Sweat poured down Bront’s face in streams, his corded muscles tensing with each heft of his massive tower shield. His breath steamed with every exhale, and his heavy boots broke the ground where he stepped. The screams of men and the coiling shrieks of creatures pierced the air around him. Green ichor dripped from his axe, and the sour scent of blood—mingled with something bitter and unnatural—filled his half-orcish nostrils.

  Where others faltered, he pushed forward. Where they buckled, he stood fast. His seven-foot frame became a beacon in the battle for Night’s Reach, adventurers and soldiers alike rallied beside the behemoth who refused to relent.

  And he smiled through the strain, the shallow cuts, the chaos.

  For Bront, battle was his proving ground. It was where his heritage could shine—where he could show the world how far his pride, and his will, would carry him.

  With a roar, he slammed his shield into the earth, cracking the cobbles and halting a watcher as it screamed toward him. His axe split it in two before he raised the shield again, slamming another creature back with a thunderous clang. A third slipped wide, trying to dart past the living bulwark.

  A silver flash stole its hamstrings; another slit its throat. Darron slid into place beside him.

  “You keep their eyes on you—I’ll cut down anything that slips by!” Darron barked, twin blades glinting dangerously in the dim light.

  Bront grunted his agreement and held the line.

  A flash of teal flame detonated in his periphery, incinerating several watchers in a heartbeat.

  Since Haizen, Barton, and—eventually—Celeste had returned from the graveyard, the defenders of Night’s Reach had begun to claw back ground inch by blood-slick inch.

  Haizen had thrown himself straight into the fray, cutting down watchers and unnameable Fell horrors with ruthless efficiency. Barton had retreated to the town keep on the south side of town, fortifying the guard and erecting a bubble of pristine holy light to protect the terrified townsfolk huddled within. Celeste drifted through the streets like a living tempest, her magic scouring alleys and crossroads of anything that broke past the lines.

  Together, they’d pushed the creatures back into the northern sector, pressing them again toward the palisades—but still the abominations poured from the black woods without end.

  Bromdel bellowed over the din, a dwarven war cry tangled with grief as his party member was tackled beside him—throat torn out by the fangs of a nightmare thing scrambling on all fours.

  Bront saw it happen and gritted his teeth, but he couldn’t yield his position.

  The stout shieldbearer from Jango’s party stepped in, smashing the creature aside with a ringing blow. It screeched and scuttled back toward him—its limbs ending in hands disturbingly human, grasping at the cobbles as it dragged itself forward.

  A deafening blast tore through the line as the cannon mounted in the center of the man’s shield fired, vaporizing the monster and spraying green ichor across the street.

  As Bront held the line, his eyes flashed forward just as a shadow looming larger than the rest stepped through the palisades. Its silhouette carried a tall halberd with a torn flag waving from its haft.

  Bront’s eyes narrowed. Was this a Fell warrior? A general of some sort?

  Without warning, it leaned back and let out a bellowing roar like a foghorn, picked up its halberd, and charged.

  Bront felt the line falter around him, intimidated by the foe’s presence, but as they stepped back, he stepped forward, leveling his tower shield and matching the thing's charge with a thunderous battle cry of his own.

  As it ran, it twirled its halberd, preparing a devastating strike. Bront’s shield came up just in time to halt a concussive blow as the axe-head whirled into the top of his shield. Bront pulled his shield to the side and swung vertically with his own axe.

  The thing sidestepped, its body flattening out with unnatural grace just before it wrenched its halberd free from the shield.

  At that moment, Bront finally caught sight of the monster…

  Scuffed and ruined armor, that once would have been beautiful bronze plate. A brimmed helm, partially destroyed but still strapped to the head. Beneath, a face half burned away, one eye shining that same sickly green—and the torn flag it bore upon its halberd… Lanton’s colors, with a distinct design of its own.

  A fallen adventurer.

  Whether by chance or by design, it was someone Bront had actually known.

  Alvern the Brave.

  The adventurer that refused to rank up.

  He remained at Bronze-rank for countless seasons, adamant that he stay so that he could lead, and help train other new Bronze-rankers. Bront had gone on a quest once with him too—fought a basilisk together, and without Alvern’s help that day, even Bront may have been turned to stone under the creature's famed gaze.

  Now, Alvern stood before Bront in an entirely different light.

  Fallen.

  Corrupted.

  Seething with Fell energy.

  Bront sucked in a huge breath, stood tall, and squared his shoulders.

  “I’ll give you a warrior's death, old friend.”

  Then, they charged.

  Alvern’s hulking form hit Bront with the force of a runaway wagon. Their weapons collided in a shower of sparks—halberd grinding against axe, shield locking against corroded bronze plate.

  The corrupted adventurer shoved, strength monstrous and uneven, powered by the writhing Fell energy pulsing under his skin. Bront’s boots tore furrows in the dirt as he dug in.

  “Still strong,” Bront growled through his teeth. “Good.”

  He pivoted, letting the next halberd swing glance off the side of his shield. The blow carved a deep cut through the metal rim, but Bront used the momentum—he stepped forward, slamming the lower edge of the shield towards Alver’s leg, only clipping him.

  The fallen warrior staggered, but recovered with a spinning sweep of the halberd aimed low at Bront’s legs.

  Bront heaved his massive shield, focused all of his strength into his legs, and jumped it—barely—bringing his axe down toward Alvern’s shoulder.

  The blade sank halfway in.

  Green fire erupted from the wound.

  Alvern shrieked—a sound of metal warping over a furnace. His ruined hand shot out, gripping Bront’s bracer with impossible force. The Fell corruption spread across his arm like tightening vines, anchoring him in place.

  Bront roared and slammed his forehead into Alvern’s helm.

  The helm buckled.

  The creature reeled.

  Bront tore his arm free and swung again—this time aiming for the throat.

  Alvern parried with the haft of his halberd, sparks exploding between them. Then he twisted with sickening fluidity and slashed the axe-head toward Bront’s ribs.

  Bront barely blocked it, shield ringing like a struck bell.

  They locked again—shield against halberd, axe against rust-eaten gauntlet—pushing, straining, neither giving ground.

  “Damn you,” Bront hissed under his breath, “for making me do this.”

  He let go of the deadlock.

  Let Alvern fall forward.

  Then he pivoted, putting his full half-orc strength into a brutal shield bash that lifted the corrupted warrior off his feet. Alvern crashed onto his back, the halberd skittering across the stones.

  Bront didn’t hesitate.

  He raised his axe.

  For a heartbeat—just one—the green eye in Alvern’s ruined face flickered.

  Recognition?

  Memory?

  Pain?

  Bront’s throat tightened.

  “I know you’re gone,” he whispered. “But if any part of you hears this… rest easy.”

  He brought the axe down.

  The strike split helm, skull, and pulsing Fell tendrils in a single cleaving arc. A burst of green-tinged vapor exploded outward. Alvern’s body spasmed—and went still.

  Bront stood over him, chest heaving, sweat and ichor dripping from his arms.

  For a long moment, the battlefield noise faded around him.

  “You deserved better,” he murmured.

  Then a horn blew from the far end of the northern sector of Night’s Reach—a clear, ringing call that cut through the chaos.

  Bront looked up.

  Murasa had returned.

  Dawn’s pale light seeped over the treetops.

  The Fell… were retreating.

  Bront’s head spun back toward the graveyard, not within sight from this distance, but searching still.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  “Where are they…?” he muttered to himself.

  As we picked our way through the eastern palisade—past the tattered remnants of the adventurers’ camp and back toward the northern sector—dawn’s first light began to break along the horizon.

  Every one of us was exhausted, faces drawn and streaked with dirt, blood, and ash. My muscles had already started to ache, the familiar backlash of drawing too heavily on Lun and Ten’s power—deep, biting, the kind that settles into the bones—but we pressed on. The battle wasn’t over.

  Or so we thought.

  As we neared the northern edge of Night’s Reach, shapes emerged through the thinning gloom—soldiers and adventurers moving in slow, uneven lines, clutching wounds, carrying the fallen.

  “Is it over…?” Kaela asked quietly, limping on her bad leg. Her voice sounded small against the morning wind.

  I kept my eyes fixed north. There was no way it could simply be over. Not after all that had come clawing out of the dark that night.

  We fell in beside a small cluster of soldiers making for the north wall.

  The sight that greeted us turned my stomach. Bodies lay strewn across the churned earth—soldiers and adventurers alike—limbs torn, armor split open, skin already paling toward that faint, sickly gray. Intermingled with them were watchers and other twisted Fell creations, lying in heaps where they had been brought down.

  But where was Bront…?

  I glanced back at Selene. Her eyes were scanning the field, her brows drawn tight—a rare, unguarded tension. I knew the feeling well enough. None of us could bear the thought of losing someone else.

  Thankfully, we didn’t have to. Not yet.

  From the western end of the palisades, a familiar figure trudged toward us. A mountain of a man—our half-orc companion—shield battered, armor coated in green ooze and drying blood, but still walking. Still breathing.

  Bront’s normally stone-set expression cracked into a weary smile as he spotted us. He dipped his head. Selene tipped hers in return, relief softening her features for the first time all night.

  As Bront drew near, his smile faded when he properly saw us—Lyria refusing to lift her gaze, Kaela leaning on her spear for balance, my armor torn and scorched, Selene’s composure fraying at the edges. We had won… but not without cost.

  Bront opened his mouth to speak, but before he could—

  A horn blared from a hastily lashed-together platform of wood and frayed rope.

  Murasa stood at its center, silver and gold armor cracked and blackened, though his voice boomed with its usual force. “Gather around!”

  Beside him stood a soldier I didn’t recognize, wearing the blood-stained remains of a platoon leader’s badge strapped crooked over his chestplate.

  We assembled loosely around the platform—fewer than before, far fewer—faces drawn tight with exhaustion, shock, and the rawness of surviving when others had not.

  Murasa let his gaze sweep over us. He drew a slow breath.

  “I’ve received word that the platoon leader was killed,” he announced. “Sergeant Coles here will take command. According to his count, of the forty-five soldiers assigned to this quest… twenty-three remain.”

  The words fell like stones in the cold morning air.

  My eyes drifted downward and caught sight of William Longfoot—the guild liaison—alive, hunched over his clipboard, scribbling furiously beside the platform. Even in all this, the ledger had to be kept.

  “Adventurers,” Murasa barked, his tone steady but not unkind, “step forward if you have lost anyone. We need an accurate count.”

  I winced.

  He was only doing what he had to—fulfilling the duty laid on his shoulders. But to hear the formality of it now, after all we had dragged ourselves through… it stung. Felt callous, too sharp for the moment.

  Or perhaps that was just my youth speaking—my heart still too raw, too unwilling to accept what the night, and the morning light had revealed.

  Bromdel stepped forward first, his long bronze beard singed at the ends, his face set as hard as basalt.

  “Ay… lost one.”

  He gave no further explanation, simply returned to stand beside his two remaining companions, his posture rigid, unbroken.

  Dwarves… ever the proud race, I thought.

  Helaine stepped forward next, and I could tell immediately how hard she was fighting to hold herself together.

  “Two… Two casualties for us…”

  Her voice wavered on the second number before she shut her eyes, swallowed, and stepped back.

  Then came Darron.

  “One dead,” he said plainly, as if stating the weather.

  I wondered—perhaps unkindly—if it was the man who had called me a monster. The thought left a sour taste in my mouth.

  My gaze drifted across those who remained. Jango and his shieldman stood shoulder to shoulder, armor lacquered in green ichor, both wearing expressions carved from cold iron. Their eyes held grief mixed with intent.

  Karne was nearby, pale as morning frost, trembling faintly. Mana depletion, most likely.

  What about them…? I found myself thinking.

  Murasa nodded in grim acknowledgment as each account was given. Beside him, William’s quill flew over the page, each stroke frantic but precise.

  My stomach tightened until it felt like a knot of rope.

  I glanced at my companions. Their eyes were fixed on the dirt—Selene’s jaw clenched, Kaela’s grip white-knuckled on her spear, and Lyria… Lyria met my gaze. For a heartbeat, her eyes carried something quiet and pleading.

  I drew a slow breath, stepped forward, and let the words fall.

  “The bronze party of two… led by Margo, the dwarven warrior—one of them was lost. Margo is currently missing.”

  Murasa’s amethyst gaze met mine, steady and uncompromising. I stepped back in line, blinking away the heat rising behind my eyes.

  “...We have suffered tremendous losses,” he said, his voice carrying across the yard. “I cannot give you excuses, nor can I restore the dead to us. But I can offer you a choice—and a chance to avenge them.”

  He moved to the edge of the platform, letting his golden aura rise like a second dawn around him.

  “The Fell forces have broken for now,” he shouted. “Driven back into the black woods. But make no mistake—they will return!”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd—fear, anger, weariness.

  Murasa raised a gauntleted hand for silence.

  “Night’s Reach is battered. Our walls shattered. Our healers overwhelmed. If we stay idle, if we wait for them to come again, they will tear through what remains of this town by sunrise tomorrow.”

  His voice hardened.

  “So I am proposing a strike. Preemptive. Into the woods, before the Fell can reorganize. Their retreat was chaotic—now is our window.”

  A wave of backlash rose at once.

  “You’re mad!”

  “We barely survived the night!”

  “We can’t fight out there—”

  Murasa lifted both hands and the clamor died down, though reluctance clung to the group like fog.

  “I am not ordering you,” he said firmly. “Not this time. Any adventurer who stays behind will remain to guard the town and its wounded. Those who wish to join me, we will meet within the hour. Then, we march before mid-day.”

  My breath hitched.

  A preemptive strike. The kind of fight only the strongest—or the most desperate—would attempt.

  And with so few silver adventurers left… my party’s presence would be expected. Needed. Possibly required.

  Murasa scanned the crowd, his eyes landing on us for a moment—on me.

  “I won’t lie to you,” he said quietly. “This choice may well decide the fate of this town… and who lives to see tomorrow's dawn.”

  He stepped back, letting his aura fade. “Decide quickly. We must make our move soon.”

  The crowd began to disperse in uneasy clusters—some arguing, some silent, some trembling with exhaustion. The rising sun revealed the true scale of devastation: broken shields half-buried in mud, lines of the wounded staggering toward makeshift tents, the thin keening of grief carried on the wind.

  I felt my companions gathering around me before any of us spoke.

  Bront’s voice came low, rumbling. “We should find somewhere to rest. Before the hour comes.”

  Kaela nodded stiffly.

  Selene exhaled shakily, brushing soot from her armor. “Let’s see what’s left of our camp then…”

  Lyria said nothing, only stepped closer, her hand brushing my arm as if to ground herself…

  We moved together through the wounded town—past broken barricades, extinguished braziers. The lingering stink of smoke and burnt bark permeated the damp air. Dawn’s light made everything look raw and unfinished, like a wound not yet scabbed.

  By the time we reached our tattered camp, the sounds of arguing adventurers had faded behind us, replaced by the flutter of torn canvas in the wind and the distant calls of healers preparing for a long day of tending the hurt.

  Bront dropped beside the firepit in a heavy heap. “It’ll do.”

  It would. Barely. But for now, it was enough—a place to sit, breathe, and speak before we had to choose which path to face next.

  I came in last, settling close and pulling my pack toward me, miraculously untouched, just as thin morning light spilled over the town, drawing long shadows across my companions.

  Our moment of reckoning—quiet, painful, necessary—was finally at hand.

  At first, none of us spoke. We busied ourselves with what remained in our packs: tinctures, oils, herbs, the last of our potions. Bront began mending his shield with slow, methodical movements. The monotony grounded us. I unearthed my spare quiver, replaced the scorched one, and carefully transferred the red-feathered arrow.

  Then, it began with Lyria.

  Her sniffles came so softly at first I almost mistook them for the wind. But they grew—hitching breaths, thin sobs, tears slipping down her cheeks faster than she could wipe them away.

  “...I—I’m sorry…” she whispered, rubbing her eyes.

  “Don’t mind it,” Bront said gently, concern tightening his brow—but clearly misreading her tears as simple exhaustion.

  Lyria raised her head. Red-rimmed eyes blinked at us—Selene, Bront, and me—while Kaela kept her gaze down.

  “It… It’s my fault. Because of my spell—he died,” she exhaled the word, her breath shuddering as she forced it out.

  It felt like a dagger to the heart when I realized what she meant.

  “That’s not true, Lyria,” Selene said softly, though her voice trembled. “What happened was chance—or the Witch’s final spite. You cannot blame yourself.”

  Lyria buried her face in her arms and sobbed harder.

  Bront looked between us, confused at first—until his eyes widened. Understanding struck like a blow.

  “Oh… that’s who you meant…?” he murmured, his head lowering as he recalled my report to Murasa.

  I nodded—slow, heavy.

  “How…?” he asked me. The question broke something open in Lyria, drawing a harsher sob from her and a pained scowl from Kaela.

  I shrugged, unable to form anything approaching an explanation. My mind drifted, unbidden, to Ron’s final moments. The light fading from his blue eyes, the crimson river slipping past his chin, that stubborn smile lingering as everything else collapsed.

  “Just… before any of us realized what was happening,” I muttered, my distant gaze cast into the dirt, voice detached. “It’s like—he stood against everything the Witch was, and when she fell, her weapon appeared in his abdomen.”

  Bront winced at my recount.

  “So there was a Witch,” he muttered darkly, remembering Syllico’s ramblings.

  He exhaled, long and tired. “Then he died a warrior’s death. An honorable way to go.” His gaze flicked toward Lyria, then sank.

  A warrior’s death…

  Is that where I’m headed, too…?

  Ron was more to me than just a fellow warrior.

  He was a friend.

  One of the first I’d met who was as green as I was. A kind man—awkward, earnest, close to my age—and a cleric of all things. I remembered our first meeting on the road back from Tilver’s Crossing: my exhaustion, his attempts at conversation though I scarcely had the energy to answer, and his persistence anyway. I remembered him risking reprimand to bring me into the Sunwarden’s crypts, hoping I’d find something about Lunae and Tenebrae. I remembered stumbling upon him scrubbing the temple floors with a sheepish grin, repenting for dragging me into said crypt.

  A fragile smile tugged at me—bitter, aching. Warm tears slipped over my dry lips as the full weight of it finally settled.

  He was gone. My friend. Dead. And I would never see him again.

  And for what…?

  I curled into myself at that moment. Ignoring the entire world. Ignoring Lyria’s sobs beside me, though I knew I had to reassure her that it wasn’t her fault.

  I Ignored Kaela’s inability to cope with such emotions as she sat timidly, massaging her sore leg.

  I Ignored Selene’s worried glances, Bronts tired stare.

  I even ignored the grim reality that we would likely have to dive back into the pitched hell that was the Fellwood—that we should be discussing it now.

  I pushed it all aside.

  And in that quiet, broken moment, I just sat…and wept.