Captain Roegan sat with his back against the broken wall of what used to be a guardhouse, the Shroud's ever-churning fog curling around the ruins like breath from a sleeping beast. Somewhere far off, someone was screaming—he couldn't tell if it was rage, agony, or hunger. In this place, everything sounded the same.
Thirty-five had entered the Tier 2 Shroud.
He estimated only twenty-eight were still breathing, counting the number of men he had left was a terrifying thing to do for him, so he left it to his imagination.
And of those, maybe half would last the next two days.
He exhaled slowly, hand tightening around the hilt of his cleaver. His soul talent—Strength Multiplier—made him stronger and tougher than an average man. Four times the power in his muscles. Four times the endurance. But the Shroud made that feel like nothing. You could multiply strength all you wanted—poison, exhaustion, fear, things that ate at your bones didn't care.
Bootsteps crunched over gravel. One of his loyal men—Jorvik—approached, face pale beneath the grime.
"They're eating the meat now," Jorvik said, voice low.
Roegan shut his eyes.
"They cooked it over the flame pits," Jorvik continued. "Not just one group. Three of them. Maybe more."
The rations they'd brought had already begun to rot in the damp. The dried strips of beast jerky and mold-resistant bread that were supposed to last a week had disintegrated in half that time. The Shroud chewed through food like it chewed through hope.
"They think killing crawlers and eating their flesh will keep them going," Jorvik added.
Roegan stood. His joints ached. "Show me."
They crossed what passed for a crude encampment—a broken street lined with collapsed pillars and arching vinework twisted into shapes that almost seemed man-made. Roegan hated that thought. The notion that this place remembered things.
Several soldiers huddled beside burning scrap wood, turning slabs of dark purplish flesh over makeshift spits. The smell was foul and sweet at once. Hunger made men ignore the stench.
One of the men—Varin—gnawed on a charred chunk with trembling hands. Another, a woman named Halden, had both eyes ringed in red and sweat streaking down her neck.
Roegan watched their faces, watched the way their bodies shook between bites. Not from hunger—he knew that look. This was something else.
"Where did they get it from?" Roegan asked, voice flat.
Jorvik pointed behind the ruined archway. The carcass of a crawler lay there, its segmented shell hacked open. Its flesh had a wet, pulsing sheen.
The moment Roegan got close, his nose twitched. Beneath the char and ash, the meat still gave off a faint chemical tang—like rotting metal and spoiled fruit.
"You," he said, pointing to Halden. "How long since you ate?"
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Not long," she muttered. "Felt really good… at first. Heat in my arms, like I can run again."
"And now?"
She hesitated, then lifted her sleeve.
Her veins were darkening.
Roegan cursed under his breath. "You think you're stronger because you killed it. But the beast doesn't just die. It gets into you. The boosts you feel—the physical rush—it's the kill. Not the meal."
Varin staggered to his feet. "We don't have a choice. I'd rather choke than starve."
"You may do both," Roegan said.
A retching noise cut through the argument. Two more soldiers were doubled over nearby, vomiting black sludge that steamed when it hit the stone.
Roegan turned away. Jorik followed.
"That's seven showing signs of it," Jeroth said softly. "Maybe more haven't said anything."
"They thought they were getting stronger," Roegan growled. "Killing crawlers gives you that spark. But eating them…" He stopped himself. He didn't have the words for it. Something in the crawlers still lived after death. Poison in the marrow. Venom in the tissue. The Shroud's gift with teeth.
"We need water," Jeroth said. "Even bad water to flush it out."
Roegan almost laughed. "You think any part of this place wants us clean?"
They trudged back to the abandoned marketplace that served as his current command point. Roegan's chosen men—Jorik, Farlen, Corin , and Desla—were already there, cleaning weapons and dividing what little remained of the original packs.
"Report," Roegan said.
Farlen pointed to a blood-streaked tarp where a corpse lay. "Tollen's squad is down to two. The rest got taken by ambush crawlers near the sunken halls."
Desla wiped her blade with strips of cloth that used to be part of a uniform sleeve. "Someone said Silas' group took down something larger. Word is spreading."
Roegan's face hardened. "Rumors won't feed us or keep us alive."
Corin, frowned. "They're starting to scavenge bodies now. Not just crawlers."
Roegan didn't react outwardly, but something twisted in his gut.
The Shroud was eating them, one decision at a time.
He glanced around the dim space. The fog outside pressed against shattered windows like a living thing. He could hear distant chittering—sometimes close, sometimes echoing from nowhere.
"We hold structure that is the only we make it out of here alive," he said with finality , voice carrying. "Any soldier who wants the safety of our camp earns it. One core a day, minimum. I don't care if it's a crawler whelp or a scavenger rat. You do nothing, you don't eat, you don't stay in the circle when night falls."
Jorik and the others nodded. They needed law. Not because it gave hope—but because it drew lines between desperation and madness.
Roegan paced slowly as he continued. "If they eat the flesh, warn them once. After that, the poison is on them. We don't waste serums we don't have."
Kessen shifted. "And when the poison takes them?"
Roegan looked him dead in the eye. "Then they die outside the walls. The strong bury the weak. We can't afford to carry the dying anymore."
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then the screaming started again.
This time, it was closer.
Roegan stomped toward the open archway without hesitation. Beyond the campfire haze, three figures stumbled into view—bloodied, gasping, dragging a fourth who was missing an arm.
"We were scouting!" one of them shouted, eyes wild. "Something followed us. It wasn't a crawler—"
A guttural clicking rolled through the street like grinding stone.
Jorik cursed. "Another wave?"
Roegan raised his cleaver. "No. Something worse."
The fog thickened, shapes shifting in the dark beyond torchlight.
And Roegan knew—without needing to see it clearly—that the Shroud wasn't done stripping them down. It was only just beginning.
The poison in their bellies was merely an opening act.
The Maw would feed on those who thought they were feeding themselves.