Screams rip through the air like tearing cloth. The square erupts in chaos, families trampled beneath fleeing crowds, children lost in the crush. The obelisk stands untouched, but the ground around it runs dark with blood.

  Smoke rises quickly as fire is set to the merchant tents. Straw and canvas go up in moments. Flame spreads, leaping from stall to stall.

  One man screams as he's dragged through the mud by his hair, a blade sawing through his throat like meat. A woman clutches her infant, but a blow from the hilt of an axe knocks her flat. The child screams as the large man drags her away.

  The guards rally, but they were hit first and hardest.

  The brigands, mingling with the crowd, watching from stalls, shadowed doorways, beneath hoods by the firelight.

  Each had marked their man.

  Then upon the bell's ring, moved quickly, quietly, slipping behind the guards like wolves to sheep. Knives thrust into armpits where mail gapped, or slid beneath the rim of helmets into throats. Twenty of the forty men on duty, dead in an instant.

  Through the chaos, a sudden flicker of motion catches my eye. One of them—a hooded brigand, sprinting past with a bulging sack of loot slung over his shoulder. Instinct takes over. I lunge, grabbing the sack and yanking hard. He refuses to let go, the momentum ripping him off his feet. He crashes into the snow with a thud, swearing as he scrambles to rise. Around us, more brigands rush through the firelight, shouting to one another as they pack stolen goods into whatever they can carry.

  They bolt for the east gate, already strewn with corpses, the guards there long fallen. The brigand on the ground in front of me snarls, drawing his knife, and I raise mine in turn.

  But another barrels past, shouting, "Fuckin' move, Arlen! Leave it! We ain't got time!"

  "Goddess piss on it all," the first hisses, spitting blood, and turns to flee with the others, leaving behind the sack I tore from him.

  And I see why.

  The remaining and off-duty guards have both rallied, surging forward with pikes leveled, at their head strides Mayor Edwin himself, veins bulging across his bald head, his face twisted in fury. He carries a massive greatsword soaked with blood and wears rough mail, likely some of the tournament gear he scavenged in haste.

  "To arms, you gods-forsaken bastards! Cut down every shit-smeared wretch that dares raise steel in my streets!" Edwin bellows, his voice booming over the chaos. "No quarter! I want each one gutted! Show these dung-licking whoresons what it means to spill blood in my town!"

  Without hesitation, Edwin barrels forward, roaring as he wades into the retreating brigands. His greatsword arcs in a wide, brutal swing, cleaving a fleeing man nearly in half. Gandre and Daniel move with him, one to each side, Gandre's mace crushing bone with every strike, Daniel’s blade slicing through men with merciless proficiency. Together, they carve a path through the chaos like wolves in the fold, each one enraged by the blatant murder and savagery.

  But most of the brigands escape through the gate, the deaths of their allies having bought them the time they needed. And behind us, more fires are being lit, deeper in the town, plumes of smoke rising into the night.

  "Like fucking rats, they're everywhere!" Edwin snarls, teeth bared beneath a splatter of blood. "When I get my hands on that goat-fucking cur Edric..."

  He whirls around. "Gandre, take ten men. Sweep the south quarter. Daniel, the west. I’ll take the north myself."

  Gandre nods sharply. Daniel’s eyes blaze, but he says nothing as he rallies his squad.

  Edwin turns to a grizzled officer with a broken nose and half an ear. "Tarnel, rouse the militia. I don’t care how drunk or green they are, arm every able bastard you can find. We don’t know how many are still inside the walls."

  Then he catches me watching. His eyes lock onto mine.

  "You! Get your arse over here!"

  I flinch, then hurry toward him. I’ve never seen the man so furious.

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  Though given what's happened....

  He grabs my shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "Find Zaenith, we need her lance. As of now, the two of you are militia. You draw blood, or I’ll have your heads on pikes next to these piss-drinking brigands. Understood?"

  I nod, heart pounding. He shoves me off.

  "Then go!"

  I sprint through the curling smoke, feet pounding ash-strewn cobbles, the air thick with the stench of burning meat and splintered timber. Screams echo from every street, cut short, or trailing off into the dark. Figures dart through alleyways, some armed, others just desperate. A boy sobs over a collapsed form in the mud, ignored by all who pass.

  Zaenith. Where is she?

  I veer through the ruins of the market, where her stall stood. It's gone, not torn apart. She already packed it up.

  If that's the case, she's at the apothecary.

  I adjust course, pushing through the swirl of smoke and panicked townsfolk. My steps quicken, but not too much.

  This isn't my town. Not my home...

  Even so... I should help. Shouldn't I?

  I reach the apothecary and slow, wary. Three men linger outside, grimy, armed, faces hidden beneath hoods pulled low. Zaenith steps out from her store, stone-faced as ever, descending the steps with heavy, deliberate strides.

  They move quickly, surrounding her.

  One licks his teeth, eyeing her frame, a large, fat man. "Think I might take me a taste of this one. Big, but she'll scream all the same."

  Another snorts. "This giant old bitch? What's wrong with you?"

  The man shrugs, grinning. "Ain’t picky. Besides, I like a big woman."

  The third man chuckles. "Suit yourself, I'm more interested in her coin. Potion master’s house is bound to have plenty of it."

  Zaenith steps forward, and the fat brigand mirrors her, swaggering as he pulls back his hood to reveal a face twisted by rot, gums bare where teeth should be, lips cracked and wet.

  Zaenith’s voice is like thunder, even from here I can feel it. "Kneel, mud-born scum. And I shall deliver you to the mayor whole. No doubt your mothers birthed you in filth, but even pigs know to fear the butcher."

  The fat man barks a laugh, spitting at her feet. "You'll be squealin’ soon enough, you old-"

  He never finishes.

  Her hand lashes out like a striking viper, massive fingers engulfing his jaw and mouth. She lifts the large man off the ground with a single arm, until his head is level with hers.

  "Mmmrrghhh!!!"

  His nose and mouth are both crushed beneath her palm, the muffled gagging of a man denied air. He bucks wildly, eyes bulging, fingers fumbling for the knife at his belt. With trembling desperation, he drives it into her arm... and the blade snaps cleanly, shattering against her grey skin like glass on stone.

  The others panic. "Tornin! Goddess, help 'im!"

  They charge, blades drawn.

  Zaenith’s fingers tighten. There's a sickening crunch as bone gives way, and then with a sneer, she rips. Flesh tears, sinew snaps, and the man’s jaw comes away in her hand with a spray of blood. His body drops twitching to the steps, a gurgling wheeze all that remains of his voice.

  The men freeze, horror writ plain across their soot-smeared faces.

  “Lude protect me…” one breathes, stumbling back. “Tornin... how did she...?”

  “Witch!” the other gasps, voice cracking as he drops his blade. “She’s not human!”

  Zaenith steps through the falling snow, silent as death. Her shadow looms, cast tall and monstrous in the firelight. She appears beside the second brigand in a blink.

  Her hand lifts, fingers stiff and tight, pressed flat together like a blade. Her arm arcs down in one clean motion, like a butcher cleaving bone from carcass.

  The strike lands with a wet crack.

  His head drops from his shoulders, landing in the snow with a muted thud, eyes wide in frozen terror. His body stands for half a breath longer before crumpling in a heap beside it.

  “B-By the goddess…”

  The last man lets out a scream that splits the air, raw and cracked with panic. "No-no, by Lumina! Please! I didn’t…”

  He turns to run, desperate to flee the monstrous woman…

  only to crash into something unmovable.

  Zaenith.

  He bounces off her massive frame and hits the snow hard, scrambling backward on all fours like a cornered rat. "Please, I’m sorry! I didn't kill anyone! I didn’t do nothin’! I was just followin’—they made me!"

  Zaenith walks toward him with slow, deliberate steps. One boot rises, then slams down on his left leg with a sickening crunch. The bone snaps and he screams in agony.

  "You’ll do," she says coldly.

  Invincible. She's invincible. If I could just get her in front of Vael....

  Turning her head, Zaenith raises her voice. "Seven. Good, you may take him to Edwin on my behalf."

  I step out from behind the building and approach her cautiously. "The mayor says to take up your weapon," I say. "We’re both... conscripted. Part of the militia."

  Zaenith doesn't look my way. She gestures with a tilt of her chin toward the two corpses and the man groaning in the snow. "I’ve done my part. Let him clean up the rest."

  I frown. "The townsfolk are dying..."

  She finally looks at me, eyes cold and flat. "Then let him save them. They’re his people. A man must take responsibility for what is his."

  Is that how it is…?

  I feel... something. Something cold settling behind my ribs. I glance back to the street, toward the flames, the screaming.

  I don't want to help them either.

  But only because I’m afraid of dying…

  Zaenith on the other hand has no reason to fear... does she really feel nothing at all for these people?

  I look to the woman in front of me, to her cold gaze… and quickly get my answer.

  So... is that what awaits me too, when my training is done?

  I shake the thought loose.

  No. It isn't.

  I grip my club and face the burning streets.

  I’ll help. It’s what I’m supposed to do, what’s right.

  Behind me, Zaenith's voice cuts through the smoke. "Where are you going?"

  I ignore her and keep walking.

  Into the burning town.