"What changed?" I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.
"Us. We're being hunted, and it's stirring up things that should stay sleeping."
The third day brings new horrors. We're climbing a narrow ridge when something screams from the peaks above us—a sound like metal tearing, but with an organic wetness that makes my skin crawl. Rockslides follow, forcing us to scramble for cover as boulders crash down the mountainside.
"Not natural," Thoktar pants as we huddle against an outcrop. "Those rocks were aimed at us."
He's right. The pattern is too precise, too targeted. Something up there is intelligent enough to try to crush us, and coordinated enough to nearly succeed.
Our supplies dwindle rapidly. The dried meat Nazim packed is running low, and the water we've found in mountain streams tastes wrong—metallic and bitter, like it's been tainted by whatever dark magic infests these hills. I do what I can with my healing herbs, treating cuts and bruises and the constant ache of exhaustion, but my knowledge only goes so far.
By the fourth day, we're all showing the strain. Thoktar's limp is more pronounced—his arena injuries never fully healed, and the harsh travel has reopened old wounds. Rophan's breathing is labored, and I catch him favoring his right arm. Even Nazim, with his serpentine grace, moves with painful deliberation.
Worse than the physical toll is what the constant fear does to our spirits. We snap at each other over minor things—which direction to take, how to ration the remaining food, whose turn it is to take watch. The stress of being hunted, of facing the unknown, wears at us like water against stone.
"We need shelter," I say on the evening of the fourth day. "Real shelter, not just another cave. Somewhere we can rest properly."
"Agreed," Nazim nods. "There should be an old waystation ahead. Abandoned, but it might still have a roof."
The waystation, when we finally reach it, is little more than ruins. Three stone walls and part of a roof, but it blocks the wind and gives us our first real respite in days. We gather what dry wood we can find and build a proper fire. For a moment, as I watch the flames dance and feel warmth seep back into my bones, I almost let myself relax. The constant scratching and howling seems distant tonight. The strange tracks we've been following have become scarce. Maybe whatever's been stalking us has finally lost interest.
I'm tending to a cut on Thoktar's arm when the attack comes.
They burst from the darkness without warning—shapes that seem to pour from the very shadows themselves. In the flickering firelight, they look like demons given flesh: twisted faces with too many teeth, eyes that burn like coals, claws that glisten wet and black.
My scream dies in my throat as terror freezes my blood. These aren't the supernatural horrors we've been fleeing—they're something worse. Something that wears the masks of nightmares while moving with deadly human purpose.
The first creature—no, not creature, I realize with mounting horror,man wearing a monster's face—leaps over our fire straight at Nazim. Steel flashes in the darkness as weapons catch the light. More shapes pour through the broken walls, theirgrotesque masks making them seem like things crawled up from the underworld itself.
Thoktar shoves me behind him as he draws his sword, but I can just see the exhaustion in his movements, the way his wounded arm trembles with effort. Rophan roars and charges the nearest attacker, but there are just too many, coming from all directions at once.
Their faces; each one more horrific than the last. Fanged maws dripping painted blood, hollow eye sockets, twisted horns and writhing tentacles that move as if alive in the dancing firelight.
21
THOKTAR
The masked bandits move like pack hunters, coordinating their attack with deadly precision. Steel rings against steel as I parry a curved blade aimed at my throat, the impact jarring through my wounded arm. Behind me, Forla scrambles for her knife while Rophan's roar shakes the ruined walls.
"Nazim!" I shout as three bandits converge on our Naga ally, their grotesque masks making them look like demons in the firelight. But these aren't supernatural horrors—they're human predators who've learned that fear is as useful a weapon as any blade.
The bandit facing me grins behind his fanged mask, revealing normal human teeth stained with berry juice to complete the illusion. His sword work is skilled but predictable, trained rather than intuitive. I give ground, drawing him away from Forla, then pivot and drive my pommel into his temple. He drops like a stone.
Across the ruined waystation, Rophan fights like the force of nature he is. His massive fists crush bone and tear through leather armor, scattering bodies like chaff. But even his overwhelming strength can't be everywhere at once.
A scream cuts through the battle noise—not pain, but rage. Nazim has wrapped around one of his attackers, his powerful coils crushing ribs while his claws open the bandit's throat. Green blood flows from wounds across the Naga's serpentine body, but his yellow eyes burn with lethal fury.
"Behind you!" Forla shouts.
I duck as a mace whistles overhead, then lunge forward, my sword finding the gap in my attacker's armor. He gasps, blood frothing at his lips, then topples backward into the fire. His mask catches flame, revealing a young face—barely more than a boy beneath the monster's disguise.
The sight hits me harder than it should. These are desperate people, driven to banditry by the same cruel world that scattered my clan. But desperation doesn't make them less dangerous.
"We need to break out!" Rophan bellows, laying about him with tree-trunk arms. "Too many of them!"
He's right. For every bandit we drop, two more seem to pour from the darkness. Their leader—distinguishable by his elaborate horned mask and silver-chased armor—directs the attack with tactical skill that speaks of military training.
"The Naga first!" the leader shouts. "He's worth the most!"
