A horde. Hundreds—no, thousands.
Tarrin couldn't tell. Numbers didn't matter. All he knew was that when they collided, it would hurt.
Bad.
He sprinted with the tide, surrounded by soldiers armed with curved swords and boxy rifles clipped to their hips. Everyone was moving forward, but no one looked ready.
Tarrin glanced down. His gear was still there—sword at his side, gun in its holster.
'At least I'm not naked.'
The earth trembled harder now. The dull thuds in the distance became bone-shaking booms. His gaze locked on the towering Scarbane leading the charge.
It loomed closer, massive limbs pounding the ground in a sick rhythm.
All around him, soldiers muttered prayers, curses, goodbyes. Tarrin whispered none of it. He just kept repeating the same thing in his head:
'It's not real. It's just an illusion. You won't die here.'
He glanced up again.
The Scarbane had accelerated.
Two hundred feet.
One hundred.
Fifty.
Twenty.
Then the world shattered.
The front line buckled like paper beneath a hammer. Limbs, weapons, entire bodies scattered through the air. The Scarbane ripped through them like a force of nature.
And then the rest of the horde arrived.
Screams exploded on all sides. Blood sprayed. Steel rang out and shattered. Gunfire erupted but was swallowed whole by the chaos. The air reeked of gore and terror.
A soldier flew overhead, limp as a ragdoll.
Tarrin's battle-high drained in an instant, replaced by something colder. He could barely think past the realization crashing through his skull.
'Is this what it's like out there?'
He didn't get an answer.
Because one of them was already on him.
It was fast—slithering and skittering in the same breath. Translucent flesh wrapped around a skeletal frame, blue veins pulsing beneath its skin.
Like a centipede that had bred with a snake, and neither side had been happy about it.
It lunged.
Tarrin dove to the side, rolled once, and popped back to his feet without thinking.
Then someone crashed into his back.
'Not again—'
He staggered forward, straight toward the Scarbane.
No time to think.
A wave of dread exploded out from him like a shockwave. The creature halted—just for a heartbeat.
But that was all he needed.
His body moved before thought caught up. Blade drawn, feet shifting—Reverse Dawn.
The strike landed.
A screech like metal ripping through bone split the air, and a spray of sizzling blue blood washed over him.
As he heard it, something inside Tarrin clicked.
He could do this.
Without hesitation, he dropped low, driving his sword deep into the creature's belly. Another ear-splitting screech—and then it collapsed, twitching.
But there was no time to savor the kill.
His instincts screamed.
He turned—too late.
All he saw was gray, leathery flesh before the massive Scarbane's skull slammed into his chest like a battering ram.
Everything went black.
His eyes snapped open an instant later, the world a blur of agony. Pain lit up his nerves like fire, every inch of him burning. He tasted blood—hot, coppery. Coughed it out.
Then he saw them.
Four hooves, each the size of a man's chest, ten feet away and thundering toward him.
Move.
He rolled. Once. Twice. Every joint screamed in protest. I can't stay down, he told himself, again and again, like a prayer carved into his skull.
He tried to rise—collapsed.
Tried again—arms buckled.
The third time, he made it.
Barely.
His legs trembled. His vision swam. But he was on his feet.
And what he saw made his breath catch.
The line was gone.
All around him, the Scarbanes were tearing through soldiers like they were made of cloth and bone meant only to break.
Then he saw her.
Cutting through the chaos like a blade of light—Celith.
She danced across the battlefield, graceful and lethal. Every swing of her sword drew blood. Every strike ended something.
Tarrin's chest burned with fresh adrenaline. He had to survive. He had to win.
His feet tensed, then launched him forward like a spring uncoiled. His target loomed ahead—a massive Scarbane, nearly four meters tall, the same one that nearly trampled him moments before. It looked like a monstrous warhorse, all muscle and malice.
It was distracted, locked in combat with another soldier.
Tarrin struck from the flank. His blade flashed—only a shallow cut on its hind leg. 'Tough bastard.'
The Scarbane turned fast—too fast for something that size. Its eyes locked onto him, glowing with primal rage.
Tarrin flicked a glance at the soldier, who gave a curt nod in return.
They moved.
Tarrin inhaled sharply, then lunged. His sword rose in an overhead arc, slicing the air with a vicious hiss.
But the beast reared up, hooves kicking skyward, dodging the strike with terrifying grace.
Tarrin pivoted, slashing across—but the Scarbane slammed its forelegs down faster than his arms could swing. The earth trembled beneath its landing.
He jumped back, heart pounding. 'Getting pancaked wasn't on today's to-do list.'
The soldier saw an opening and charged in, spear low, aiming for the creature's hind legs.
Tarrin's eyes widened. No, no, no—
"Wait!" he shouted.
Too late.
The Scarbane's leg snapped out like a whip.
One kick—too fast to track.
It struck the man square in the head.
His skull burst like overripe fruit. Brain matter sprayed the dirt.
Tarrin froze.
Just for a breath.
Tarrin locked eyes with the beast—and something ancient stirred in his chest.
Fear.
Not the kind whispered about in stories, but real, primal terror. The kind that gripped your spine and refused to let go.
His hands trembled. Hesitation followed.
'This isn't an illusion. It's real. All of it.
The pain, the blood, the stakes. It all pressed in, suffocating.
'It's going to kill me. I'll die here. Crushed. Torn apart.'
'What am I doing? I'm no warrior—I'm a liar, a fraud!'
His thoughts screamed at him to move. But his legs stayed locked, frozen in place.
The Scarbane's muscles coiled.
A heartbeat before it lunged, Tarrin's eyes snapped shut, bracing for death.
But it never came.
Instead—
Whoosh.
The sound of something cutting through the air.
Then—a sharp impact. A shriek.
Tarrin's eyes flew open.
An arrow jutted from the beast's neck. His head whipped toward the source.
Lucas.
Bow drawn. Eyes narrowed in focus. A silent scowl on his face.
Rage surged into the space where fear had lived. Rage at the monster. Rage at the system that threw him into this slaughterhouse. Rage at the world for being so goddamn broken.
He moved.
His body launched forward before his brain could catch up. Faster than before. Sharper.
The horse's eyes locked onto him. It reared back, legs coiling again.
It charged.
Tarrin let out a roar, sword braced in front of him, ready to meet it head-on—even if it meant going down with it.
But then—he saw it. A blur of motion. The beast's leg arcing toward him like a hammer.
He twisted his body mid-stride. The strike missed by inches. The wind of it whipped past, flinging his hair back.
He spun with the momentum—slashed low, aiming for the joint.
Blade met flesh. Blood spilled.
Another arrow struck the Scarbane, this one sinking near its spine.
Tarrin didn't stop to think.
He was fighting now.
A fresh wave of pressure burst from Tarrin's body—stronger this time, more desperate.
The beast didn't care.
It barreled forward, all muscle and momentum. A full-body slam aimed straight at him.
Tarrin braced, driving his sword forward in a last-ditch hope that the thing would impale itself. Then he jumped back, yanking at the hilt—Only an inch in.The blade stuck fast.
His eyes flared wide.Shit.
The Scarbane's front leg twitched—then struck.
Tarrin barely threw up an arm in time.
Crack.The sound was nauseating. His arm bent in ways it never should. His body lifted off the ground and crashed down in a heap.
Pain flooded his nerves. He blinked once, then looked.
His arm was mangled. Bent. Split. Broken in too many places.
A grunt ripped from his throat, raw and hoarse. He refused to scream—but the tears came anyway, blurring his vision.
He forced himself up—
And saw death flying at him again.
The Scarbane lunged.
Tarrin twisted to the right, but not fast enough. Its shoulder clipped him, sending him spinning. He crashed into the dirt, agony flooding through his side.
But he didn't stay down.
Another arrow struck the creature, this one sinking into its belly.
Tarrin clenched his jaw, teeth grinding against the pain. His right hand—his only good hand—fumbled for the weapon on his hip.
His fingers found the grip. He pulled.
It felt foreign. Heavy. Cold.
He raised it, arm shaking, and pointed at the monster.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three shots. Each one punching a hole into the beast's hide. Small. Shallow. Useless.
But he wasn't aiming to kill.
He was just trying to survive.
Just as the beast lunged, a sharp boom echoed across the field.
A flash of blonde—Then its neck split open in a clean, perfect line. Blood fountained from the wound, spraying the earth.
The Scarbane collapsed with a deafening thud.
Tarrin's eyes tracked the figure walking past the carcass. Blonde ponytail swaying. Sword still dripping.
Celith.
Her gaze found his for a single heartbeat—sharp, unblinking, like she could see straight through him.
She gave a curt nod.
Then turned and vanished into the chaos, already hunting her next kill.
'She saved me, why?'
Tarrin exhaled. His lungs burned, but the tension bled out of him, even if the air still reeked of iron and death.
He was alive.
Not safe. Not victorious. But not dead.
Not yet.
He turned to find Lucas—
And froze.
The body lay nearby.
Headless.
Still twitching.
Tarrin's breath hitched. The numbness returned.
The cost of survival had just come due.