For a breathless instant, no one moved.

  The only sounds were the clicking mandibles of the insectoid creatures as more of them emerged from the chasm’s maw, their glossy black carapaces catching the starlight in jagged, shifting reflections. The Mana Originating Beasts moved with eerie precision — spindly legs stabbing into stone, razor talons scraping gouges in the earth.

  Then one of the children screamed.

  It shattered the stillness like a hammer blow.

  Vrek bolted first, his wide, terrified eyes catching ProlixalParagon’s for the briefest heartbeat before he turned and fled toward the scrub beyond the clearing. The other children followed, their small, desperate shapes scrambling through brush and low branches in blind terror.

  “Shit!” Marx barked, pivoting toward the beasts. His knives gleamed as he took a stance between the oncoming horrors and the direction the children had scattered.

  “Get them back to camp!” ProlixalParagon yelled at Ralyria, already pulling a rune-etched device from his satchel. His heart pounded, his thoughts racing. He hadn’t built anything strong enough to fully seal a dungeon breach, but if he could slow them down, buy them minutes—

  Ralyria didn’t argue. Her spear whipped around, slicing the eye from one of the creatures as it lunged too close. The thing shrieked, a keening, grating sound, and tumbled back into the chasm, its carapace cracking as it fell.

  “Marx, with me!” ProlixalParagon shouted, the tinkerer darting left to flank the oncoming creatures. “We can’t let them spill into the flats!”

  Seron had drawn his moonsteel blade but stood frozen for a beat longer, his pale eyes wide with disbelief. The vision of godly favor unraveling before his eyes, replaced by screeching, unnatural horrors from beneath the earth.

  ProlixalParagon didn’t have time for him. A second beast clambered over the edge, mandibles snapping, and lunged. He threw one of his crack-glass caltrops underhand — the tiny device shattering against stone, releasing a burst of light and concussive force that sent the creature skidding back toward the fissure’s lip.

  More were coming.

  “They just keep climbing!” Marx snarled, driving a flaming knife into the thorax of one of the things. The fire sizzled against its unnatural flesh, but it didn’t die easily. It clawed and writhed before finally going still.

  Ralyria herded the children deeper into the brush. “Don’t stop running!” she shouted. “Find Lyra’s vardo! Don’t look back!”

  Another screech split the night as a larger beast emerged — its carapace mottled and ridged, a thicker crest of bone-like armor over its skull. It clung to the stone wall for a moment before leaping down with alarming speed.

  ProlixalParagon’s blood ran cold. “That one’s bigger. Watch it!”

  The beast landed hard, sending up a spray of dirt and pebbles. Its eyes glimmered with unnatural intelligence, and it moved with the calculated menace of a predator that knew it had the upper hand.

  Seron finally snapped free of his trance, his sword flashing into a ready guard. “These should not be here,” he muttered, as if speaking the truth aloud might unmake it. “This isn’t possible.”

  “Welcome to our world,” Marx gritted, lunging past him to bury a knife into another creature’s flank.

  ProlixalParagon yanked a bundle of wire and compressed stone from his satchel, jamming it into a crack in the rock near the chasm’s edge. “Cover me!” he shouted. “I’m going to bring part of this down.”

  Ralyria had returned, her pale face grim. “The children are moving — I saw them head for the salt flats. But we’ve got more incoming.”

  Another wave of skittering movement from the chasm’s depths.

  ProlixalParagon’s hands shook as he traced the activation runes, mana lines pulsing faintly to life. He felt his pool dip, the drain sharp and cold, but the device whirred to readiness.

  He looked up. “Now!”

  Marx and Ralyria dove aside as ProlixalParagon slammed his palm against the trigger rune. A heavy pulse of force exploded outward, the immediate edge of the chasm cracking and folding inward with a thunderous crash, taking three of the beasts down with it.

  Dust choked the clearing.

  But the fissure still gaped. More scrapes echoed up from below.

  “It’s not enough,” Ralyria panted.

  “I know,” ProlixalParagon said, his throat raw. “But it bought us time.”

  The bigger beast snarled, blood streaked along one side where Marx’s knife had scored it. It lunged again — and Seron intercepted it, his moonsteel blade flashing like liquid frost.

  The elf moved with practiced grace, his strikes clean and precise. But these weren’t creatures of flesh and bone alone, and even his holy-forged blade only slowed it.

  ProlixalParagon caught Marx’s eye. “We can’t hold this!”

  Marx spat in the dirt. “Then we fall back. Regroup. Warn the Troupe.”

  A sharp, distant horn split the night — a Soohan signal call. Not far.

  “More trouble inbound,” Ralyria growled.

  ProlixalParagon cursed under his breath, snatching up another of his devices. “We move now. Or none of us makes it back.”

  Without waiting for debate, he turned, sprinting after the children, the ragged shapes of his friends falling in behind him.

  The chasm lay behind them, the dungeon’s horrors spilling into a world not ready for them.

  And the night had only just begun.

  ProlixalParagon sprinted three strides before a low, grinding shriek behind him made his fur stand on end.

  Another screech. A burst of stones tumbling against stone. The sharp ring of a moonsteel blade deflecting a blow.

  He cursed, skidding to a stop, the rough ground scraping the pawpads of his bare feet. Grit bit into his skin. The scent of churned earth and old dust filled his nose.

  “Damn it.”

  Marx turned, knives slick with dark ichor, his single eye narrowing. “Paragon, keep moving!”

  “You take the kids!” ProlixalParagon snapped, already spinning back toward the chasm, his voice cracked and raw. “Get them to Lyra! Now!”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “What? We don’t have time for—”

  “I said GO!” His hand clutched the hilt of his dagger tight, the worn leather grip slick with sweat. His other paw found the pouch of caltrops at his belt.

  Marx bared his teeth in a snarl. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, fuzzball.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” ProlixalParagon shot back, forcing a crooked grin.

  Ralyria gave him a fierce glare, but when he jerked his chin toward the fleeing children, she understood. “We find you after,” she promised, voice low and steel-hard. “Or I swear I’ll haunt your bones.”

  And then she was gone, the children bolting through the scrub with Marx and Ralyria falling in behind them.

  ProlixalParagon pivoted on his hind paws, kicking up dust, and sprinted back toward the sounds of the fight.

  Seron was still standing, barely, blood streaking his temple, his breath ragged. One of the larger Mana Originating Beasts had him pinned against a shelf of stone, another two circling in.

  ProlixalParagon darted past the rubble, reaching into his pouch. No traps that were the hallmark of his class and none of his classes fancy gadgets.

  Just a dagger, a handful of caltrops — and his wits.

  Time to get clever.

  He sprinted toward a jagged, half-buried slab of stone and scattered caltrops in a wide arc behind him as he went. The tiny, cruel spikes caught the light as they hit earth and stone, sharp enough to punch through chitin if those things tried to follow.

  “Hey! Chitin-face!” he roared, darting around one of the circling beasts. Its multifaceted eyes snapped toward him.

  It lunged.

  ProlixalParagon ducked low, the rough ground scraping his forearms as he slid under a low arch of stone. The beast came after him, spindly limbs clacking, but as its first foot hit the scattered caltrops, it shrieked, stumbling awkwardly as two of the spikes drove deep into a joint seam.

  It toppled, limbs flailing.

  ProlixalParagon didn’t wait — he dove in, driving his dagger hard into a vulnerable spot beneath its mandibles. The thing spasmed, ichor gushing hot and foul over his hands.

  Seron hacked through the leg of another, his movements slower now but still precise.

  “Surprised you came back,” the elf snarled.

  “Couldn’t let you have all the fun,” ProlixalParagon shot back, yanking his dagger free.

  The big one came next, hissing low, its body rippling as it poised to spring.

  ProlixalParagon’s mind raced. No traps, no tools — but the ground here was loose, dry. Shale and grit.

  He darted for a slope of loose scree, baiting the creature to follow. “Come on, you overgrown beetle!”

  It lunged.

  ProlixalParagon leapt aside at the last second, rolling as the beast’s bulk hit the unstable slope. Its legs slipped out from under it, scrabbling against the loose stone. The ground gave way beneath the weight of its carapace, sending it tumbling in a grinding clatter into a shallow ditch of rock and debris.

  Without pausing, ProlixalParagon scooped another handful of caltrops and scattered them along the edge of the slope.

  Seron staggered over, panting. “That won’t hold it for long.”

  “Doesn’t have to,” ProlixalParagon said grimly. “Just needs to hold it long enough for us to run like hell.”

  More shapes flickered at the chasm’s lip.

  ProlixalParagon’s fur bristled.

  “Move!”

  Together, they sprinted for the dark, ProlixalParagon’s paws slapping hard-packed earth, Seron’s boots crunching beside him. Behind them, the beast shrieked in frustration as it tried to climb the slope, only to catch itself on more caltrops and crash back down in a tangle of limbs.

  By the time they saw the faint glow of Yendral’s Hollow’s lanterns and the shape of the Troupe’s vardos against the horizon, ProlixalParagon’s muscles burned, his throat raw.

  Seron slowed, bloodied and pale. “You should have left me.”

  ProlixalParagon shot him a sideways glance. “You kidding? Somebody’s got to explain to Lyra how badly we botched this.”

  And without another word, they limped toward the lights, leaving the chasm, the dead, and the horrors they couldn’t yet name behind them.

  The lights of Yendral’s Hollow flickered like scattered fireflies in the distance, soft against the dark sweep of the salt flats. ProlixalParagon’s breath rasped in his throat, his legs aching with every pounding stride, the coarse grit of the ground scraping against the pads of his bare feet. He didn’t slow.

  Seron ran beside him, his pale face streaked with blood and dust, the sharp angles of his elven features tight with pain and something darker — a sick, gnawing fear neither of them spoke aloud.

  As the first of the village’s outer lanterns came into reach, ProlixalParagon cupped his hands around his muzzle and let out a sharp, three-note whistle — the old Vermillion Troupe’s danger signal. He barely finished before he bellowed, his voice raw:

  “TO ARMS! DUNGEON BREACH! CREATURES INBOUND!”

  The words struck the air like a thrown hammer.

  Shutters slammed. Doors opened. Torches flared to life.

  The scattered Soohan guards stationed along the perimeter walls staggered upright, confusion dawning in their expressions as the weight of the warning struck home. A young sentry fumbled his horn to his lips and let loose a wailing, rising note that cut through the village like a knife.

  “Told you,” ProlixalParagon muttered between ragged breaths, not breaking stride.

  Seron growled something bitter in Soohan dialect and surged ahead, barking orders to the nearest patrol. The pale-cloaked soldiers scrambled, weapons half-drawn as they spread toward the outskirts.

  ProlixalParagon didn’t stop to see them gather.

  His paws pounded over packed earth as he veered toward the line of vardos at the edge of town, where the glow of firelight marked the Troupe’s encampment. He could already hear shouts — Ralyria’s voice sharp and fierce, Marx’s deeper bark of command.

  Good. They’d made it.

  But the worst was still coming.

  He ducked between two wagons, skidding around a cart laden with dried herbs and clay pots, and sprinted for the largest vardo — the one marked by the hanging silver crescents and beadwork charms. Lyra’s wagon.

  He didn’t bother knocking.

  ProlixalParagon shoved the door open and stepped into the close, spice-scented warmth of the elder’s quarters.

  Lyra was there, standing by the small, rune-scribed table that served as both altar and map desk. Her silver fur caught the firelight, her gold eyes narrowing the instant she saw him. Ralyria was there too, one hand still streaked with dried ichor, spear braced against the wall.

  Marx leaned against a crate, a fresh split over his brow, his single eye dark.

  “You’re late,” Lyra said softly.

  “Chasm opened. Mana beasts. Dungeon breach,” ProlixalParagon panted, every word scraping his throat raw. “More coming.”

  The room went still.

  “How many?” Lyra’s voice dropped into that dry, papery rasp that made the world seem to shrink around it.

  “Too many,” ProlixalParagon said grimly. “And not the weak ones. Second chamber guardians. At least a dozen before we collapsed the edge — and it won’t hold.”

  Ralyria’s brow furrowed. “You sealed it?”

  “Slowed it,” he corrected. “Best I could do with a dagger, caltrops, and no bloody prep.”

  Lyra’s gaze sharpened. “And Seron?”

  “Alive. Helped fight,” ProlixalParagon admitted, though the words tasted sour. “He’s rallying what guards he can. But this isn’t a simple patrol scare. That dungeon just spat half its horrors onto our doorstep.”

  The silence that followed was brittle as glass.

  Then Lyra turned, sweeping several rune markers from the map and replacing them with smooth, dark stones in a defensive line around the village’s outer ring.

  “Get everyone ready,” she ordered, her voice like dry desert wind over bones. “Light the perimeter wards. Pull the younglings into the stone house. Every fighter we’ve got takes a weapon, classed or not.”

  She looked up at ProlixalParagon, her gaze hard enough to pin him in place.

  “You brought them home?”

  He nodded. “Marx and Ralyria got them back. All accounted for.”

  Lyra’s gaze softened — barely. Enough to exhale a thread of tension.

  “Good. Then we’ll bleed for them, if we must.”

  ProlixalParagon flexed his sore fingers, the ache of grit and dried blood in his fur ignored for now. “I’ll take the north perimeter. I know how those things move.”

  “Do it,” Lyra said.

  Ralyria was already moving, grabbing her spear. “Marx, you take the saltline. I’ll cover the southern rise.”

  The Goblin grunted, hauling his battered frame upright. “Not dying before I get that drink, fuzz.”

  ProlixalParagon smirked faintly. “You’ll owe me two if we live.”

  The call of the Soohan horn sounded again, closer now.

  The night outside thickened, the dunes beyond the lights of Yendral’s Hollow pregnant with movement. A rising tide of skittering horror.

  Lyra’s voice followed them as they turned for the door.

  “Hold the line, my foxes,” she rasped. “If the old gods wake tonight, we’ll show them we’re still worth fearing.”

  And ProlixalParagon, dagger in hand and caltrops at his belt pouch, stepped out into the dark.