Chapter 1: Rabbit

SIENNA

—Shit, Astrid!— I hiss through my teeth. —Just shoot the damn rabbit.

The forest is silent. Not the peaceful kind of silence, but the kind that means something is lurking. The wind is cold, the scent of damp earth mixes with that of wood and distant ash. The moon barely illuminates the bushes where a rabbit nibbles fearlessly. It’s small, thick-furred, oblivious to the hunger burning in my stomach.

Beside me, Astrid raises her bow with trembling hands. Her breath is an unsteady whisper in the stillness of the forest. I grit my teeth.

She swallows hard, but her hand remains weak. Her arrow shakes. Her wide, frightened eyes meet mine, searching for something I no longer have to give her: patience.

Frustration burns in my chest. Without hesitation, I raise my bow and shoot. A quick, effortless motion. Two arrows, two rabbits. They fall without a single sound.

Astrid looks at me reproachfully, but I ignore her gaze.

—One day, you’ll understand that killing is the only option.

She lowers her head, holding the rabbit as if it were something sacred. Her delicate hands weren’t made for this, but we don’t have the luxury of choice.

Our cabin is old and dilapidated, a place that was never a home. We were raised by a killer who never loved us, and there are no happy memories within these walls. Only cold, hunger, and pain. As Astrid cleans the rabbits, I separate the skins with precision. We do it in silence, synchronized by habit. Not because we want to, but because we are all we have. We are twins. We love each other. And that is the only thing keeping us alive.

The market greets us with its usual chaos. The smell of freshly baked bread and salted meat clashes with the stench of sweat and misery. Astrid marvels at the colors, at the life buzzing between stalls of fabric and spices. I just want to get this over with. There is no wonder in this world for us.

We sell the skins for a few coins. Enough for bread and some dried meat. It’s not much, but we’ve learned to settle.

We head back home. And there he is.

Our father. Or what’s left of him.

Lying at the entrance, reeking of stale alcohol, his mouth open in a grotesque snore. Astrid stops dead, her hands clenched in the folds of her dress. Her fear is palpable. I, on the other hand, don’t hesitate. I kick him hard in the side.

—Get up, bastard.

He groans and opens his eyes with difficulty. His gaze is glassy, lost. There is nothing there. There never was.

He writhes on the ground, mumbling nonsense. I ignore him and walk inside. Astrid follows me, trembling. She never confronts him. Never defies him. But I do. I always will.

We lie down on our shared bed. Astrid closes her eyes quickly, as if that could protect her from the memories. I can’t sleep. I stare at the old ceiling and see everything we were. Everything we were forced to be.

I remember the hunger. I remember the beatings. I remember the first time I understood that, in this world, if you want to live, someone else has to die.

We were seven years old when Father left us alone for an entire month. Winter roared, and the cabin was an ice trap. Astrid cried from hunger, and my stomach twisted painfully. Then I saw the squirrel. Small, fragile, unaware of our desperation.

I didn’t know how to hunt. I didn’t know anything. But hunger taught me. I grabbed a rock and threw it. The squirrel fell, stunned. I jumped on it before it could escape and broke its neck with my bare hands.

Astrid cried. I forced her to eat.

When Father returned, laughing at our misery, he dragged us outside into the cold and drenched us in freezing water. “Cold forges steel,” he said. “And you will be sharp daggers or die like rats.”

Over time, it wasn’t just the cold. It was the beatings, the insults. When we turned ten, he put a knife in our hands and gave us an order: kill a man.

Astrid froze. But I didn’t hesitate.

I did it quickly. Without thinking. Without breathing.

And that’s how we grew up. We survived. We learned that the world has no mercy and that only the strong take what they need.

Astrid became the poison. I became the blade.

Together, we make sure we are never the prey again.