The second flare tore through the night—brighter, hotter, closer.

  Caelan’s head snapped toward it. The smoke trail arched east, above the inner gatehouse, barely silhouetted against the lightening sky. That gate faced the Verdainne Forest.

  Then the sound returned.

  Not just the whispers or the soft shifting from the deep. This was louder. Deliberate. The groan of stone under pressure. The dry scrape of something rising. Something with weight.

  The well was deciding.

  “Oil,” Caelan snapped. “Now.”

  Men moved. Barrels were rolled closer, uncorked, tilted—thick, flammable liquid sloshed down into the opening. The stench of it hit instantly, and some soldiers coughed.

  Lucien’s voice rose above the movement. “All squads—light your matches! Weapons hot!”

  All around the square, flint sparked. Fuses ignited. Match cords on the soldiers’ muskets caught fire and hissed—short lengths of burning rope now hanging beside loaded barrels.

  The entire square shifted, all at once, from preparation to expectation. No more doubt. No more whispers.

  Just that moment before the first shot is fired.

  Caelan stood at the edge of the well, the golden orbs of his Lumen spell still casting soft light downward. He could feel it now—something awake and climbing.

  He looked to Lucien.

  “Nothing comes out.”

  Lucien nodded once. “Or we send it back down in pieces.”

  The Square

  Moments after the oil was poured

  The stench of the oil hung thick in the air, sharp and bitter. Soldiers stood in a tight formation, fingers twitching near triggers, the smoldering tips of match cords trembling with every shift of wind.

  And yet—

  Caelan didn’t give the order.

  He stared into the well, jaw tight, eyes fixed. The Lumen orbs floated like ghostlights above the dark. Nothing had breached yet.

  “Not yet,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “We don’t waste the fire. Not until it shows itself.”

  The soldiers didn’t argue. But they sweated. Many were green. Militia men with farm-rough hands. Garrison troops who hadn’t seen action outside tavern brawls.

  And now they were pointing muskets into a mouth of ancient stone that breathed like it had lungs.

  Then came the sound of distant gunfire. Not drills. Live shots.

  From the east.

  The battlements facing the Verdainne Forest lit briefly with flashes—first scattered, then in bursts. Shouts followed. Echoes bounced down from the higher walls.

  Lucien muttered a curse. “They're already hitting the gates.”

  “Hold the square,” Caelan said. “The men at the wall know their part.”

  Another round cracked in the distance. Then another. Close enough now to feel in the chest.

  And still—nothing from the well.

  Until it moved.

  A wet, scraping sound rose from the dark, followed by the faintest metallic rattle—like armor brushing against stone. The Lumen orbs flickered, dimming as if something absorbed their glow.

  Then something came into view.

  First, a limb—long and skeletal, but armored in black chitin, glistening with a sheen like oil. It flexed unnaturally as it gripped the stone lip of the well.

  Gasps escaped from the men closest. One stepped back. Another muttered a prayer.

  The creature's other arm emerged next, followed by the upper curve of a head—no eyes, just ridges. No mouth—only gill-like slits, pulsing softly in the light. And on its neck, etched directly into the plating, a symbol.

  Caelan saw it and froze.

  A spiral of thorns. The same as the ancient folklore he’d once seen in his father’s war journal.

  Then came the second arm. And the third.

  Lucien’s voice was hoarse. “Three arms.”

  Caelan raised his hand.

  “Prepare to ignite.”

  The creature paused at the rim—three arms spread wide, claws sunk into the stone. For a moment, it was still.

  Then it screeched.

  A sound not meant for human ears. Not high or low—but wrong. It tore through the air like glass shattering inside bone.

  Every man near the well crumpled—hands to ears, faces twisted in agony. Muskets dropped. Teeth clenched. Some screamed. Others collapsed to their knees, eyes wide with terror.

  Caelan stumbled back a step, pain lancing through his skull, vision swimming—but he forced himself upright.

  The creature had begun to climb out—shoulders now rising above the lip, body unnaturally lean but armored, flexing with strength that made the stone lining crack beneath it.

  And behind it—

  Movement.

  Shapes shifting in the dark below. More limbs. More glints. A surge building.

  Caelan didn’t wait.

  He lunged for the nearest torch, its head still burning bright, and with no hesitation, hurled it into the oil-slicked pit.

  The flame arced—just as the second creature’s hand gripped the well’s edge.

  Then—

  WHOOMPH.

  A column of fire erupted from the shaft, swallowing the first creature in flame. It shrieked again—this time in pain—as its body ignited, black plating curling and blistering under the heat.

  The shockwave rolled outward, knocking the front ranks of soldiers flat and sending bits of charred stone flying.

  Lucien pulled Caelan back behind cover just as the creature twisted and fell back into the blaze.

  But the screeching didn’t stop.

  It multiplied.

  And it was coming up.

  Flames roared from the mouth of the well, casting wild shadows across the square. The scent of burning oil and something far fouler filled the air—like scorched iron and rot.

  Lucien didn’t waste a second.

  “Blades out! Now!” he barked, voice cutting through the haze.

  The soldiers snapped to. Matchlocks were dropped or slung across backs. Steel hissed from scabbards as swords, pikes, and halberds were drawn in a clatter of readiness.

  “Hold the line!” Lucien moved among them, checking gaps, kicking one man to his feet. “You won’t have time to reload if it gets through that cage, and it will try!”

  The well shuddered again.

  Something inside slammed against the iron bars from below. A crack split the stone lip. Screeches rang upward, layered and desperate, as if the fire had only agitated whatever was crawling beneath.

  “Positions!” Lucien roared. “You see it breach that rim, you strike hard and fast. Don’t wait for an order!”

  Caelan was already climbing back to his feet, eyes narrowing as more smoke funneled into the air, thick with heat and ash. He looked at Lucien—and nodded.

  The square was surrounded, the firelight licking up the garrison walls. The men stood shoulder to shoulder now, blades out, eyes wide.

  They weren’t ready.

  But they would fight anyway.

  Because whatever was down there was still coming up.

  The well erupted.

  The first creature—blackened and burning—crawled free in a lurching stagger, parts of its body aflame, shrieking through the smoke. Behind it, more came.

  Long limbs. Chitinous armor. Their movement was unnatural—crawling, skittering, climbing over one another in a writhing flood of clawed limbs and eyeless heads.

  Then the sky cracked with gunfire.

  The musketeers on elevated scaffolds opened fire in perfect sequence. Shots boomed in practiced volleys—first row, then second, then third. The frontmost creatures collapsed mid-climb, bodies thudding into the stone with a wet crunch.

  But more followed.

  They kept coming, screeching in pain and rage, their limbs dragging them forward even when torn open. Some were missing chunks. One was headless. It didn’t seem to matter.

  Below, Lucien’s line held.

  Steel glinted. Spears braced. Halberds locked shoulder-to-shoulder with swordsmen standing between them, sweat running down their faces as the square filled with sulfur and heat.

  “Steady!” Lucien barked. “Hold your wall until they breach the line! Wait for your moment!”

  The platform teams fired again, slower this time—reloads beginning.

  “Next volley—make it count!” came a shout from above.

  On the ground, Caelan stood at the center of the front ranks, sword drawn, voice steady.

  “They’re not invincible,” he said loud enough for those around to hear. “You can kill them.”

  More creatures poured out.

  Lucien raised his sword.

  “Ready!”

  The final volley rang out.

  Smoke choked the square, thick with gunpowder and ash. The musketeers above shouted for reloads, hands scrambling for powder flasks and wadding—but there wasn’t time.

  The creatures reached the edge of the killing zone.

  Then they leapt.

  The first slammed into the spear wall with a sickening crunch, impaling itself on three points before ripping free, dragging the men forward with it. Another pounced over the bodies, arms swinging, claws flashing. Steel met it midair—Lucien’s blade cleaving deep, sending black ichor spraying across the cobblestones.

  “Engage!” Caelan shouted.

  The line roared.

  Spears thrust. Swords stabbed. Halberds swung in arcs that split chitin and shattered joints. The air filled with the sound of metal on bone, screams of men and beasts alike.

  Caelan fought with precision, movements honed from real wars—not drills. One creature lunged; he stepped aside, dragging his blade across its flank before driving it into the base of its skull. It convulsed and dropped.

  Another slammed into the line beside him, bowling over two soldiers. Lucien was there before it finished its lunge—his halberd sinking into its back, pinning it as others closed in with pikes.

  Still, they came.

  From the well, from the fire, from darkness itself.

  And the line—fragile, sweating, bleeding—held.

  For now.

  Verdainne Gatehouse – One hour before first light

  The wooden platform creaked under the weight of three armored men as they leaned over the battlements, eyes scanning the dark line of the forest beyond. Mist clung to the ground, swirling low between the trees like it had crept in with purpose.

  Corwin adjusted the strap on his brigandine for the fifth time. “I swear by the gods, if I’d known we’d be marching in parade gear, I’d have feigned a fever and stayed in the chapel.”

  “You look magnificent, Cor,” said the soldier beside him, grinning behind his open-faced helmet. “Like a freshly lacquered turtle.”

  “Laugh all you want, Jarn,” Corwin muttered, shifting uncomfortably again. “Plate’s for show or war. This ain’t war. Not yet.”

  The third man, older, leaned on the battlement and spat. “Tell that to the young lord. He’s got us suited like it’s the second siege of Darnelle.”

  “Lord Caelan’s orders,” Jarn said, a bit quieter now. “He’s not wrong, either. We’ve had more patrols in the last two days than the whole damned month before.”

  Corwin shook his head. “I’ll take gambeson and boiled leather any day. At least I could feel my knees by sunrise.”

  Jarn chuckled but glanced toward the tree line again. “Still... feels off, doesn’t it?”

  They all went quiet for a moment.

  The forest was unnaturally still. Even the birds had stopped.

  And then—snap.

  A single branch, far off, cracked like it had been stepped on by something heavy.

  Corwin straightened. “You hear that?”

  No one answered.

  But they were already reaching for their weapons.

  The older soldier—Henric, a veteran with a silver-streaked beard and eyes that had seen too many things he didn’t talk about—lifted his matchlock and set it across the battlement’s firing slot. He adjusted the rest with methodical calm, like he was expecting something to come out of the dark.

  “Jarn,” he said without looking, “get the flare ready.”

  Jarn blinked. “What? Already?”

  Henric’s gaze didn’t move. “Something’s out there.”

  Corwin stepped forward. “Come on, it’s probably a boar or some thief sneaking around. No need to jump the bowstring.”

  “Then you better hope it’s a clever pig,” Henric said, “because I’ve been on night watches too long to mistake an animal for what I just heard.”

  Corwin opened his mouth to argue, then stopped when he saw Henric’s eyes—dead steady, watching the trees with a kind of stillness that made your skin crawl.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  “Get the damn flare,” Henric said again, voice flat.

  Reluctantly, Jarn moved to the signal kit behind them, fumbling slightly with the casing. Corwin gripped his spear tighter, turning toward the forest just as a low rumble carried across the mist.

  A second branch cracked.

  Then another.

  And the forest in front of them moved—a wide, subtle shift in the tree line, like something massive had brushed against them just out of sight.

  Henric didn’t flinch.

  He pressed the match to his gun’s pan and muttered, “Here we go.”

  Henric didn’t hesitate.

  With a single fluid motion, he pulled the trigger.

  CRACK.

  The matchlock roared, spitting fire and smoke into the dark. The recoil jolted back against his shoulder, but he held steady, eyes still fixed on the forest.

  Corwin and Jarn flinched hard, both ducking instinctively.

  “Henric—what in the hells are you—”

  Then the screech cut them off.

  It came from the trees. Sharp. Guttural. Not human. Not animal. It was the sound of something hit, something hurt, and something very alive.

  Henric didn’t look away.

  “Flare, now!” he barked.

  Jarn’s hands fumbled, then steadied. He struck the cap and fired the flare into the sky. It shot upward, blazing orange-red, cutting through the darkness like a sword through fog.

  And for the first time—

  The silhouettes at the tree line moved.

  Dozens.

  And they were coming straight for the town.

  The flare’s glow illuminated the mist in pulses, casting brief, jagged light across the tree line.

  Then the forest moved again.

  Dozens—maybe more—of misshapen figures swayed and charged through the underbrush, dark silhouettes slinking low or galloping fast. Too many limbs. Too little hesitation.

  Henric reloaded as fast as his old fingers allowed. Corwin stood frozen for a second longer than he should’ve.

  Down the line, other soldiers had seen it too.

  “Contact—Verdainne front!” came a shout from the nearest watchtower.

  An officer sprinted onto the wall walk, wide-eyed but clear-headed. “Form line! Ready matchlocks! Prepare volley fire!”

  The command snapped men out of shock. Gunpowder bags were ripped open, barrels loaded with trembling hands. The smell of flint and sweat filled the air.

  “Fire at will!”

  The entire wall lit up.

  Dozens of matchlocks thundered in ragged, overlapping bursts. Muzzles flashed. Smoke bloomed into the air in massive clouds. Bullets ripped through the dark and into the charging horde.

  Some shapes fell. Others kept coming—fast.

  Jarn swore, ramming a new round down his barrel. “There’s too many.”

  Henric’s voice was grim. “Then aim for the ones in front. Slow them down. Buy time.”

  And as another wave of shots went out, the war for Montrevelle officially began.

  Lieutenant Serrek watched the chaos unfold from the central tower platform, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the railing.

  The volleys weren’t slowing them down fast enough.

  “Rate of fire’s too damned slow,” he muttered, eyes darting between muzzle flashes and the fast-approaching shapes. “Not enough to cull them.”

  He turned to his adjutant. “Signal the archers. Anyone with a bow or crossbow—get them to the front. Fastest loading weapons we’ve got. Broadheads, bodkins—I don’t care. Make them count.”

  The man ran to relay the order, shouting across the stone walkway.

  Serrek turned again and snapped to a young runner just arriving with a fresh powder pouch. “Forget that—go now. Tell the central barracks we need reinforcements. Full squads. Tell them the Verdainne line is engaging, and we can’t hold it alone.”

  The boy nodded, wide-eyed, then sprinted down the spiral stairs and into the smoke-hazed lower yard.

  Serrek’s eyes tracked the creatures as they charged, some falling from arrow fire, others leaping over their dead like wolves.

  They were 200 paces. Then 150.

  He raised his voice above the wind. “Get ready! If they get within fifty paces, we switch to polearms and blades! I want ladders destroyed! Don’t assume they can’t climb!”

  As if to mock him, one of the larger creatures leapt and latched onto a low stone outcrop—then began to claw its way upward.

  Serrek drew his sword. “Prepare for breach!”

  It came over the top like a shadow wrenched from the earth.

  The creature hauled itself onto the battlement, limbs snapping into place as it surged forward with horrifying speed. Its shriek drowned out the closest commands.

  The first man it struck was mid-reload—he never saw it coming. The creature rammed into him shoulder-first, sending him tumbling off the wall and down into the courtyard below with a scream that cut short far too quickly.

  The second was knocked back, skidding across the stone and slamming into the merlon with a grunt of pain. His breastplate dented—but held.

  Another soldier lunged to intercept, only to be battered aside by a sweeping claw that struck like a hammerblow. The armor saved him. The force still dropped him.

  The line scattered. Firing formation shattered.

  “Hold it back!” Lieutenant Serrek roared, blade drawn, eyes locked on the beast.

  Two halberdiers stepped in, pikes bracing as the creature twisted to face them. It hissed low, then lunged—but steel met it first. The halberds drove it back a step, giving the matchlock line behind a precious second to breathe.

  “Clear the lane!” Serrek barked.

  The front men dropped and rolled to the side in practiced unison.

  Three shots cracked in close succession.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Smoke. A squeal of pain. The creature staggered, then crumpled—black ichor pooling around its twitching limbs.

  But below, at the base of the wall—

  More shadows gathered.

  And they were watching.

  Smoke still clung to the wall as the body of the downed creature twitched once more, then finally went still. Soldiers caught their breath, some still bracing for another charge.

  “Lieutenant!” a voice called from further down the rampart. A gunner, sprinting up the steps with powder-blackened gloves. “The cannons are ready! Orders?”

  Serrek didn’t hesitate.

  “Affirmative!” he shouted. “Target the treeline! Fire when ready!”

  The gunner turned, voice already ringing down the line. “Cannon crews—fire on command!”

  Serrek stepped to the edge, eyes locked on the moving mist.

  “Let’s see how they like our teeth.”

  The cannon crews moved in rhythm—powder packed, wads rammed, touchholes primed. Serrek could hear the tension in their breath, feel the quiet before the storm.

  “Fire!” the order rang out across the wall.

  The first muzzle flashed—a blast of flame and smoke tearing into the dawn-dark sky. Then another. Then all four.

  BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

  The ground trembled beneath the ramparts. Shockwaves rolled through the air as iron shot screamed across the field and into the shadowed tree line.

  Flares of light lit the battlefield in violent strobes, casting the charging creatures into stark, monstrous relief. Limbs were torn. Trees shattered. Dirt erupted in sprays of mud and blood.

  Cheers broke out along the wall—short-lived, breathless, full of raw adrenaline.

  And in the east, the first streaks of dawnlight broke over the hills.

  But the forest didn’t stop moving.

  The smoke hadn’t even cleared from the cannon muzzles when the second wave came.

  This time, they didn’t crawl or slink.

  They charged.

  Dozens—maybe more—rushed the wall in a blur of claws, armor, and alien screeches. Some ran on all fours, others leapt, scrambling up the stonework like spiders from a pit. Their speed was unnatural. Their focus—unerring.

  The line broke.

  One creature slammed into a gunner before he could draw his sidearm, smashing him against the stone and hurling him from the battlement.

  Another vaulted over the parapet, ramming into a squad mid-reload. Men went flying, gear clattering, a halberd spinning over the edge before clanging below.

  Screams rose.

  Steel rang.

  The rampart was no longer a firing line—it was a brawl.

  Serrek cut one down with a downward slash, only to be shoved back by a second creature's swipe. Its claws screeched off his breastplate but didn’t puncture—still, the impact knocked the wind out of him.

  More soldiers poured in from the stairs, reinforcements from lower towers—swords, spears, even axes. Blood hit the stones. Bodies followed.

  Corwin fought with gritted teeth, shield up, teeth bared. Jarn stood back-to-back with him, jabbing with a pike as two of the creatures flanked.

  They weren’t winning. But they were not breaking.

  This wall would hold—or die trying.

  Serrek parried another claw swipe and shoved the dying beast off the edge of the wall with a boot to its chest.

  He didn’t wait for the next one.

  “Fall back!” he shouted, voice raw. “Pull to the courtyard! Phase two! Phase two!”

  The order echoed down the ramparts as horns sounded a low, braying signal—three bursts, the mark of tactical withdrawal. The remaining soldiers moved with grim urgency, dragging the wounded, covering each other in tight formations as they descended the inner staircases and ladders.

  The cannon positions were left behind, unmanned and silent, barrels still smoking from their last thunderous cry. Some had been knocked from their mounts, others spattered in gore—but there was no time to salvage them now.

  In the courtyard below, Lord Caelan’s contingency took shape.

  The secondary line of barricades—constructed hastily the day before—now came to life. Chest-high walls of sandbags, overturned carts, and spiked palisades created a funnel of death aimed squarely at the inner gates.

  Archers repositioned behind them. Spearmen stood ready. A row of reloaded matchlocks rested on the ready racks.

  And as the first defenders from the wall staggered into place, bloodied but unbroken, the second battle line braced itself.

  They came in waves now—shrieking, crawling, crashing against the choke point like water against stone. But this time, the stone pushed back.

  The first creature lunged down the alley—

  CRACK.

  A musket fired. The shot took it square in the chest—not fatal, but it staggered.

  Then the second round hit its leg. A third struck the side of its head with a sickening crack. Bone? Shell? Didn’t matter.

  It dropped, limbs twitching.

  Behind it, another charged. And another.

  The four sharpshooters fired in smooth rhythm—fire, pass back, reload, receive, fire again. The teams behind them worked with grim precision, pouring powder and ramming shot as if time itself were bleeding.

  Columns of creatures slammed into the pike wall next—but the steel held. The beasts might’ve had claws and speed, but they lacked coordination. The humans didn’t.

  “Drive!” a sergeant yelled, and the pikes surged forward in unison, pushing the snarling mass backward, skewering the front line with brutal efficiency.

  More gunfire above. Arrows whistled from the rooftops, pinning those that tried to climb the buildings or swing wide.

  Blood—black and steaming—coated the cobblestones.

  And for the first time since the well erupted—

  They weren’t just surviving.

  They were winning.

  Selene

  A few minutes before the first flare

  Selene stood at the edge of Montrevelle’s southern exit, half-shrouded in mist, watching the guardhouse down the road with narrowed eyes. She hadn’t approached it yet. Not while the gate was still manned.

  She could hear the clatter of hooves somewhere deeper in town—patrols changing, orders barked in that clipped, military rhythm that came before something sharp. Something ugly.

  She tightened the straps on her pack.

  Her route had been mapped out days in advance—standard precaution. She’d prepared two exit points, a false trail, and one alternate disguise buried just outside the town walls.

  But something didn’t sit right. The birds hadn’t returned to their perches. The wind had a scent—burnt iron, wet bark. Too similar to what she’d smelled in Vardeaux before it went quiet two months ago. Before the eastern hamlets burned without a single witness left alive.

  Selene took a slow breath, resisting the urge to run.

  She turned back one last time, glancing up toward the rooftops of Montrevelle. Soldiers on patrol. Lights in windows. And faintly, just barely—a sound.

  Deep. Distant. Metallic.

  Not natural.

  Her spine tensed.

  The scream of the first flare came moments later, followed by a second that bathed the treetops in red.

  And Selene, eyes wide, whispered to herself:

  “I don’t like where this is going.”

  South Gate, Montrevelle

  The crack of musket fire snapped through the mist.

  Selene froze, eyes narrowing. One shot, then two more—then a staccato rhythm of panic across the southeastern wall. The gate guards shouted, some scrambling toward the commotion. Orders flew. Steel rang.

  Gunfire. At the perimeter.

  She didn’t wait for confirmation.

  Selene turned hard on her heel and bolted—northwest, away from the sound, toward the western gate, which her memory told her was closer. She ducked into an alley, knelt beside a crate, and yanked a folded map from her satchel.

  Her finger traced a line. Western gate, secondary road, small stable nearby—worth a risk.

  She stuffed the map back and moved, cloak pulled tight, eyes scanning every shadow.

  She wasn’t going to wait to find out if it was a beast, a bandit raid, or something far worse. She needed a horse, and she needed out.

  Now.

  Montrevelle – Western District

  Selene kept her pace swift but measured, weaving through alleys and side streets with the confidence of someone who’d memorized the town’s layout. The western stables were close—she could almost smell the hay and damp wood.

  But then—shouting.

  Not distant like before.

  It was close.

  Men’s voices—soldiers—followed by the sharp cracks of gunfire. The echo came from a narrow junction just ahead.

  Selene slowed, crouched low behind a stacked barrel, and peered around the corner.

  Blockade.

  Makeshift barricades. Smoke. Soldiers in tight formation, weapons drawn—and beyond them, more movement. Too fluid in motion to be human.

  Her stomach turned.

  She knew this street. The well from the night before was only a few dozen paces off the main route she’d taken. She’d circled too close.

  The sounds from beneath the earth were no longer whispers. Now they were war.

  Selene clenched her jaw. The stables were on the other side—but she couldn’t go through this.

  She had to reroute.

  Selene cursed under her breath and spun back the way she came, slipping into the side entrance of an abandoned workshop. The door creaked softly behind her as she pressed her back to it, breathing through her teeth.

  She pulled out the map again, fingers trembling.

  Too much heat on the west side… come on…

  Her eyes darted over the parchment until—there. Northwestern edge of town. A smaller stable, more like a delivery post. Fewer horses, but enough.

  She pocketed the map and moved through the building, slipping out the other side into shadow. The sounds of battle behind her grew louder—screams, steel, gunfire.

  She didn’t look back.

  She couldn’t afford to.

  Montrevelle – Northern Quarter

  Just before dawn

  Selene moved with sharp, deliberate steps through the narrow alleyways of the northern quarter. The smell of smoke clung to the air—oil smoke from the square, powder smoke from the walls. The city was groaning under its own weight, and she felt it in the cobblestones beneath her boots.

  She paused at a corner and pressed her back against the damp stone wall of an apothecary. A loose shutter above creaked in the breeze. She risked a glance around the edge—nothing but empty street and scattered crates. No movement. Yet.

  She pulled out the map again, her eyes scanning for landmarks she could match to her surroundings. Walled courtyard. Two intersecting streets. Redsmith’s alley just beyond. That meant she was two turns from the secondary stable.

  She folded the map one-handed and pressed forward, slipping between buildings where the shadows were deepest. Her fingers brushed the hilt of the small stiletto hidden at her hip—not a weapon she’d use unless cornered, but its presence was a comfort.

  A few steps more and she passed a small shrine built into the wall—burnt incense still curling in the dish. She didn’t stop, but her gaze lingered for a heartbeat.

  Let the gods keep the town. I’ll take my chances with the road.

  She reached the junction and stopped cold. The stable was visible now—barely a block down the lane. A low stone building with a fenced paddock and a few tethering posts. The gates were open, and there were silhouettes inside.

  Her eyes narrowed. Movement. Two horses. One stablehand.

  She had a window.

  Selene didn’t run—but she didn’t stroll, either. She moved with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged. Head high, cloak drawn just enough to obscure her gear. The kind of walk that raised no questions unless you were looking for them.

  Every step was a risk. Every second, a new variable.

  But she was almost there.

  And she wasn’t going to die in Montrevelle.

  The smell of hay and horses hit Selene as she stepped into the courtyard, her boots crunching on gravel. The stable itself was quiet, the early light casting long shadows across the wooden beams. Two horses were tethered under the awning—one chestnut, one black, both alert but calm.

  The stablehand—barely more than a boy—looked up from his work with wide, uncertain eyes.

  Selene wasted no time.

  “I need a horse,” she said. Her voice was steady, professional. “Saddled. Now.”

  The boy hesitated. “Miss, I—I’m not supposed to—”

  She stepped forward, pulling a small pouch from her satchel. It clinked.

  “Buy or rent. Doesn’t matter. Double the rate. I’ll ride quiet and fast, and you’ll never see me again.”

  The boy stared at the pouch, then at her eyes—sharp, cold, and absolutely certain.

  He swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am. The black one’s fastest. I’ll tack it.”

  “Do it.”

  Selene stood just outside the threshold, the light from the rising sun creeping over the rooftops behind her. The black horse shifted slightly on its tether, stamping once and flicking its tail, sensing the tension in the air.

  The stablehand disappeared into the structure’s rear, his hurried footsteps audible on the packed dirt floor. Selene’s eyes followed the space he vanished into, sharp and unblinking.

  He’d said nothing—but she saw it. The glance over his shoulder. The pause in his step. He wasn’t just getting a saddle.

  He was likely waking the owner.

  Selene didn’t blame him. A stranger showing up before dawn, armed, cloaked, with a pouch full of coin—it would raise suspicion.

  No time for delays.

  She stepped forward into the shadow of the stables, her fingers brushing her cloak, where the dagger was sheathed and waiting.

  The stablehand hadn’t returned.

  Instead, the owner emerged—broad-shouldered, middle-aged, wrapped in a heavy wool coat and wiping sleep from his eyes. He stopped when he saw Selene standing near the horse, then frowned at the pouch in her hand.

  “You’ve got a lot of coin for someone asking for a horse before sunrise,” he said, voice gruff. “Mind telling me why a young lady’s trying to ride out of a fortified town in the middle of a lockdown?”

  Selene didn’t flinch.

  She stepped forward, tone crisp and calm. “Because I’m on orders from Lord Caelan. I’m one of his couriers.”

  The man squinted. “You don’t look like a soldier.”

  “I’m not.” She lowered her voice, just enough to suggest urgency without alarm. “I’m his quiet one. The kind he sends when it’s urgent and not supposed to draw attention.”

  The stable owner didn’t look convinced.

  Selene stepped closer. “Listen. The southern wall is under attack. There’s gunfire from the Verdainne line. You’ll hear the cannon soon, if you haven’t already.”

  His brow creased. “That true?”

  “Why else would I be out here?” she snapped, letting just enough emotion bleed into her voice. “We need reinforcements from the northern watch and any horses that can still run. Do you want the town to burn while we argue about it?”

  A long pause.

  Then the man grunted and waved toward the stable.

  “Get her the saddle. Fast.”

  Selene exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding from her shoulders as the stable owner disappeared back into the building with a muttered command to “help the lady get what she needs.”

  It worked.

  Her pulse was still elevated, but her face remained composed. Bluffing was a calculated risk—but one she’d mastered long ago. People rarely questioned confidence when it was delivered sharply and with just enough detail to sound official.

  From within the stable, she heard hurried footsteps.

  The boy returned moments later, a saddle slung over one shoulder, bridle in hand. He didn’t speak—his earlier nerves now replaced by focused movement. He tossed the blanket onto the black mare’s back, secured the girth, and tightened the straps with the quiet determination of someone who knew not to ask too many questions.

  He worked fast, every buckle and loop falling into place like a practiced drill. Sweat gathered at his brow despite the morning chill.

  Selene watched in silence, eyes scanning the edges of the yard. She didn’t like staying still this long. But she could tell—the boy was nearly done.

  And her road out of Montrevelle was finally taking shape.

  The final strap was fastened. The black mare snorted, hooves shifting on the gravel as the stablehand stepped back.

  “All set, ma’am,” he said breathlessly.

  Selene gave a single nod and moved to take the reins.

  That’s when the sound hit her.

  Footsteps.

  Not the clumsy kind of a farmer, nor the armored stomp of a soldier. These were quick. Light. Trained.

  She turned sharply—just in time to see two town militiamen rounding the corner of the stable yard, weapons drawn, eyes sharp.

  “Halt!” one of them barked. “You! Step away from the horse!”

  Selene’s heart didn’t skip—but her hand slid inside her cloak, where steel waited.

  They weren’t here for her. Not exactly. But they’d been stirred up by the noise, the fighting, the fleeing shapes in the dark. And a cloaked stranger with a saddle-ready horse was just suspicious enough to demand attention.

  She had a choice.

  Talk her way out again.

  Or run.

  Selene kept her expression neutral, letting the soldiers come closer without flinching.

  "Easy, lads," she said, pitching her voice with calm authority. "Messenger detail, Lord Caelan’s orders. I’m tasked with fetching a courier team from the outer stables. We’ve got wounded piling up from the southern engagement, and they need immediate transport."

  The first militiaman narrowed his eyes, uncertain. "You got papers?"

  Selene leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to sound conspiratorial. "Lord’s orders are verbal only right now. No papers—too risky if intercepted. You've seen the flares. You think we have time for parchment?"

  The men hesitated. One glanced nervously back toward the southern skyline—where smoke and flashes of gunfire still marked the distant battle.

  Selene pressed the advantage. "You want to be the one who delays an urgent call for medics because you needed signatures?"

  The second soldier shifted uncomfortably, then muttered, "Let her through."

  The first gave a reluctant grunt and waved her on. "Fine. Go. Fast."

  Selene nodded sharply, mounted the horse in one fluid motion, and kicked into a swift canter, the black mare’s hooves hammering against the cobbles as she raced for the northern gate.

  Another tight thread navigated.

  But she knew, her window was closing fast.

  Montrevelle – Approaching the Northern Gate

  The black mare raced down the northern streets, hooves striking sparks against the old cobblestones. Selene kept low over the saddle, one hand tight on the reins, the other steadying her cloak against the whipping wind.

  The town was waking into chaos behind her the sounds distant gunfire, the sharp cries of alarm, smoke coiling into the sky as the town's fate twisted toward violence.

  She could see the northern gate ahead now. Fewer guards. Less commotion. Her plan was working.

  Almost there.

  But then—

  A roar split the air to her left.

  Selene jerked her head toward the sound—and caught a glimpse of something barreling down an adjacent street. It was one of the creatures. Charred black from the fires at the square, half its armor cracked and broken, but alive—and fast.

  Unfortunately, it had seen her.

  It turned, limbs scraping and propelling it’s body forward, straight toward her.

  Selene spurred the horse harder. The mare responded, but the creature was closing fast, cutting through the narrow alleys like a hunting hound.

  The northern gate was less than a hundred yards away.

  One mistake, one hesitation, would cause her life.

  The creature let out a piercing shriek and leapt.

  Selene gritted her teeth, ready to make a desperate move—

  End of the chapter