The first corpse slumped there. Not human anymore. A mutant, its body still twitching though its chest was hollowed out, ribs bent outward like broken doors. Its face had melted into a snout, jaw unhinged, eyes white and blind.
The soldiers hissed and drew tighter around their torches.
Then the sound came, wet, dragging, from the far side of the chamber. Another shape stumbled into the light. Not one. Three.
Mutants. Fresh. Their flesh still smoking faintly from the transformation, as if burned alive and not finished cooling. They screeched when the torches touched them, jaws stretching too wide, arms bending the wrong way as they rushed forward.
The humans shouted, shields up, spears ready.
Lindarion moved faster.
His blade sang low, shadows blooming outward with the cut. The first mutant's head left its shoulders in a single sweep, the black ichor spraying warm across the stone.
