Rain fell in a thin, miserable sheet over the sandy ground, turning Valarian’s outskirts into a slurry of mud and grit that clung to boots and tempers alike. Four figures crouched low on a ridge overlooking Poca’s homestead, cloaks damp, eyes narrowed.

  From here, the place looked quiet.

  Too quiet.

  “Alright,” said the leader, squinting. “Count it again.”

  His name was Brennar. Broad shoulders, thick neck, helmet tucked under one arm like it had opinions of its own. The kind of man who decided he was right first and worked backward from there.

  The merc beside him sighed. “I already did.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  The second-in-command, a lean woman with tired eyes and a perpetually furrowed brow, shifted her weight. “Five servants,” she said evenly. “One wooden… thing. Golem, puppet, whatever you want to call it. And a bear.”

  Brennar grunted. “It’s just a bear.”

  “It’s the size of a wagon,” she replied. “And it’s staring at the fence like it knows we’re here.”

  Down below, Oso lifted his massive head slowly, fur damp with rain, purple stardust clinging to him like embers. He huffed once, low and deep, then went back to watching the treeline.

  Carter did not move at all.

  The wooden golem stood near the garden path, hands folded behind his back, posture immaculate. Rain slid off his polished frame. His carved smile never changed.

  “That thing creeps me out,” one of the lackeys muttered.

  “Shut up,” Brennar snapped. “We’re not here for them.”

  The other lackey nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. We’re professionals.”

  The second-in-command shot them both a look. “We’re here for Selene,” she said. “And she’s not here.”

  Brennar snorted. “She’s around.”

  “She’s been gone for days,” the woman said. “Weeks, maybe. No signs. No movement. No blood trails, which is usually her calling card.”

  “She can’t stay gone forever,” Brennar replied. “Blood contract doesn’t expire because she took a trip.”

  “She’s dangerous,” the second said flatly. “And this place doesn’t feel right. I don’t like it.”

  “You never like anything,” Brennar shot back. “That’s your problem.”

  “It’s my job,” she corrected. “And my job is telling you this smells wrong.”

  The rain intensified, pattering against leaves and stone.

  “So what,” Brennar said, spreading his hands. “We walk away empty-handed? Tell the Guild we got scared of a bear and a wooden man?”

  “We wait,” she insisted. “Or we leave and regroup. Those servants didn’t sign anything.”

  “They’re collateral,” Brennar said without hesitation. “Pressure points. Selene comes back, sees what’s left, she pays.”

  The lackeys nodded immediately.

  “Yeah,” one said. “Pressure.”

  “Very effective,” the other added, clearly proud of the word.

  The second-in-command clenched her jaw. “This isn’t a job. It’s a mistake.”

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  Brennar grinned, confidence unshaken. “Relax. We’ll sit tight. Watch. Learn the pattern. Selene always comes back to her nests.”

  Below them, Carter’s head turned.

  Just slightly.

  If the mercs had noticed, they might have reconsidered.

  But Brennar was already settling in, convinced the world would bend the way it always had—eventually, and in his favor.

  The rain kept falling.

  It soaked into cloaks and crept down collars as the four mercenaries moved, slow and crouched, through a band of scrub trees where sand gave way to stubborn grass. The plants grew thick here, roots tangled deep enough to drink from whatever broken springs still bled beneath Valarian’s skin. Wet leaves brushed armor. Mud sucked at boots.

  Lorin hated this part.

  Not the stalking. Not the waiting. She hated that she was always the one holding the line together, always the voice of caution keeping idiots from getting themselves killed too early. Reasonable. Sensible. That was the mask she wore for the crew.

  It hid the part of her she didn’t share.

  The part that enjoyed watching things rot.

  She touched the small vial at her belt as she moved, thumb brushing the stopper. Necrotic distillate. Slow. Cruel. The kind that didn’t kill quickly, but ate. Flesh blackened. Nerves screamed. Victims begged long before they died. She preferred it on the helpless. There was something honest about it, watching people realize too late that no one was coming to save them.

  She told herself it was efficiency.

  She told herself a lot of things.

  “Quiet,” Brennar hissed ahead, lifting a fist.

  They had line of sight now.

  Five servants near the garden. No weapons. No armor. Just hands in the dirt, rain matting hair to skin. Easy. Quick.

  Brennar smiled. “See? Told you.”

  Lorin didn’t smile back.

  They surged forward.

  The servants barely had time to scream.

  Before steel could land, something moved.

  Carter was suddenly there.

  He stepped between the mercs and the servants in a single smooth motion, his body snapping into place like a gate slamming shut. One broad wooden arm swept back, ushering the servants toward the house. Another planted into the ground, stance wide and unyielding.

  The door slammed behind the last servant.

  Carter turned.

  No warning.

  No words.

  His forearm split with a sharp mechanical click, polished wood sliding aside as a triangular blade unfolded over his fist, locking into place with a wet, final sound.

  Brennar barely got his weapon up before Carter closed the distance.

  The golem hit him like a siege ram.

  A punch drove into Brennar’s chest, blade first. Armor crumpled. Breath vanished. Carter followed through, twisting, hurling him bodily into one of the lackeys hard enough to snap bone.

  The second lackey rushed in screaming.

  Carter caught his wrist, pivoted, and slammed an elbow into the man’s face. Teeth flew. The blade came down once, twice, not stabbing but crushing, breaking.

  Lorin moved then, drawing her knife, poison already slick along the edge.

  “Back!” she shouted. “He’s not—”

  Too late.

  The third merc tried to flank.

  The ground shook.

  Oso burst from the rain like a goddamn nightmare.

  He rose onto his hind legs, towering, massive paws slamming down as his jaws closed around the flanking merc’s torso. There was a wet, final crunch. The man didn’t even scream.

  Oso shook once.

  What came out was no longer human.

  The remaining lackey tried to run.

  Oso pounced.

  Paws pinned. Jaws closed around a leg, then higher. The bear worried him like a toy, tearing, crushing, ending it in moments that felt too fast and far too violent.

  Lorin froze.

  Brennar was still alive. Barely. Crawling. Blood bubbling from his mouth as he dragged himself away from Carter’s advancing steps.

  Carter did not hurry.

  He grabbed Brennar by the collar, lifted him, and drove him into the ground with enough force to leave a crater. The blade rose.

  It came down.

  Once.

  Silence returned, broken only by rain and Oso’s low, satisfied huff as he settled back onto all fours, fur slick with red and starlight.

  Carter straightened.

  Carter turned back toward the house.

  Rain slid down his shoulders as the blade folded neatly back into his arm, wood sealing over metal as if it had never been there. He took a single step, then another, posture already returning to that unsettling calm—guardian mode, task complete.

  Lorin stood frozen.

  Her knife slipped from numb fingers and sank into the mud. Her breath came shallow and fast as she watched Carter walk away from her, back turned, unhurried.

  He didn’t finish her.

  For half a heartbeat, hope flared. Ugly and desperate.

  Spared.

  She staggered back a step, mind scrambling for escape, for angles, for poison—anything—

  A shadow swallowed her.

  The ground shook.

  Lorin turned.

  Oso stood over her.

  Up close, he wasn’t just big. He was overwhelming. Massive paws sank into the mud beside her shoulders, water rippling outward as his weight came down. His breath rolled over her in a hot, animal rush that smelled of blood, rain, and something wild and ancient. Starlit purple dust clung to his fur, glowing faintly in the gloom.

  His jaws opened.

  She screamed once.

  The sound cut off as his paws slammed down, pinning her flat, ribs cracking under the force. His head dropped, jaws closing with terrible finality, teeth meeting flesh and bone in a single crushing bite.

  The rain washed the blood away almost immediately.

  When Oso lifted his head, there was nothing left worth naming.

  He huffed once, satisfied, then turned and lumbered back toward the house, where Carter already stood at his post—silent, unmoving, vigilant.

  The homestead remained quiet.

  And the sands swallowed what had come to take it.