It was time we began our preparations to leave the Boar’s Rest. The transition from the soft, marigold linen of the sundress back into my tactical gear felt like a slow, deliberate shedding of a dream. Eren assisted me with a frantic, wide-eyed excitement that bordered on the obsessive. Her small hands smoothed the fabric of the dress as I stepped out of it, her cat ears twitching with every fold.

  "You're actually keeping it!" she chirped, her tail giving a triumphant lash. "Tay-Tay, you have no idea how much better you look when you aren't trying to be a shadow."

  I felt the heat rising in my cheeks, a genuine, heavy blush that made me look away from her reflection in the mirror. "It’s just for the Capital, Eren," I murmured, my voice an embarrassed rasp. "Barnaby said I needed to look the part of a receptionist. Don't make it a thing."

  "Oh, it's already a thing," she giggled, before whispering the command to tuck the dress and the straw hat into her shimmering dimension storage.

  I reactivated the latex suit, hygiene mode off, the familiar, compressive tug of the material feeling like a cold, structural embrace. It was tight, unforgivingly so, accentuating the statuesque lines of my body and the heavy, natural curves that the sundress had only hinted at. I slid the base of the Glock into its holster on my thigh, the metallic click a final, somber note that the "holiday" was over.

  We left the inn with Barnaby leading the way, his whimsy returned but tempered by the weight of two wagons of high-tier cheese trailing behind us. The road toward the Capital was a stark, almost jarring contrast to the jagged, mud-choked trails of the Yara Valley. This was an Appia Road, a feat of Imperial engineering, a direct to the Capitol highway. The cobbles were flat, precisely cut, and fitted so tightly that the wagons barely rattled as we picked up speed.

  The forest here didn't feel wild. It felt owned. The trees weren't a chaotic tangle of pine and oak; they were planted in perfect, manicured rows, their trunks straight and their canopies pruned to allow the golden sunlight to dapple the road with shadows. Every mile or so, we passed woodworkers, men with broad shoulders and faces tanned by the sun, who held their axes high in a silent salute to Barnaby’s merchant flags.

  I sat up on the driver's seat beside Barnaby, my long, black-clad legs crossed at the knee, the matte-black surface of the suit absorbing the warmth of the afternoon sun. I felt like a model, a dark, lustrous guardian watching the treeline while the others relaxed in the back. Joshua, Eren, and Alan were nestled among the crates of cheese, their voices a low, comfortable hum as they discussed plans.

  "Safer roads, these," Barnaby said, puffing on his pipe, the smoke trailing into the wind. "The Empire keeps the peace on the Appia lines. They need the trade to flow like blood. You don't see the filth out here. It's civilized."

  "It's too quiet," I replied, my eyes scanning the shadows between the trees. My own instincts were sharp, honed by the carnage of the last week. The manicured beauty of the forest felt like a thin veil stretched over something rotting.

  I was right.

  A sudden, a jagged shout tore through the peaceful air, coming from the deep forestry to our far right. It wasn't the sound of a worker calling to a friend; it was a shriek of raw, unadulterated terror.

  "Barnaby, stop!" I commanded, my voice dropping into that lethal purr.

  I didn't need a scope to see the chaos. Within the shadows of the planted rows, I caught the movement. Many small, low-slung objects were darting through the undergrowth with a frantic, jerky speed. Goblins. But as I watched them emerge into the light, my blood ran cold.

  They were attacking two woodworkers near a fallen cedar. One of the men was already down, his head bashed in by a jagged stone club. The other was swinging his heavy felling axe in a wide, desperate arc, his breath coming in ragged, white plumes. He saw our wagons and began to run toward the road, his face a mask of gaunt horror.

  "Goblins! To the right!" I signaled, my hand moving to the Glock.

  Joshua was over the side of the wagon before Barnaby had even hauled on the reins. He landed with a heavy, confident thud, his reformed Dawnbreaker shield held high. The gold trim caught the sun, and for a second, he looked exactly like the hero the stories promised. Eren followed, her hands already glowing with a soft, violet light as she prepared to call the vines from the earth.

  Alan stood up in the wagon, his dark eyes fixed on Joshua. He didn't jump immediately. He watched the way Joshua’s hand gripped the handle of the shield. I didn't see it from the driver's seat, but Alan, with his clinical eye for detail, saw the slight, rhythmic shiver in Joshua’s arm, the lingering tremor of the trauma he was trying so hard to hide.

  Alan stepped down from the wagon and placed a cool, steady hand on Joshua’s shoulder. "Just like we do normally, Josh," Alan murmured, his voice flat and anchoring. "One fight at a time."

  The goblins burst from the treeline, and the "normalcy" of the forest vanished.

  These weren't the black-eyed, cowardly scavengers we had fought on our first day. Their eyes were a deep, glowing shade of crimson, the color of a fresh bruise. Their mouths were unhinged, thick strings of ropy, yellowish saliva flinging everywhere as they gnashed their teeth. They didn't growl; they made a sound like wet glass grinding together.

  Worst of all, they were eating. Even as they rushed toward us, several of them were still tearing at pieces of the dead woodworker, their fingers stained a dark, necrotic red. They weren't coordinated. They were rabid.

  "Wtf is wrong with them?" Eren shouted, her voice trembling. "They’re not even trying to dodge!"

  Joshua met the first wave with a massive shield slam. The reformed Dawnbreaker hammered into the leading goblin, the force enough to shatter its ribcage. Usually, a goblin would squeal and retreat after a hit like that. This one didn't. Even with its chest crushed, it clawed at Joshua’s greaves, its red eyes fixed on his throat, its teeth snapping at the air.

  Eren’s vines erupted from the cobbles, binding a group of five in a thick, thorny web. They fought against the restraints with a self-destructive fury, the thorns tearing through their own green skin as they tried to reach her. They didn't care about the pain. They only cared about the hunger.

  Alan moved like a flash of steel. With his leg fully healed, his speed was terrifying. He plunged his twin knives into the base of their skulls, his movements clinical and precise. But even then, they didn't stop. A goblin Alan had gutted crawled forward on its elbows, its intestines dragging in the dust, its red eyes never losing their focus.

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  I chose my targets from the top of the wagon. I didn't waste ammo. Every shot from the Glock was a double-tap to the head. It was the only thing that worked. Their skulls had to be completely compromised before the light in their red eyes finally flickered out.

  "Dismember them!" I shouted. "They won't stop unless you take the limbs!"

  The escaping woodworker reached the wagon, his clothes torn and his skin slick with sweat and the blood of his partner. He hauled himself over the side, collapsing onto the crates of cheese, his body shaking so violently he couldn't speak. He stared at the carnage on the road, at the way Joshua had to literally decapitate the monsters to make them stay down.

  Barnaby watched from the driver’s seat, his pipe forgotten. His face was pale. "These aren't goblins," he whispered. "I’ve seen goblins my whole life. They’re clever. They’re greedy. They aren't... they aren't this."

  It took several minutes of brutal, visceral work to clear the road. The manicured forestry was now a scene of absolute slaughter, the green grass stained with the black-red bile of the rabid creatures. The air reeked of iron and a strange, sweet rot that made my stomach churn.

  I hopped down from the seat, my tactical heels clicking on the cobbles. I looked at the bodies. I remembered the Inquisitors, the way they were looking for "demon infections" and "red-eyed monsters." This was it. It was here, on the Appia roads, in the heart of the Empire’s territory.

  The woodworker finally found his voice. He sat up, wiping a hand across his terrified face. "Many... many of my colleagues," he wheezed. "The camps in the deep woods... they’re gone. The attacks... they've skyrocketed in the last three days. We thought it was just the famine making the beasts desperate, but this... this is a curse. We can’t work like this"

  I looked back toward the Boar’s Rest, miles behind us now.

  "No wonder the inn was empty," I said softly, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. The woodworkers weren't at the tavern because they were dead. The community hadn't just faded; it was being consumed.

  Joshua stood in the center of the road, his shield covered in the gore of a dozen monsters. He was breathing heavily, his eyes fixed on his hands. Alan stood beside him, silent, watching the way Joshua’s fingers flexed.

  "The world is changing," Alan said, his voice returning to that cold, analytical tone. "The world has a new variable."

  I looked at the road ahead, stretching toward the Capital. It was supposed to be the "Cozy Life." But as I watched the blood sink into the cracks between the Imperial cobbles, I realized that the safe haven we were running to might already be a cage.

  "Barnaby," I said, my voice regain its motherly, protective edge. "Move the wagons. We don't want to be here."

  As we set off again, the terrified woodworker huddled in the back with Eren and Joshua, I felt the weight of the silver bracelet on my wrist. The Church had been looking to stop these horrors.

  The silence following the goblin attack was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic clack-clack of the wheels and the soft, frustrated huffing from the back of the wagon.

  Eren had spent the last twenty minutes picking through the remains of the rabid goblins we’d left behind. She climbed back onto the moving wagon, her cat ears drooping and her tail limp. Her small hands were empty, save for a few smears of that sickly, black-red bile.

  "Nothing," she muttered, her voice thick with a mix of exhaustion and disappointment. "Not a single coin. No trinkets, no rusted knives worth sharpening. It’s like their only possession was the hunger."

  I looked back at her from the driver’s seat, my amber eyes softening. I understood her frustration. In the world we had come from, a victory was usually punctuated by the chime of gold or the thrill of a rare drop. But here, in this visceral, rotting reality, the only reward for a fight was the privilege of staying alive for another hour.

  "The situation gets worse." I said, my voice a smoky, motherly resonance that seemed to soothe the air around us. I shifted my position, the matte-black latex of my suit creaking softly. The curves of my 6'1" frame a constant, sensual weight that I was finally starting to appreciate.

  Joshua sat beside her, his hand still resting on the polished rim of the Dawnbreaker. He didn't speak, but I saw his chest heave in a slow, steady breath. He was trying to push the image of the woodworker’s head back into the dark. Alan, as usual, was staring at the treeline, his eyes calculating the distance and the speed, though a faint, lingering smile touched his lips.

  As the sun reached its zenith, the road widened, spilling out into a massive crossroads. It was a bustling, chaotic hub that reminded me of a high-fantasy version of a modern gas station, a place where the veins of the Empire’s trade intersected.

  ---

  The Three-Crowns Waystation was a sprawling complex of timber and stone, featuring rows of hitching posts, open-air stables, and a central, two-story dining hall that hummed with the sound of a hundred voices.

  Wagons of every imaginable type were parked in neat, Imperial-mandated rows. There were rich merchant caravans guarded by mercenaries in polished breastplates, and there were poor peddlers with single-donkey carts, their wares covered in dusty burlap. The air was a thick, sensory soup of roasted meat, horse manure, pine resin, and the sharp, salty scent of travel-sweat.

  The woodworker we had saved hopped down from the wagon as soon as Barnaby pulled the horses to a halt. He didn't say much; he didn't have the words left. He simply bowed low to us, his hands trembling, and hurried toward a group of his colleagues who were gathered near a large communal fire. We watched them embrace him, the shared relief of the survivors a quiet, poignant moment in the middle of the bustle.

  "Lunch," Barnaby declared, hopping down from the seat and stretching his back until his joints popped like dry wood. "I need something that didn't come out of a burlap sack. My treat, considering you lot saved my inventory and my skin."

  We followed him into the dining hall. The interior was a flurry of activity, a vibrant cross-section of the Empire’s people. The ground floor was a sprawl of long, communal tables and smaller, "diner-like" booths near the windows. Waitresses moved with practiced speed, carrying trays of frothing ale and steaming stews.

  As we navigated the crowd, I felt the familiar weight of the room’s attention. My height, combined with the slick, vacuum-sealed black latex and the power of my presence, made me a gravitational center. Men stopped mid-sip to watch the tall, platinum-haired woman move through the hall. I saw the flustered blushes of the younger travelers and the wary, respectful nods of the veterans. I wasn't just someone to ignore; I was a living head turner.

  We were heading toward an empty table when a sudden, sharp chirp cut through the din.

  At a dinette table near the back sat another Felisian.

  She was smaller than Eren, with fur the color of toasted cinnamon and ears that were currently standing bolt upright. She wore a traveler’s tunic of deep forest green, and her eyes, a bright, inquisitive emerald, were fixed on Eren with a look of pure, unadulterated shock.

  The girl didn't just stand; she launched. She tackled Eren in a flurry of fur and soft fabric, the two of them hitting the floor in a heap of tangled limbs and twitching tails. A chorus of high-pitched Felisian greetings filled the corner of the hall, a staccato of mews and chirps that sounded like a language made of music.

  "Mina! By the Great Root, another felecian!" Eren cried, her face lighting up with the first genuine joy I’d seen on her since the Boar’s Rest.

  "We haven't seen our kind in forever!" the girl, Mina, squealed, pulling Eren up and dusting her off. "

  She turned her bright emerald gaze toward the rest of us. She looked at Joshua’s golden armor, at Alan’s clinical, dark-eyed stare, and then her eyes landed on me. She blinked, her head tilting to the side in a way that was undeniably cat-like.

  "And who are these... giants?" Mina asked, her voice a melodic trill. "Are they yours, Eren?"

  Eren beamed, her tail wrapping around Mina’s arm. "They're my family. Taylor, Joshua, Alan, and Barnaby."

  Mina’s expression softened into a look of deep, respectful awe. She bowed low, her ears pinning back in a gesture of tribal kinship. "Then you are friends of the Claw. Please, sit! Join me at the table. I have news, and I suspect you have stories that could fill a library."