Chapter 12: The Breaking of Chains
The clearing erupted.
Chains lashed out from the circle like serpents, striking against shields and spears with a force that rattled bone. One snapped across a rider's chest, hurling him from his saddle as though he were nothing more than a child's doll. His scream ended in the snow, muffled by iron links that coiled and dragged him toward the ash-fire.
"Hold the line!" Carrow roared. His voice cut through the chaos, steady as a war drum.
We spurred forward, shields locking. The host surged to meet us, a wall of masks and iron, their guttural cries shredding the air. My spear met the first of them, splintering against its mask. It didn't matter—the momentum carried it to the ground, and I drove the broken haft into its throat until the twitching stopped.
To my right, Joran fought like a man possessed. His blade flashed, cleaving through masks, spilling gray flesh that stank of rot and smoke. But for every one that fell, two more pressed forward, hooks and chains snaring limbs, dragging men screaming into the dark.
The children did not move. They sat within the circle, bound and silent, eyes wide but unblinking. The chains tightened again, scraping across the stones as the leader raised his staff higher. The runes burned red, brighter now, feeding on the fire. The air itself seemed to choke with its heatless glow.
I thrust aside another attacker and forced my gaze toward him. He stood untouched amid the chaos, the cracked sun mask glimmering with frost. His voice rolled across the clearing, low and relentless, words in no tongue I knew. The earth trembled with each syllable, and the fire flared, licking the sky.
"Carrow!" I shouted, though my throat was raw. "He's the source! The staff!"
Carrow heard. His eyes locked on the figure, and for a moment, a spark of grim resolve passed between us. He raised his sword high, its edge glinting in the dying light.
"With me!"
We broke formation, driving through the press toward the stone circle. The host shrieked, swarming to block us. Blades clashed, shields cracked, the air a storm of steel and cries. A chain whipped past my face, tearing the edge of my helm, but I pressed on, lungs burning.
Joran carved a path at my side, blood spraying across the snow. "Faster!" he snarled, eyes wild. "Before they finish the rite!"
The leader lowered his staff, slamming it against the ground. The shockwave rippled outward, hurling men and beasts alike. My horse staggered, throwing me to the snow. The breath ripped from my chest, and for a moment the world blurred.
Through the haze I saw them—the children's chains glowing red, dragging them to their knees around the fire. Their lips moved now, whispering the same words as the leader, their voices hollow and broken.
"No…" The word scraped from my throat. I forced myself up, every muscle screaming.
Carrow was already there, striding through the chaos like a storm given flesh. He raised his sword in both hands, eyes locked on the masked figure. The leader's staff swung, chains lashing, but Carrow met it with steel. The clash cracked the air like thunder, sparks and frost exploding outward.
The runes dimmed. The leader staggered.
"Now!" Carrow bellowed.
I hurled myself forward, driving the broken spear haft into the glowing links at the staff's core. The wood cracked in my grip, but the chain split with a scream like metal torn from the earth. Light burst from the break, blinding and red.
The children cried out for the first time. Not words—just sound. Human, desperate, alive.
The host faltered, their movements stuttering, their cries twisting into shrieks of pain. Masks split, flesh withered, bodies collapsing into the snow as though their strings had been cut.
The leader fell to one knee, the cracked sun mask splitting down its center. From within came not blood, but black smoke, writhing as if alive. His voice still thundered, though weaker now, a chant breaking apart.
Carrow did not wait. His blade rose once more, then fell. Steel met mask, mask split in two, and the voice died with it.
Silence thundered in the clearing. Only the ragged breath of the living remained, the ash-fire guttering low.
The chains lay shattered across the stones. The children slumped, free but trembling, eyes wide as if waking from a dream too dark to name.
Carrow stood over the fallen leader, his sword dripping black. He looked not at us, but at the cracked mask at his feet.
"This is no end," he said quietly. His voice was steady, but heavy with grim truth. "This is only the beginning."
And in the distance, far beyond the trees, another horn answered—long, deep, and dreadful.
The storm had not passed. It was rising.
"— To Be Continued —"
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