Shouts erupted as shadows surged at the camp’s edge. Two hulking black shapes burst from the tree line. Abominations. Dislocated jaws frothing, eyes rolling with void light. Bloated humanoid bodies, but with broken bones. Fangs and maws protruding from their ribs. Necks hangingaskew as they ran.
Varkhounds.
Beasts of the rifts.
But Varkhounds did not hunt this way. Not in twos. Not this close to fire. Not unless something stronger had driven them here.
Steel flashed. The Reskala leapt to arms. Thessia was fury in motion, her glaive cleaving arcs of silver light as she barked orders. Talia slid in tight at her side, shield up, the rest of the Riven Blades moving as one. Their formation was flawless—unwavering as the stone.
Auryn’s heart pounded as the first beast lunged. Kailorien met it head on, drawing his sword and splitting the air. In the wake of his blade, a blue light trailed like mist. One blow, and the thing was torn apart, black ichor hissing into the grass.
But the second broke through.
Straight for her.
Auryn’s lungs seized. Her body moved before thought could follow. She stood and raised both hands, let the song in her very soul rise to her fingers. The air thickened and snapped taut. The creature faltered mid-sprint, limbs jerking as if trapped in a current it couldn’t fight.
Thessia’s glaive struck true. Bone shattered. The beast fell.
Silence.
For a long moment, only the hiss of dying shadow.
The circle of onlookers shifted. Some stared at Auryn with awe. Others with suspicion, like hot irons pressing into her skin.
Thessia lowered her weapon, her violet eyes never leaving Auryn. “More than song for mending shields, isn’t it,” she said, voice low, not accusing but curious. “I’ll want to see that again.”
Auryn’s pulse still raced, but warmth—strange and fierce—bloomed in her chest.
Zarrek stepped forward, kicking at one of the corpses. His voice carried calm authority, cutting through the murmurs. “This isn’t right. Varkhounds don’t prowl this close to fire. Something is driving them where they shouldn’t be.”
Kailorien gave a short nod, his expression hard. “Agreed.” His gaze shifted to Auryn, sharp and knowing. “Looks like your warning was correct.”
Auryn blinked. The words weren’t praise—not quite—but in the weight of silence that followed, they bolstered her more than any accolade.
11
Darkening Skies
The camp had quieted under the soft hush of twilight. The cold edge of the coming night crept low along the ground as mages re-applied wards, Menders visited the sick, and cooks and forgers of the Anvil Wing toiled their craft. All the while, distant howling pierced the air in bursts.
Some men stopped to look.
Others had grown used to it over the last weeks.
Auryn learned more about the creatures as time passed.
Just like the attack the night before, the howls came from varkhounds, monsters borne of the rifts that could not tolerate sunlight. Most appeared when rifts opened. Others wandered the land, remnants of old rifts left untended, drifting until they gathered in packs to find their next prey.
Auryn wandered alone between the rows of supply crates and covered carts, her shawl gathered over one shoulder, the other loose and trailing like a whisper. She moved without urgency, fingers drifting over the wooden frames of weapon racks, touching hilts and hafts with something gentler than curiosity.
Thessia found her there—silent, barefoot, her hair unbound, her focus locked on a worn sword with a chipped rune near the hilt.
“You’re far from the fires,” the Lioness said. No jest in her voice this time, just observation.
Auryn didn’t look up. “So are you.”
A small pause.
