The sanctuary lay not far from the road where he had first lost consciousness. Having caught glimpses of it during the skirmish in the forest, Glenn did not lose his way.

  His vision wavered—at times razor-sharp, at others hopelessly blurred—and his body felt as though his bones had turned to liquid. He longed to collapse and sink into slumber where he stood.

  Yet, from the memories of the body’s former tenant, Glenn knew well that this place was steeped in eerie dread; to close his eyes here was to court a sleep from which he might never wake.

  Night had fallen completely. A round moon hung silent and solitary against the dark canopy, its pallid radiance spilling across his path, yet granting not the slightest comfort.

  Ahead, a crooked, half-rotted sign leaned precariously by the roadside. Etched upon it in the common tongue were the letters:Bayek.

  This, it seemed, was the refuge Dylan—the body’s original master—had chosen.

  At the time, Dylan had counted himself fortunate, gloating over the pittance he had paid for the house. But the moment he accompanied the seller into this town, a gnawing apprehension had taken root.

  Glenn’s face paled as he passed the leaning sign. A chill wind whistled through, forcing the wood to groan as though resisting an unseen hand.

  May no monstrosity come prowling tonight…Glenn prayed silently.

  Through the fragmented memories he had inherited, he recalled how, ever since Dylan moved into this town, the nights had been haunted by unsettling noises that sent cold shivers down his spine.

  Sometimes, it sounded as though something were scraping against his very window.

  Because of this, Dylan had scarcely known a night of restful sleep.

  Bayek, beneath the shroud of darkness, was suffocatingly silent—a stillness so profound it bordered on terrifying.

  Holding his breath, Glenn trod carefully along the stone-paved road. Between the cobbled gaps, wild grasses grew tall and untended, adding to the air of desolation.

  Weighed down by pain and vigilance against unseen dangers, Glenn’s spirit began to fray.

  At last, his weary eyes fell upon his own dwelling. Nestled between two grander houses, its walls were choked with creeping vines, looking pitifully dilapidated beside its neighbors.

  Dylan had purchased a two-storied residence, accompanied by a neglected garden and a decrepit shed barely larger than a kennel.

  Finally…Glenn’s heart lifted, and his steps quickened.

  Woof! Woof! Woof!

  Suddenly, savage barks shattered the silence, nearly ripping the soul from Glenn’s chest.

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  At such an hour, the abruptness of the sound would have startled even the sturdiest of men.

  Whipping his head around, he saw it: a massive mastiff, lips peeled back, baring fangs in a murderous snarl.

  This beast belonged to his neighbor—a towering, ill-tempered old man. The man took delight in bullying Dylan, often striding into his home to seize items as though they were his own, unashamed and unchallenged.

  The dog, emboldened by its master, often chased Dylan down, tearing his clothes to shreds.

  Once, Dylan had been the picture of a spoiled wastrel. But after tragedy struck his family, his arrogance had been ground into dust, leaving him cautious and subdued. Against the sheer strength of the old man—who often carried a hunting rifle—Dylan had dared not resist.

  Glenn stopped cold. His eyes hardened as they locked upon the snarling beast, his right hand instinctively sliding toward the dagger at his side.

  The mastiff suddenly sniffed the air with greedy intensity. A feral excitement flared in its eyes.

  It had caught the scent of blood.

  With a guttural growl, it licked its chops and prowled closer.

  Sensing the shift, Glenn remained motionless, his fingers whitening around the dagger’s hilt.

  He knew: this brute wanted flesh tonight. And if so, he could afford no mercy.

  Perhaps emboldened by years of tormenting Dylan, the dog lacked even the slightest fear of man. It crept nearer, and when no more than two paces separated them, it lunged.

  But Glenn’s reflexes were sharp. He twisted to the side, and in one fluid motion, his dagger carved a crescent through the moonlight, burying itself into the beast’s throat.

  Man and hound staggered past one another—Glenn stumbling to keep his footing, while the dog collapsed, writhing in a fit of violent convulsions.

  To his surprise, Glenn felt strength coursing through his limbs, steadier than before. Though spiritually drained, his body bore more vigor than he had anticipated.

  He spared not a glance for the dying beast. Without hesitation, he strode into the yard, lifted a stone to retrieve the hidden key, and unlocked the door.

  Inside, the air was musty, though not overpowering.

  He had no heart to examine the furnishings. All he craved was oblivion.

  Locking the door behind him, he ascended the creaking staircase without pause, pushing into the bedroom where he collapsed face-first onto the mattress.

  Tension ebbed from his nerves; consciousness blurred.

  How long he slept, he knew not. Yet amid a half-dreaming haze, hunger gnawed at his belly with vicious persistence, leaving him weak but unwilling to rise.

  He was too weary, far too weary, for even such torment to stir him.

  Just before the tide of sleep fully reclaimed him, faint sounds crept to his ears—the noise of something gnawing.

  Beyond the window, the moon’s silver glow bled into the room. A tall, thin silhouette wavered outside, one elongated limb dragging claws across the wall, releasing a shrill, scraping note.

  The creature outside had talons.

  Morning came.

  Glenn was jolted awake, hunger clawing mercilessly at his gut.

  His eyes, bloodshot and raw, flew open as he leapt from the bed. Rest had restored his spirit, but the gnawing emptiness inside him had grown unbearable, threatening to shred his sanity.

  He burst into the kitchen, scouring for anything edible.

  Within moments, chaos reigned. Leftovers, withered vegetables, even mold-speckled scraps—he devoured them all in a frenzy. Only then did the hunger ease slightly.

  What is happening to me?he thought, frowning deeply as he slumped upon the wrecked kitchen floor.Surely one day and one night of hunger should not drive me to such madness…

  Yet the ache persisted. He needed more.

  Rising to his feet, he froze, startled. His body felt stronger, heavier with dense power. His muscles, once lean, now felt firmer, thickened.

  Is this a boon of my crossing? A cheat code that grants strength?

  He set aside the thought. Hunger was the greater foe. He scoured the house again, but nothing remained.

  Should I leave the town to seek food?he wondered, sinking into the sofa of the dim living room.

  Bayek had no marketplace. Its folk sought resources in other towns, departing at dawn and returning at dusk.

  But the journey was long. And his coin purse was nearly empty.

  While he brooded, a shout rang out beyond the walls.

  “Torrey! Torrey! Where are you, my precious?”

  The old man’s voice. The name of his dog.

  At the sound, Glenn’s lips curled into a smile.