taste was poisoned with the energy of battle, and she'd hardly caught anything with her body being whipped about. But Amalfi was trying to prepare herself for the dirtiness of blood. She was never ready for it. She was currently covered in her own, of course, but bleeding and making bleed were very different sides of a grimy drachma, and she hated the latter. Amalfi tried for another deep breath. She'd pay the price; she'd pay every and all to save others. Another breath.

Then, as the beast snarled and bucked, Amalfi lifted her arm. With all her might, she plunged the sharp bronze point of her blade into the softer hide of the tyrant's shoulders, and pressed as hard as her trembling strength would let her. Though hardly anything in comparison, a splinter at best, the beast screamed. Amalfi wasn't ready for the tyrant's reaction when it reared up, pitching her off and thundering its feet. She hit the ground in a mess of flailing limbs. Panic punched her throat until she was breathless. By the time Amalfi finally gasped for air, facedown on the beach, she was convinced she'd lost her heart again, abandoned somewhere several meters up. It felt like she'd been dropped, stepped on, and left to tease death where she sprawled on the pebbles.

It was possible. It was uncomfortably possible.

Amalfi stumbled to her feet. Dragging herself up using every ounce of stubborn willpower she had, it was all she could do to avoid being trampled. Too blind in rage to see her, the tyrant lurched, dark blood spilling from its wound as Amalfi dodged kicks and thrusting horns. It was enraged—it was a good time for her to go. A really, really good time.

Tripping over rocks, clutching her arm, Amalfi slipped away while the beast cried foul.

Tooth-tyrants weren't very bright creatures. Their size and hardiness usually made up for it, but they were stubborn and highly territorial, and it could make them foolish. The beasts fought to the death, insistent on continuing until the battle was entirely finished. She'd heard a tyrant would even go so far as to stay in one place until resolution was reached. Perhaps if Amalfi didn't give it the rest of the fight, the beast would keep waiting, looking for her to finish the job, stuck here on this beach—

Amalfi suddenly decided the next piece of her plan.

Somewhere, there was a sliver of space in one of these cliffs, one she knew from years of hiding away from swooning stray men and teasing sister nymphs. It was hardly wide enough to fit her then, but as the tyrant turned, bulging red eyes flooded with unmatched rage, locked in on her... well, it would have to do. Amalfi started sprinting again. Every jolt on the ground dislodged the location from her hardened memory.

With some remnant of now-used luck, she threw herself up and scrambled into the rocky space just in time. Another breath of hesitation and she wouldn't have made it; as it was, the horns grazed her back as they slammed into the open crevice behind her. She gasped at the feeling of more skin giving way.

Forced to commit to her plan, she kept going. Amalfi shoved herself forward, deeper into the tightening space. Her injured arm scraped against rock. Searing pain entangled her; it bounced up her arm, her back, her entire body from hitting the ground. It was warm and damp. Blood was sticky. It was hers, his, the beast's. Her heart was thunder shaking these cliffs—or it was born from the tooth-tyrant, throwing itself against the entrance as the earth shuddered. Its roars were magnified in the small space; Amalfi was sure she was deaf now.

But she kept going. Amalfi had chosen this pocket not only for its convenience, but for its tunnel. Curved like the letter omega if one went far enough, the space would open again on the other end, further down the cliffs. She simply had to make it through. She just had to push forward. She just had to—gods, space was slim. Even slimmer than she remembered. Amalfi could hardly breathe. It was so dark, and she could still hear the beast, clawing and scratching at the rocks. Gods, her arm ached. Her back felt like it'd been entirely split open from the sharpened edges of those horns, the wound wide enough to count her vertebrae; she couldn't get air, gasping, scrambling her way through a small tunnel that seemed to only get smaller and smaller—help, she needed help—she tried to keep going—