10
LYSSA
Thorrin crashes through our camp like avalanche given flesh, his massive frame radiating panic that transforms afternoon quiet into immediate crisis.
"They're coming!" he gasps, amber eyes wild with adrenaline that speaks of narrow escape from mortal danger. "Pack everything! We have minutes at most!"
Kaerith springs to his feet with fluid motion that transforms rest into readiness without transition. "Who's coming? How many?"
"The Shameborn!" Thorrin's voice carries harmonics of terror I've never heard from him before. "Malakor. He knows we're here. They detected my surveillance."
The confession hits camp like physical blow. Our careful planning, our strategic patience, our tactical advantage—all shattered by impulsive action that exposed us before we were ready.
"You went alone?" Elira's voice cuts through chaos with surgical precision. "Without consultation? Without backup?"
"I wanted to end this! We've been sitting here planning while he kills more couples, spreads more corruption?—"
"You wanted glory," Kaerith interrupts with tone that could freeze summer rivers. "Personal satisfaction over tactical necessity. And now your foolishness will get us all killed."
The accusation hangs between them like blade drawn in anger. Friendship fracturing under pressure that reveals fundamental differences in how they view leadership, responsibility, survival itself.
"We have to fight," Thorrin insists with desperate conviction. "It's now or never. Running just delays inevitable confrontation while giving them every advantage."
"We have to leave," Kaerith corrects with authority that brooks no argument. "Immediately. Before they establish perimeter that prevents escape."
"Listen to him," I interject, seeing disaster approaching if they continue arguing while precious seconds slip away. "Thorrin, please?—"
But my support for Kaerith's tactical assessment only fuels Thorrin's anger. His eyes flash with betrayal that cuts deeper than enemy action ever could.
"You too?" he snarls. "Taking his side over basic survival instinct?"
The argument dies as something inhuman crashes through tree line with violence that speaks of predatory intelligence freed from all restraint.
Saulo erupts into our camp like nightmare given flesh, his broken beauty transformed into weapon of systematic terror. Armor crafted from metal spikes covers his torso—each point sharpened to surgical edge, the whole assembly designed to turn his body into instrument of maximum damage.
In his hands, a club studded with nails that gleam like steel stars in afternoon light. Weapon meant for crushing rather than cutting, for prolonged agony rather than quick death.
But it's his eyes that freeze my blood completely. No longer empty servitude or mechanical obedience. Instead, they burn with fanatical devotion that transforms torture into religious duty. Whatever programming Beda used to break him has been redirected toward single purpose: eliminate threats to his masters' vision.
"Weak ones," he hisses through lips curved in smile that holds no sanity. "Diseased ones who spread corruption through bond-sickness. Time for cure."
Dark elf magic crackles around his free hand—energy that builds with audible hum while reality itself seems to bend away from gathering power. This isn't simple physical confrontation. This is supernatural assault by creature who possesses abilities we cannot match through conventional resistance.
The bolt of pure darkness launches toward Elira with precision that suggests extensive practice targeting human opponents. Death incarnate seeking her heart with supernatural accuracy that makes dodging seem impossible.
Kaerith moves without conscious thought, his massive frame intercepting attack meant for her destruction. The magic strikes his shoulder with sound like breaking bone, spinning him aside while dark energy dissipates in flashes that leave afterimages burned against retina.
"Run!" he shouts through pain that would paralyze lesser beings. "All of you! Now!"
Terror gives our legs wings as we flee through forest that offers concealment while providing multiple escape routes.
Behind us, Saulo's laughter echoes through bare branches—sound that holds no humor, only predatory satisfaction of hunter closing on wounded prey. His pursuit moves with supernatural efficiency that suggests tracking abilities enhanced beyond natural limits.
Kaerith runs beside me despite injury that should cripple his left arm, adrenaline and desperation overriding damage that bleeds through his fingers. Elira matches our pace with healer's endurance while Thorrin leads through terrain he knows better than any of us.
But our coordination cannot overcome supernatural pursuit enhanced by magic we don't understand. Saulo gains ground with each hundred yards, his enhanced speed closing distance while his laughter grows closer, more intimate, more certain of eventual capture.
"Split up!" Thorrin calls over his shoulder. "Make him choose targets!"
