Valentina wasn’t angry. She was furious. She sprinted deftly down the edge of the river, her eyes on a perfect, low-hanging willow branch. She sprang, gripping the branch and letting momentum rocket her out toward the middle of the river. She let go at the perfect moment and cleanly dislodged her brother from the floating log he’d stolen from her moments ago.

Their father roared with laughter from the bank of the lazy river as John Alec surfaced, sputtering, river grass in his hair. “That’s what you get, John! For trying to steal from our Valentina.”

She lounged atop the log and stuck her tongue out at him, laughing when he sent an armful of water straight into her face.

They scuffled in the fresh, clean river, playing as they so rarely got to. Every once in a great while, their father gave them the day off from training. The two little warriors, 11 and 8 years old, were very serious about their skills. They began and ended every day with weapons practice. A bit of sparring was thrown in here and there every day as well, not to mention hunting and trapping. Valentina was extremely proud of her abilities as a warrior, especially when it meant dunking her older brother in the river.

But today had been so beautiful, all golden sun and achingly blue skies, that their father had opted for a resting day. He’d chosen a particularly lazy stretch of river, found himself a tree to lean against, and watched his children play.

It was moments like these when he missed their mother so much he almost couldn’t see straight. He knew it was selfish to keep his children in such rigorous training, but it was still the only time he ever felt that he could breathe.

Perhaps a different kind of father might have laid down his mantle when his children came along. But the man was a fighter. He fought for freedom. For the humanity of shifters. They were the enslaved of his planet and it disgusted him to no end. He supposed he could have given up the fight, moved to a small village and taught his children about the simple life. But somewhere in his heart, he knew it would have been like a poison in his veins. He would have wasted away without fighting for what he believed in.

Seeing the two of them, John Alec with his honorable way of fighting, always taking care not to hurt his sister, and Valentina with her vicious efficiency, winning as quickly as possible, he knew that he’d made the right decision. His children were warriors to the bone. To deprive them of that would have been to take some vital nutrient from their diet.

His eyes drifted closed here and there as he watched them, tired from fighting each other and now floating on their backs. He had a dream. A disturbing one where he was very far away from his children while they played. And each time he took a step closer, he was a step farther away.

His eyes came open to the sunny day and when he looked at the river, his skin chilled. There was a man standing on the opposite river bank. And not just any man. He wore the bones of a shifter over his face and in an intricate armor over his chest and legs. He wore the dress of the hunters. Those that hunted down shifters and brought them to Herta to be enslaved. He was still, blending in with the shadows behind him, and staring at the children.

He didn’t call out to them, he didn’t have to. He simply shifted in that alert way of his and they knew that something was wrong. John Alec’s eyes flew to his father, Valentina’s eyes flew to the intruder.

The children had been warned of hunters countless times. They knew that hunters would kill them, simply for being allies to the shifters.

Alec shifted in the water and his father knew that he’d picked up a stone with his toes, was shifting it to his hand. Good boy.

But Valentina was still, half on the log and half in the water, her honey-brown eyes taking up her whole, eight-year-old face.

The hunter sprang, drawing the bow from his back and pointing it at the children. But he was struck with three things first. The second and third things were the rock from Alec’s hand and the hatchet from their father’s. The first was the small knife from Valentina’s little fist. It had landed directly in the man’s heart. He probably hadn’t even felt the other two things strike him.

Valentina was the first to rise. She climbed up onto the bank and kicked at the dead man’s foot. Next she took her father’s hatchet out of his belly. And last, she snicked her knife out of his ribcage, washing it in the river.

It was her first kill.