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Continue
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Back to the squad.
The woods had turned a dull grey under thickening storm clouds. Rain tapped the leaves while the wind carried uneasy whispers between the branches. Tomas's squad moved carefully, boots sinking into the soft, wet dirt. No one spoke much anymore. The silence between gusts felt heavier than words.
Every now and then, a branch cracked somewhere in the distance — enough to make their hands grip their weapons tighter.
A faint voice drifted from the west. Low muttering… then the rustle of brush.
Ellis cocked a grin and readied his bow. "Gotcha."
He angled the arrow toward the sound.
"Hold up, Ellis," Tomas hissed, raising a hand.
But Ellis had already stepped ahead, peering into the wet undergrowth. "I swear, if that's another damn rabbit I'm—"
Before he could finish, three figures pushed through the brush — cloaked, armed, faces familiar.
Another squad.
"Oh, for crying out loud," Ellis groaned, lowering his bow. "You lads trying to get yourselves killed or what?"
A taller soldier with a beard scowled. "Funny talk, coming from the fool aiming a bow at us."
Tomas stepped forward, letting out a breath. "You're western recon?"
"Yeah. Squad Three." The bearded man nodded. "Been holding this sector since midday."
A soldier behind him spoke up, "Three squads on the west, four on the east near the trade road. Easier to access, but that's where those strange sightings came in earlier."
Tomas frowned. "Right… and Varun?"
"Still up on the far hill," the bearded soldier pointed upward through the trees. "Watching both routes with his scope. Said he'd fire a signal if anything big moved between east and west."
Ellis smirked. "Good old Varun. Probably bone-dry up there while we're down here soaked to the bone."
The other squad gave a tired chuckle — the kind you make when you're cold, wet, and not dead yet.
"Anything on your end?" Tomas asked.
"Well," the beard soldier sighed before continuing. "A few odd sounds. One of ours thought he saw a figure in the mist an hour ago, but nothing solid. This storm's messing with everyone's nerves."
"Same here," Tomas said. "We'll circle east. Hold position till the next signal."
Ellis raised a hand. "If you see something moving and it ain't us — yell. Or better yet, shoot first and tell us later."
"Tempt me," the bearded man snorted.
They nodded, then parted ways. Rain kept falling, wind clawing overhead.
"Let's move," Tomas said. "Stay sharp."
Ellis muttered as he fell in beside him, "If Varun stays up there warm and dry, he's buying the drinks when we get back."
Tomas cracked a smirk. "If we make it through the night, I'll hold him to it."
And with that, they pressed on, deeper into the storm-fed forest.
The danger wasn't done.
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On the hill.
Varun lay prone, his cloak plastered to his back. The storm blurred the world beyond his telescope's lens, rain streaking the glass until everything shimmered like ghosts in the mist.
He could still pick out movement.
The western downlands: faint shapes slipping through the gloom. Hard to tell who was who, but he could count heads, track patterns. The eastern trail closer to his perch was clearer. One squad edged toward a narrow ridge, another huddled near the old willow.
"Still moving," Varun muttered, adjusting the focus. The blurred forms sharpened for a breath before rain smeared them again.
He wiped the lens on his sleeve, scowling. "Damn rain."
A distant flash lit the drenched land for a heartbeat, silver light rippling across it like glass. He spotted Squad Two and Three near the crossing.
"No sign of trouble yet," he murmured.
His fingers found the shaft of a signal arrow — the oiled one wrapped in cloth, ready to catch flame even in this weather. Not yet. Not unless it mattered.
Another flash of lightning. A dark figure, moving west, far from the squads, into deeper woods.
Varun stiffened.
"Who the hell…?"
He scrubbed the lens clean again, trying to catch a second glimpse. Gone.
He gripped the scope tighter.
No flare. Not yet. He couldn't afford a false alarm.
But his gut wouldn't settle.
The rain felt heavier now, the mist below curling strange through the trees. It moved like it was alive.
He peered through the lens again.
Squads accounted for. All but…
Wait.
A lone silhouette. By the old willow, eastern side. Still as stone. Too far for a face, but its posture was wrong.
Squads didn't stop like that in weather like this.
"Move… c'mon… move," Varun muttered.
It didn't.
It stood there, and though he couldn't see its face, Varun felt it — as if it was staring straight at him.
A cold ripple ran down his back.
His hand brushed the signal arrow again.
Lightning split the sky.
Gone.
The spot where it stood was empty.
The hair on Varun's neck prickled.
Still no signal shot. Not yet. If he panicked now and it was nothing… no. Not yet.
But his hand didn't leave that arrow.
And his sharp eyes didn't leave that patch of trees.
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6:30 p.m, night
The rain had slackened to a light drizzle, but the sky remained a thick, smothering grey and black. Thunder rolled overhead like a restless beast.
Ellis peered upward. "Well… still no mercy."
Kellin sat nearby, wiping wet hair from his face. "Can't decide if it's better or worse without the rain. At least it masked our scent."
Silence settled over them, broken only by the sky's grumble.
Tomas crouched by a damp log, his cloak dripping, and pulled out a small bottle of oil and cloth. He wrapped a half-dry branch and struck flint to steel. A spark caught, but the flame sputtered and died.
Ellis chuckled dryly. "Even the fire's too scared to stay."
"Need light?" Kellin asked, pulling a battered brass lantern from his pack. He lit it low.
"Keep it faint," Kellin warned. "Only enough to see the compass."
The flicker cast hollow light over their faces.
Then — a shape in the fog.
Standing alone ahead, between the skeletal trees.
Tomas saw it first, lifting a hand sharply. "Down."
They dropped low, heartbeats pounding.
Ellis squinted. "Lads… narrow your eyes. It… doesn't have a face. Look."
He nudged Eren.
"There. See it?"
Eren leaned, throat tight.
"By the gods…" he whispered.
No one moved. Every one of them knew Galen's orders by heart:
When it's time to strike — be patient. Kill silent. No heroics. If caught, then you fight like hell.
The words lingered like cold breath among them.
"Draw your bow," Tomas whispered. "But don't loose unless you have to. Could be bait."
Ellis's hand trembled as he reached for an arrow.
"What the hell is that?"
No one answered.
They waited.
The figure remained. Unmoving. As if it knew exactly where they lay.
Then — it turned.
And wordlessly walked into the mist.
The squad held position.
Ellis exhaled at last. "Did it see us?"
"I don't know," Tomas murmured. "But we're not moving yet."
They stayed low, watching the fog.
Because sometimes, the danger doesn't strike right away.
Sometimes, it waits.
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Back on the distant hill, Varun wiped a sleeve across his telescope's lens, brushing away the rain. The night had sunk darker now, the land below a mix of deep grays and oily blacks. Here and there, scattered lantern lights flickered in the distance — fragile things against the suffocating dark.
He leaned in and peered through the scope, sweeping from east to west.
And then… something caught his eye.
A cluster of unmoving figures.
Varun narrowed his gaze, adjusting the lens.
"Squad Three…" he muttered under his breath. "What the hell are you staring at?"
He swept the scope just ahead of them.
And there it was.
A pale, faceless shape, barely visible through the mist and gloom. But unmistakable.
Varun felt anxious. A cold prickling crawled up his spine.
He leaned in closer, adjusting the focus.
The creature turned its head — and locked eyes with him.
Or whatever it used in place of eyes.
Even across that distance, Varun felt it. That awful, bone-deep certainty. Like the thing saw him. Knew exactly where he was.
His breath caught. He jerked his head back from the scope, heart pounding.
"Crap…"
His hand darted to the oil-wrapped arrow at his side, ready to light it. But not yet. Not until it was time.
He forced himself to look again.
Through the scope's lens, he saw it raise one long, pale arm.
The earth around it shifted.
Bulged.
Then split.
Figures clawing their way up from the mud. Twitching, dragging, faces half-gone.
The dead.
Varun's hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the lens for a wider view.
And felt anxious.
They were everywhere now. From the western treeline to the far side of the field. Dozens of them. Rising. Stumbling. Gathering.
A first wave.
And he knew, bitterly — this was only the beginning.
Varun's fingers brushed the oil-wrapped arrow at his side, steady and ready.
His gaze stayed fixed through the scope, his expression unreadable.
One flare.
That's all it would take — the signal to rouse the watch, to ready the towers.
But through the scope, he caught another figure drop. A silent takedown. A flash of steel, then nothing but tall grass swallowing the body.
Varun's brow furrowed, his focus tight.
"They're still handling it…"
He shifted the scope east. Another one down. A quick, clean strike. No wasted movement. No sound.
Good.
The squads were holding the line.
In the distance, the pale, faceless figure lowered its arm, tilting its head in that sick, unnatural way. But its summoned dead barely made it a few paces before vanishing into the grass like stones in water.
Varun's hand stayed on the arrow, but he didn't move.
Not yet.
The storm wind whipped his scarf, rain spattering against the cold brass lens. He barely blinked.
"I swear, lads," he muttered under his breath, voice low and sharp, "don't make me fire this thing."
And he kept watching.
Unshaken. Silent.
Waiting.
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Faint, distant wails echoed through the mist as the undead dragged themselves upright, their twisted forms swaying unsteadily as they shambled forward — heading for the distant castle walls.
The squads stationed between the trees tensed. The air thickened with a sickening, heavy shift, as if the ground itself recoiled at the things crawling over it. Every soldier felt the subtle vibration beneath them, each step of the dead sending a dull pulse through the mud and grass.
Tomas crouched low behind a gnarled trunk, eyes sharp. He raised a hand in a sharp, deliberate signal.
Spread out. Stay low.
His fingers flicked again.
Prepare for close kill.
Without a word, the squads moved. One by one, they sank into the tall, damp grass — prone, bodies motionless, faces nearly buried in the earth. The wet blades shuddered in the breeze, hiding them completely.
Ellis shifted into place, his face pale but steady.
"Got it," he whispered. "If it gets close, I'll take it."
"No bows," Tomas muttered, glancing at him. "Not unless we have to."
Kellin, already gripping his dagger, spoke without looking up. "Patience, lads. We die loud, we die early."
Out in the mist, the dead shuffled closer. Their pale, rotting faces slack and aimless, their senses dull. They wandered in a scattered, unsteady line, unknowingly making their way toward the castle's outer defenses.
On both flanks — east and west — the other squads mirrored the same ruthless, silent work. Every soldier crouched low in the grass, waiting for the right moment.
This was how it was done.
No sound. No heroics. Silent kills.
A gaunt, rotten walker neared Ellis, its sagging arm brushing the tall grass beside him. He held his breath, dagger poised in a white-knuckled grip. The moment its back turned, he struck — his blade driving up beneath its jaw with a wet crunch. He caught the body before it could fall and eased it down into the grass. A faint shudder left the corpse before it went still.
Ellis exhaled, wiping his dagger on the dead thing's tattered sleeve before disappearing back into the grass.
At the east side, a soldier almost fumbled. His dagger snagged in a strip of ragged cloth, and the corpse gave a faint, wet groan. Every head snapped toward him.
The dead wandered blindly, unaware. But one more slip could bring them down.
Across another patch of grass, Tomas watched as a walker's uneven gait carried it almost over him. The stench of rot thickened in his nose. He waited — perfectly still — then struck. A single, precise cut to the throat. The head lolled, barely held by force. He dragged the limp weight down, letting it settle soundlessly into the grass.
Elsewhere, squads mirrored the same cold efficiency. Dozens of undead cut down one by one — unnoticed, unheard — as the mist thickened around them.
The battle for silence stretched on.
One soldier at a time.
One corpse at a time.
Each kill clean, swift, and buried in the wet earth before its noise could betray them.
And ahead of them, the horde thickened with every step — a wall of dead flesh pulling steadily toward the castle walls.
The mist swallowed the scene, but every soldier knew the truth.
This was only the beginning.
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Up on the castle's south battlements, the storm hung low and heavy over the land. The wind cut through the rooftops with a restless moan, and distant thunder rolled somewhere beyond the hills. Lanterns swayed from iron hooks, their flickering light barely holding its ground against the thick gloom.
A hooded archer knelt by the parapet, adjusting the battered brass telescope in his hands, his fingers stiff from the cold.
"See anything?" a musketeer asked beside him, his musket ready, the dull gleam of the weapon catching the lantern glow.
The archer kept one eye to the lens. "Movements," he murmured. "West field. And more rising."
He tightened the focus — and there they were. Shambling figures moving through the mist. Pale skin. Hollow, empty eyes catching the light like glass beads. And behind them… the tall one. Faceless.
His gut tightened. "They're coming."
A woman musketeer stood nearby, face half-hidden beneath a scarf against the cold. Calmly, she checked the powder in her rifle.
"Undead?" she asked, her voice steady.
The archer gave a small nod. "Maybe.... And Squad One's out there… crouched low. They'll need cover fire soon."
The lead musketeer stepped up, steady as stone.
"All right. Pick your targets. No wasted shots. Clean headshots."
Their muskets didn't have scopes — not like those future or fancier weapons from the sci-fi stories. But these soldiers didn't need them. Years of breath control, battle drills, and cold campaigns had made their aim sharp as a razor's edge.
A young woman musketeer with scarfed and black hair of medium length exhaled slowly, leveled his musket at a lone figure creeping near the eastern wall, and squeezed the trigger.
Boom.
The shot cracked sharp in the night air. A heartbeat later, the undead toppled with a neat hole through its skull.
The musketeer next to her grunted in approval. "Good one."
The young woman didn't say a word, just reloaded with smooth, practiced hands, her expression unreadable.
Another figure lurched up near Squad Two's position.
She raised her musket, drew a slow, steady breath.
Boom.
Another clean drop.
"Keep them down," the archer barked, eye still to the telescope. "No sound unless you have to."
The faceless creature moved through the horde below, its pale shape ghostlike in the gloom. The archer's skin crawled.
"Damn, that thing is still leading them."
Another young woman musketeer with red hair of medium length, spoke quietly. "Is it headed for the main gate?"
"Middle north," the archer confirmed grimly. "Right toward the traps."
Another soldier loaded a fresh round, eyes hard. "We hold this wall," he said flatly. "Doesn't matter how many crawl out of that dirt."
The young woman with the scarf flicked a glance his way as she loaded another shot. "Less talk," she muttered. "More shooting."
And one by one, they fired. No shouting. No fear. Just steady aim, cold breath, and shots that counted.
Even without scopes — every single one mattered.
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Meanwhile, at the East Watchpost… Far from the main gates.
The mist clung stubbornly to the wooden walls of the tall watchtower, mixing with the lingering scent of rain and damp earth. Night pressed heavy on the land, and the scattered glow of torches in the distant village of Atlon barely cut through the haze.
Perched high in the narrow post, a lone messenger scout leaned against the railing, his leather cloak still damp from the earlier downpour. He swept his scope lazily across the treeline and toward the looming eastern mountains.
For a long while — nothing.
He scoffed under his breath, lowering the scope.
"Tch. Waste of a watch shift," he muttered, his voice rough from the cold. "East side's been dead for hours… might as well grab a warm cup before something gets ugly."
He gave one last glance toward the dark peaks before turning to leave — only for a flicker of eerie light to pulse through the distant clouds.
His brow furrowed.
Slowly, he raised the scope again, squinting through the mist.
A shape.
A long, massive serpent — gliding low beneath the storm clouds, its coiling body outlined in jagged bolts of blue lightning. The air around it seemed to ripple, the very clouds parting for its passage.
His stomach knotted.
"What… in the gods' name is that—?"
Before he could finish, a flash of searing blue light burst from the serpent's maw, striking the far eastern slopes. For a brief moment, the land ignited in a ghostly glow — the trees, hills, and rocks all awash in pale lightning.
His breath hitched.
"No… no, no—"
He yanked the scope down, turned, and scrambled down the narrow ladder so fast he nearly missed a step. His boots hit the wet ground hard as he bolted down the muddy path.
As he sprinted, the dark outlines of the village of Atlon came into view on his left — the old timber houses clustered together, a few stray lights still burning in upper windows.
But there was no time.
He sped past the outer huts, mud splashing against his cloak, heading straight toward the command post barracks nestled just behind the near walls of Atlon Castle, where a cluster of spearmen kept post.
"Commander Galen!" he bellowed, breath ragged.
The guard on duty barely had time to step aside before the messenger rushed through the tent flaps into the war tent.
Inside, Commander Galen stood at a heavy wooden table, maps and marker stones laid out before him. His short, graying hair clung slightly from the rain earlier, his sharp eyes flicking up at the intrusion.
"What is it?" Galen demanded.
"Serpent in the east, Commander!" the messenger panted, bracing a hand against his knee. "Flying — made of storm — it's coming this way. Struck the slopes already… there'll be no holding them when it reaches here."
For a moment, the tent went silent except for the low crackle from a brazier nearby.
Galen's jaw clenched. He stepped forward, snatching his sword from a rack beside him.
"So… it's started."
He turned to his officers nearby and spoke sharply.
"When that thing reaches the walls, we'll hold the south and west gates. But that serpent… it's going to scatter the eastern squads. It'll flank our outside walls, and if that happens, the dead'll breach the town. The men out there won't stand a chance against a storm beast and a horde in the open."
The messenger straightened, his face pale.
"Commander… what should I—"
Galen cut him off, pointing to the map.
"You'll take six spearmen from the barracks and head for the market square. Get every last villager out. The evacuation center's behind Atlon Castle, just past the inner bridge — you remember the route?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. When you get there, stay clear of the east walls. The serpent's strikes'll start there, and the gates won't hold long. Don't wait for our orders if things fall apart — you lead them straight to shelter."
Galen looked over his shoulder to the nearby men.
"Spearmen! Six of you — gear up and move out with him!"
The soldiers snapped to action, grabbing shields, spears, and fastening cloaks.
"How will you hold the wall?" the messenger asked quietly, his voice tight.
"We'll buy you the time you need," Galen said grimly. "Now move."
Without another word, the messenger ducked out of the tent, followed by the six spearmen, their armor rattling softly in the misty dark as they jogged toward the village square — lanterns swinging in their hands.
Within minutes, the war tent emptied, Galen's officers streaming toward the battlements and towers, readying their muskets and bows, the faint call of distant horns signaling to other posts.
The night was about to fall into chaos.
And the first strike was on its way.
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Back in the Village, Inside the Market…
The rain had long stopped, leaving only a cool mist that clung to the windows and walls. The soft hiss of wind slipped through cracked shutters. Lanterns hung from wooden beams flickered weakly, barely cutting through the gloom.
Inside the crowded market hall, villagers huddled where they could — mothers clutching their children, old men leaning against walls, able-bodied men gripping worn weapons with white-knuckled grips. A brittle, uneasy silence hung in the air.
Near a stack of crates in a shadowed corner, Nathan, 9 years old, stirred beneath a medium-sized towel laid across his back. His frame was small, his clothes still damp, his hair clinging to his forehead. He blinked into the dim room, disoriented.
He sat up slowly, pulling the towel off his shoulders.
"Huh…?" he murmured softly. "Who…?"
His eyes scanned the room, then caught sight of her.
A girl, about his age. Same size, same dirt-smudged face. Dark twin-tailed hair, the ends tied roughly with spare cloth, and pale blue eyes half-hidden beneath tired lids. She was asleep at the counter table, arms folded beneath her head.
Nathan frowned.
"Did she…?"
He was about to stand when a voice rang out, distant but sharp.
"Open every door! Open them now!"
Gasps rippled through the room. A few of the older men sat upright. A mother clutched her child tighter.
Near the window, an old merchant wrapped in a thick brown cloak hurried over, peering out into the mist.
"Who was that?!" another man barked.
"Messenger from the watchpost," the old man answered grimly. "And he's not alone."
Through the streaked glass, shapes emerged — the messenger and six spearmen, sweat-soaked, running toward them.
"Thank the heavens," a woman whispered.
A gruff villager — one of the handful armed men left — spoke up.
"Stay inside! Something's wrong — they wouldn't be rushing like that unless it was bad."
The girl at the table stirred, lifting her head. She rubbed her eyes, then noticed Nathan watching her.
Their eyes met, just for a second.
"Hey…?" Nathan began, voice low.
The girl didn't answer. She simply reached behind the counter, grabbed an old kitchen knife, and tucked it under her scarf.
Outside, the messenger's voice shouted again.
"Commander Galen sent us! Open up, now!"
One of the guards moved to unbar the door, letting them in. The messenger stumbled inside, his breath ragged.
"Who's in charge here?!"
"No one," gruffly answered the same villager. "Our fighters are out at the east hill."
The messenger swore under his breath.
"Listen — there's a creature flying at the east walls. Worse… a creature's coming. A flying serpent. You've got minutes, maybe less, before it strikes this place."
Shocked murmurs spread through the market.
An old woman whispered, "We're finished…"
"Not yet," one of the spearmen growled. "We'll hold them back as long as we can. You need to get to the Atlon Castle evacuation center. But move fast."
A loud crackle rolled across the sky.
Thunder.
Followed by distant shouts. Then a bolt of lightning illuminated the room for a split second through the window.
"It's here!" a spearman shouted.
A crash sounded nearby as a house collapsed under the weight of flame. Screams followed.
"Fire's spreading!" another warned.
People panicked — some rushing to the side doors, others heading to the back.
"The exit's blocked!" a man called out, slamming his shoulder against the door. "Debris from the roof — it's caved in!"
The girl moved toward a window, peeking through, only to recoil as fire licked up the outside wall.
Nathan's hands clenched. His mind raced.
"No way out…" he muttered.
The old merchant grabbed his arm.
"Kid — stay calm. Don't run. You move when I say, you hear?"
Nathan swallowed, giving a tense nod.
The girl met his gaze again, her eyes now cold, focused. No words were exchanged — but it was clear.
They were both trapped here.
And outside, death was coming.
The old merchant tightened his grip on Nathan's arm as another thunderclap rattled the windows. Outside, the sharp crack of breaking wood and the roar of fire echoed in the night.
"Boy — stay sharp," the old man growled. "Don't move 'til I say."
Across the room, one of the spearmen shouted, "Form a line at the front! Keep the entrance clear! Anyone able to hold a weapon — with us!"
Some of the villagers hesitated, others grabbed makeshift tools — a rusted hatchet, a pitchfork, even a heavy wooden chair leg. The fear in their eyes was plain, but they forced themselves forward.
The girl with the scarf moved near the window again, peeking through a narrow crack in the shutters. Her face tightened.
"They're close," she muttered under her breath.
Nathan stepped toward her, staying low. "What do you see?"
"Shadows," she said simply. "Too many."
Before Nathan could answer, another crash struck the side of the market. A beam fell, blocking part of the hallway. Smoke began to fill the room.
"Everyone, to the back!" a spearman ordered.
"They're coming from both sides now!" another shouted.
The messenger who had arrived earlier gritted his teeth. "We need to clear a way to the castle or we'll be cornered in here!"
Galen's voice cut through the noise from outside as he arrived with another squad, weapons drawn.
"Push through!" Galen barked. "We hold here, or we lose the whole village!"
The spearmen stiffened at his presence.
Nathan's medallion pulse quickened. The heat from the fire was rising, and smoke stung his eyes. The old merchant tugged him down behind a tipped-over table.
"Kid, stay close," the old man muttered, sweat streaking his dirt-smeared face. Then, without glancing back, he called out, "You too, granddaughter."
Nathan blinked, confused by what he'd just heard. Granddaughter? He gave a quick glance toward the girl — the same scarfed girl with dark twin-tailed hair and sharp light-blue eyes — who was crouched near a broken shelf, her grip tight on a dull kitchen knife. She said nothing, only gave him a brief look before turning back to the fire creeping closer.
But there was no time to question it.
A heavy thud echoed from the market's front entrance.
"Move aside!" a voice bellowed from outside.
CRACK!
The front beams splintered as a spearman smashed a broken log through the barricade, clearing a narrow gap just wide enough for people to squeeze through.
"Hurry! All of you, through here before this place comes down!" one of the spearmen called, his voice hoarse from smoke.
Panic overtook the room. Villagers scrambled from behind overturned tables and market stalls, clutching whatever they could carry. Mothers tugged their children forward, men shouted for order.
"Don't panic! Keep moving, damn it — forward!" another villager barked, waving his arm to usher people to the gap.
One by one, people shoved through the narrow break in the wall, coughing, crying, desperate to escape the inferno that was swallowing the market from the ceiling down.
At the very back, the old merchant, the girl, and Nathan moved in line behind the last stragglers, shielding themselves from falling embers.
A loud, menacing creak split the air — the charred beams overhead shifted, small bits of burning debris tumbling down.
One of the spearmen looked up, fire reflecting in his eyes.
"Move, move, move! That beam's about to drop!"
The last few people ducked through the exit, and the three of them were next.
They ran for it.
But just as they reached the broken entrance, the ceiling above them gave an ominous crack. A heavy, half-burned beam dropped down with a thunderous crash, blocking the gap completely.
"No!" the old merchant shouted, throwing an arm up to shield Nathan and the girl from the spray of sparks.
Outside, the spearman cursed, banging his fist against the wall.
"Find another way out! We can't get through here now!"
Another voice shouted from outside the market.
"They're still in there! I see them!"
It was the messenger — sweat-drenched, face streaked with soot. He had sprinted from the line of retreating villagers and spotted the three figures trapped beyond the collapsed entrance. His gaze fixed on Nathan, eyes widening in disbelief.
"Gods above…" he muttered, almost forgetting himself.
"That's… that's the prince… Queen Rhea's boy…"
The girl's brow furrowed, confused by the words. Nathan noticed but didn't speak.
The messenger clenched his jaw, snapping back to the moment.
"Kid — you have to find another way out! The serpent's almost here! Do you hear me? Move!"
A piercing shriek split the air as the flying serpent dipped lower, a streak of blue lightning bursting across the rooftops further down the street, incinerating another row of homes.
The old merchant grabbed Nathan by the arm.
"Come on — through the back stalls. There's an old delivery hatch at the corner wall. Hurry!"
The girl gave a curt nod and sprinted after them, her scarf catching the glow of the firelight as the ceiling crackled and more beams threatened to fall.
"Kid, stay close," the old man muttered, sweat streaking his dirt-smeared face. Then, without glancing back, he called out, "You too, granddaughter."
Nathan blinked, confused by what he'd just heard. Granddaughter? He gave a quick glance toward the girl — the same scarfed girl with dark twin-tailed hair and sharp light-blue eyes — who was crouched near a broken shelf, her grip tight on a dull kitchen knife. She said nothing, only gave him a brief look before turning back to the fire creeping closer.
But there was no time to question it.
A heavy thud echoed from the market's front entrance.
"Move aside!" a voice bellowed from outside.
CRACK!
The front beams splintered as a spearman smashed a broken log through the barricade, clearing a narrow gap just wide enough for people to squeeze through.
"Hurry! All of you, through here before this place comes down!" one of the spearmen called, his voice hoarse from smoke.
Panic overtook the room. Villagers scrambled from behind overturned tables and market stalls, clutching whatever they could carry. Mothers tugged their children forward, men shouted for order.
"Don't panic! Keep moving, damn it — forward!" another villager barked, waving his arm to usher people to the gap.
One by one, people shoved through the narrow break in the wall, coughing, crying, desperate to escape the inferno that was swallowing the market from the ceiling down.
At the very back, the old merchant, the girl, and Nathan moved in line behind the last stragglers, shielding themselves from falling embers.
A loud, menacing creak split the air — the charred beams overhead shifted, small bits of burning debris tumbling down.
One of the spearmen looked up, fire reflecting in his eyes.
"Move, move, move! That beam's about to drop!"
The last few people ducked through the exit, and the three of them were next.
They ran for it.
But just as they reached the broken entrance, the ceiling above them gave an ominous crack. A heavy, half-burned beam dropped down with a thunderous crash, blocking the gap completely.
"No!" the old merchant shouted, throwing an arm up to shield Nathan and the girl from the spray of sparks.
Outside, the spearman cursed, banging his fist against the wall.
"Find another way out! We can't get through here now!"
Another voice shouted from outside the market.
"They're still in there! I see them!"
It was the messenger — sweat-drenched, face streaked with soot. He had sprinted from the line of retreating villagers and spotted the three figures trapped beyond the collapsed entrance. His gaze fixed on Nathan, eyes widening in disbelief.
"Gods above…" he muttered, almost forgetting himself.
"That's… that's the prince… Queen Rhea's boy…"
The girl's brow furrowed, confused by the words. Nathan noticed but didn't speak.
The messenger clenched his jaw, snapping back to the moment.
"Kid — you have to find another way out! The serpent's almost here! Do you hear me? Move!"
A piercing shriek split the air as the flying serpent dipped lower, a streak of blue lightning bursting across the rooftops further down the street, incinerating another row of homes.
The old merchant grabbed Nathan by the arm.
"Come on — through the back stalls. There's an old delivery hatch at the corner wall. Hurry!"
The girl gave a curt nod and sprinted after them, her scarf catching the glow of the firelight as the ceiling crackled and more beams threatened to fall.
The fire roared overhead. Smoke clung to the alley like a thick, choking blanket. Nathan's eyes watered, and every breath scraped his throat raw. He stumbled over a broken crate, almost falling, but the girl grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward.
"Careful!" she snapped, her voice strained but cracking slightly, more like a frightened kid than a soldier.
"I-I didn't see it!" Nathan coughed.
Another nearby shed exploded into flame as a serpent bolt struck it dead-on, scattering burning timber across the narrow path.
The girl let out a sharp yelp, flinching back against the wall.
"Keep moving!" the old merchant barked, half-pulling both of them toward a half-collapsed wooden fence. He kicked the loose boards aside, creating a tight gap just big enough for the kids to squeeze through.
"Go! Crawl through!" he ordered.
Nathan ducked down first, squeezing beneath the scorched planks. His heart pounded in his ears, and smoke stung his eyes.
The girl hesitated, staring at the burning shed ahead, then dropped to her knees and followed quickly after him. She hissed when a sharp splinter scratched her hand but didn't cry out.
The old merchant came last, grunting as he pushed through, his cloak catching briefly on a nail before he tore free.
They burst out into another narrow lane behind the market. Half the rooftops ahead were ablaze, the fire creeping like a wave through the village.
"Where now?" Nathan coughed, wiping soot from his face.
The old merchant pointed to a small side door along a nearby storeroom. "There — that should lead to the side yards. Move before this whole alley lights up!"
Another thunderous crack made the girl jump. She instinctively ducked closer to Nathan's side, eyes wide.
"Why won't that thing leave?" she mumbled, her voice shaking.
"Because it won't," the merchant said grimly. "Come on, both of you — don't stop."
They ran again. The girl's scarf slipped halfway off her shoulder as she ducked beneath a low-hanging beam. She cursed under her breath — not some grown-up curse, but a sharp little kid's grumble like "Ugh, stupid scarf!" — tugging it back up.
Nathan stayed close, legs aching, chest tight.
The crackling roar of the fires seemed to chase them down every turn. A pile of burning beams collapsed just ahead, blocking the path to the larger street.
The girl skidded to a stop, panting. "W-what now?"
"This way," the merchant called, grabbing a rusted crowbar from beside a stack of old barrels. He shoved it into a storage door's latch.
It wouldn't budge.
"Help me here, boy!" he shouted.
Nathan hurried over, pushing with all his weight against the door as the old man pried.
The girl hung back, glancing nervously over her shoulder as the serpent's distant shape wheeled overhead again.
"Hurry, hurry, hurry…" she whispered.
Finally, with a jolt and a crack, the door gave way. Smoke poured from inside, but it was clear.
"In!" the merchant ordered.
They scrambled through.
Inside, the storeroom was dim and tight, crates stacked high, some half-burned. Ash drifted down like dirty snow. The air was thick and hot, but it bought them a moment's cover.
The merchant led them toward the far side.
"There — see that old gate? That'll get us to the side alleys and the east wall tunnel. Move quick!"
Nathan nodded, his legs shaking but still carrying him forward.
The girl stuck close, eyes stinging with soot. She ducked beneath a half-broken shelf — but her scarf snagged on a splintered beam. She gasped, tugging at it.
"Wait—wait, I'm stuck!" she cried out, her small hands fumbling with the knot.
Nathan skidded to a stop and darted back.
"I got it — hold still!" he said, grabbing at the scarf's edge, yanking hard.
A sharp cracking noise overhead made both their heads snap upward. The charred ceiling groaned.
"Go!" the merchant shouted from the open gate. "Now, both of you!"
The scarf finally tore free, but it was too late.
A heavy beam broke loose with a shriek of wood and flame, crashing down between them. Nathan barely managed to dive clear as the flaming beam sealed the path. The girl stumbled back, coughing from the fresh burst of smoke, trapped on the other side.
"No!" Nathan yelled, reaching for her.
The old merchant swore under his breath, grabbing Nathan's arm.
"Boy — don't be a fool! The whole place is going down!"
"I can't leave her!" Nathan shouted, struggling against the man's grip.
But through the gaps in the burning debris, the girl's wide eyes met his.
"I'm okay!" she shouted hoarsely, covering her mouth with a sleeve. "Go, I'll find a way!"
Another beam cracked behind her, embers falling like angry sparks. She quickly ducked down a narrow space between toppled crates, disappearing deeper into the burning storeroom.
Nathan hesitated, heart pounding.
"Come on!" the old merchant barked, yanking him toward the gate.
Reluctantly, Nathan stumbled through into the night air, his throat raw, his eyes still on the burning building.
They emerged into the open — or what little remained of it. The village around them was in ruins, houses blazing on every side. The air shimmered with heat, thick with smoke and falling ash.
Above, the flying serpent glided low, its massive shadow crawling over rooftops. Lightning flickered from its maw, thunder booming so close it shook the ground.
"Stay down!" the merchant growled, pushing Nathan against the wall of a half-standing house. He kept low, darting along the shadows of the buildings, leading the boy toward a narrow path between the burning homes.
"We keep to the side. Stay out of the open. That beast sees us, we're ash," the merchant muttered.
Nathan's head kept turning back.
He half-expected to see the girl burst out from the ruins behind them, but the storeroom was fully ablaze now, fire pouring from the windows.
The merchant noticed his glance.
"She's smart. Tough, too. She'll find a way," he said tightly, though his own gaze flicked to the flames with grim worry.
They crept along the side path, crouched low, moving fast but careful not to draw the serpent's attention. Its massive form passed overhead, the wind from its wings sending burning embers scattering like fireflies.
Somewhere ahead, the faint outline of the east wall tunnel beckoned — a narrow hope in the midst of ruin.
And somewhere behind them, the girl fought for her own escape.
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To be continued
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