"Isn't that our girl, boy?" he muttered, nodding toward something at the edge of the square— a shadowed figure standing out amidst the chaos.

               A tiger-furred yokai in a spiked vest was walking down the ash-covered street, dragging Lirany behind him. She screamed, thrashing in his grip, kicking at him in a desperate attempt to break free, but her struggle was in vain. Frustrated, she finally bit him.

               The yokai cursed and violently threw her to the ground.

               "You little bitch!" he roared, his fury erupting.

               He raised his hand to strike her, but the blow never landed. Ayun had lunged between them, seizing the yokai’s wrist in a firm grip, stopping his arm mid-air. The feline eyes of the yokai, a burning gold, locked onto Ayun’s, green and brimming with determination.

               “What the hell are you doing?” the stranger asked, disbelief clear in his voice.

               “Leave her alone,” Ayun replied, his tone ice-cold.

               He suddenly recalled the yokai’s name—Jarlo. They had worked together last winter, maintaining the port’s ships for a few weeks. But despite that collaboration, they had never become friends.

               “Are you blind? The girl has magic in her blood! We’ll use her as bait! The spirits will tear her apart, and in their moment of distraction, we’ll kill them! Get out of my way!”

               Jarlo wanted to sacrifice Lirany to save his own skin, a cowardly plan that filled Ayun with disgust. The girl staggered to her feet just as Hachyro caught up to her, blood dripping from his twin tails. Seeing the horror on her face, the arsian grimaced but gave a slight nod, allowing her to take refuge behind him.

               Hrassin, who had witnessed the scene earlier, was nowhere to be seen. Ayun let go of the tiger-striped yokai but didn’t move from his path.

               “The city is lost, Jarlo! Killing one or two of those spirits—whatever they are—won’t bring Tharym back to life!”

               Jarlo’s furious gaze flicked from him to Hachyro and Lirany. It didn’t take much effort to put the pieces together. A strange expression crossed his face, as if every suspicion he’d ever had about the emerald-eyed young man had just been confirmed.

               “You’re protecting them!” he spat, pointing an accusing finger at Hachyro. “You’re betraying Lord Hrassin, betraying Tharym for… for that cursed Tower! You’re shielding a human and a stray!”

               “I’m betraying no one!” Ayun shot back, exasperated. “Our only chance of survival is to leave the city!”

               “Let me kill the girl, and you can do whatever you want! Move!”

               “I refuse.”

               Never before in Tharym had anyone protected a human—unless they planned to keep them for themselves as food. Jarlo’s face twisted with rage as he drew his sword in one fluid, practiced motion, aiming it at Ayun’s chest. But the fight never began.

               Ragged, wheezing breaths, accompanied by eager, wet smacking sounds, made them lift their gaze. Dozens of creatures with blood-red eyes lurked atop the ruined buildings around them, running their forked tongues over their elongated snouts, savoring the sight of their long-awaited prey.