Veyor finished tying the last rope with hands that refused to stop shaking.

  The cart was full.

  Too full.

  Bodies lay piled together, breathing shallowly, some unconscious, some barely aware. Men and women—thin, bruised, stripped of dignity—huddled together under a torn canvas.

  Their skin was pale, stretched tight over bones that showed how long they had been trapped.

  A few eyes followed him weakly, not asking questions, not demanding explanations. They were past that.

  They were alive. That was enough.

  Veyor wiped his hands against his trousers and pushed the cart forward.

  The wooden wheels groaned under the weight, each creak sharp and strained—but the sounds were swallowed by the distant thunder of battle.

  He moved around the back of the barn, where shadows clung thicker and the smell of rot lingered faintly in the air.

  Using a loose plank and brute force, he forced open a narrow passage through the fencing—just wide enough for the cart to squeeze through.

  His arms burned as he pushed.

  The storage shed stood a short distance away, half-hidden behind stacked crates and collapsed fencing. It looked abandoned, unused—exactly what they needed.

  Veyor left the cart outside the gate, and opened the gate to unload people.

  He enters the shed with one person on his back.

  Then another sound.

  Vomiting.

  Veyor’s head snapped toward it.

  In the corner of the shed, bent over a crate, someone retched violently, body shaking with each spasm. The sour stench hit Veyor’s nose instantly.

  “Bran?” he said cautiously.

  The man looked up, face pale and sweaty, eyes bloodshot.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned against the crate like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

  “When did you wake up?” Veyor asked, stepping closer.

  “Just now,” Bran muttered hoarsely. “Uhhh… I forgot I was lactose intolerant.”

  Even now. Even here.

  Veyor didn’t laugh.

  “Can you fight?” he asked.

  Bran let out a weak, humorless chuckle and shook his head. “Can I fight? Yeah. Maybe. But fight that monster?” He gestured vaguely toward the direction of the farmhouse. “No. Let Luken handle that. We’d just get in his way.”

  Veyor looked at him sharply.

  “And from where did you get so many people?” Bran asked, eyes finally drifting toward the cart.

  “He told me to come back when I was done moving them to safety,” Veyor said.

  Bran snorted. “Then why don’t you go? He asked you, not me.”

  “At least carry these people here and look after them,” Veyor replied, voice firm.

  Bran sighed, running a trembling hand through his hair. “I don’t think I’ve got much of a choice here. Fine. Go. I’ll handle things.”

  Relief loosened something tight in Veyor’s chest.

  Before leaving, he turned back toward the cart. One man near the edge stirred weakly, eyes half-open. His lips moved soundlessly at first, then words finally escaped.

  Veyor leaned closer. “What do you mean by not to hurt that Minataur?”

  The man’s grip tightened painfully around Veyor’s sleeve.

  “No,” he croaked. “Don’t hurt him.”

  Veyor froze.

  “What?”

  Tears welled up in the man’s eyes, cutting thin lines through dirt and ash on his face. “He’s my son,” he whispered. “He was just nine years old. That witch… she turned him into a monster.”

  The words hit harder than any blow.

  Veyor’s chest tightened, breath hitching as his gaze drifted back toward the farmhouse. Toward the distant sounds of battle shaking the earth.

  “If you leave him alive,” Veyor said quietly, forcing the words out, “you’ll lose what you still have. Dwelling on the past won’t bring him back. You have to protect what’s left.”

  Very ironic words coming from Veyor’s mouth.

  The man sobbed openly now, shoulders shaking, head bowed.

  “Please,” he said. “If you must… do it without pain.”

  Veyor clenched his fists.

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  The promise tasted bitter.

  He turned away before the man could say anything else.

  Before the weight of it crushed him.

  As he stepped out of the shed, the ground trembled faintly beneath his boots.

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  The battle was still raging.

  And Veyor ran back toward it.

  Luken’s blade continued to move long after the Minotaur should have fallen.

  Each strike landed with brutal precision, not wild or reckless, but measured—almost efficient.

  The massive body of the bull-like monster jerked and staggered under the assault, its movements slowing, joints failing to respond. Muscle split beneath steel.

  The ground around them was torn apart by the violence of the exchange, deep gouges carved into soil and stone alike.

  For the first time since the battle began, the Minotaur could no longer push forward.

  Its legs buckled.

  Its massive frame dipped, one knee striking the ground hard enough to send a tremor through the farm.

  Luken strikes his head with hilt of his blade.

  The creature tried to rise again, but its strength had been carved away piece by piece

  Luken stood over it, chest heaving, sweat and blood streaking down his skin, eyes burning with something far more intense than anger.

  Victory was within reach.

  Luken did not hesitate.

  He shifted his stance, stepping past the creature as if it were already finished, and turned toward Clarabelle.

  She stood a short distance away, untouched by the chaos surrounding her. Her posture remained composed, her expression calm—too calm for someone watching her guardian fall.

  The servants around her had gone still, frozen by fear or confusion, but she did not move.

  She had been watching.

  Not the Minotaur.

  Luken.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly, pupils contracting as she studied him with clinical focus. She did not see a warrior. She saw a mechanism.

  And mechanisms had limits.

  “I will remember your name, stranger,” she said, her voice carrying clearly through the ruined air.

  “Luken Greyholt.”

  Luken did not respond. He advanced, blade still wet, steps heavy but deliberate.

  Every movement sent pain screaming through his body—but pain only fed him. The heat in his veins drowned it out, drowned everything out.

  Clarabelle smiled faintly.

  “Don’t hurry too much” she continued, her tone almost gentle.

  She raised one hand.

  The change was immediate—but subtle.

  There was no flash. No visible wave. No dramatic shift in temperature.

  The air simply… changed.

  Luken felt it before he understood it.

  The burning heat inside his chest faltered.

  The familiar surge that pushed pain aside hesitated, like an engine starving for fuel.

  His breath hitched. His vision blurred at the edges—not from injury, but from something deeper, something chemical.

  Clarabelle had altered the atmosphere.

  The healing influence she had woven through the battlefield vanished, replaced by something heavier, thicker.

  The air carried a dull pressure now, sinking into the body rather than lifting it. The same environment that had once repaired wounds and sustained the Minotaur now pressed inward, smothering the mind.

  Hormones shifted.

  The healing environment collapsed, overwritten by the same suppressive chemicals she had been feeding them through the milk.

  Adrenaline plummeted.

  Luken staggered.

  It was subtle at first—a misstep, a delay between intention and movement.

  Then it worsened.

  The pain he had ignored for so long came crashing back all at once, multiplied by the sudden absence of the rush that had kept him moving.

  His wounds reopened.

  Blood flowed freely now, unchecked by momentum or will. His muscles trembled violently, strength draining as if something vital had been unplugged from within him.

  It felt wrong.

  Like junk flooding an engine mid-charge.

  Luken dropped to one knee, blade biting into the ground to keep him upright. His breath came in harsh, shallow gasps.

  He tried to force the adrenaline back—tried to push through it the way he always had—but his body refused to respond.

  The environment would not allow it.

  Clarabelle watched closely, adjusting with careful precision.

  The suppressing agents thickened, targeting the secretion of adrenaline.

  Where there had been fire, there was now numbness. Where there had been clarity, there was fog.

  “You are remarkable,” she said calmly. “But you are still human.”

  Behind Luken, the Minotaur moved.

  It should not have been able to.

  Moments ago, it had been broken—its massive body failing, balance gone, strength spent.

  But the suppressing field did not affect it the same way. Its mind was simpler, its instincts raw. Without adrenaline dependence, it recovered faster than it should have.

  The creature forced itself upright.

  Bones cracked as they realigned. Torn muscle tightened unnaturally. The healing was gone, but the damage had slowed enough for rage to take over.

  It roared—a deep, furious sound that shook the air—and turned back toward Luken.

  Luken tried to rise.

  His body did not obey.

  He swung once, weakly, the blade glancing off hardened hide without the force it once carried.

  His arms felt heavy, unresponsive. The fire that defined him was gone, replaced by a cold, hollow ache.

  The Minotaur struck.

  Luken was thrown aside like debris, his body slamming into the ground with a dull, sickening impact.

  He rolled once, twice, stopping only when his back hit a shattered fence post. Pain exploded through him, sharper than anything before.

  He coughed, blood staining his lips.

  He tried to stand again.

  Failed.

  Clarabelle’s voice cut through the chaos.

  “Your strength is not infinite,” she said. “It was never meant to be.”

  The Minotaur loomed over Luken now, massive shadow swallowing what little light remained. It raised its arm, muscles flexing, preparing to finish what Clarabelle had begun.

  Luken’s vision dimmed.

  His body refused to warm.

  The rush would not come.

  For the first time since the mutation, since the plague, since he had learned to fight without fear—Luken Greyholt was truly helpless.

  Not defeated by force.

  But by control.

  The moment Veyor reached the edge of the battlefield, he knew something was wrong.

  What he saw did not align with what he had saw before.

  Luken was no longer advancing. No longer pressing forward with that terrifying certainty.

  He was on the defensive—if it could even be called that.

  His body was bent at an unnatural angle, movements sluggish, each attempt to rise punished immediately.

  The Minotaur towered over him, its massive form casting a long, suffocating shadow across the torn earth.

  This was not the fight Veyor had witnessed moments ago.

  Earlier, Luken had dominated the battlefield, carving through the monster with relentless momentum.

  Now, the roles had reversed completely.

  Each strike from the Minotaur sent shockwaves through the ground, the sheer force of its blows crushing fences, splitting soil, reducing structures to debris.

  Veyor felt something inside him disconnect.

  It was as if his mind stepped away from his body, leaving only instinct behind.

  His thoughts scattered, scrambling to make sense of what he was seeing. He replayed the moments in his head—every decision, every movement, every assumption.

  Where did it go wrong?

  He didn’t have time to find the answer.

  Without fully thinking, without weighing consequence or strategy, Veyor raised his rifle and fired at Clarabelle.

  The shot tore through the air and struck her from a distance.

  The effect was immediate.

  The atmosphere shifted violently, as if a weight had been lifted and dropped all at once.

  The air snapped back into something closer to normal, unstable but breathable.

  Luken inhaled sharply.

  His chest expanded violently as oxygen rushed back in. For a brief moment, the fire inside him flickered again.

  His fingers twitched. His body responded—slowly, painfully—but it responded.

  But it was too late.

  The Minotaur had already moved.

  Its massive horn drove forward with unstoppable momentum, piercing through Luken’s stomach in a single, brutal motion..

  Luken collapsed.

  Veyor froze.

  Clarabelle lay wounded nearby, blood darkening the ground beneath her.

  Seeing her fall triggered something primal in the Minotaur.

  It released a roar that vibrated through bone and air alike, raw rage pouring from its lungs.

  Its attention snapped toward Veyor.

  The creature turned fully now, massive frame aligning with terrifying intent. Then it charged.

  Thirty feet of muscle and bone surged forward, the ground buckling beneath its weight.

  Each step landed like a hammer blow, sending vibrations racing up Veyor’s legs. Dust and debris exploded outward as it closed the distance with impossible speed.

  Veyor fired.

  Again and again.

  Bullets struck hide, muscle, bone—but nothing slowed it. The shots might as well have been thrown stones. The Minotaur did not falter. Did not hesitate.

  Veyor backed away instinctively, heart slamming against his ribs, breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts.

  He knew, with terrifying clarity, that he was not ready for this.

  He had barely survived encounters with Lostbonds. Low-level monsters. Things that bled and fell.

  This was something else entirely.

  The distance shrank rapidly.

  The ground shook.

  His death was approaching him.

  And there was nothing he could do to stop it.