Halvard stares in horror. The small, frail boy is transforming before his eyes.

A rift appears beneath Tolki’s feet. The blood of Ulrik—his fallen foe—rises into the air, twisting unnaturally. Every drop shoots toward Tolki’s dagger, draining the ground and the corpse until nothing remains.

Once the blood is gone, the blade begins to hum—then splits into sharp fragments. Without hesitation, they launch forward and stab directly into Tolki’s eyes. Each piece sticks out, jagged and pulsing, each one looking more painful than the last.

Halvard stiffens. His thoughts race.

“This… isn’t normal. Not even with those pills.”

“I can’t take another pill or I’ll die. So how the hell did he take three?”

Then Tolki’s body breaks.

His arms and legs tear away, separating midair as black, rocky claws form where his limbs used to be. Armor-like scales begin to spread—crawling over his torso, wrapping around muscle and bone, reshaping his frame into something inhuman.

The only part of Tolki that remains untouched is his head.

The rift beneath him seals shut.

And as the final crack vanishes, his body slams back together—rebuilt, reformed. What lands is no longer a child. Standing before Halvard is something spoken of only in stories meant to scare children from wandering into the night. A demon. A nightmare.

Tolki rises, slow and steady. He lifts both arms outward, hands open as if reaching for something.

Then, from thin air, two twin daggers appear—one in each hand, forged from nothingness and bound to him like they’ve always belonged there.

His arms fall to his sides.

And then—his head shoots upward, locking eyes with Halvard.

A bloodthirsty stare.

“He must be unconscious from the rush…” Halvard mutters under his breath. “I’m surprised his body could even handle the pills.”

Halvard tightens his grip around his sword, but he can feel his palms beginning to sweat. The boy—no, the thing—before him is no longer someone who should exist. The blackened armor pulses slightly as if it’s breathing. The twin daggers in Tolki’s hands drip with residual blood, though they’ve yet to strike.

Halvard shifts his stance, trying to suppress the tremor in his legs.

“If he’s unconscious… maybe he’ll burn out. Maybe this isn’t permanent.”

Then Tolki moves.

He blinks out of sight—just gone—and appears inches from Halvard’s chest. The speed is impossible. Halvard jerks backward on instinct, barely parrying the first dagger with his sword. Sparks fly, but something is wrong. The blades don’t clang—they whisper, sliding across metal like they’re trying to cut through the space between them.

Tolki doesn’t stop. He twists, low, slashing upward. Halvard dodges back, feathers tearing off his body. His breathing becomes heavy, frantic. Each time he tries to counter, Tolki is already somewhere else—behind, above, beneath.

Halvard manages to land a glancing blow across Tolki’s chest—but it does nothing. No blood. No recoil. Tolki turns his head inhumanly, slowly, toward him. The shards in his eyes glow with something ancient and hollow.

Then he speaks—but it’s not his voice.

It’s hundreds.

All layered atop each other.

Low. Heavy. Endless.

“Break him.”

The twin daggers flash.

Halvard screams.

They clash again, and again—until Halvard is slammed into the stone wall of the arena. His sword breaks in half. His arm hangs limp at his side.

He tries to stand.

Tolki is already walking toward him—no emotion, no urgency. Just inevitability.

Halvard lowers his eyes. He grits his teeth.

“So this is what it's like… to die in fear.”

Tolki raises the daggers.

But then—a scream.

Not his. Not Halvard’s.

Dozens of them. The crowd. Villagers.

They’re charging down from the rooftops, weapons in hand—anything they can carry. Their fear has turned to hysteria. Whatever they think Tolki is, they’re trying to kill it.

They swarm him.

And the last thing heard before the world goes dark is Tolki’s cry.

...

The blackness starts to fade. Pain echoes through every part of me.

I woke up.

The light is gone. The shards are gone.

I’m lying in the center of the arena. My body feels weak. The cold air stings against my skin.

I slowly sit up.

Everything aches. But I’m alive.

Around me… silence.

I look around.

Bodies.

Hundreds. Maybe more.

Stacked. Piled. Scattered. All dried out—gray and hollow like something drained the life from them. Not with claws. Not with blades. With something deeper. Like their very souls had been torn out.

I stumble to my feet. My arms feel like my own again. My dagger lies on the ground beside me—burnt black, but whole.

I recognize some of them.

The baker. The tavern owner. That same orphan who used to spit at me in the street.

All of them.

All dead.

The sky above is clear. Peaceful. Mocking.

I drop to my knees.

I don’t scream. I don’t cry.

I just stare at my hands—hands that, somehow… did this.

A link has been formed.