Desan clung to the sword as the beast slammed him into the stone wall—once, twice, a third time—until his ribs screamed and something inside him cracked like splitting timber. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The world shrank to pain.
Then he dropped.
Coughing. Bleeding. His vision swam red.
Still grinning.
"Well… at least you bleed," he wheezed, spit and blood trailing from his lips.
The creature reached over its shoulder with a trembling hand and wrenched the sword free. Steel-grated bone. Sinew tore like wet roots. Smoke hissed from the wound.
It didn't growl. Didn't flinch.
It just stared at the blade.
Then snapped it in half like a matchstick and threw the pieces into the fireplace.
"…No. No, no—"
It rushed him.
Faster.
Meaner.
Desan rolled just as the mace came down, pulverizing the floorboards where he'd just been. Wood splintered into teeth. He crashed into the hearth, gasping.
"Velcrith?" he coughed. "A little help?"
Nothing.
No voice. No mockery. No insults.
Just cold.
He dragged himself up on shattered ribs, swaying. Each breath wheezed like broken glass in his throat. He reached blindly, fingers scraping until—yes—he found the broken blade. And beside it, the iron poker. Still in the fire.
It was hot.
Burning hot.
But his blood had cooled it, or maybe he couldn't feel pain anymore. His hand closed around it anyway.
The beast was turning again, shifting its back exposed. Ropes of sinew still held the ancient armor to its warped body. Desan's eyes flicked up.
That's your weakness.
He ran.
Dove low.
Slid beneath the creature's legs, and mid-slide, slashed upward at the sinew ropes—one, two, three strikes. The cords snapped like tendons under a cleaver.
The plating clattered off with a heavy, metallic thud.
The creature staggered.
Desan didn't think. He drove the burning poker into the base of its spine—deep and brutal.
The thing howled. The entire chamber trembled.
Desan stumbled back, panting, vision blurred with blood and smoke.
It thrashed wildly—furniture shattered, shelves erupted into flame, books turned to ash. Its howl became a screech, shrill and primal.
Then it collapsed.
Motionless.
He approached, slow, unsure.
Too slow.
THUD.
A leg the size of a tree trunk swung out and caught him in the ribs.
He flew.
Crashed into a stone pillar. Bone cracked. His shoulder folded in on itself.
"AAAGHHHH!"
His scream echoed, raw and guttural.
His mouth filled with blood. Vision smeared. But he held on. Bit down on the pain until his teeth creaked.
He couldn't die here. Not yet.
The creature was rising. Ripping the poker out of its own spine, hunched like a rabid dog. Smoke poured from its back.
But it didn't fall.
It adapted.
Faster now. Unchained.
Its armor no longer slowed it—just rage and purpose, wrapped in meat and violence.
It charged.
Desan dove behind a toppled table. The mace slammed down, cleaving the wood in two. He rolled into a crouch, limping toward the torch on the wall.
He ripped it free. Flames licked his face, nearly burning his skin.
The beast was changing again—limbs elongating, eyes vanishing. The mask nailed to its face cracked down the middle. Green blood leaked like venom.
He didn't wait.
He sprinted.
Straight for the bookcase.
Leapt.
Legs barely responded, pain a hurricane in his nerves. He used the ledge to launch himself over the creature's head, came down hard, and slammed the torch into its oily hide.
It ignited.
Fire swept across its body, its sweat catching like fuel. It shrieked, thrashing, burning.
One wild swing clipped Desan's leg.
CRACK.
Bone burst through flesh.
He screamed, dropped, rolled, didn't stop moving. Dragged himself toward the door.
Each breath was a battlefield.
But
Creak.
He froze.
Turned.
It was still burning.
But it was smiling.
Shoulder melting, it reached behind itself—
—and threw the mace.
He didn't see it.
He felt it.
It crushed his back like a freight train. His spine bent sideways. Something tore. Then he hit the floor.
Paralyzed.
He twitched.
One arm moved. He used it. Clawed the wood. Nails torn off. Blood smeared the floor behind him.
The beast stalked through flame.
Armor sizzling. Skin splitting.
It didn't stop.
It reached him.
Stomped on his knee.
POP.
He screamed again, high-pitched, barely human.
Not from fear. Just white, pure pain.
He gasped, tried to speak. "V—Vel…crith…"
Nothing.
No voice.
Just the crackle of fire.
And the slow, deliberate thud of death.
The creature knelt.
Lifted the mace.
Desan tried to move. Tried to roll. Beg.
Nothing.
Tears blurred his vision—blood, maybe. He couldn't tell.
His body was shattered.
But still…
He raised his head, neck trembling under its own weight.
And with the last breath he could manage, he spat:
"…Fuck you."
The mace came down.
And crushed half his skull.
He didn't die instantly.
He felt it—the crunch of bone, the shattering jaw, the scream that never escaped.
Then silence.
Then cold.
He floated.
Weightless. Bodiless.
The pain faded.
But the fear didn't.
He tried to scream.
But there was no mouth. No lungs. No flesh.
Just the thought:
…Velcrith?
Still nothing.
Then—
A gasp.
Desan jolted upright.
Soaked in sweat. Trembling. His breath came fast and shallow. The reading chamber looked the same.
But the beast was gone.
No fire. No blood. No broken bones.
Just him.
And the slow, suffocating realization:
It had been a dream.
A warning.
And maybe next time…
It wouldn't be.