The Last Ritual

by Dragos Gaszpar

Genres: Dark Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Epic Fantasy; Military Fantasy; Literary Fiction; Epic Military Fantasy; epic fantasy; literary fiction; dark fantasy; grimdark

Synopsis

We killed God.
Carved rituals from its corpse—long lives, healing, weapons.
Millennia of prosperity, enough to make you weep.
But nothing comes without a cost.
Three curses carved in kind.

The Leath are winning.
And now something worse threatens us both: mindless, hideous, final.

Oh, the goats? They want our help.
Well. They can have it.
It's time for another ritual.
Yes.
This one will be different.

I and three others will go. We will not return—we understand this.
But if we succeed, then you who remain must carry on.
Maybe find a cure for your... affliction.
Pass this note down.
Let something of us survive.

P.S. Saa, give the younglings my farewell. Nothing too sentimental, you understand. Yes, both of them.
P.P.S. You're still wrong about the portraits.

—Excerpt from a gray's final message, found in Ironwall's inn.

A dark fantasy novel about sacrifice, ruin, and philosophy made manifest.
For fans of grimdark, tragic legacies, friendship, and choices with consequences.

Approximately 72,000 words. Contains themes of war, decay, memory, and (in)human resilience.

Their last ritual wasn't for power. It was for you.

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Release date: June 16, 2025

Publisher: Dragos Gaszpar

Print pages: 295

Content advisory: war, violence, swearing, irreverence toward deities

Sample

CHAPTER I - INNOCENCE

 

Gray light filtered through the pines, mist creeping through the sunken keep.

Melaan planted his feet on grass-strewn tiles, his back to what remained of an old gatehouse—rusted bars sagging between flaking pillars. “We’re not harming the children!” His voice echoed off the stonework as he met their gazes.

Tullith stepped over the sprawled figure, her boots scraping up dust. “Out of the way!” Sweat stained her frayed gambeson. She drew her long-blade.

He shoved her back. “They’re just ch—”

“We heard you the first time!” She bit a lip, steel-gray eyes flashing beneath a battered helm. “Listen carefully. Those things don’t stay small forever. They’ll be charging and howling for your blood in no time, just like their charming parents.” She jabbed a finger past him, into the makeshift prison. Shadows writhed against metal. “We’ve lost enough daylight turning this deathtrap into a blasted nursery. Now move!”

His words drifted like the cloud of reason. “Then we’ll kill them later, when they’re all grown up.” Melaan shifted sideways, gesturing grandly at the cage. “Take one look at those pretty little faces and tell me straight they inspire you to savage killing.” He beamed like a merchant unveiling his finest wares.

Two sighs stirred fallen leaves. The others shuffled closer, cloaks trailing.

Silanna rose on tiptoes. Peered through the bars. Green eyes widened. She turned to him, mouth agape.

Varaad blinked slowly, as if clearing his vision of some illusion. A rod hung from his belt. Long fingers absently traced the pulsing script he’d once etched into it.

Tullith’s glare could have scorched stone.

Melaan risked another glance behind him.

Points of twisting horns flashed from the gloom. The children were half-sized adult Leath: five hunched figures with long claws and red eyes, muscles rippling under patchy fur. Hissing and thrashing, they didn’t sound any better than they looked, and those backward-bent legs ending in hooves didn’t do them any favors. Their sharp musk made his nose wrinkle. They rattled the bars with powerful arms, hinges threatening to burst.

“They’re not even small!” Silanna’s gaze darted between him and Tullith. Her eyes narrowed.

Varaad sighed.

Tullith snorted. “Must be using himself as a reference.”

Melaan rolled a shoulder that caught on his shield. “Alright, bad example.” His palms rose, rustling the mail chains that covered them. “But look, we eyeballed their settlements—definitely up to no good. So leave these be and go, right?”

Silanna’s fingers drummed on her bow. Another glance swept over him, her lips twitching upward.

“They will break out.” Varaad lingered on the cage, revealing dark circles under his grays. “That entire tribe would be on our heels before sundown.” He raised a gauntlet before Tullith’s reply. “Bastion must know they’re massing again.”

Tullith’s knuckles whitened on her long-blade. “That’s right. Again!”

Silanna stepped forward. Her fingers brushed Tullith’s gouged shoulder pad. “Varaad’s right. But this is not the time to linger, either.” She gestured at the corpse sprawled between a gap in the wall. Red stained the stones where the Leath had charged after its whelps’ keening. “They will know either way. He was not the only one.”

Melaan puffed out his chest, gambeson stretching. “Besides, you owe me for saving you that last time!”

Tullith’s gray eyes bulged. “Saving me? You came bolting back through the camp under the fucking moons!” Her hand darted to her own rod at her hip. Five claws recoiled at its hum. “Dragging half a dozen bastards behind you! If these two hadn’t shown up—”​

“Woke you up, didn’t I?” He waved dismissively, ignoring the growls from the cage. “You’re welcome. So, are we going or waiting for a patrol?”

Silanna nodded, her greens bright beneath her helm. Varaad opened his mouth—then caught her raised eyebrow. He quickly nodded along.

Tullith glared.

Melaan shuffled over to collect his discarded spear. A wince at its creaking handle. He edged past the dead Leath, one eye on Tullith. Bent to retrieve the bloodied shield. Then he strutted over. “For you, oh fierce protector of our noble cause.” His grin threatened to split his face.

The glare intensified.

Rattling from the cage.

“They’re camped in OUR city!” Tullith swept a glove past the gaping holes, where toppled columns lay draped in lichen. “This is OUR fortress!” Her eyes narrowed past him at the corroded bars. “And that is OUR gatehouse!”

He groaned. “Long ago, Tul.” His arm extended again, shield wavering. “And these didn’t claim it. Just came here to play. Didn’t know we were here, just stumbled upon us, alright?”

“Play?” She slashed at the air with her blade. “That was war training!”

“That’s what I said. That’s what playing is. It’s fun.” His eyebrow rose. “You should try it sometime—might improve your personality.”

A Leath snarled, a guttural noise that rippled through the cage. Four others went still, crimson eyes fixed with unnerving focus. The hinges’ creaking faded to whispers.

Melaan beamed.

Tullith’s scowl dissolved into an eyeroll. Then hardened again. “When they come for you—if you’re still breathing, I’ll kill you myself!” She sheathed her long-blade, snatching the shield from his hands with a force that nearly dislocated his arm.

He batted his blue eyes. “You’d miss me too much.”

She stormed off through the gap.

Silanna hid a smile.

Varaad shook his head. “She’s not wrong,” the scholar murmured.

“But neither are you,” Silanna added softly.

He grinned at Tullith’s retreating back. An empty threat—there hadn’t been a murder since the lost histories, not since the godfall.

Together, they fell into step behind her.

Four reluctant scouts slipped out of the nameless outpost. Pine needles muffled their retreat as they vanished into the trees.

Behind them, iron resumed rattling through the damp chill.

***

Days later, Melaan emerged from the forest like a shadow misplaced by noon.

He kept his distance from the trio, reading the war banner of Tullith’s stiff shoulders. Another answer to his ill-timed comments. Wince. Or maybe to the fresh gash he’d carved across her cheek during training.

Well. Surely it had closed by now.

March. Before him stretched endless plains, summer-sweet grass swaying beneath a copper sun. All in all, a promise of a swift and uneventful trek back to high walls.

Yet...

Three scouting parties they’d glimpsed through the trees, each bearing the same tokens: torn armor, splintered shields, fractured spears. And that flash of blackened metal—scorch-marks on a gray’s helm? But no light had pierced the pines, no wail had rasped through the canopy.

Maybe he’d seen wrong. Maybe some rookie had just slept too close to their fire.​

He shook his head. Something to ponder later. For now, the signs were clear: every scout brought tidings of Leath massing for another siege; Bastion’s second in his own lifetime. His gaze fixed on the two rods swaying ahead, surfaces gleaming with the bluish glow that had won their last. Though won was stretching it. The light pulsed faintly with each step, like counted heartbeats. He could almost hear the dead god’s cackle.

Sweat trickled inside his helm. Once, Varaad had said, a siege every several centuries was often. Now two in one?

His eyes flicked to the rods again. The third ritual’s boons were just shy of Silanna’s three millennia. At this rate... Something didn’t add up.

“—be too hard on the boy.” Silanna’s voice drifted down to him. “He’s only three.”​

Tullith stomped the grass like it owed her blood. “Three centuries should’ve been more than enough to put some gray in his eyes and drain the weakness from the idiot!” Her voice faltered, barely noticeable, but enough to catch his ear.

Silanna glided over the ground, her steps barely leaving a trail. “Perhaps you mistake kindness for weakness.”

Tullith raked a hand through the hair draping her shoulders. “Look.” She jabbed a finger toward the figures marching in the distance. “We don’t have time to stop and smell the daisies, collect honey for the bears. Not with what’s coming. You know how many charges they’ve got left?”

A frown creased Silanna’s brow. “All three, I should imagine.”

“Two.” Varaad’s voice carried up from a hillock. His expression darkened as he caught up. “Voss has used up theirs.” He pointed behind them. “It still smokes.”

Melaan’s head jerked back to the forest. Nothing—what did Varaad... Oh. There. Pink wisps drifting above the trees.

“Try none.” Tullith’s words stopped them cold. “Saasha and Kroll went in empty!” The three exchanged glances.

He quickened his pace, joining their huddled conference. “What’ve I missed?”​

Tullith’s glare could have withered an oak. “The point, as usual.”

“Do you own another facial expression or is that one stuck?” Melaan snapped. “Perhaps we should check for petrification—you’ve certainly lived long enough.”

Tullith hissed. “Listen here, you little—”

“We are going ahead.” Varaad stepped between them, massaging a temple. A hand drifted to the rod. Hovering, then pulled back. He raised a quivering eyebrow at Silanna.

Silanna wrapped her arm around his, her lips curving into a smile. “Be nice!” she mouthed to Tullith over her shoulder.

They strode past. A crest overgrown with stalks swallowed them.

Tullith turned away. Her mouth pressed to a line. She removed her helm, trailing a rustling finger over her cheekbone. Morning’s mark was gone.

The midday wind ruffled her hair. She stared into the distance, toward Bastion’s invisible walls. Where ten thousand grays stood watch, the shard within pulsing in synchrony with the battlements. Her hand rested on her long-blade, a gesture Melaan had seen countless times on a near-matching figure, though not on his new mentor.

He bit back a remark, watching her shoulders tense. It still surprised him how easily he could burrow under her skin. Soon he’d probably manage it by drawing breath alone. Four months and she still hadn’t adjusted to his humor—though showing up to combat training with flower garlands hadn’t helped. “To brighten the mood,” he’d said.

She’d made him run the wall circuit twice for that one.

Tullith swung back, studying his face through narrowed eyes. Her focus lingered on his blues, searching for something he couldn’t name.

She slid her helm back into place. Started after their companions. “Stop falling behind! Colored eyes are no excuse for slow feet.”​

With a heavy sigh, he sauntered after her. “We aren’t all gifted with your gracious trample.” His pace quickened. “Some of us prefer to leave the grass standing. Though I suppose it’s learned to bow in advance for you.”​

She whirled on him. Her eyes flew open—long-blade flashing in one motion.

He blinked. “Now hold off a minute; I was just—”

“Leath!” The word grated through clenched teeth.

Melaan turned. Heart plummeting to his boots.

Horned figures stalked from the trees, red eyes gleaming like embers in a dead god’s forge. Human skulls swung on their furred chests. The hollow sockets leered at his blues.

The acrid scents of smoke and copper finally reached him.

***

Squatting low, Melaan balanced an elbow on his knee. Spear loose in his grip as if more for balance than battle.

Leath waited. The silence before the storm.

“Unless you’re planning to pick your nose with it,” he muttered, “put that away.”

Tullith remained coiled, gaze locked on the treeline, every sinew taut. The long-blade gleamed in the sunlight.

At last, her lips curled. With a huff, she slid the weapon back into its sheath. A hand brushed the rod hitched beside it.

The enemy had poured from the forest’s shadows, claws wrapped around crude clubs and stone axes. They lumbered into a jagged line, more of their massive forms squeezing into it with each passing minute. Red eyes blazed above snarling muzzles, yet they only watched.

“What in god’s broken bones are they doing?” Tullith growled under her breath.

His brow furrowed. No sneaking, no flanking, no ambush. They’d thrown away any advantage. “Maybe they want to talk.”

Tullith’s eyes snapped to his face. “Maybe they want to talk?” The words sputtered out of her.

He shrugged, the motion awkward, a shoulder catching the shield on his back. “Thought Varaad heard a couple of them speak, ages ago.”

“I was there.” Her voice turned sickly sweet. “Want to know what they were discussing?” The smile vanished. “How to best fucking cook us!” She leaned closer, her grays sharp as daggers. “Boiled first or peeled first—that was their great philosophical debate.”

A lump formed in Melaan’s throat.

“But sure.” Her attention snapped back to the Leath. “Maybe they wanna talk. Ask us for directions. Why don’t you march right over and say hello?”

He scowled, fingers drumming on the spear shaft. Stupid, but not that stupid. Though falling behind had been unwise. No help—no running, either. “Then?”

Tullith tilted her head. “They’re guessing. Figure out if we’ve got one.” A tight smile spread across her face.

He pushed to his feet, scanning the Leath line. “That... actually makes sense.” Slowly, he strapped his spear across his back, over his shield. Each movement deliberate. “Time to shuffle—”

She rose, fluid, unsettling in her calm. “Best we don’t keep them guessing.” Her shield hit the ground with a dull thud. Her mailed fingers moved to her belt. Click. Then she lifted the rod like a banner.

The air erupted with roars. The Leath formation devolved into chaos. They jostled and snarled, a pack barely leashed. Claws scraped against their weapons, muscles coiling—

Tullith grinned, all teeth, no eyes. “THINK I’M BLUFFING?” She took hold of the rod with both hands, dropping into stance.

Ridiculous—a single woman armed with nothing but a stick against a hundred towering savages.

Thin mist began gathering around the object. The cloud thickened into an oily shimmer, morphing, folding in on itself, air crackling like static against skin.

A blinding flash of blue—coalescing into a massive scythe. Tullith gripped it by the end of its handle.

The crescent hummed, edges thrumming.

Melaan swallowed, eyeing the wicked thing. But it would scatter them.

Roars. Crimson glares, the glints of madness. Jagged weapons brandished in... victory? Shoves, leers, guttural screams.

The line wavered, the beasts hesitating.

A shared moment of unspoken purpose—

Leath charged. Hooves thundered.

“What the...” His breath caught in his throat.

Tullith’s eyes flew wide. But the smirk slid back into place.

The air shrieked, piercing ear drums with a rasping wail. She arched her weapon back—

Lashing out. The blade sliced in an arc—

The sky shook.

A blaze of force exploded outward, howling, roiling through Leath ranks. The ground quaked, gouges splitting the earth, grass and soil shredding in its wake.

The wave slammed past the forest’s edge, splintering a row of trees. Crashes thundered through the clearing.

And then...

Quiet. No rustling leaves. No distant birds. Nothing.

Melaan coughed, staggering through falling debris. A pink mist hung in the air, vaporized blood stuck to swirling dust. The metallic stench clung to the back of his throat, burning his lungs, stinging his eyes. They moistened as he blinked through it.

Red flesh and blue viscera scattered the churned earth. Wet squelches under his feet, dark fur snagged in grass.

Tullith’s boot turned over bone fragments. A curled horn here, a broken claw there. A shattered jaw, a split hoof.

Not a single intact corpse.

“Dinner’s ready,” Tullith muttered, kicking at a stray skull. It landed in a bush—bursting into flames. A grimace. “Though it’s a bit overdone.”

She blew out the smoking rod. Its ethereal aspect had vanished, the blue pulse of the etchings now entirely absent. She clipped it back to her belt.

“Think I’ll skip mine,” Melaan managed, bile rising. He’d never lingered at Bastion’s siege. The melee had kept him moving.

He glanced at Tullith’s red gambeson, every metal plate glinting pink. “We should move.” His fingers twitched beneath his mail. “Catch up with the others.”

Deep lines flashed across Tullith’s face. She met his gaze, biting her lip bloody—

“Watch it!”

Tullith unclenched her teeth. A blink, then a nod.

They left the carnage, tracing the path of flattened stems.

Behind them, a shield lay forgotten in browning mud.

Melaan cleared his throat. “Hope the others brought wine...”​

***

The tang of sun-baked grass carried on the breeze. Boots crunched on the trail, dampening the brittle stalks with drops from his own forehead.

Hours behind now—they would’ve caught up if it weren’t for his ragged breaths. Melaan’s legs burned with familiar exhaustion: bursts of energy that drained too quickly, leaving him to watch the measured stride ahead.

Droning insects filled the air around him, punctuated by sporadic grasshopper songs. Odd no one had doubled back after the scythe’s wail.

Tullith glanced back. Halting for him to catch up. “Miss my mare already.” Her marching resumed. “Blasted trees...”

He sighed, scanning the horizon. “Wish I had a horse. Even all weird like yours. Doesn’t seem likely, though.”

She reached up, scratching a scar above her heart in a stiff, absent motion. “Still might, one day.” The words rang false even to him. “Poor thing—imagine hauling you across its back for millennia.”

“It’d be less poor if you taught me how to ride it.” He cast her a sideways glance, his mind drifting to the Leath they’d left behind. Well, behind in the dirt. “One sure would’ve come in handy back there.”

Wind ruffled the hair poking beneath her helm. “Damn shame. Wasting one on outriders.” She kicked at a pebble. “Should’ve saved it for something bigger.”

The pebble skittered across flattened weeds, vanishing into dense brush. He trailed it, eyes narrowing at the muted thunk.

Behind the shrub, something shifted—a sound that prickled his neck.

“We’ll recharge back in Bastion,” he muttered, gaze locked on the rustling vegetation.

Insects fell silent. A bird’s chirp cut off mid-song. Muscles tightened under his scouting gear.

“And when the shard’s power runs out?” Her voice rose like thorns. “We’re already rationing. Saasha and Kroll didn’t even—”

Crack.

His hand flew to his back, spear sliding free. He hurled it—puncturing the reeds with a wet thunk. A guttural groan followed.

A shadow lunged from his right—

Tullith’s long-blade carved through the hairy form. It fell to her ankles and stilled—

Hooves thumped behind. A mass crashed into his back.

Something hairy locked around his throat. Rakes across his shoulder; tearing past wool, cloth, flesh. The hot, wet sting staggered him—his hands shot up, gloves clawing at that grip.

Vision darkened. Landscapes shifted—

The crushing pressure eased.

Air flooded his lungs. Sight returned. A meaty thud at his heels.

He shot a hand back, scrabbling for the shield—

Snap. Movement blurred on his left.

He spun, shield rising—

Jarring. Horns jutted into wood with a crack of bone.

Melaan pummeled. Grass snagged. They tumbled into high stalks.

Amid the chaos, Tullith darted to his quivering spear, swearing under her breath. A single stroke silenced those groans.

Howling in his ears. A hoof drove into his gut, driving breath out. Thrashing fur pounded on him. Claws sank into flesh. His hand fumbled at the belt.

Blood flooded his mouth. One wild thrust found its mark. A shriek cut short.

“Eyes up!” Tullith snapped, her voice cutting. She swept the area for more threats.

He rose on buckling knees, long-blade glistening.

The focus of her grays shifted. “You hurt?” She scanned over the red tatters of his gambeson.

Under his shredded armor, deep gashes knit closed across his shoulder and chest, flesh weaving with a hot-cold pulse that left his skin both numb and tender. The disorienting sensation almost made him miss the weight of his mail coat and brigandine.

As for siege gear—he’d have to break bones.

He shook his head, legs and arms quivering, breaths rapid and shallow. Sweat stung the healing wounds. “Thanks for the save. You?”

“No.” She retrieved his spear from the corpse and tossed it over.

His trembling fingers caught it mid-air. Despite her steady voice, the mail on Tullith’s hands twitched. Her own gambeson bore a jagged gouge, but through the tear there was only red-layered cloth and smooth skin that had closed.

Musk curled through his nose. He glanced down at the corpse, nudging it over with his boot.

His stomach twisted at the light form. A juvenile. His eyes flicked to the three others.

Melaan’s shoulders sagged.

“Told you they’d come for your blood.” The words hissed between Tullith’s teeth. She stalked back to their path. “Keep your spear ready.” Each word seemed to cost her restraint. “And let’s get going double time. There might be more.”

Another look over that lifeless face. A hollow ache spread through his chest.

The spear groaned under his gloves. He forced his legs to follow.

Waist-high growth rippled around him, concealing who knew what else. He fell in, matching her stride. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“DON’T I?” Tullith erupted, storming forward, each footfall grinding into packed earth. “Your blue-eyed blunder nearly got us killed. AGAIN! Now we’re hours behind with—” She cut herself off. Gray eyes bore holes through him. “Think a moron’s luck lasts forever?”

Melaan’s mouth snapped open—

Then closed with a click of teeth. His jaw clenched, the lingering sway making the horizon tilt before leveling.

After all, what could he really say?

***

Smoke curled beyond the ridge, its source hidden by the slope. Past it, weary soldiers likely grumbled about cold rations of stale crackers. The scrape of steel on wood carried through the air, a familiar rhythm as colored and grays often trained beneath the pink glow of evening.

Melaan doubled over, sweat trailing down his temples. “How about... we catch our breath... before...” He gestured at the crest.

Tullith pulled out her water flask and took a sip, offering a simple nod in answer. Her lack of insults was a thaw in the icy silence of their trek.

He gulped in breaths, watching the horizon behind them with a furrowing brow. Something nagged at his thoughts... “Why would they charge after seeing it? They should have scattered like rabbits.”

She tucked the flask away, swallowing. “Who can say why those beasts do anything?” Her lip curled. “Just crawled right out of god’s rotting asshole one day. Biggest dimwit I’d ever seen. Doesn’t surprise me one bit they’re the same.”

“I’m not buying it.” He straightened, studying her. “Would you have rushed in?”

“If I looked like that?” She arched an eyebrow. “Sure.”

Melaan grinned. “But... you do look like that.”

A twitch at the corner of her mouth told him he’d struck gold. “Should’ve scythed you instead.”

“Then you’d look like that on the inside, too.”

Tullith rolled her eyes, a hand brushing the drained rod at her belt. The etched surface looked cold despite the waning heat. “Right. Break’s over.”

They trudged onward.

Two silver moons began their climb upward, as predictable as the sun’s fall.

Boots skidded on loose stones. “What I can’t figure out is why the hell Saasha sent you over.”

His shoulders lifted. “Advanced training. Maybe she thought my charm would rub off.”

“She would,” Tullith muttered. “That woman’s spent millennia trying to fix hopeless cases. You’re the worst one yet.”

“At least you get to see us more often.” Not trying to gouge out his eyes with her glares anymore. Progress, since that last ambush.

“Can be fun, Bastion.” Tullith hid a smile. “Especially when I’m not training fools like you.” She sighed, a rare flicker of something crossing her face—quickly replaced by her smirk. “But not much time. Our new wall’s ready, and the inside’s been refurbished too. All warm and cozy. Perfect for horned visitors. You’ll see one day. Assuming you’ll live.”

His foot slipped. They were nearing the summit, the air thinning.

“I take it back—you probably won’t.”

He forced a grin. His voice wavered through his gasps. “They say it’s possible, you know. For those with color in our eyes.” A long pause. “Even with grays.”

She halted mid-step. White knuckles flew to her long-blade. Then scrambled on. “Wishful thinking, nothing more.” An edge crept into her tone.

The wind shifted. Those voiced curses were getting louder—some gray must’ve been grazed badly.

“You never know until you try.” The words tumbled out before his brain could catch up with his mouth. Shit. Idiot.

“Look, kid, young, soft, and stupid’s not my type.” She cocked her head, eyes narrowing.

“Oh.” He swallowed hard. Then cleared his throat. “No problem.”

She threw up a hand. “You hear that?”

“I said I damned heard you, alright?”

“No, fool, listen!” A high note crept into her voice.

Melaan wanted nothing more than to sink through the rocks and die there. But he forced himself to focus. Past his ragged breaths and thundering heart—now mostly unrelated to the climb—he caught it: faint clangs, muffled screams that ended too quickly.

Guttural roars that made his skin crawl.

Their eyes met. Widening.

They bolted toward the sounds.

Steel on stone, bellows. The snarls of brutes.

His legs were on fire. He scrambled past the crest. Seeing—

The camp below: a grim stage of blood and battle. Leath outnumbered them three to one. Dim light glinted off helms and slashing weapons.

They skittered down gravel, the clash sharper with every step. Vines thorned in his way.

The scouts had formed a defensive ring, shields locked like the scales of a great beast. Arrows sailed back and forth.

He glimpsed Silanna’s precise draw and release, covering spotters who darted out to drag the fallen back. Soon, the recovered would rise to rejoin the fight.

The wall churned, holding. Spears pierced throats. Blades cut past boiled leather, Leath crumpling into sprays of red.

Shapes of sparse fur surged like starving wolves. Horns gouged, sharp as glass. Hooves smashed bone, skidding in dirt, battering defenders. Spiked clubs thundered against ironed wood. Warbows shot back at human archers, sprouting blood and curses.

One Leath broke ranks. He leaped past the ring—swiping at a sprawled human—only to meet thrusting steel.

Another creature feigned a stumble, drawing a soldier out of formation. Lunged low, claws slashing upward. The scout reeled—

Shields closed around him.

Some lumbered back. Their growls blended into a discord that rallied their kin.

Melaan slipped. Wheezed as he recovered. Tullith dashed ahead with a curse.

Leath fell to hissing shafts. A gray buckled as a club hammered past his shield, splintering the wall. A quick move from his comrade filled the gap. The sprawling figure was dragged back. A glint of blue.

Missiles found openings in less armor and more hide.

By the time he reached the valley floor, the fight was spent. Fortunate too. Melaan doubted he could wrestle a pup.

The last beast collapsed with a wet gurgle.

He and Tullith slowed their approach, huffing and puffing.

“Took you long enough,” Kroll called, voice steady despite the sweat trickling past his storm gaze. “What was it this time—climbing lessons?” He motioned at the battlefield, toward twitching Leath. “Give us a hand and check their wounded. I want every bastard that’s still breathing—”

A wail wrenched through the air.

Tullith bit her lip.

Vigor drained from Kroll’s face. Melaan’s head snapped toward the sound.

Something familiar in its pitch.

A small group gathered nearby. Shoulders touching, breaths held.

They rushed over—

Breaking into the circle. Melaan’s stomach sank.

Silanna knelt in pooling crimson. Knuckles white, fingers shaking. Cradling a broken body.

Varaad’s gray eyes stared unseeing at the last light, face caked brown where his helm had caved inward. The etched rod hung at his belt, still pulsing faint blue.

Silanna’s cry pierced the air again. Tears carved trails through blood glistening on her cheeks.

The vibrant green of her eyes began to dim. Color bled away, leaving behind a lifeless gray that matched the pewter sky.