Something changes in the air, something he’d never noticed until suddenly it was different. It reminds him of Rhoth’s shop, the feeling of standing near the lush plant life and bottles filled with magic-infused liquid. It’s similar, yet different, and it feels…familiar.

Like something he’d never noticed until it was…the same? Stronger?

He’s not sure how to describe it, not sure he even knows the words he’d need to do so. But there, all around him, in front of him, something undeniably shifts.

Achillea shifts, and suddenly he gets it.

Her gambeson strains against her expanding frame. Her back arches into something bestial as strong hands turn to fearsome claws and a broken nose becomes a crooked snout. Fur covers exposed skin as wicked canines erupt from her jaw to join tusks that he could swear are longer and sharper than before. Yellow eyes glow in the moonlight.

The orcs’ eyes widen, but they don’t even hesitate to charge the beast, weapons drawn, as the beast charges at them.

From there, everything happens so quickly it seems to blur.

Teeth snap on the morning star’s wooden shaft, splintering it under powerful jaws. Its wielder lets go, trying to back away, but not fast enough. A massive paw-like hand swings into the side of his skull, throwing him into a tree. He slumps, unconscious.

Lefty and Righty gang up on the beast, slashing it from both sides with their axes before Morning Star is even off his feet. Their weapons don’t do much against its thick hide. Righty at least does some damage, but Lefty’s cut is barely bleeding. He’s not as strong with his off-hand. The beast takes advantage of that.

It leaps at the uninjured orc, stabbing its claws into the soft flesh of his face with one hand while grabbing his right elbow with the other. They crash to the ground and the beast starts shredding whatever it can reach. Righty can’t get a decent swing with his axe and is too overpowered.

Lefty slashes a few more times at the beast’s back, fruitlessly leaving shallow gashes that don’t deter it in the slightest. Finally he lets out a curse, bringing his right hand up to try for a two-handed swing as the beast turns its attention toward him.

He doesn’t last long.

The beast turns to look at Sword and Hammer, who have wisely decided to hang back and strategize. It throws its head back and lets out a deafening howl.

For the first time that night, the orcs look afraid. There was probably something magic in that howl, Mordecai thinks, but it doesn’t seem to affect him. Odd.

Sword readies his namesake as the beast charges forward. He gets a solid hit in on its shoulder, but it isn’t enough to stop it. Jaws clamp around his throat, and no matter how tough an orc may be, soft tissue is no match for a bite that can splinter wood.

Only one enemy left. Not about to go down without a fight, he raises his hammer, bringing it down on the beast’s wounded shoulder. The force of the swing is so powerful the beast lets out a wheezy yelp. It backs away, shaking from the pain, but Hammer doesn’t let up. The weapon lifts again and

and Mordecai isn’t watching the fight anymore.

He’s watching a different fight, a much more one-sided one. He can’t see the faces of anyone present, but he recognizes the place, the armor his companions are wearing. He’s back in the cave he raised in.

One of the men has a crossbow, firing at two figures blocking the cave entrance. One is wearing heavy armor and a hood similar to his own, a hammer resting on his shoulder. The other has an elegant bow and quiver full of arrows, draped in a cloak. The archer hangs back, letting the larger one stalk forward lazily as if the three of them aren’t even a threat. Indeed, the crossbowman’s bolts don’t even scratch his armor.

When the big guy decides he’s had enough of being pelted with useless sticks, he shifts his stance, hefting his hammer and swinging it once, slamming it into the crossbowman’s ribs. The man’s lightweight armor does nothing to defend against the powerful blow, and his ribs crack with a sickening noise, accompanied by the sound of all the air in his lungs being forced out at once.

It sounds a lot like the noise

the beast just made.

That Achillea just made. That’s still Achillea!

Mordecai pushes himself to his feet, forces himself to run, to scoop up the knife from where it lays in the dirt.

The orc swings his hammer down on the beast’s—Achillea’s—skull.

As soon as the crossbowman hits the floor, the hammerer shifts again, blocking a sword with the pole of his weapon. The swordsman, a man almost as big as if not bigger than the hooded figure, swings again and again, trying to find an opening in his defense. The hammerer blocks every strike with the same cool lack of concern.

The swordsman lifts his sword over his head, attempting to split the enemy’s skull, but the hammer blocks him again. This time, though, the hammerer pushes back, throwing the swordsman across the cave.

He hits a rock headfirst, but it doesn’t knock him out. He tries to get to his feet, but sways unsteadily. The hammerer stalks toward him with that same predatory grace, kicking him back to the ground. The swordsman starts to crawl away. A heavy boot plants itself in the middle of his back, stopping him in his tracks.

The hammer lifts over the man’s head, and swings down with a horrifying crack.

Mordecai feels sick.

Fortunately, Achillea isn’t dead. She stumbles, disoriented, but doesn’t fall. Orcs are made of tougher stuff than humans, and the transformation has compounded that. Her eyes refocus, glaring at the male orc with the promise of death.

The orc readies his weapon again.

Before he can swing it, a knife buries itself in his bicep.

The hammerer turns to him.

Having learned his lesson, Mordecai pulls back and darts out of the orc’s reach. Achillea lunges, teeth and claws bared. She puts a few sizeable gouges in the orc’s back. He manages to throw her off, though, hefting his hammer and charging.

Achillea gets between Mordecai and the orc, snarling, only to be batted aside by a hammer to the ribs.

Then the orc turns to him.

The hammer lifts again, comes swinging down,

and Mordecai just barely dodges it. He can’t fight, he knows he can’t, he’s a coward and he’s weak, he didn’t want to be here in the first place. All he has is a knife, that’s all he can wield because he isn’t strong enough for the heavy weapons. A knife can’t beat a war hammer. He can’t win.

His only chance of survival is to run.

He can’t run away, though, can’t abandon Achillea. That weird muscle memory comes over him again and he dodges to the side. At least he knows the reason for it now.

Another swing of the hammer, to the ribs this time. He dodges again, darting out of reach. Another swing. He dodges again. Another. Again. He can’t keep this up forever.

He manages to get between the hammerer and the tunnel leading up to the mouth of the cave. As soon as the hammer swings again—there. An opening!

Achillea leaps at the orc again, forcing him to turn and deal with the stronger opponent. Mordecai grips his knife, taking the opportunity presented to him.

He turns and runs as hard as he can, breathing heavily. His armor…is it heavier? Or has it always been that heavy? He can’t remember. Even with all the flesh padding his bones, it’s still clunky and doesn’t fit him well. It’s slowing him down, but he can’t stop to take it off or—

A sudden, sharp pain makes him stumble. There’s something in his armpit, stuck in the gap between his breastplate and the armor on his upper arms. It hurts. He can’t breathe. He falls to the ground, snapping whatever it was and pushing something deeper in, making an already fatal wound worse.

It  is  a fatal wound. He’s going to die.

He scrambles up onto the orc’s back. It’s hard to find purchase when he’s swinging about, fighting off a werewolf at the same time. The orc has a hand on Achillea’s throat as she snaps at his wrist, claws digging into his arm, the other arm reaching back to pull him off.

He raises the knife and plunges it into the base of the orc’s skull.

The orc goes down with a resounding thud.

Achillea growls at the orc’s body for a few seconds, before tentatively sniffing it.

It doesn’t move.

Blood fills his lungs. He can’t deny that this is the end; his vision is already starting to fade. Using the last of his energy, he lifts his head to look at his killer.

He’s shocked to find that the face isn’t blurred. The features before him are clear as his own reflection.

And indeed, it is like looking at his reflection. The jaw is differently shaped, the chin pointier, cheekbones sharper, and the curve of the skull ever so slightly different, but that’s what it is: a skull.

The skull of an elven archer stares impassively down at him as his vision fades to black.

In a forest miles away, years after the battle in the cave, another skeleton looks upon a slain foe.

This time, Mordecai is the one still standing.