His boot lifted into Ivor's narrowing vision, the sole dark and heavy as it came down.
Ivor reached out.
His fingers closed around Garron's other ankle, the one still planted on the ground.
And finally, the pressure broke.
It rushed down his arm in a single surge and spilled out through his hand. A white flame flickered to life across his palm and fingers, thin and unsteady, clinging to his skin instead of burning away.
Garron froze mid-step.
One leg was raised. The other was caught.
Something slipped.
His balance vanished as if it had been cut loose, and his weight tipped backward before he could recover.
"What did you—"
The words died as he fell.
Grunty was already moving.
She surged forward with a roar that ripped through the pen, her mass slamming into Garron before he could even hit the ground. Her claws tore into his shoulder, flesh ripping open as bone shifted beneath the force. The black rod crumpled under her grip, metal bending and snapping as blood sprayed across the stone in wide, uneven arcs.
Garron screamed, the sound raw and panicked, his body twisting as he flailed, trying to turn, trying to strike back.
Grunty did not give him the space.
She struck again, claws raking down his side, then again, each blow placed with brutal intent rather than frenzy. Something cracked beneath her weight, sharp and final, and Garron's movements broke apart into useless spasms.
He collapsed.
Grunty lowered her head, jaws opening wide, and closed them around his skull.
There was a single bite.
The resistance ended.
Silence rushed in, heavy and abrupt, swallowing the echoes of the struggle. Grunty stood over the body, chest heaving, blood dripping steadily from her claws and jaws to the stone below.
She did not linger.
Lowering her head, she tore into Garron's coat, claws and teeth ripping through fabric in a single motion. The cloth split with a dull sound, and something hard struck the floor, skidding across the stone.
Then another followed.
And another.
Small mana crystals scattered across the ground, their cloudy light flickering weakly as they rolled and came to rest.
Grunty lowered her head and nudged them together with her nose, once, then again, until they lay in a loose cluster. After that, she pushed them toward Ivor with her paw, rough and deliberate, as if there were no other choice.
Her eyes lifted to his.
Footsteps echoed somewhere deeper in the pen.
Ivor lay on his stomach, his body shaking as his vision pulsed in and out. The other beasts watched from their sections, silent and unmoving, eyes fixed on the two of them. None spoke. None shifted.
Grunty nudged the jagged metal and the crystals toward him again and let out a sharp, urgent grunt.
Then she raised her head and growled toward the lane entrance.
"No…" Ivor muttered, the word barely leaving his throat.
Grunty paused.
She looked back once.
For a brief moment, their gazes met, and in her eyes Ivor saw his own reflection—small, bloodied, still breathing.
Then she turned away.
Her roar tore through the pen as she charged toward the entrance of the lane.
Ivor forced himself onto his elbows, then his knees. His fingers closed tightly around the jagged metal and the four crystals as he pushed himself upright, pain flaring with every movement. He staggered, then limped forward, slipping out of the pen as the sounds behind him blurred together, shouts, metal striking flesh, Grunty's roar echoing again and again through the dark.
By the time he reached the outer path, only one sound remained.
His heartbeat.
Loud.
Violent.
He limped into the night, and nothing about it felt forgettable.
*******
The room was dark, not empty, just swallowed by shadow.
A three-year-old child sat on the floor near the far wall, knees drawn up, his back pressed tight against the cold stone. His hands were red. The smell clung to him, thick and metallic, blood streaked across his fingers, his palms, his mouth.
He didn't cry.
His breathing was shallow, controlled in the way children learned when sound felt dangerous.
The door exploded inward.
Wood shattered and light rushed in, harsh and blinding after the dark.
A woman burst through first, breath sharp, eyes already searching. They found him immediately.
"Ivor."
Her voice broke on his name.
She crossed the room in two steps and dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands hovering for a heartbeat as if unsure where to touch without hurting. Then she pulled him into her chest, holding him there as though he might slip away if she didn't.
"It's all right," she said, pressing his head against her shoulder. "It's all right. You're safe."
The child stiffened.
His hands clenched in her clothes, fingers trembling once before going still.
Footsteps followed, heavy and fast.
A man entered, his eyes sweeping the room in a single trained glance. They stopped first on the blood, then on the child.
The color drained from his face.
"How did this happen?" he asked.
The woman didn't answer. She only held the child tighter, rocking once without seeming to notice she was doing it.
The man swore under his breath.
"We can't stay," he said immediately. "We need to go. Now."
He turned and began moving through the room, pulling open drawers, grabbing clothing, shoving things into a bag without order. His hands shook despite the speed of his movements.
The child watched him from where he was held, eyes wide and unblinking.
The woman shifted, lifting the child fully into her arms as she stood, adjusting her grip, her body already angling toward the door.
She took one step.
Then stopped.
Someone was standing in the doorway.
The light bent strangely around him, as if it didn't quite want to touch his shape. His robes were dark, and his presence filled the room without him needing to move.
The man and woman froze.
The woman turned sideways at once, instinctively placing herself between the figure and the child. Her arm tightened around him.
Shadows began to rise from her skin.
Not smoke. Not mist. Something thicker. It spilled from her shoulders, her back, her hands, gathering and coiling like a living thing.
"Lord Cilian," the man said, his voice strained but controlled. "He's just a child."
The figure did not move.
"Doesn't matter."
The words were flat. Final.
The man lifted a finger.
It pointed past the woman.
Toward the child.
A beam of black surged forward.
"NO!"
The woman screamed as she turned fully, throwing herself over the child, shadows erupting outward from her body—
And Ivor woke up.
His breath tore free from his chest in a sharp gasp.
The attic ceiling swam above him. Wood. Shadow. The familiar narrow space pressed close around his body.
His hands clenched in the thin mattress.
He lay still.
Listening.
His heartbeat slowed.
The dream didn't fade.
It stayed with him, sharp and unfinished. The woman's scream still rang in his ears. His mother's.
"Ivor, are you okay?" Rhea shouted from below.
The sound pulled him fully awake, and with it came the memory of last night. Grunty's eyes, fixed on him. Unblinking. He lifted a hand and pressed it over his face.
The images dulled, fading into a heavy ache instead.
He clenched his jaw, refusing to let his thoughts wander further.
When he turned his head toward the window, pale light cut through the attic slats. The day was already halfway gone.
"Ivor?"
Her voice was closer now.
"Yes," he said. His throat felt dry. "Just a dream."
He pushed himself upright.
Pain answered immediately. His body protested the movement, a deep, spreading soreness. His leg flared sharp enough to make him pause.
He breathed out slowly and reached for the ladder. He climbed down the rest of the way and crossed the room quietly.
The washroom was narrow. Cold stone. A single basin fixed into the wall. He leaned over it and splashed water onto his face.
Cold.
It shocked his skin awake. He let it run over his eyes, his cheeks, the back of his neck. When he looked up, the mirror caught him unprepared.
His face looked pale. Too still.
He gathered his hair and tied it back properly this time, every loose strand pulled away. When his eyes were fully visible, something twisted in his chest.
For a moment, the reflection wasn't his.
Grunty's eyes stared back at him. Wide. Steady. Watching.
He shut his eyes hard and turned away.
The ache behind his eyes dulled, but it didn't leave.
He stepped out and moved through the house as normally as he could. Each step was measured. Even. When his leg protested, he adjusted without breaking stride.
His mother was in the kitchen.
"I'm going to help Father," he said.
She paused.
"He's not at work today," she replied. "He went to the Crossground."
The name made him pause.
The Crossground was where people gathered when things needed to be seen. Announcements. Sentences. Warnings passed without paper.
She hesitated, then added, "There was an incident last night. A beast attacked Garron."
The words struck him like a physical blow.
Execution.
The thought didn't form cleanly. It hit all at once, sharp and disorienting, like stepping into empty space.
His chest tightened. His breath caught for half a second.
He kept his face still.
"I'll check," he said.
His voice sounded distant to his own ears.
She came out of the kitchen. Studied him.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
He didn't look at her and nodded once.
She didn't stop him.
Outside, the door closed softly behind him.
He walked down the street at an even pace, shoulders relaxed, head lowered just enough to look ordinary. When he turned the corner and the house slipped out of sight, the control broke.
He staggered.
His limp returned immediately, sharp pain tearing up his leg as he pushed harder. He bit down on the inside of his cheek and limped.
The Crossground lay ahead.
And he was already too late.