Tyrus crouched on top of the Explorer Guild, the afternoon wind combing his hair into his eyes. Below, the streets unraveled into chaos, with merchants scooping their wares into sacks and dragging carts off the road, mothers yanking children by the wrist toward doorways, guards sprinting while buckling straps and shouting at anyone still in the open to get inside.

He forced his gaze outward over Cliffview's rooftops to the grasslands beyond. The lake flashed like a pile of silver coins in the afternoon sun, and on its northern lip the red bison herd collapsed into a stampede. Massive bodies surged like a single creature, white spray jetting from their hooves as they kicked off the shallows. The sound rolled over the town like distant thunder.

Seeing them run made the back of Tyrus's neck tighten.

He turned east and saw why. A smear of black motion tore across the grass, throwing dust like smoke. He fed a thread of mana into the pathways up his neck and into his eyes, and the smear resolved into legible bodies.

Most of the beasts were lesser rank; rangy, red-eyed, their black coats rippling as they ran. Interspersed among them were bulkier shadows with broader chests and quicker strides. Gray markings flared across some muzzles like painted bone masks.

The leader eclipsed them all. The greater hound was enormous, its shoulders nearly the height of a horse. Coarse black fur covered its frame, with streaks of pale gray running down its neck like war paint. An animal skull—perhaps from a rival beast—was fitted over its head like a helmet, the bone fused to flesh. Long ropes of drool swung from its muzzle as it charged, while ruby eyes burned within the skull's sockets.

Is that a greater hound leading the pack? I've never seen one before, other than the ones I've read in books. The hounds with the gray masks must be standard ranks then...

He counted fast as they approached: fifteen lesser, four standard, one greater, so twenty in total. The size was larger than the packs he'd heard about in lectures, but beasts did not always follow tidy numbers written in books.

Something shifted above. He tipped his head back into the glare and caught three stonemasons gliding down from the south like storm omens. Massive avian beasts with rocky feathers and beak-like maws that could tear through steel. They followed predator packs like vultures, waiting for the slaughter to end so they could feast—or worse, join in for fun.

"Wonderful," Tyrus said, his voice flat as he dropped from the roof.

He hit the road in a crouch beside Reo, Grant, and Fiona. All three had their weapons out. Grant's shield rode his forearm like an iron door while Reo gently clasped the hilts of his dagger. Fiona had both hands on her staff, knuckles white, jaw set hard enough to crack a tooth.

"There's about twenty of them coming," Tyrus said. "Mostly lesser hounds, four standards, and one greater leading the pack. And to make things worse, three stonemasons circling above."

Reo's face fell. "That's… not great."

Fiona scowled, already reading ahead. "Cliffview's guards can handle lesser beasts, but standard ranks will chew them apart, and a greater hound? Absolutely not. They don't have enough men, and the ones they do have don't carry anything that'll bite through that greater's fur."

"Then we're up," Grant said. "It's our duty as sorcerers to defend the unblessed."

Fiona clenched her staff. "Then what are we waiting for?"

Grant caught her by the shoulder before she could move. "Hold on."

She turned sharply. "What?"

Grant's eyes flicked to Reo. The scout hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Look, Fiona… you're running on fumes. You spent a good amount of time healing half of this town. Your mana's nearly dry."

She opened her mouth, indignant, but Reo pressed on. "I'm not saying you're useless, but right now you're more exhausted than any of us. Sometimes, it is best to. You're an Elemental Sorcerer who needs mana to fight effectively. You've got none left."

Grant sighed, palming his face. "Reo, you have a talent for phrasing things poorly. But he's right. We need you alive and well, not drained and fainting mid-battle. Find a safe spot to recover your mana."

Fiona's nostrils flared. For a long moment, she said nothing, then finally exhaled through her nose. "Fine. But if any of you die while I'm sitting around, I'll revive you myself and give each of you a good smack to the head!"

"You won't need to," Tyrus said. "Apostle Alaran's here. Between him and us, this'll be over quick."

"I wouldn't count on it," Fiona muttered. Still, she nodded and turned back toward the Explorer Guild. "Stay alive, all of you."

Grant bolted eastward, his body swaying as Reo ran alongside him. Tyrus flicked a look back to Fiona, who had already pushed open the guild's doors. Tyrus lingered for half a heartbeat, watching her disappear inside, then turned to chase after Reo and Grant.

***

The streets were darn near empty by the time he arrived.

Civilians crammed themselves into whatever shelter was available, barricading doors with furniture. Windows slammed shut, curtains drawn tight. Through one gap, Tyrus caught a glimpse of a man clutching a shard of glass, a girl pressed to his side. The sight twisted something in his chest.

He pushed harder as he raced eastward. His sword thumped against his leg, his mana pulsing low in his veins.

The earlier healing had drained him more than he'd admitted. He guessed he was at maybe twenty percent capacity, enough for short bursts of augmentation and a few spells if needed. Any lower, and he risked straining his mana heart.

Still, he'd fought worse with less. His body had grown stronger over the months, slowly adjusting to the rapid growth of his mana core. Where before his reserves had outpaced his body's limits, now they were closer in harmony. Progress, however small, was still progress when it came to avoiding a tragic end because of his own foolishness.

Once Tyrus reached the eastern gate, he froze at the sight. Outside the town, the grassy plains had turned into a slaughter.

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Guards clashed with hounds, spear points stained red as they thrust forward. The lesser beasts fell easily when struck in the eye or throat, but for each one slain, another lunged from the side. Tyrus watched as a young guard impaled a lesser hound clean through the skull, only for a larger standard hound to crash into him from the flank. The man's scream was cut short as the beast's jaws clamped around his throat, tearing through flesh in a spray of red.

Another guard shouted in horror, rushing forward with his spear raised. He drove it into the beast's flank, but the spearhead only lodged halfway. The hound turned, snarling, and a second later, its fangs sank into his neck. The man went limp.

Tyrus's stomach churned. He'd seen death before, but not to this degree!

Farther down the field, three explorers fought together. One of them, the burly man who'd greeted Blue Dawn at the guild, swung a chipped broadsword in wide arcs alongside two younger men with swords and spears, respectively. They were barely holding their own, but the four standard hounds circling them were closing in.

Beyond that, at the center of the chaos, the greater hound towered over all others, its dagger-like fangs glinting white as it lunged and roared. Two figures darted around it, fast and fearless.

Reo's daggers flashed as he dove and twisted, weaving between the beast's snapping jaws. A burst of light exploded from the weapon's tip as he struck upward, stabbing deep into the creature's belly. The greater hound howled, thrashing, and Grant charged from behind, shield raised high.

With a roar, he slammed his shield into the beast's outer skull. The sound cracked like a breaking log, and the hound stumbled back, blood dripping from its maw.

"Nice hit!" Reo shouted.

"Don't get cocky," Grant barked. "It's not done yet!"

Tyrus couldn't spot Igneal, Sir Wayne, or even Apostle Alaran anywhere among the fighters. Their absence gnawed at him. If they were here, this would've been over already. Instead, the guards were being torn apart.

"Bearer," came Eaubrus's low growl in his mind. "You are hesitating."

Tyrus clenched his fists. He shouldn't be frozen here, staring at the destruction. He should be out fighting! It reminded him of when Blue Dawn fought goblins in the Wasteful Wetlands while Tyrus stood by, wasting precious seconds second-guessing himself.

Tyrus let out a fast breath and charged into the fight.

The first target was a lesser hound lunging at a guard's exposed back. Tyrus whipped his wrist, summoning his flying dagger. The silver blade cut through the air with a shrill whistle, striking the beast square in the eye. It howled, collapsing mid-leap. The guard turned, wide-eyed, and thrust his spear into its other eye, killing the beast. He then nodded his thanks before charging to help his comrades.

Another guard was having trouble with a lesser hound. Currently, he was on the ground, holding back the beast with the shaft of his spear in its snapping jaws. Tyrus dashed forward and stabbed the creature through its thick skull, ending its brief reign of terror. The guard, scrambling to his feet, offered a grateful nod, his face drenched in blood and sweat. Tyrus acknowledged the gesture with a curt dip of his head, already scanning the encroaching shadows for the next threat.

The guards were struggling but holding against the lesser ranks; the explorers had the standards pinned, though their coordination was slipping. Reo and Grant were still locked with the greater hound, forcing it toward the ridge with relentless pressure.

Then two lesser hounds broke away from the melee, dashing toward the town. Their direction chilled Tyrus's blood, and in the distance, he saw a man clutching a small child, darting into an alleyway.

What are they doing out!? Are they stupid?

He turned to chase, but movement behind him caught his attention. He barely had time to react before a third lesser hound pounced from behind, its jaws open wide.

Tyrus' instinct kicked in. Mana flooded his body in an instant, augmentation igniting every pathway. The beast slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. Claws tore at his shoulder, the creature's teeth snapping close. Its breath, hot and putrid, reeked of sun-baked eggs, inches from his face.

Eaubrus stirred in his shadow. "Do you require..."

"No!" Tyrus grunted out loud. "I got it!"

He twisted, grabbing the hound's throat with one hand and forcing his sword upward with the other. But the creature was heavy, far stronger than he'd expected. Its weight crushed the air from his lungs.

The glint of steel flashed above, and a dagger plunged through the hound's skull. The beast spasmed and went loose. Tyrus heaved it aside and stabbed up under the ribs to be sure. He rolled to his feet, snatched his flying dagger from the mush of skull with a wet sound, and launched for the lane, lungs already burning. The two deserters had already disappeared behind the buildings.

Where did they go!?

He cut through the alley where he last saw the man and child, boots sliding in the soil. Tyrus veered right and burst onto a wider street. The two hounds were already half a block ahead, claws striking sparks off the paved road as they ran for a tight cut next to a smithy. He pumped mana into his legs until the edges of his vision rose and fell as if he rode a wave. If he emptied himself now, he'd pay for it later, but Tyrus didn't care.

Later didn't have a man and a child running from beasts included. If he lost them, he'd hear screams in his sleep for years.

The hounds darted around the corner and disappeared. He skidded after them, crashing into a wall of sound. The battle's roar faded into echoes, but closer noises were sharp: his own ragged breath, the thud of his boots, the scrape of claws up ahead, and a child's faint cry nearby.

A toppled cart barred the way in front of him. He hit the wood with one foot, pushed off, and went over, landing in a skid that sprayed grit. Beyond the alley opened onto a square of timber homes closely packed. Crates and barrels were stacked nearby.

A man with a pitchfork stood with his back to the door of one home, and a kid stood behind his legs. The two hounds spread in a half-circle, lips peeled back, muscles twitching in little eager tremors as they crept closer. The pitchfork jabbed once, twice, hopelessly as the man pleaded for the homeowners to open their doors for the girl.

To his horror, no one answered.

Sensing the man's despair, one hound bunched and sprang.

"Light Bolt!" Tyrus shouted.

An orb of fast white leapt from his palm and smashed into the leaping hound's cheek. The beast yelped, twisted midair, and missed the man by a hair's breadth, then crashed into the shutter and window behind with a cascade of wood and glass. A shrill scream erupted from inside the house.

Tyrus was already moving. His off-hand had flicked at the same instant as the spell. The flying dagger sped low and struck the second hound high on the side of the neck. It stumbled, whining, legs splaying. It tried to wheel away.

You're not getting out of this alive.

Tyrus approached, brought his sword across in a brutal slash, and carved a deep gash through its belly. The hound shrieked and bolted, entrails trailing. Tyrus snapped his wrist; the dagger tore free, spun back to his palm, and he ignored the fleeing animal.

He vaulted the wall, threw himself at the already-broken window, and dove through. Glass punched into his boots and bit his palms. He rolled and came up to a scene spattered red.

An older man braced in front of a corner, a knife in one hand, shirt raked open by three fresh claw furrows. In the corner behind him crouched a young woman with her arms cinched around a boy who couldn't have been over five, his face buried against her shoulder.

The lesser hound was already turning on the bleeding elder, jaws slick.

A growl rattled out of Tyrus without his permission. He hit the beast's back hard enough to knock its forepaws wide. Claws raked, teeth snapped at air. He raised his sword high and drove it down behind the skull, deep into the neck. The hound heaved, trying to throw him off, yet Tyrus wrestled the blade free and stabbed again and again. The third plunge found the spine. Its body spasmed, then went slack and rolled off him.

Silence fell, cut only by the woman's hitched breaths and the boy's thin whimper.

Tyrus knelt, chest heaving, and yanked the sword free. Blood sprayed onto his forearm. He wiped his face with the back of his hand out of habit and came away with a smear of red that wasn't his.

He lifted his eyes. "Are you alri..."

The older man had his knife outstretched toward Tyrus's throat, hand trembling but steady enough to strike. He shuffled sideways, never turning his back, keeping himself between Tyrus and the corner. Hatred and fear tangled in his eyes into the hard, familiar knot Tyrus had seen more times than he wanted. Hatred of Beastfolk, hatred of beasts, all welded together by the simple need to protect what was dear.

Tyrus's lips pressed together in a thin line. He stood up slowly and stepped back from the corpse. He turned, put a boot on the shattered sill, and vaulted out into the yard.

Outside, the sunlight was blinding. He drew a sharp breath, tasting dust and iron, and noticed a new, sour flavor mixing with the saltiness.

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