The scream doesn’t so much break the silence as rip it to shreds, turning the pale morning into a battleground in Ana’s skull. It comes in two waves—the far-off animal howl, then nearer, ragged human cries merging into one unrelenting note of panic. Before she’s even fully awake, her mouth tastes of fear and her body obeys an old reflex: hands groping for a weapon she no longer carries.

Caden jolts beside her, eyes wide, his small frame shrunken with terror as he clutches her coat. For a heartbeat, he looks helpless—still a frightened boy. Then his face hardens, resolve eclipsing fear. Ana recognizes that fierceness, that unspoken vow, and it stings her heart.

They bolt. Ana flings aside the empty bottle with a flick of contempt; it sails through the air, striking the earth in a whining arc before coming to rest among the dew-damp grass. Already she’s bounding down the embankment, mud spraying her calves, brambles scraping at her shins. Caden’s uneven steps follow, desperate and driven. All she can taste is adrenaline.

Hundreds of horrors flicker through her mind—each worse than the last. She’s learned never to rely on hope.

At the village edge, the second wave of chaos crashes in: confusion and command, shouts and orders, a frantic call for buckets and lines of defense. Screams, now edged with authority, mingle with whispered terror. Ana’s soldier’s mind sorts it instantly: breach, attack, maybe even fire. She seizes Caden’s shoulder as they clear the first fence, vaults it, and hauls him over. He lands badly, ankle twisting. Pain flashes across his face, but he swallows any cry and keeps moving.

By the time they hit the main street, villagers flood past—old men in nightshirts, mothers hauling half-naked children, a limping dog trailing behind. Someone’s already swinging the warning bell, its rough bronze peal slicing through the panic and giving the morning a manic edge.

“Demons?” Caden pants, every word ragged with fear.

Ana’s gaze sweeps the fields and ridges, hunting any sign of what lurks beyond. Her mind ticks through battle drills: cover, retreat points, ideal vantage. “Eyes forward. No talking,” she snaps, sharper than she intended. Her pulse thunders in her ears.

They sprint past a wrecked wagon, its wheel shattered, produce spilled and crushed underfoot. Villagers run past them, heads bowed, faces ashen. Ana sees it all: they’re not fleeing something visible, but the ghost of past horrors.

At a crossroads they nearly barrel into a mother clutching her child. Ana brakes, steadies the woman with a firm hand, and checks them both. No wounds on mother, but the child’s feet are cut—shallow gashes from bare feet on broken glass. Ana files the detail away: it wasn’t a perfect ambush, not immediate slaughter. Not demons—at least, not yet.

“Head to the church,” she orders. The woman nods and hurries off.

Caden slides in beside her, breath heaving but feet steady. Tougher than most his age, despite the twisted ankle he’s masking with every step. Ana glances back: the entire village is funneling down this road. Ahead waits the heart of the chaos—and she feels the old General awaken, cold and ready.

They emerge from the last hedge and see a throng around the blacksmith’s yard. Smoke billows from the forge—no roaring flames, just pungent soot—and the clamor of metal on metal rings out, unsteady, savage. Villagers crowd against fences, perched atop barrels, craning to see. From inside comes a wet, thudding sound, like flesh struck in the dark.

Ana crashes through the crowd, Caden at her elbow, elbows sharp, ducking frantic arms. They part instinctively for her. She reaches the fence just as a sweat-slathered apprentice stumbles out, hammer in hand, voice hoarse: “Stay back! It’s got—” His words choke off in a spray of fear.

Ignoring him, Ana pulls Caden under the rail and into the yard. Inside is chaos: overturned benches, shattered tools. Two men wrestle with a length of iron pipe, pinning something writhing beneath a torn tarp. A slick black carapace peeks through the rip, limbs thrashing and a maw bristling with needle-fine teeth. Voidspawn.

Without hesitation she yells, “Keep it down!” and snatches a broken axe handle from the ground.

Caden doesn’t hesitate either. He grabs a dented pail, dodges the panicked crowd, and slams it over the creature’s head. A scream so high-pitched it rattles Ana’s teeth fills the space, but the pipe holds. She swings the axe handle in brutal arcs—once, twice, three times—splintering wood against the creature’s flailing limbs until they lie still.

Silence crashes over them, fractured only by the trapped thing’s whimper and the villagers’ ragged breathing. Ana stands over it, chest heaving, hands trembling but gripping the makeshift weapon. The two men step back, pale and grateful. Someone starts tentatively clapping; others join, relief replacing terror.

Her knees shake, but she braces against the anvil and takes in the yard. Blood seeps beneath the pail, dark against stone. Villagers watch her, hungry for reassurance. She hates that they need it.

“Anyone else hurt?” the smith demands.

Ana is scanning anxious faces. Groans ripple, but no one steps forward with fresh wounds. Just scrapes and bruises.

Caden, filthy and triumphant, grins up at her. Almost—almost—she returns the smile. Instead she pokes the bucket with the axe handle. The Voidspawn stirs, legs scraping underneath.

“Good thinking,” she tells Caden quietly. “It’s not always brawn.”

He beams. She feels a stab of something—guilt, maybe—at how much his praise means to her. She shouldn’t care, but the boy is hard to ignore.

The crowd’s mood shifts to embarrassment as they disperse—old women gathering children, men righting benches, someone sweeping glass. Ana drifts to the fence, arms folded, watching order reknit itself.

The apprentice approaches, sheepish. “Sorry, miss. I—”

“Don’t be,” Ana cuts him off. “You did your best.” She offers no more comfort, yet his relief is obvious.

Caden, wiping ichor on his trousers, peers warily at the smith. “Why was he sorry?”

She drags a thumb along the axe haft, flicking off a splinter. “Ever seen true mithril break?”

He blinks, breath still rough. “What’s that…mithril?”

“Not just any iron,” she murmurs. “Purest mithril glowed in the forge last night. Somebody cracked it. When you break it, when the magic isn't contained—willingly or not—something out there always knows. The real monsters, the ones with old hunger.”

Caden pales. “But we killed it.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She watches the bucket pitch slightly. “Magic’s like fire. Once it escapes, you can’t be sure what’ll crawl through the cracks. Demons come if the holes get wide enough.”

He pulls his knees up, draws a trembling circle in the mud with his finger. "That's why he freaked."

Ana nods. “He thought the ward held. Sometimes a whisper of power’s all it takes to draw them in.” She turns to him, voice low. “Lesson one: power and risk are twins. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” She lets the words settle over him like dust, cold and heavy.

He nods, visibly shaken, but manages: "If it happens again, can we stop it?"

She shrugs. "You saw what it took this morning. It's never what you expect, and it's never the same twice." She glances at the huddle of villagers, their relief already curdling into suspicion. "Get ready for the rumors. Word like this, it spreads faster than wildfire."

He stands, bones quivering with new respect—and fear—for the world. "Should I...tell anyone?"

“They already know,” Ana answers. “They just pretend they don’t.” She grabs a rag from the fence and wipes ichor from her hands. “Come on. They’ll thank us now, then forget our existence by sunset.”

He follows, uneasy. “What about it?” He nods at the still-twitching bucket.

“We bury it before it finishes dying,” Ana says. Without waiting for protest, she signals the apprentice, “Shovel?”

Trembling, he fetches a spade. Ana takes it, beckons Caden, and together they haul the tarp-bound creature to the dark soil at the field’s edge. They dig in silence, the earth moaning under their labor and the creature whimpering beneath its makeshift lid. With one final thrust, Ana stamps the body into the grave. She piles dirt on top; Caden pats it flat, sorrow shadowing his boyish features.

Caden pats the mound with his foot, feeling oddly sad. "It wasn't really its fault, was it?"

“No,” Ana says gently. “The fault lies with us, pretending the world obeys reason.”

He nods, too young to grasp it all but old enough to feel its weight.

“Go on,” Ana tells him. “Dust off.”

He stands, wipes his palms on his trousers, then pauses at the fresh mound, imagining watching eyes hungry for cracks in the world’s armor.

Ana cuts through the village as if on patrol. Doors open; whispers follow her. By tomorrow, she knows, the story will swell: the bucket will be a cauldron, the Voidspawn a demon lord, and she herself a cursed revenant—just the kind of myth folk cling to.

Caden limps at her side, head spinning with questions. "Did you ever see something worse?" he asks, voice small.

“I’ve seen too much,” she replies, tone lighter now though her eyes remain hard.

He processes that in silence.

When they reach the edge of the market, Ana slows. She nods at the bakery, where a woman waits by the door with two steaming turnovers in a paper bag—payment, no doubt, for her services rendered. Ana snags both, tosses one to Caden, and keeps walking.

Ana devours hers in two quick bites and lets out a low groan.

Caden swallows the last mouthful and falls into step beside her, fresh questions glinting in his eyes.