This was stupid.

  John knew it was stupid. He should wait. He had allies now. He could make up some lie and come with backup and a real plan. That was the smart thing to do.

  But it was different now that it was in front of him, and his feet kept moving.

  He reached the door and stopped. For just a moment, he hesitated.

  There were no sounds from inside. No light leaking through the cracks. No obvious signs of evil. Just a quiet building in a quiet street.

  Maybe he was wrong.

  John pressed the tip of his runeblade against where the top hinge should be. The enchanted edge bit through the old metal like it wasn't there. Then the bottom hinge, just as easily.

  John kicked the door hard. It crashed inward, still attached by the lock, but the hinges gave way and the whole thing tilted and fell with a thunderous crash.

  A woman stood in the entry hall. She'd been standing near a small desk. Now she was frozen, face locked in an expression of pure shock. Middle-aged, plain dress, graying hair pulled back in a simple bun. She looked like someone's kindly aunt. Like a woman who dedicated her life to caring for orphaned children.

  Their eyes met.

  Her hands began to move in a pattern John recognized. A glow began to form around her palm.

  John moved.

  His blade cut through her forearm in one clean stroke.

  The woman screamed. Her severed hand hit the floor, still crackling with magic. Blood sprayed. She staggered back, clutching the stump, eyes wide with shock and pain.

  John shoved the screaming woman and stepped past, deeper into the building. The entry hall was small, plain. A desk with papers scattered across it. Coats hanging on hooks by the door. Everything looked normal.

  The woman kept screaming behind him, collapsing against the wall, blood pouring from the stump.

  Ahead, and to the left, there should be a basement door. That's how it worked in the game. He turned down the hallway, and there it was. Same color. Same doorknob. John approached it, sword ready.

  It flew open.

  A man charged through. Bigger than John, armed with a short sword, face concerned and eyes wide. He paused upon seeing John, understanding flickered across his face. Then lunged.

  Their blades met with a sharp ring. He twisted, let the man's momentum carry him too far forward, and brought his runeblade around in a clean arc.

  The enchanted edge cut through flesh and bone, and the man collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.

  John stared at the body.

  He'd had several playthroughs as a bandit king. They weren't so bad. Limiting, yes. Locked you out of certain quest lines and made others harder. But you could still complete the story if you really tried.

  But that was only necessary if he was wrong.

  The basement stairs spiraled down into darkness. Stone steps, worn smooth by use. John descended carefully, sword ready, listening for any sound.

  Halfway down there was a torch holder. Empty and rusted, it jutted from the stone at an odd angle that didn't match the others.

  He raised Moonfang and drove the blade through the center.

  Magic erupted from the contact point, white and silver and cold. The runeblade met something in the metal, some trigger, and his world exploded in light.

  He blinked the afterimages away, and when he could see again, there was a door in the wall.

  John pushed, and the door swung open on silent hinges.

  More steps led down. Then they opened into a chamber. It was small, maybe ten feet across.

  A wooden wall bisected the room from floor to ceiling. In the center, a door with a narrow slot at eye level. John stopped, studying the setup. He knew this room. An extra layer of protection. Not just to keep people out, but to stop little escapees.

  John again pressed Moonfang's tip against the wood where the top hinge should be and pushed. Then the bottom hinge.

  The door groaned.

  John darted to the side.

  It toppled inward with a crash, hitting the floor on the far side of the wall.

  John pressed himself flat against the wall, and waited, listening.

  Nothing. No spells. No shouting.

  This room always had a caster waiting, positioned out of sight by the stairs, ready to hit anyone who came through the door.

  John thought about the layout. The angles. Where the mage stood in the game. Just to the right of the stairs.

  He stepped quietly to the side, and pressed Moonfang against the wood at chest height. The blade pushed in slowly. Once it was halfway through, John gripped the hilt with both hands.

  And shoved with everything he had.

  The blade punched through the rest of the way. Sliced clean and kept going.

  A scream erupted from the other side.

  Something hit the floor with a heavy thud.

  John withdrew Moonfang. The blade slick with blood, and stepped through the doorway.

  A mage lay crumpled against the far wall. Blood pooled beneath him, spreading across the stone. His hands still clutched a wand, the spell he'd been preparing left uncast.

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  The man's eyes were still open. Still aware. He tried to speak, but only blood came out.

  John stepped past him and headed further down.

  At the bottom, the stairs opened into a wide corridor. The stone walls were damp with moisture. Torches burned in sconces, casting flickering shadows. And on one side, two cells with floor to ceiling iron bars. One was empty, but the other...

  Small faces, huddled in corners, pressing themselves against the back walls. Their eyes were wide, terrified. Some were crying silently. Others just stared.

  John swallowed and kept walking.

  A door burst open ahead. Two men rushed out, both armed. One with a sword, the other already chanting, hands glowing with building magic.

  The caster released first. A bolt of crackling energy, aimed straight at John's chest.

  John angled Moonfang. The spell hit the flat of the blade and deflected upward, blasting chunks from the ceiling. The impact sent a shock up his arm, nearly knocked the sword from his grip. He stumbled back a step.

  The swordsman closed the distance immediately, not giving John time to recover. His blade came down in a heavy overhead strike. John got Moonfang up just in time. The impact rattled through his bones. The swordsman's blade caught Moonfang's edge and a chip flew from the steel. The man was strong, experienced, pressing his advantage while John was off-balance.

  John gave ground, parrying desperately. The swordsman was good, knew how to maintain pressure, knew how to keep John on the defensive. Their blades met again and again, each impact leaving another notch in the swordsman's edge.

  The mage was chanting again. John could hear it over the ring of steel on steel, could see the glow building in his peripheral vision.

  John's arms were starting to ache.

  Fire erupted from the mage's hands.

  John threw himself backwards. The gout of flame roared past where he'd been standing, inches from his face. Close enough that he felt his skin blister from the sheer heat. His eyes watered from the intensity. The air itself felt like it was burning.

  From the cell, children screamed. High-pitched, terrified sounds as they pressed themselves against the back wall, as far from the flames as they could get. Small hands covering their faces. Bodies huddled together.

  "Watch it!" the swordsman shouted, his own face red from the heat, sweat beading on his forehead.

  John used the moment. The swordsman had been forced back by the spell, off-balance. John lunged forward. The swordsman brought his blade up but John was faster, Moonfang carving a deep line across the man's sword arm. Blood sprayed across the stone floor. The man cursed, stumbled back, his sword dropping slightly as the wounded arm weakened.

  The mage was already chanting again, undeterred, hands beginning to glow with gathered power.

  John grabbed a torch from the wall and hurled it at him.

  The mage didn't flinch. A smirk crossed his face as he watched it come.

  John charged right behind it.

  He closed the distance in three strides. The torch hit something invisible a foot in front of the mage. Ripples of energy spread from the impact point like waves on water. The torch bounced off harmlessly and clattered to the floor.

  A shield. Of course he had a shield.

  The mage's hands completed their pattern. But instead of attacking, he pointed at the swordsman.

  Silver-white light shot from his fingers and wrapped around his ally. The wounded man suddenly straightened, his movements sharpening. His eyes went wide as the spell took hold.

  Haste.

  The swordsman came at John again, but this time everything was different. Despite fighting with his off-hand, despite the wounded arm hanging useless, he moved like lightning. His blade came in fast. John barely got Moonfang up in time to block.

  The impact was harder than before. The swordsman's enhanced speed gave his strikes more power, more momentum. He pressed in immediately, not giving John a second to breathe. Strike after strike came in rapid succession. Each one precise despite the off-hand grip, each one faster than should be possible. Each clash left deeper notches in the swordsman's blade.

  John gave ground, parrying desperately. His arms burned with the effort. The man was everywhere at once, blade moving in patterns that blurred together. John blocked a thrust aimed at his chest, deflected a cut at his throat, barely twisted aside from a strike at his ribs.

  The swordsman's eyes flicked to his weapon. The edge was ruined, gaps and chips running its length. His face twisted with frustration but the haste kept him moving, kept him attacking.

  John's back hit the corridor wall. Trapped. The swordsman saw it, pressed harder. A flurry of strikes that John barely tracked, barely countered. His breathing was ragged. His arms screamed.

  Behind the swordsman, the mage was chanting again. Building something new while his ally kept John pinned.

  The swordsman's blade came in high, then immediately low. John blocked both but felt his defense weakening. Too fast. The man was too fast. Another strike came before John could counter. Then another. Each one forcing John to react, never giving him a chance to take the initiative.

  The glow behind the swordsman grew brighter. The mage's chanting reached a crescendo.

  The swordsman committed to a thrust. Overextended slightly. Not much, barely anything, but enough. John saw his window. He beat the blade aside with more force than necessary, threw off the hasted fighter's rhythm for just a fraction of a second.

  The spell released.

  Another bolt of crackling energy, aimed right at John.

  John angled Moonfang, caught the bolt on the flat of the blade. The impact nearly tore the sword from his hands. His arms screamed with the effort. But he held on, twisted his wrists, angled the blade—

  The deflected spell screamed past him, its trajectory altered by just enough.

  It hit the swordsman square in the neck.

  The man's enhanced speed vanished. His eyes went wide.

  John's blade followed, taking him through the throat in one clean motion. Without the supernatural speed, the opening was there. John took it.

  The swordsman collapsed, blood pooling beneath him.

  The mage stood there, face draining of color as he realized what he'd done. That he'd killed his own ally with his own spell.

  John advanced, breathing hard. His arms felt like lead.

  The mage stumbled backward, hands shaking. He fumbled at his belt and pulled out a small bottle, shimmering with ethereal blue light. He drank it in one gulp, the liquid glowing as it went down his throat. The empty bottle clattered to the floor.

  John closed the distance, raised Moonfang, and brought it down hard.

  The blade hit the invisible shield. Bounced off with a flash of light. The mage flinched but the barrier held.

  John raised his sword and struck again. Harder. The enchantments flared, white and silver, fighting against the shield magic. The barrier rippled but didn't break.

  The mage's hands began to move. He was casting again. His fingers traced patterns in the air. Energy gathered.

  John struck the barrier a third time. Each impact sent shocks up his already aching arms. His shoulders screamed. His hands hurt where the hilt dug into his palms.

  The mage kept casting, voice rising. Whatever he was building, it was big. The air grew heavy with gathered power.

  John brought Moonfang down again. The barrier flickered. He hit it once more. The shimmer grew weaker. Again. The barrier's light started to fade.

  The mage's eyes widened with panic. His casting grew more frantic. Almost there, almost—

  The barrier shattered like glass, and Moonfang cleaved deep through his shoulder and into his chest.

  The gathered spell dissipated harmlessly, its caster dead before he could release it.

  John stood there, breathing hard. His face felt raw from the heat of the flames. His arms shook from exhaustion. His shoulder ached from the repeated impacts against the barrier. His hands hurt. Everything hurt.

  Footsteps echoed from the stairs behind him.

  John spun, raising Moonfang, ready for—

  Garren appeared at the bottom of the stairs, sword drawn, eyes scanning for threats.

  They both froze, taking in the scene. The two bodies. The blood on the floor. John, standing in the middle of it all, covered in blood and burn marks but not bleeding himself.

  Then Garren's eyes moved past John. To the cells. To the small faces pressed against the bars.

  His knuckles went white on his sword hilt. His jaw clenched so hard John could hear his teeth grinding.

  John watched pure rage transform Garren's face.