At that moment, a string of very explicit lines flashed through Kraft's mind.
"Let me translate that for you: what do you call a surprise?!"
At the same time, the same white light flared beyond the other window. Accompanied by layers of chorus amid the sound of dripping water, it climbed the stone wall, creating the illusion of a breathing moon rising on the other side.
His heart hammered, the vibrations resounding through his chest and tugging at his lungs. Even his breathing stopped for a moment. Streams of blood forced their way into his arteries, and the rising blood pressure brought a dull ache inside his skull.
The window boards in front of him were knocked on. The rhythmic tapping echoed through the room. Its patience and strength were wearing thin, and the white streaks of light shining into the room shifted back and forth with increasing intensity. His taut muscles urged him to act.
Hunting was never smooth sailing forever. Even the most experienced hunter made mistakes now and then. That was why he hadn't come armed with traps alone.
Kraft stopped hesitating. He drew his sword, pried the cork from the fish-oil jar, and poured about half of it over the blade. Pale yellow oil flecked with white clung to the grooves and ran down. He turned his wrist, tilting the blade to coat both sides.
He poured the rest straight into the brazier. A wave of heat hit his face, and the flames that leapt up nearly licked his cheeks.
He casually swung his longsword. The instant the blade sliced through the flames, it caught fire. The fiercest, most unruly substance known burned across the steel, releasing enough heat to make the weapon recall its infancy, as if it had returned to its original form in