Rei moved on instinct.

  Flame roared to life around her hands. Not toward the orcs, but down toward the river.

  She hurled the spell into the rushing water.

  The river erupted.

  Scalding steam blasted upward in a white column, then rolled across the clearing like a living thing. In seconds, the world vanished. Trees, orcs, humans—all swallowed in a boiling fog that turned the battlefield into a blind maze.

  The air went hot and wet. Sight dropped to a few feet at best.

  “Move!” someone shouted.

  Barrett didn’t need to be told twice. He threw himself into a roll, came up in a sprint, and bolted while the orcs were still stumbling, roaring in confused rage behind him.

  Barrett snapped [Predator’s Mark] on.

  The mist stayed opaque, but his awareness sharpened through Grimm’s eyes. His mind pinged off large, moving shapes at the edges of sense. Heavy footfalls. Armor. Blades. Enraged shouts bounced around the whiteout.

  He ran.

  Screams cut through the steam. They were too many, and too close. Some ended abruptly, swallowed by orc roars and the wet sound of steel meeting flesh.

  Not everyone had reacted fast enough.

  His jaw locked until it hurt. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t reach them…but if he was stumbling blind, so were the orcs. It was the only thing keeping this from turning into an instant massacre.

  Chirp-chirp!

  Grimm’s call split the noise—thin but sharp, a lifeline in the chaos.

  Barrett angled toward it.

  Chirp-chirp!

  Closer now. He slogged through mud and slick grass, one hand out, machete held low. A hulking shape burst through the wall of steam straight at him.

  Barrett twisted sideways at the last second. The orc thundered past, close enough that he felt the rush of air and the heat of its body. He didn’t swing.

  The steam wouldn’t last. He wasn’t wasting these stolen seconds fighting every stray target.

  The mist began to thin from solid white to ragged gray as he pushed on, following Grimm’s cries.

  At last, shadows resolved into shapes. A gap opened with a pocket in the fog where the air was clearer. Barrett stepped into it and saw them.

  Maku stood there, mana still faintly humming around his hands. Granny hovered close to Pippy, who clutched her staff and scanned the fog, eyes wide.

  Maku’s shoulders dropped in visible relief. “You had us worried there.”

  Barrett counted fast. “Just the three of you?”

  “Haven’t seen anyone else,” Maku said, voice clipped.

  “We have to wait, Mister Donovan!” Pippy blurted, panic and stubbornness tangled in her expression. “We can’t just leave them!”

  Barrett nodded, but his gaze tracked the mist. It was thinning by the second. Shadows of orcs moved beyond the veil, regrouping.

  Maku met his eyes. They both understood that staying here too long meant dying here.

  Branches cracked. Footsteps pounded. Arthur burst into the little clear pocket, chest heaving. His head whipped around until he found Pippy, and then his whole body sagged with relief.

  “Damn,” Barrett muttered. “Anyone got a read on Lance and Tanya?”

  No answer. Just the distant clash of metal and the guttural shouts of orcs hunting in the fog.

  They were running out of time.

  Another silhouette stumbled through the mist. For a heartbeat, Barrett’s chest lifted until he recognized the outline.

  Rei staggered into view, hair damp and clinging to her cheek, breath coming hard. The looks she got weren’t welcoming.

  “This…mist won’t hold,” she managed between breaths. “We need to move.”

  “She’s right,” Arthur said quietly, almost ashamed to agree. “We stay, we’re dead. We’ll be sitting ducks.”

  “We’re not going anywhere!” Pippy snapped.

  Maku’s eyes went back to Barrett.

  Everyone’s did.

  Barrett’s fists curled. The steam around them was thinning to tatters now, orc silhouettes sharpening at the edges of the ring.

  Just then—

  An orc burst through the fog at a dead sprint, heading straight for Pippy.

  She yelped.

  “Pippy!” Arthur shouted.

  Barrett and Maku moved at the same time.

  A mana spear formed mid-air and rocketed from Maku’s hand, slamming into the orc’s chest and staggering the brute.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Barrett was already there. He closed the distance in two strides and drove his machete deep into the orc’s side.

  “Gotcha, you bastard.”

  [You have slain Orc Warrior — Level 12]

  The orc toppled.

  Barrett yanked his blade free, but froze as a wave of shocked voices rose behind him.

  His stomach went cold.

  He turned and saw what everyone was staring at.

  —

  “Arthur!” Pippy and Granny screamed at the same time.

  Barrett’s gut dropped.

  The scene snapped into focus: the dead orc at his feet, and just beyond it, Arthur on the ground, a jagged blade jutting from his side. The angle told the story. He’d thrown himself between Pippy and the killing blow.

  Pippy collapsed beside him, hands hovering uselessly. “No, no, no, no—Arthur, no!” Tears streaked down her freckled cheeks.

  Arthur tried to smile, his face pale and damp with sweat. “It’s…not that bad,” he rasped.

  It was bad.

  Barrett could see how deep the blade was buried. Any deeper and it might’ve punched through the other side.

  Panic rose in Barrett’s chest. The weight of leadership was getting heavy.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  He forced his breathing steady.

  One thing at a time, let’s do this.

  He’d never thought of himself as good under pressure—at least not until things got truly bad. But the worse it got, the quieter the noise in his head became.

  The world around him narrowed to the boy, the wound, the sound of his own pulse beating in his ears. When things got bad enough, the noise in his head—every doubt, every insult he’d ever turned on himself — went blessedly silent.

  Only decisions remained.

  “I’m gonna pull that out,” Barrett said.

  Every head snapped toward him.

  He lifted a hand. “Granny, soon as it’s free, I need you on it. Just enough healing to stop the bleeding, you hear me? Not full tilt. If you pass out, I can’t carry you both.”

  Granny Ida’s face was drawn, eyes shadowed from overuse of magic, but she still nodded once, sharp and sure. “I understand.”

  Arthur swallowed hard. Fear flickered in his eyes despite his brave act. His fingers clenched in the dirt.

  Barrett knelt beside him, planted one hand on the boy’s shoulder, the other around the hilt. “Kid, this is gonna suck,” he said quietly. “You ready?”

  Arthur nodded, jaw trembling.

  Barrett glanced at Granny. She met his gaze and gave the smallest of nods.

  He turned back to Arthur. “Alright. On the count of three. One… two—”

  He yanked on two.

  Arthur screamed, a raw, tearing sound. Blood surged out in a hot stream.

  “Now!” Barrett barked.

  Granny’s hands were already there, pressing over the wound. Golden light flared between her fingers, wavering, flickering. Her breath hitched with the strain.

  Pippy sobbed, clutching Arthur’s hand. “Please, please, please…”

  Seconds stretched. The light from Granny’s palms dimmed, flared again, then steadied into a softer glow. The bleeding slowed from a gush to a trickle, then to a sluggish ooze.

  Barrett watched Arthur’s face instead of the wound. Color stopped draining from his cheeks. His breathing, though still ragged, evened out a fraction.

  Granny sagged, catching herself on one knee, sweat beading on her forehead. “That’s all I can give,” she whispered. “He’s stable. For now.”

  Heavy footsteps sounded in the fog.

  Closer.

  The mist around them was thinning, turning from a solid wall of white to ragged drifting veils. Through the gaps, hulking shadows moved—orc silhouettes, weapons raised.

  A low howl rose from the nearest one as it spotted them.

  “Damn it,” Barrett growled. “We’re out of time.”

  Granny looked up, torn. “I need another minute—”

  “We don’t have it,” Barrett snapped, then softened his tone. “You did good, Granny. He’s still here. That’s enough. For now.”

  Maku and Rei stepped up on instinct with mana and fire flaring to life around their hands. Bolts of blue force and streaks of flame flew into the mist, slamming into approaching shapes and buying a few more precious seconds.

  Barrett slid his arms under Arthur and lifted, hauling the boy across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Arthur groaned but didn’t complain; he was trying to be tough. Pride stirred in Barrett’s chest, but this wasn’t the time. He hitched Arthur’s weight higher and started running.

  Maku glanced back at him. “You good?”

  Barrett adjusted Arthur’s weight, feeling the pull in his muscles. “I’ve done farmer’s carries at the gym with twice this,” he said through gritted teeth.

  He nodded once to Pippy, then to Granny.

  “Team Donovan,” Barrett growled, turning toward the thinning mist and the dark line of trees beyond, “we’re leaving.”

  —

  Barrett pounded across the churned earth, every stride sending a jolt of fire up his legs. Arthur’s weight dug into his shoulders, but he locked his jaw and kept going. The burn was nothing. He’d lived his whole life chasing that burn.

  Behind him, the clearing glowed faintly through the thinning steam. Ahead, the dark line of trees waited like salvation.

  Maku ran at his flank, mana orbs spinning around him in tight formation. Every few seconds, he’d twist, palm flashing, and a spear of blue light would hiss past Barrett’s ear into the fog behind them.

  An orc burst through the steam to cut them off.

  Maku slid sideways, planting his feet. Three mana spears launched in a tight cluster, punching through the orc’s chest and shoulder before it could even raise its weapon. The brute crumpled mid-stride.

  Barrett almost whistled. Then he caught the flicker in the corner of his eye with Pippy stumbling, hand tapping her chest.

  Maku glanced back at her. “Cool skill,” he said between breaths.

  She nodded quickly, face drawn, worry for Arthur hollowing out her usual spark.

  Shapes moved in the haze behind them. Barrett saw a flash of motion with Lance darting low through the steam, knife flashing. An orc roared, stumbling as its hamstrings were opened. Before it had time to howl in pain, Lance had already vanished again, swallowed by mist.

  Hit and run—nice one, kid.

  But the steam was fading fast now, thinning into ragged wisps that clung to tree trunks and ankles.

  “Shit,” Barrett muttered.

  The sound of pursuit was unmistakable, with heavy boots pounding the ground in a steady, merciless rhythm. Orc voices barked orders. Gabul’s roar cut through the chaos like a drawn blade, driving his warriors harder.

  By the time they reached the treeline, Barrett could feel the ground trembling beneath each step.

  Grimm dropped from an overhead branch like a little black stone. Barrett caught him one-handed and shoved him into the makeshift sling at his side without breaking stride.

  He flicked on [Predator’s Mark] for a heartbeat.

  Grimm’s awareness flooded his own. He saw blurry blue silhouettes in all directions, a closing ring of reckless hatred. The horde was too close. They were buying seconds, not safety.

  He killed the skill and looked over at Maku. “We’re not gonna make it at this pace,” he said, breath harsh.

  Maku glanced back toward the approaching shapes, lip caught between his teeth. He didn’t argue.

  A fresh wave of noise rolled in behind them—roars, metal on metal, a sharp cry.

  Barrett risked a look back.

  Through the thinning steam he caught flashes of motion: Tanya, alone, weaving between three orcs. Her knife flashed, her kicks landing like piledrivers. For a moment, she was a blur of muscle and precision, buying them seconds with every strike.

  Seconds that were going to cost her dearly as more orcs joined the fray.

  Barrett’s gut twisted. She was Team Donovan now, and she was risking her neck to buy them time. His duty, his instinct, every drilled-in reflex screamed to turn around and wade in beside her. But he felt Arthur’s weight across his shoulders.

  He couldn’t drop the kid.

  His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

  Dammit.

  Lance appeared on his other side like a ghost shaking itself into focus. His face was slick with sweat, and his eyes bright and wild. “I can help,” he said, voice tight but steady. “I’ll try to help her break out.”

  Granny sucked in a breath. “Lance, no!”

  Maku shot Barrett a sideways look. “He’s a kid.”

  Barrett eased his pace just long enough to really look at Lance—really see him. The fear was there, but under it was something harder, sharper. The kid had made up his mind. Pride tugged at Barrett’s chest, but he shoved it down. This was no time to get sentimental.

  “Kid or not, he’s Team Donovan,” Barrett barked over the pounding of their feet. “And he’s about to save our hides, so show some respect!”

  Lance’s throat bobbed. For a second his eyes shone wet, then the uncertainty burned off, leaving only resolve. “Thanks, Coach,” he said quietly.

  Barrett managed a feral grin. “Give ’em hell.”

  Lance’s outline shimmered, and then he was gone, swallowed by stealth and the ragged fog as he darted back toward the fight.

  Barrett looked at Maku as they pounded over roots and wet earth. He didn’t say a word.

  “Don’t look at me,” Maku replied indifferently. “I never signed up for Team Donovan. I’m not risking my neck.”

  Bastard.

  Moments later, there were angry shouts behind them—orc roars, the thud of bodies turning, redirecting. Barrett’s hand twitched toward his machete. Every instinct screamed at him to pivot, to charge back in, to stand shoulder to shoulder with them.

  He forced himself forward instead.

  This was their shot. Lance and Tanya were buying them seconds with blood and guts.

  Barrett wasn’t going to waste them.