Page 45

I don’t swing. I can’t.

The hesitation costs me.

Chains fail. Metal shrieks. Wood groans. And the lesson doesn’t wait for permission anymore. The chain that should’ve held had already been chewed thin by rot.

Malek’s head snaps toward it a second too late.

The Hollowborn explodes forward lunging past Malek without even turning its head.

It moves wrong—too fast for how broken it is. Limbs flail, joints popping audibly as it barrels toward me, jaw snapping open and shut. Its breath slams into my face hot and foul—sweet rot, iron, something fungal that makes my vision smear at the edges.

I stumble back, tripping. My ass hits the dirt hard enough to knock the breath clean out of me.

Panic clamps down.

My body locks.

For half a second, I freeze—lungs burning, ears ringing, the hymn screaming inside my skull.

I feel Malek go still behind me.

Not moving, just watching.

Scarlett’s laugh flashes bright and impossible.

Cass screaming my name through broken glass.

Malek’s voice, flat and merciless: Hesitation gets you killed.

Something tears loose inside me, and I swing.

The hatchet bites bone with a crack that jolts my teeth. Blackened blood sprays across my face, hot and sticky, stinking of rot and iron. It splashes my mouth. I gag and swing again—neck, shoulder—until the skull caves like rotten fruit and the body collapses in on itself, still twitching like it forgot how to stop.

I don’t breathe.

The second Hollowborn lunges.

Chains scream as it drags forward, claws carving furrows in the dirt. It slams into me, knocking me sideways. I hit a post. Stars burst behind my eyes.

Its hand snags my calf. Nails rake down my leg.

Four shallow lines tear through skin—sharp, bright, burning. Blood wells fast, slick and hot. The pain flares⁠—

Then drops away.

Too fast.

Heat blooms underneath instead, heavy and spreading, like the injury already forgot what pain is supposed to feel like.

My stomach flips.

I kick. Slip. My hatchet skitters away.

The Hollowborn clamps onto my ankle, grip icy and slick, skin sloughing under my hands. Its teeth scrape my boot—clack, clack—jaw snapping inches from flesh. I smell its mouth. Old blood. Rot. A ghost of something human that makes my throat tighten.

“No—no⁠—”

My fingers close around a splintered plank. I bring it down on its wrist.