The world burned, and Ren moved through it on instinct.

  He stepped back, hands already weaving Threads into his limbs, tendon, muscle, reflex. They came alive beneath his skin, humming with the rhythm of his pulse.

  “Come on, ” he muttered, voice raw. “I’m not that kid in the stall anymore.”

  The air cracked with pressure.

  The creature leapt.

  And Ren met it head-on.

  It hit him like a carriage wheel torn from its axle. Pain blossomed across his ribs as he slammed into the cobblestones. Air fled his lungs. For a second, there was only chaos, noise, white pain, and the high-pitched whine in his ears. A flash of bone-bladed limbs carved the air inches from his face.

  He rolled, barely.

  A bone hook tore through the spot where his chest had been, shattering stone and throwing dust into his eyes.

  Too fast. Too strong.

  He’d fought monsters before, the dungeon dive that ended in disaster, the wolf that tore off his arm.

  And most of the time, he’d lost. Miserably.

  He gritted his teeth. Not again.

  The creature lunged. He dove under a shattered stall, wood splintering around him, the smell of oil and smoke thick in the air. Bone claws ripped through the planks like paper. Its spine twisted in an impossible arc, segments bending, snapping, reforming again.

  Ren ducked low, weaving as he drew on his Threads.

  [Thread Surge]

  A burst of violet light seared through him. Reflex, power, desperation, it didn’t matter. His body blinked into speed, the world stretching thin around him. He moved before thought could catch up. The bow came up, string taut, arrow loosed in a blur of motion.

  The shot hit, the creature reeled, the arrow sinking shallow into the mass of sinew where neck met shoulder.

  Not deep enough.

  He dropped back behind a stall, the same one he’d once used to sell mana-chili skewers to travelers and guards. Broken crates littered the ground. The scent of char and spice clung to the air. Something sharp dug into his spine as he crouched low, breaths coming fast.

  The thing was circling him. Slow. Deliberate. Its claws scraped the stone like a knife dragging across bone.

  If it can’t be overpowered, then outthink it.

  He closed his eyes, forced a breath.

  It’s hunting you. That means it’s curious. That means it’s not expecting a trap.

  His gaze darted across the wreckage of his stall.

  A broken tin oil lamp.

  A coil of rope.

  A spit rod, iron, long, half-blackened by old use.

  And there, ashroot spice spilled across the cobbles, white dust hissing faintly where it met blood.

  Ashroot. Bitter. Volatile. Smokes when burned.

  He moved fast. Tore a strip from his overshirt, wrapped it tight around the end of the rod, and dipped it in oil. Then he grabbed a handful of ashroot powder and smeared it across the cloth.

  The creature hissed, crouching low, sensing motion.

  He hurled a crate sideways, loud crash, wood exploding into splinters. The beast lunged, jaws clacking through the false target.

  Ren struck flint.

  Fwoosh.

  Flame bit the air, red and gold. Smoke curled thick and acrid, laced with spice and oil. The smell was harsh enough to make his eyes water. The creature hesitated, twitching, its malformed face twisting as if trying to understand the new scent.

  Ren didn’t give it time.

  He threw the torch.

  It hit with a burst of flame.

  Redroot smoke poured across its body, clinging to the skin, seeping into the gaps in its bones. The thing screeched, not in pain, but confusion. Its limbs spasmed, claws clawing at itself, blind and erratic.

  That was enough.

  Ren ran. Not away, around.

  He darted behind a toppled wagon, seized the coil of rope, and stretched it between two broken poles, just above the ground, taut as a tripline. Then he turned, heart hammering.

  “HEY!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Over here, you ugly sack of marrow!”

  The creature’s head snapped toward him. Its scream rattled the windows still standing. Then it charged, fury and motion in one blur of pale flesh.

  Ren waited. One breath. Two.

  He dove sideways.

  The thing’s front claws cleared the rope, but its hind limbs caught. Momentum carried it forward. It stumbled, collapsing in a heap of thrashing limbs.

  Ren was already up, spit rod in hand, the tip still glowing dull red.

  He swung, putting every ounce of strength behind it. The rod drove through the creature’s side-mouth and deep into the pulsing cartilage behind it.

  The shriek that followed could’ve cracked glass. The creature convulsed, flailed, then slammed to the ground. Smoke hissed from its insides, redroot fumes burning holes through its warped lungs.

  Then, stillness.

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  Ren staggered back, chest heaving. Every part of him throbbed—shoulder, ribs, legs—but he was still standing.

  Alive.

  “Ren?”

  The voice was soft, raw.

  He turned. Maela stood framed in the wreckage of the tavern’s doorway. Her arm was torn and bloodied, hair tangled, but she was alive. Two small boys clung to her legs—her nephews—faces streaked with grime but unhurt.

  She looked at him for a long moment. Not with scorn. Not with that old bitterness. Just shock. And something like gratitude.

  “You… killed it.”

  Ren didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, shaking void. He just pointed toward the eastern road, the only path not currently choked with smoke.

  “Take them, ” he rasped. “Now. Don’t stop for anything.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. She gathered the boys, turned, and ran. Her footsteps faded into the mist.

  Ren exhaled slowly. The rain slicked his hair to his forehead, cooling the sweat but doing nothing for the heat inside his chest.

  He turned toward the rest of the town.

  The air had gone still again. Not calm—hollow. The kind of silence that wasn’t peace, but absence.

  He moved on shaky legs through the wreckage. Past the fountain where he used to wash ingredients. Past the bakery with the shattered window, flour spilled across the cobbles like snow. The acrid smoke of burning spice hung in the air, masking the copper scent of blood.

  He reached the archway leading to the residential district. It was a narrow choke point, easily defended if you knew what you were doing.

  And someone had known what they were doing.

  Ren stopped.

  They hadn’t died running. They had died holding the line.

  Garren lay at the center of the archway. He wasn’t just a body; he was a barricade. His shield was shattered, the iron rim twisted like wire, but he was buried under a pile of abominations—three, maybe four of them. His axe was buried deep in the neck of a massive, beetle-like creature. He hadn’t given ground. Not an inch.

  To his left lay Tallen.

  The archer was slumped against the stone, his yew bow snapped in half. But around him, the ground was a pincushion. Every single arrow in his quiver was gone, and every single one had found a mark. He hadn’t died defenseless; he had died empty.

  And Kaela.

  Ren felt his throat close up. She was a few feet behind them, guarding the entrance to the cellar doors. Her daggers were gone—embedded in the chest of the thing that had finally brought her down. She lay curled on her side, one hand still gripping the handle of the cellar door, locked from the outside.

  She had sealed the civilians in. She had stayed out here to make sure nothing followed them.

  Ren walked through the scene like a ghost. He didn’t cry. This wasn’t a tragedy of victims; it was a monument of warriors. They had bought time with blood.

  They were better than this place deserved, he thought, the realization heavy and cold. They were better than me.

  He forced himself to keep moving. He had to know.

  He turned the corner toward the apothecary. The shop was gone—roof collapsed, walls blown out. Glass crunched under his boots, the remnants of a thousand potions mixing with the mud.

  And there, sitting amidst the ruin of his life’s work, was Farin.

  The old alchemist was slumped against a half-standing wall, legs sprawled in the dirt. His apron—the one stained with everything from Wyvern bile to soup stock—was soaked dark red across the stomach.

  Ren froze.

  Farin’s head lolled forward. Then, impossibly, he drew a shallow, wet breath.

  Ren scrambled forward, dropping to his knees. “Farin!”

  The old man’s eyes fluttered open. They were hazy, unfocused, but they sharpened when they landed on Ren’s face. A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. A bloody froth bubbled on his lips.

  “You’re… late for prep, ” Farin wheezed.

  Ren’s hands hovered over the wound, shaking. It was bad. A clean tear through the gut. Vital organs hit. Mana leaking out faster than blood.

  “I have emergency potions, ” Ren stammered, fumbling with his belt pouch. “I have a regeneration draught from the Order, it’s strong, it can—”

  Farin’s hand moved—slow, heavy—and gripped Ren’s wrist. His fingers were ice cold.

  “Stop, ” Farin whispered. “Don’t waste it.”

  “Shut up, ” Ren snapped, voice cracking. “Shut up and drink.”

  He tried to bring the flask to Farin’s lips, but the old man turned his head away.

  “Ren.”

  The name was spoken with a weight that stopped Ren’s hands.

  “Look at me.”

  Ren looked. He saw the grey pallor of death creeping up Farin’s neck. He saw the light fading behind the eyes that had once scrutinized his knife work with ruthless precision.

  “I saw you, ” Farin murmured. “In the square. That light…” He coughed, a wet, hacking sound. “You’re not… just a cook anymore.”

  Tears blurred Ren’s vision. “I’m nothing. I wasn’t here. I should have been here.”

  “No, ” Farin breathed. His grip on Ren’s wrist tightened, surprisingly strong for a dying man. “If you were here… you’d be dead too. And then who… who would make the breakfast?”

  Ren let out a choked sob. “That’s a stupid joke.”

  “Best I’ve got.” Farin’s eyes drifted to Ren’s right arm—the metal prosthetic gleaming dully in the rain. He didn’t ask. He just nodded, a tiny, accepting motion. “You survived the wild. You survived the dark. Don't… don't let this stop you.”

  “Farin, please.”

  “Listen to me, ” Farin hissed, urgency lending him one last burst of strength. “The cellar. Kaela locked it. But the air vents… crushed. They’ll suffocate. Get them… out.”

  Ren’s head snapped up toward the cellar doors Kaela had died guarding.

  “I will, ” Ren promised.

  Farin exhaled, a long, rattling sigh. The tension left his body. His hand slipped from Ren’s wrist, falling limp into the mud.

  “Good, ” Farin whispered. His eyes lost their focus, drifting up to the gray, weeping sky. “Finally… a break.”

  And then he was gone.

  Ren knelt there for a long time. The rain fell harder, washing the blood from Farin’s apron, mixing it with the spilled potions until the earth was stained a strange, iridescent violet.

  Ren reached out, fingers trembling, and closed Farin’s eyes.

  “Thank you, ” he whispered. “For everything.”

  He stood up. His legs felt like lead. His chest felt hollowed out, scraped clean of everything but a cold, hard ember of purpose.

  Get them out.

  He turned back toward the cellar.

  A gust of wind swept through the square. Debris tumbled across the stones—shards of wood, torn fabric. A scrap of parchment fluttered past and caught on his boot.

  Ren reached down and peeled it off.

  It was his old market permit. The Sleazy Snake. Signed by the town clerk, countersigned by Farin as his sponsor.

  The ink was running. The paper was tearing.

  It was a artifact from a life that no longer existed.

  He crushed it in his fist, holding it tight against his chest.

  I can’t save them, he thought, looking at the bodies of his friends. But I can finish what they started.

  He took a step toward the cellar.

  And then the wind shifted.

  The smell hit him first. Not the copper of dead blood, but the sulfur of fresh monsters.

  A low growl vibrated through the soles of his boots.

  Ren looked up.

  At the far end of the square, where the mist curled thickest, shadows were detaching themselves from the ruins. Dozens of them.

  The pack hadn’t fled. It had regrouped.

  Ren looked at the cellar door. Then at the encroaching horde.

  He drew his dagger. It was chipped. Dull.

  He flexed his mechanical hand, feeling the hum of the mana drive whine in protest.

  “Alright, ” he said to the empty air. “Let’s see if I learned anything.”

  And then—the beasts pounced.