The Centurion's fist cratered the brass floor. Haldrix staggered backward, his prosthetic arm whirring. Three runes flickered with dying blue light. Two others had gone dark. Sweat plastered his iron-gray braids against his jaw.

  Across the chamber, Rook rolled beneath a sweeping backhand. His short-sword scraped against the construct's thigh plating and skittered off without leaving a mark. His breathing came ragged, each exhale visible in the mana-thick air.

  Alph watched the Tier 4 runesmith struggle against the ancient construct. Haldrix's lightning had done nothing. Rook's blade couldn't pierce its plating.

  The Centurion raised its fist again, joints grinding with the sound of grinding stone.

  Morna sprinted from the pillar line. Her wand gleamed in her grip, auburn braids whipping behind her as she ate ground with efficient strides. She skidded to a halt beside Thorfin's position and swept her sharp grey eyes across the battlefield.

  The Centurion's movements followed a pattern. Predictable aggression, imprecise but overwhelming force, and impenetrable defense. Its guard reset after each attack, creating half-second windows.

  "Aim for the knee joints!" Morna raised her voice above the grinding gears. "Force it to redistribute weight!"

  Her wand slashed toward the construct's left leg. Blue light gathered at the tip.

  "Rugnir, Thorfin, harry the right side! Keep it turning!"

  Rugnir was already moving. The wiry dwarf vaulted a fallen bronze humanoid, hatchets in hand, his shorter beard tucked tight against his jaw. Thorfin roared and charged from the opposite angle, shield raised to catch the Centurion's attention.

  The construct's eye-slit swiveled toward the dwarf's booming challenge.

  Rugnir vaulted a fallen brass pillar, twin hatchets catching pale light. He drove the first blade into the seam behind the Centurion's right knee. Metal shrieked as the edge bit deep. Thorfin followed with a shield charge, his broad frame slamming into the construct's flank with the force of a battering ram. The Centurion staggered. Its right leg buckled, joints grinding against damaged housing.

  Haldrix seized the opening. His prosthetic arm surged, a single rune blazing to brilliant life along the brass plating. Lightning arced toward the exposed joint, a white-hot spear of destruction that split the air with thunder.

  The bolt connected. Blue fire cascaded across bronze surfaces, seeking purchase.

  The plating held.

  Haldrix cursed under his breath. His amber eyes tracked the fading glow of his prosthetic. "The main rune needs more time to recharge!"

  The Centurion's eye-slit fixed on Haldrix with predatory precision. It drew back its undamaged fist.

  Rook materialized from shadow behind the Centurion's shoulder. His meteorite blade carved a black trail through the air. He drove the dagger into the gap between pauldron and gorget, then carved upward with his short sword to sever exposed filaments. Sparks showered the floor.

  The Centurion twisted. A bronze elbow caught Rook in the ribs. The impact hurled him sideways into a brass pillar. He crumpled against its base, one hand pressed against his side, blood seeping between thick fingers. His tangled beard darkened with each wet cough.

  Alph broke from cover. He sprinted across the debris-strewn floor, boots slapping against ancient metal. His lungs burned by the time he dropped beside the rogue, palms pressing against Rook's torn tunic. Nature's Mend flowed outward. Green light knit flesh beneath his fingers. Rook's breathing steadied, the ragged edge smoothing into something steadier.

  Above them, the Centurion's eye-slit pulsed. It turned from Haldrix with grinding inevitability, massive feet shifting toward their position.

  Morna's hand closed around Alph's wrist, yanking him back before the glow could complete its work. "Enough." Her voice came low and urgent. "Stop the bleeding, nothing more."

  Alph's brow furrowed.

  Morna's grey eyes cut toward the Centurion, then back to him. "We need you functional, not pristine. Save your willpower."

  Across the chamber, Nylessa pivoted. She snatched a discarded javelin from the corpse of a bronze humanoid and hurled it in one fluid motion. The projectile struck the Centurion's shoulder joint, ricocheting off but pulling its attention from Alph and Rook. The construct's grinding advance shifted toward the half-elf's position.

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  Alph held Morna's gaze for a beat, then nodded. He withdrew his hands.

  Rook's wound had closed, the skin raw and tender but no longer bleeding. The rogue grunted, pushed himself upright, and retrieved his fallen blade. His thick fingers wrapped around the hilt.

  Alph assessed the Centurion, its movements lacking true intelligence. It operated purely on instinct, a brutish automaton. Despite its formidable defenses and devastating offensive capabilities, a coordinated effort could bring it down.

  The Centurion lunged after Nylessa. She backpedaled, boots finding purchase on broken brass, but the construct's stride devoured ground faster than she could retreat.

  Thorfin stepped into its path. He planted his feet and slammed his shield into the floor. "Hey, you overgrown bucket!" His voice boomed across the chamber. Taunt rolled outward, a palpable weight that yanked the Centurion's attention like a hooked fish. "Come get some real iron!"

  The construct's massive fist hammered down. The impact rang through the chamber like a struck anvil. Thorfin's boots scraped backward across the brass floor, metal shrieking against metal, but his stance held. His arms trembled. His teeth bared in a grimace.

  The shield held. But not for long. The Centurion's other fist swung from the left, a blur of tarnished brass. Thorfin wrenched his shield across his body, boots squealing against the floor, but the blow connected before the rim locked into place. The impact launched him sideways, his stocky frame skipping across the brass like a hurled stone, armor scraping a bright trail until he crumpled against the far wall.

  Alph sprinted across the brass-scarred floor, boots pounding against the resonant metal. His fingers pressed against Thorfin’s side, where the Shield Master’s breath came in ragged, pained gasps. The ribs beneath were misaligned, grinding with each shallow inhale.

  Nature’s Mend surged through his fingertips, bone knit with a series of sharp, audible pops. Thorfin's spine arched like a drawn bowstring. A guttural curse ripped from his throat. "Khazad-durr! Rust-eaten gears and gr?m-kazak thardin!"

  Thorfin exhaled hard, testing his ribs with a cautious flex. His voice dropped to a gravelly growl. "Next time, let the bastard crush me. Your healing magic needs training, lad. Be gentle next time, eh?"

  Alph smirked. "You’d rather I left you broken?"

  The dwarf’s grip tightened on his shoulder, firm and grateful. "Just don’t make it worse."

  Rugnir scaled the Centurion's back. His hatchets found purchase in articulated seams between plating, each swing hauling him higher. He reached the shoulder joint and drove both blades into the exposed mechanism. Sparks erupted in a cascade of white-hot fragments. The Centurion's left arm twitched, movement stuttering and jerky.

  Morna focused, arcane energy crackling, before she released a brilliant, shimmering Arcane Blast at the Centurion. The spell connected squarely with the construct’s chest, causing the massive hunk of metal to stagger back with a grinding lurch. Rugnir, clinging to the hatchets buried within the Centurion’s shoulder joints, had to brace himself against the sudden, jarring shift to maintain his precarious balance on its back.

  Morna's voice cut through the chaos. "Now! The chest plate!"

  Rook dissolved into shadow.

  Rook materialized above the Centurion's guard, meteorite blade reversed. He drove the pommel into the seam where chest plate met abdominal plating. The metal buckled. He twisted, leveraging the gap wider, and a second strike tore the plating free. Beneath, rune circuits pulsed amber, the matrix humming with contained power.

  Nylessa sheathed her obsidian dagger with a soft click and began gathering the discarded javelins scattered across the gritty floor. She picked up each heavy shaft, one by one, feeling the rough wood in her grip, then hurled them with precision at the colossal automaton, the whirring hum of its internal mechanisms momentarily drowned out by the metallic thump as each spear impacted its bronze plating. She aimed to maintain the behemoth's focus on her, keeping its weighty attention diverted.

  This provided Haldrix the crucial, fleeting seconds he needed.

  A resonant hum vibrated from Haldrix's prosthetic arm, growing in intensity. Along every brass joint, sparks of electricity crackled and danced. He raised his palm, aiming it toward the exposed, glowing rune matrix on the Centurion's damaged chest. The air prickled, charged with latent power.

  The runesmith released the bolt.

  Lightning tore from Haldrix's palm, a jagged white arc that seared the air. The bolt slammed into the exposed rune matrix. The Centurion shuddered. The amber glow in its eye-slit flickered once, twice, then died. The hulking construct sagged forward, bronze knees buckling, and crashed to the chamber floor with a sound like a collapsing tower. Dust billowed. Silence fell.

  Haldrix dropped to one knee, his prosthetic arm smoking, every rune dark. Rook leaned against a pillar, his chest heaving. Thorfin lowered his shield with a groan. Rugnir slid down the construct's back and landed in a crouch.

  Morna’s wand arm dropped like a dead weight. "I’m done. No more ruins."

  Thorfin grunted, rolling his shoulder with a wince. "Bastard got me good—three ribs cracked."

  Rugnir yanked his hatchets loose with a sharp tug. "You have had worse from the barstools."

  Thorfin let out a rough chuckle. "Yeah, well, at least they didn’t try to crush my skull like that damn tin can."

  Rugnir shot him a smirk. "You think you had it rough? In that last strike, I nearly ended up crispier than a roasted lamb." He flexed his gloves, the treated leather creaking. "Good thing I’ve got these—otherwise, I’d be picking lightning burns out of my beard for weeks." The tension in the room eased just a little.

  Across the chamber, Nylessa walked toward Alph, her face sharp with the focus of her fresh advancement. He remained crouched where he last healed; willpower reserves diminished, but not depleted. The obsidian dagger rested loose in his grip.