They ran.
Not toward anything—just away. From the screaming, from the smoke, from the dead that wouldn't stay down. The alleys twisted and turned through the heart of the village, now barely recognizable under firelight and chaos.
Ravik led, his wolfkin nose twitching at every scent. Cael stayed behind him, sword still bloodied, breath ragged. The others flanked tightly—Torric's bulk guarded the rear, Fen and Reva kept close to Cael's sides, and Nyric kept checking rooftops, ever alert for movement.
There was no destination, only the hope of distance from the spreading madness.
Then they heard it—low, guttural snarling.
Not human.
They froze at the next bend, just in time to see a Bearkin in full native beastform, its fur slick with blood, its claws dragging a fresh corpse.
It let out a savage roar and launched itself at a group nearby. A woman screamed as the creature tackled her, claws ripping across her back. A child tried to run. Too slow.
It didn't distinguish between man or beastkin. It mauled anything that moved.
And worse—those it slashed and didn't kill… began to twitch. Shudder. Then rise.
The infection spread not just by magic, but by raw contact now. Scratches. Blood. Claw marks.
"Go!" Ravik barked.
They didn't fight. Not here. Not now.
They sprinted toward the edge of the village, slipping between collapsed walls and over broken carts until at last, Cael's home came into view—small, quiet, partially hidden behind the smith's old shed.
They forced the door open and slammed it shut, bolting it behind them.
For a moment, there was only breathing. Heavy, desperate, shaken.
Cael slid down the wall, hands shaking. "What the hell is happening…?"
"The priests… the mages… the people..." Reva whispered. "It's like it's spreading by air, by touch, by... everything."
"No warning. No orders," Fen said. "Why aren't the city horns sounding? The patrols?"
Ravik leaned against the table, jaw tight. "Where are the guard banners? The noble signals?"
Torric grunted. "The king's signal flare didn't go up either."
There was silence. The thought crept in slowly.
Cael said it aloud: "What if the castle's already breached?"
No one answered.
And then—another explosion rocked the floorboards beneath them. The windows rattled.
They rushed to the front.
Out on the street, not far from the square, a mage cloaked in frost-blue robes stood firm—an ice mage, hurling freezing winds toward a horde of infected. He was strong. Skilled. His magic slowed the infected, impaled several in walls of ice.
But then he staggered.
His hand trembled.
He coughed—and a line of blood spilled from his lips. He fell to one knee.
The ice around his body began to spike wildly, no longer controlled.
The infected swarmed him.
He screamed once.
Then they dragged him down, tore him apart, even as his magic flared in spasms. Arms were torn from sockets. Ice spiked randomly in the crowd. His head was pulled back, then snapped.
From Cael's window, they all watched.
And none of them could move.
Ravik clenched his fist against the wall until the wood cracked. Cael didn't speak. Nyric looked away first. Reva wiped a tear from her cheek, angry at it.
Torric's voice was low, hollow: "We can't help him."
No one argued.