Tarrin's eyes went wide as a hot splash of blood and brain matter painted his face.
The world seemed to slow.
He didn't even register the sound—only the aftermath. The soldier next to him collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, skull cracked open like rotten fruit.
His brain screamed, but his body lagged behind.
Time fractured.
Around him, faces twisted—first in confusion, then horror. One heartbeat turned a card game into a massacre.
They were under attack.
'Who? How? Why the hell hadn't the barrier triggered?'
He had no answers. Just instincts—and they screamed one thing: Move.
or die.
Tarrin's legs coiled and snapped, hurling him down just as a blur of gray shot past. A clawed arm slashed through the air where his head had been a blink ago.
Pain flared—something sharp kissed his cheek. Blood trailed down, warm against cold skin.
Wind howled past as the creature tore overhead. Another shadow lunged. He kicked off the ground, but too late.
Agony ripped through his body as claws raked his chest—deep, half an inch of muscle peeled open.
His breath vanished.
He hit the ground hard, body tumbling across stone, rolling like a rag doll.'I should've stayed inside.'
That was the only thought clinging to him as the chaos roared louder.
Screams erupted from the wall.
"It's an Attack!" someone shouted—loud, panicked, probably the soldier who'd mistaken him for Henry. "Ring the bell, someone!"
Tarrin rolled to his feet, groggy and bleeding, and spotted the man. He was locked in a brutal clash with one of the creatures, sword moving in tight, trained arcs. Behind him, more shadows danced.
Then Tarrin saw it.
And he remembered.
The lectures at Centauri. The Scarbane identification course. The images drilled into him. The warnings etched into every word.
Humanoid. One meter tall. Skin like weathered stone.
Four claws. A maw full of razors. Wings like jagged metal.
Graveshrike.
Even Spawned, they could hit a hundred and fifty miles per hour.
'What the hell are Graveshrikes doing in this region?' His mind reeled, but his body had no time to freeze.
He pushed forward, sprinting toward James—who was barely holding off three of them with nothing but a spear and sheer grit.
Tarrin's hand flew to his side. The sword flared into existence from his Cerevault, its weight familiar even as his temple buzzed. Essence reaction or adrenaline—he couldn't tell. Didn't care.
One Graveshrike peeled off from the air, barreling toward him.
He felt the pressure change—ducked, barely in time.
Claws slashed above, close enough to steal a few hairs.
Snarling, Tarrin twisted his body low. A pulse of raw dread surged out from him—visceral and instinctive. The creature faltered mid-flight, hovering in hesitation.
That pause was all Tarrin needed.
His blade lashed out in a blur, stabbing clean through its torso. The steel bit deep, piercing where its heart should've been.
The Graveshrike gave a single, sharp screech—then fell.
Tarrin didn't wait to watch it hit the ground. There were more coming.
Tarrin glanced up—and his breath caught.
Dozens of shadows tore through the sky above, blurring against the dark clouds. The Graveshrikes were descending fast, a storm of death in motion.
He didn't waste a heartbeat.
Just as James struck one with the butt of his spear—sending it tumbling straight toward him—Tarrin stepped in. His sword flashed, sharp and brutal, cleaving clean through its neck. The head spun off, trailing streaks of red and violet as the body collapsed at his feet.
Hot blood spattered his face. He didn't blink.
Along the wall, chaos bloomed. The swarm had reached the soldiers still manning their posts. Screams filled the air, mixing with the screeching of monsters and the clash of steel. The sky pulsed red with warning lights, but they felt too dim, too late.
Tarrin's gaze flicked to the main building—his eyes locking on the balcony of the colonel's office.
Just a few hundred meters. She's right there. So why the hell isn't she doing anything? Why are we the ones bleeding while she watches from a tower?
His thoughts were cut off by a low, electric hum. A strange buzzing tore through the air.
He dove into a roll instinctively—just in time. Two Graveshrikes crashed into the stone behind him, claws digging in, too slow to catch him mid-dodge.
He was late getting up—too late.
But no blow came.
When he looked up, his eyes widened.
The monsters were stuck midair—wings flapping like mad, but unable to move. Thin white tendrils wrapped tight around their torsos, holding them in place like flies in a web.
Tarrin traced the threads to their source—and saw him.
James.
Three Graveshrike corpses lay at his feet, blood pooling in ugly colors. His face was strained, hands outstretched—one tendril from each palm.
The aura pouring off him was heavy, like wet smoke clinging to your lungs.
He met Tarrin's gaze.
"Tarrin!" he roared, voice shaking with power. "End these fuckers!"
The words snapped something loose in Tarrin's chest. His muscles ignited, movement exploding through him.
He blurred forward, reaching the locked banes in a single burst. His sword arced through the air—one smooth, perfect slash.
The Graveshrikes shrieked once—sharp, high, and terrified—before their heads dropped, and night swallowed them whole.
Then silence. For half a second, just silence.
He turned back to James.
And watched him die.
There was no warning. Just a sound—swoosh. Like wind cutting across a blade. Not one object—several. Too fast to see. Too fast to dodge.
James had no time.
He twitched—just slightly, head turning—then a dark, glinting projectile punched through his skull. Bone shattered. The side of his head exploded in a spray of blood.
No scream. No sound.
He was dead before he even hit the ground.
Tarrin's breath caught in his throat. His stomach turned to stone.
He didn't know James well—barely more than a name and a face—but that didn't matter. The man had fought like hell. Held the line.
And now he was just gone.
The world snapped again—another whistle of death.
Tarrin tried to move, but pain followed. Something slammed through his forearm. He cried out, the sword slipping from his grip as he stumbled, crashing onto the stone floor.
Blood poured from the wound, hot and fast. He clutched the arm, gritting his teeth, vision swimming.
Almost froze. Almost.
'This is not the time to be weak!'
He bit down the pain, forcing himself to look up.
There. Above.
A new Graveshrike hovered in the night sky—taller than the others, easily matching Tarrin's height. Massive wings unfurled from its back, feathers jagged like blades.
It hovered with terrifying grace, watching the chaos below like it was entertainment.
Its face twisted, lips peeled back in what almost resembled a grin. Mad. Cruel.
Tarrin stared back, heart thundering in his chest.
This one wasn't like the others. Not even close.
This wasn't a Spawned. Not a chance.
This thing—this monster—was at least an Anchored. Maybe even a Shaped.
Tarrin didn't know the exact rank, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty: if he tried to fight it head-on, he'd be dead before he finished blinking.
He didn't see the next attack coming. He felt it.
A tingle—a strange, static prickling across his skin. His instincts screamed so loud it was deafening.
Move. Now.
His right hand throbbed like hell, blood dripping freely from the wound, but he forced himself up with a grunt, half-stumbling into a sprint. He only had one shot at surviving, and it was straight ahead.
James's corpse.
That was his only ticket.
The next strike wouldn't miss. He was sure of it.
He crossed the distance in a heartbeat, boots skidding against the blood-slicked stone. James's lifeless body lay where it had fallen—massive, still warm, a shield of flesh and bone.
Tarrin didn't hesitate.
He grabbed the man's shoulders, heaved, and just as the crack of another projectile echoed through the air—closer, louder, aimed for him—he threw himself to the ground, rolling beneath the dead weight of James's body.
The moment he hit the floor, the world exploded beside him.
Stone shattered. Shards whipped across his face, cutting skin. Blood soaked his back—not his own—as James's corpse absorbed the brunt of the impact.
The barrage came.
Projectiles tore into the ground, thudding into walls, slamming into the body shielding him. Tarrin's heart was pounding so hard it echoed in his ears.
Then—pain.
A spike of pure heat in his leg. His thigh burned, something thick and sharp lodging deep into the muscle.
He screamed—loud and hoarse—but didn't stop moving.
The projectile had hit flesh, not artery. Lucky. Or maybe not. If it had been half an inch to the left, he'd be bleeding out, another name added to the list of corpses littering the Bastion.
He bit down hard, jaw trembling, tears stinging his eyes—not from emotion, but raw, animal pain.
He didn't want to die like this.
Not here. Not now.
Not while that thing was still up there, smiling.