Instead, I back toward the wall, putting stone at my spine and limiting their approach angles. It won’t save me. Nothing here will save me. But it might buy time.
Time for what? Kaster is scouting ahead. He doesn’t know I’m here. Doesn’t know they flanked around his patrol route to catch me alone.
This is the strategy. Separate us. Kill me while he’s occupied elsewhere.
The gods learned from the scouts. They upgraded.
The first attackcomes from the left.
A hunter launches itself at me with speed that shouldn’t be possible for its bulk—armored body cutting through the air like a thrown blade. I dodge, barely, feeling the displacement of wind as claws slice past my ribs.
My magic lashes out instinctively.
The power catches the hunter mid-recovery, sinking into its core where the divine spark lives. I feel the death that wants to happen, the ending I can make permanent?—
Agony splits my skull.
Not as bad as before. But bad enough. Blood trickles from my nose, hot against my upper lip. The hunter staggers, wounded but not dead, and my magic releases before I can anchor the kill.
They’re resistant. Built to endure witch magic long enough to close the distance.
The creature lunges again. I scramble backward, boots slipping on bone fragments, and slam my shoulder against the ravine wall hard enough to see stars.
A second hunter drops from the rim, landing beside the first. They spread out, flanking me, forcing me to divide my attention.
I can’t anchor two at once. Can’t even anchor one without crippling cost.
They know that. They designed this.
My breath comes fast and harsh. Fear-copper coats my tongue. The ravine walls amplify every sound—my heartbeat thundering in my ears, the scrape of claws on stone, the wet rasp of hunter breathing.
Three more emerge from the shadows ahead. Seven total. They fan out in a semicircle, patient as executioners.
I’m dead.
The certainty arrives without panic. My magic is insufficient. My body is inadequate. Seven hunters against one Anchor witch in a kill zone designed specifically for this purpose.
I reach for my power anyway.
If I’m dying here, I’m taking at least one of them with me. Making it permanent. The gods will feel that loss even if they don’t feel mine.
The lead hunter coils to spring.
Then the world catches fire.
Dragonfire tearsthrough the ravine from above.
White-hot destruction pours down like molten judgment, catching three hunters in its initial blast. They don’t scream—the blaze erases them too fast, flesh to ash in the space between heartbeats. The stone walls glow orange where fire splashes against them. The air itself seems to ignite.
Kaster drops into the ravine behind the flames.
He doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t check if I’m injured. Doesn’t acknowledge my existence at all.
He lands among the surviving hunters and starts killing.
The violence is absolute. No hesitation. No wasted movement. He rips through the first creature before it can turn to face him, claws punching through armored plating like it’s paper. The second manages to lunge at him—he catches its throat mid-leap and uses its momentum to slam it into the ravine wall hard enough to crack stone.
The remaining hunters adjust, flanking him with coordinated precision. They’re not panicking like the scouts did.These creatures were built to fight dragons. Built to survive exactly this kind of engagement.
