Chapter 30 – The Stirring Shadows
Xiall woke with a groan, his neck stiff as a board, his head pounding like a drum. He'd slumped awkwardly on a wooden stool, his forehead pressed against the rough grain of the tavern's bar table. A dull throb pulsed behind his temples,... He stretched his fingers, wincing as he rubbed at his gritty eyes, the world a blur of dim shapes and muted colors. With a cavernous yawn, he forced his vision to clear, piecing together the fragments of his surroundings.
The tavern was a ghost of itself, silent and desolate. Heavy beams loomed overhead, carved with weathered motifs of curling vines and snarling beasts, their once-vivid details faded beneath a shroud of dust and neglect. The air hung thick with the sour tang of stale liquor and the musty scent of old wood. A single lantern flame flickered on the bar, its orange glow casting long, trembling shadows across abandoned chairs and overturned mugs. Xiall's gaze dropped to the empty bottle at his elbow, then to the tilted mug beside it, a thin trickle of liquid pooling beneath its rim.
"Oh, hell," he muttered, his voice hoarse and cracked. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut: he'd passed out drunk.
A wave of self-disgust washed over him. How could he be so careless?. What if the monstrosity had slunk past while he was out cold, drooling on the bar? The thought of being torn apart, chewed up, or worse, without even a chance to scream, churned his stomach. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart. Yet beneath the nausea, a flicker of gratitude sparked. He was alive. By some miracle - or what he bitterly called "Mother Luck" - he'd survived the night.
He slumped back against the stool, exhaustion settling into his bones like damp rot. His eyes drifted to the tavern's warped windows, their glass fogged and streaked with grime. That's when he saw them.
Shadows.
Silhouettes danced across the street outside, their forms flickering in the pale moonlight. For a fleeting moment, his heart leaped with electric hope. Survivors? The idea lit a fire in his chest. He wasn't alone in this cursed, forsaken place. Maybe they'd endured the same carnage, carried the same scars of loss and grit. People meant food, guidance, maybe even allies - something to cling to in this nightmare.
But then he leaned closer, squinting through the murky glass, and that hope curdled into dread.
Their posture was wrong. Horribly wrong.
The figures moved like broken marionettes, their limbs jerking in sharp, unnatural spasms, as if the strings holding them together were fraying at the seams. Their arms swung too loosely, like pendulums unmoored. Their legs bent at angles that defied human anatomy, knees buckling inward or backward in ways that made Xiall's skin crawl. Sometimes their steps lagged, as if they weren't propelled by muscle but by some invisible, malevolent force dragging them forward.
"Humans don't move like that," Xiall whispered, his breath fogging the glass.
He clung to a shred of optimism, desperate to rationalize. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks, fogged by fatigue and liquor. Maybe they were wounded, limping from whatever horrors had torn through this place. He needed to believe they were human. His stomach growled, a sharp reminder that whiskey wasn't food, and he couldn't survive on fumes forever. Survivors could mean supplies, a map out of this hellhole, or at least someone to watch his back.
"It's worth a shot," he muttered, his voice barely audible.
No shouting - that'd be suicide in a place where noise was a death sentence. But a wave? That might catch their attention without drawing every monster in the ruins. His hand trembled as he raised it, giving a cautious, tentative gesture toward the street.
The figures didn't respond.
He tried again, lifting his hand higher, his pulse quickening. Still nothing. Not a glance, not a twitch. His eyes narrowed, straining to make sense of the shapes in the dim light. Wait - heads? Some of the silhouettes seemed... wrong. Headless, almost. Or was it the shadows playing tricks, the moonlight bending their forms into something grotesque? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. If they were headless, they weren't human. They couldn't be.
His stomach twisted into a knot, bile rising in his throat.
Then it happened.
A shrill whistle cut through the tavern's stillness, and a lance tore through the air, slamming into the wooden beam inches above where his head had been moments before. Splinters rained down, peppering his hair and shoulders, sharp as tiny needles. His heart slammed against his ribs, adrenaline roaring through him like wildfire. His eyes snapped to the lance, its steel shaft quivering in the wood, a deadly reminder of how close he'd come to death.
"Oh, shit!" he gasped, his voice a strangled yelp.
The silhouettes outside had turned. No longer sluggish or broken, they surged toward the tavern with unnatural speed, covering the distance in violent, predatory bursts. Their movements were no longer marionette-like but purposeful, hungry. Panic flooded Xiall's veins, his legs moving before his brain could catch up. He bolted for the door, slamming it shut with every ounce of strength he had, and collapsed against it, his chest heaving.
For a fleeting second, he let himself breathe, his body trembling with the aftershock of fear. The door was solid, heavy - it would hold, right? But then his gaze flicked to the window, and his heart sank like a stone.
The window. The one he'd cracked open earlier to let in a sliver of moonlight. It was still ajar, a gaping invitation to whatever was out there. His only barrier had become a trap.
"Idiot," he hissed at himself, scrambling toward the window, his boots slipping on the dusty floor. He had to close it, had to block it before—
CRASH.
A blade ripped through the door behind him, splintering the wood inches above where his head had rested moments ago. The tavern shuddered with the impact, the groan of splitting timber echoing in the hollow space. Xiall's instincts screamed. He dove to the side, rolling low, every nerve alight with terror. His eyes flicked to the bar table, and his breath caught.
The lance.
It was still there, embedded upright in the beam, its steel glinting in the candlelight. His hands shook as he grabbed it, yanking with all his might. The wood groaned, resisting, the lance buried deep from the force of its impact. He tugged harder, his mind racing with images of what that weapon would've done to his skull. A hole clean through, his brains splattered across the bar - Mother Luck had saved him again. With a final heave, the lance came free, and he stumbled back, clutching it like a lifeline.
He had a weapon now. The fear didn't vanish, but it dulled, tempered by the cold weight of steel in his hands. His breath came in urgent rasps, his body trembling with adrenaline. "Anyone who says grief hurts worse than fear of death is full of it," he muttered, his voice shaking. The thought of dying here, alone in this cursed tavern, clawed at him. It wasn't just fear - it was the absolute certainty of oblivion, the finality of it all.
He pointed the lance at the window, his stance shaky but resolute. The moonlight bathed his face, cold and unyielding, casting his shadow long across the floor. Eden, this wretched citadel of nightmares, was piling on the bad memories. But he wasn't ready to die here. Not yet.
The thumping on the door grew louder, more insistent, a relentless drumbeat of malice. Splinters cracked and fell, the wood bowing under the assault. Low, guttural growls seeped through the gaps, not human but animalistic, dripping with hunger. Xiall's eyes darted between the door and the window. Why were they hammering at the door when the window was wide open? Were they that stupid? Or was it a trap, some twisted strategy to lure him into a false sense of security? He could feel the vibrations through the walls now, a rhythmic pounding that seemed to shake the very foundation of the tavern.
"Focus, damn it," he whispered, gripping the lance tighter. The door wouldn't hold much longer - the wood was splintering, the growls growing louder, more frenzied. He needed a plan, something to tip the scales. He needed his wildcard.
Xiall closed his eyes, forcing his ragged breaths to slow. Inhale. Exhale. The world dimmed, the chaos fading to a single, resonant note. His heartbeat steadied, his senses sharpening as he tapped into something deeper, something primal. The air grew heavy..he could feel the weight of it..
A crash shattered the silence. A grotesque figure lunged through the open window, its body a mangled ruin. Half its torso was gone, bones jutting from the shredded flesh like broken branches. It wore tattered bronze armor, draped in a silver coat of mail that gleamed dully in the moonlight. A split helm hung crookedly on what remained of its skull, and its single arm clutched a rusty sword, pointed directly at Xiall. A guttural growl rumbled from its throat, its eyeless gaze locking onto him with unnatural precision.
Time slowed. Xiall's eyes flared with a silver hue, glowing like twin moons in the dimness. Heightened Perception surged through him, his senses razor-sharp, the world crystalizing into perfect clarity. Every detail - the glint of rust on the creature's blade, the jagged edges of its exposed ribs, the faint tremor of the floor beneath its weight - snapped into focus.
Before the apparition could advance, Xiall moved. The lance became an extension of his will, a streak of silver light slicing through the air. With brutal speed and precision, it pierced the creature's thorax, bursting through the other side in a spray of dark ichor. The force drove the lance into the stone-slabbed floor, anchoring the monstrosity in place. It let out a final, guttural wail, its body twitching once before going still.