Emma burst through the kitchen door, her face pale as fresh flour. The mixing bowl she'd been carrying shattered on the floor, scattering dough and ceramic shards. "They're here," she gasped, clutching the doorframe. "The walls—they're climbing the walls!"

  Ren rushed to the window, leaving dusty handprints on the sill. The northern wall of Millbrook stood silhouetted against the purple dawn, flames already licking up its ancient stones. Dark shapes moved through the fire with terrible purpose, their elongated limbs finding impossible purchase on the vertical surface.

  The warning bells began to toll, far too late.

  "We have to run," Emma said, grabbing Ren's arm. Her fingers dug into his flesh with desperate strength. "Father's gathering everyone in the square. If we can make it to the southern gate—"

  The window exploded inward in a shower of glass and splintered wood. Something massive filled the frame—all muscle and exposed sinew, its elongated limbs ending in foot-long claws that clicked against the stone floor. Its face was a nightmare of teeth and exposed brain matter, like something skinned alive and stitched back together wrong. The creature's breath smelled of copper and rot, and its exposed brain pulsed with sickly wet sound.

  Emma screamed. The sound cut off in a wet gurgle as the creature moved, faster than anything that size had a right to. Ren felt warm droplets hit his face as he stumbled backward, tripping over a sack of flour. The monster's head snapped toward him, lipless mouth spreading in what might have been a grin.

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  The wall beside it exploded inward.

  Willem, a cattle farmer from the outskirts, crashed through in a shower of wooden splinters and mortar dust. Ren knew him by sight—a mountain of a man who rarely came to town except for supplies and festival days. His children, Tom and Mary, were always climbing over his massive shoulders while their mother Sarah watched with an indulgent smile.

  There was no smile on Willem's face now. His expression was a mask of focused rage, and in his hands he held a woodcutter's axe that looked more like a weapon of war. The blade, wider than Ren's head, dripped fresh blood onto the floorboards.

  The creature turned with preternatural speed, but Willem was already moving. The axe caught it in mid-leap, splitting its skull down to the jaw. The farmer's movements were economical, almost mechanical—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Black ichor sprayed the walls as he wrenched the blade free.

  Another monster crashed through the remaining window. Willem's axe took its legs at the knee. As it fell, he brought the weapon down again, and again, and again. The sound of metal cleaving flesh and bone filled the small space, mixing with the wet splatter of inhuman blood hitting the walls.

  When it was done, Willem grabbed Ren's collar and pulled him toward the back door. No words, just raw urgency in his iron grip. They stepped over Emma's body—or what remained of it—and Ren felt bile rise in his throat. The girl who had hummed while braiding bread was gone, leaving only cooling meat on a flour-dusted floor.

  The streets had transformed into a vision of hell.