Threads spawned from Jackson’s fingertips and stitched a gauze-like patch over his eye. The man sat up. “You’re a vicious little insect, ain’t ya?” He began to prowl around.

Crouched within his little hovel of rubble, Gwil set his bones as best he could and then surged Nirva into his arms. His bones hissed as they fused back together.

Gwil had hoped to finish Jackson off before he recovered, but that chance had passed. He hadn’t actually done that much damage.

If he had been normal-sized, Jackson’s face would’ve been flattened by that beating. But with his little hands, he’d only pulped the man’s eye, and that was easily healed.

Gwil grimaced. He was about the size of a cockroach, but he didn’t know how or why he’d shrunk. It happened when he forced himself through the net.

That must have been his Invoke. It would’ve been exciting and cool, except that he didn’t know how to grow back.

Gigantic shadows swooped over his hiding place. A little critter, stalked by giants.

Across a short distance that appeared great, Cort tore through the Podexians like a whirlwind.

Behind him, Leira and the others huddled over Diom. Gwil shook his head and turned away. That old man would not die. No way, not right at the end, not after he’d endured twenty years of suffering.

Gwil sighed as huge legs swept past the gap in the rubble. Being this small didn’t seem very useful. He was extremely weak, and he was not so small that people couldn’t see him. The surprise factor had gained him something, but the jig was up.

Time to become big again.

Gwil closed his eyes and felt a tremendous, swaddling pressure, vague and unreal, something from a waking dream. It was like being submerged in warm, thick liquid. Syrup, maybe.

Try as he might, Gwil could not surface. There were clutching hands in that deep place, and they held him fast.

While fighting with Jackson by the wall, he’d definitely shrank and grown back. But none of that was on purpose.

“I get it,” Jackson said from a short distance away. He picked through the contents of the spilled table where Gwil had hid earlier. “You can’t control it. Heh. Too bad you’re so weak like that. You mighta had me.”

The sheriff was right about that. Gwil would’ve smashed his brain if he could’ve figured out how to stop being small. He stifled a giggle. What a silly problem.

Jackson’s boot obliterated the pile of rocks. His kick sent Gwil flying. He slammed into the wall and then slid down to land in a crumpled heap.

When he was little, Gwil used to jump around on the furniture and swing from the rafters, hunting flies, trying to swat them with his bare hands.

Lying there broken, like a baby bird cast out of the nest, Gwil felt bad for bugs. It was no easy thing to be tiny in this World.

Jackson’s spurs jangled as he approached. The sheriff crouched over Gwil, a monstrous titan. The mouth, the teeth—terrifying. Gwil really hoped that Jackson was not going to eat him.

For such a small body, he’d lost a lot of blood. It pooled beneath him, and he slipped around in it, squirming and writhing at the force of his coursing Nirva.

But the Nirva faltered, trickling like a dried-up stream. Gwil didn’t know where to send it. Everything was broken. It was too much. He was not enough.

“You are such a special breed of idiot,” Jackson said, “that it makes me question whether evolution is real. But you got some guts. Good game, kid. I haven’t felt this alive in a long time.”

The sheriff’s boot eclipsed his vision, night falling all at once. Gwil’s final thoughts came fast and desperate.

Sorry, Caris. I only made it like ten kilometers. I guess that’s pretty bad.

Leira. Cort. Isca. Diom. Everyone.

I tried.

An absolute darkness fell, but no pain. Gwil blinked—he’d consciously kept his eyes open as he waited for the shoe to drop.

What the-? Am I flat now?

Gwil was jostled around as the sheriff ground his heel in the pool of blood. He heard the crunch of bones and saw what he thought was one of his torn-off fingers get crushed.

Then Gwil realized that was actually his whole left arm. Fucking hell! I’m even smaller now!

And then he rose upward. Reflexively, Gwil threw his one arm and his legs out to catch himself. He was wedged into the treads of Jackson’s boot.

The sheriff knelt, and as he crouched on the ball of his foot, the sole of his boot folded upward, providing Gwil with an avenue.

He dragged himself out and scurried up the side of the boot, and then collapsed in a fold of Jackson's pants where they bunched up at his ankles.

The sheriff bent low, examining the pool of Gwil’s blood on the ground.

Gwil shimmied up so he could see, and then scrunched his face at the crushed bits of his bone and tissue.

His arm had been severed at the elbow, but a translucent pink stump was unfurling. Fire blazed through Gwil’s whole body. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach.

Gwil’s eyes went wide. Considering the extent of his injuries, he was healing quickly—so quickly that ethereal billows of Nirva streamed out of his body.

Shit, shit, shit. Buzzard said something about how Hallows can detect each other if they don’t hide their Nirva. Jackson had found them earlier that way.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Gwil sucked in a deep breath and held it. That put a stopper on the steam. He tried to block his mind, but he didn’t know how to do that, so he emptied it instead. Much easier.

“Woo!” Jackson yelled. “What a day. Goddamn cockroach, that kid. Alright boys, he’s dead! Let’s exterminate the rest of ‘em.

“Stondemaier! I’mma kill you first ‘cause you won’t quit with the moaning. Or maybe Ansoir, and you can watch.”

Gwil crawled down to the hem of Jackson’s pant leg and then went under and started making his way up.

He was super small now. So small that he could climb using Jackson’s leg hair—which made for excellent handholds—without tugging it. Gwil guessed he was about the size of an ant.

Oops, no thinking yet. Eh, is that even possible?

Reaching Jackson’s thigh, Gwil took care to go over the outside of the man’s underwear, and then he shimmied his way past the sheriff’s belt and went up into his shirt.

***

Cort had destroyed all the Taluses and killed four of the Podexians. The rest of them hung back now that they could not use the statues as bait.

The fight had reached a stalemate. Ten spear-wielding guards maintained a safe distance while surrounding him in a semi-circle.

Cort didn’t mind that. All he needed to do was keep them away from the others.

He spat out a mouthful of stringy blood and grinned at his enemies. Maybe that’d make him look maniacal enough that they wouldn’t attack.

Cort had taken a bad blow to the head, severe enough to impair his ability to fight. The Podexians didn’t know that, and the longer he could keep it that way, the better.

Sticky blood masked his face and his vision in his left eye was dark and cloudy. A concussion had him slow-witted and his legs felt like jelly.

Cort leaned on his hammer, presenting what he hoped was a confident, terrifying ease rather than a man on the verge of collapse.

Gwil needed to hurry it up. Everything hung on his fight with the sheriff. Those two had moved to the other side of the dais, so Cort couldn’t see them.

He wondered if Diom was dead yet, but didn’t want to risk turning his head. And what about everyone else, running loose throughout the manor? They could’ve run into more statues and… Cort shook his head and then had to swallow the vomit that gurgled up.

A triumphant scream echoed through the cavern. The only words Cort caught— “…he’s dead!”

Cort jerked upright and raised his hammer. The Podexians cheered and rushed him.

A wild swing crashed through someone’s pelvis but threw Cort off balance. He stepped on a rolling statue's head and fell over.

“Cort!” Leira shrieked. “Where’s Gwil?”

Cort made it back onto his knees before they swarmed him. He tried to use the head of his hammer as a shield and took a spear through the shoulder.

The sheriff kept running his mouth.

I’m wondering that too, Leira. No way he’s dead. Cort’s hammer got knocked out of his hands. Desperation turned him feral. His hand shot out and closed around a guard’s throat.

Cort hooked his arm around the neck of another and smashed their heads together. He headbutted someone in the crotch and then caught a finger in his gnashing teeth. He bit down until his teeth scraped against bone and blood filled his mouth.

The sheriff whistled, and the guards fell back, except for the two who Cort had just killed.

“I didn’t realize you were this dangerous,” Jackson said. “Maybe I’d better kill you first.”

***

Leira felt worthless and foolish. Why had she allowed herself to hope for anything from this wretched World?

Useless and drained. Megrim had no gifts to give. The roots that grew inside her were diseased.

He’s dead. Those words made no sense.

“Idiot!” Leira screamed—aloud, though she hadn’t meant to. Did she really believe she’d found a miracle buried in the mud? A delusion of grandeur.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. She thought they were special. That something out there cared. Skuld, that bastard. Meeting him had encouraged her fantasy.

A tear fell from her mundane eye, and that brought a crazed smile. Water and salt. Thank you. What a joke.

Gwil could not be dead. She’d been so sure. But humans were so fragile. It all fell apart so fast. She heard Anesidyra’s cold voice in her head, ‘Mercy is a construct, Leira. The World does not recognize it.’

Cort was going to be killed right in front of her eyes, and she could only pray that she wouldn’t have to wait long for her turn.

She rammed her fingers into her eye socket, felt the dry withered roots.

“Fuck!”

Leira looked back at Ansoir. He lay in a pile with his monstrous father, his stone mother, and Diom’s corpse. Madness. Madness everywhere.

Leira stood. She would not die on her knees. Ashkana would never. Ashkana would fight like a demon until her last breath, and so would Leira.

She sprinted at the sheriff and relished the hatred that burned in her guts.

“Liar!” Leira screamed.

If she died with that man’s blood on her hands, then she would go with a smile on her face.

***

“Leira, don’t!” Ansoir shouted. He stumbled after her. “Jackson, Jackson, please,” he called. “Spare them. We can negotiate. It’s all yours.”

A rope snaked out of the sheriff’s hand, coiled around Ansoir’s leg and yanked him down

Jackson didn’t even spare him a glance.

Laying on the ground, Ansoir looked at what his mother and father had become. And he remembered them as they were.

They were eating dinner, just the three of them and a host of faceless servants.

Mother laughed. She always laughed.

Father droned on about things that were meaningless to a child. All he ever did was talk about such things.

Whatever it was, he was angry. Father slammed his fist down on the table and the dishes clattered.

Mother laughed again. Father’s face transformed as his woes washed away. He smiled at Mother. His eyes twinkled. They laughed together.

Mother stood and circled the table in her slow, hobbling way. She wiped Ansoir’s chin with a napkin and then kissed him on the cheek. Her quick, shallow breathing buzzed in Ansoir’s ear, and he saw Father’s face transform again.

A fleeting dream.

Mother coughed into her bed sheet. She always coughed. She tried to hide the flecks of blood, but they were bright against the white bedding.

Ansoir sat beside her on the propped-up pillows. Her arm felt weightless around his shoulders. Her skin was gray-blue. Ansoir nuzzled his face against her and felt the rough ridges of her ribs.

He peeked up at her and she smiled. But her eyes were empty, looking elsewhere.

Father threw the door open.

“Get out, Ansoir,” he barked.

“No, Stondemaier,” Mother rasped. “If you insist on this course of action, let him stay. Please. That is my demand.”

Ansoir’s mouth went dry as his father looked down at his feet, wrestling with something.

Ansoir did not understand. Nothing made sense.

“No,” Father said. “I won’t do that. It’s not right. None of this is right.”

“There is still time, my love,” Mother said.

“I can’t risk that,” Father said. “I’m sorry, Ophelia. I am a monster.”

Ansoir’s throat tightened, and his face fell apart. He hated crying. He looked up at his mother, terrified that she would be crying too.

Her jaw was stiff, her face expressionless. Like a statue.

Father lifted Ansoir out of the bed. Ansoir felt his mother’s feeble hand clinging to his pajamas, and then her grip broke.

Father carried him to the door and handed him off to Diom. Then, he slammed the door to Mother’s sickroom.

Ophelia Jaqlov burned alive that day. Her ashes gave birth to a puppet.

How cold love could be.

Ansoir had convinced himself that he was a powerful man. Then, Gwil and Leira arrived like a storm and devoured his life. He’d been left with nothing save for the brutal truth.

This World does not care who you are, or how much wealth you have. It will crush anyone.

Faced with such cruelty, kindness, no matter how small, is more precious than anything else.

And now I die, knowing full well that I am worse than worthless.

Ansoir made to go after Leira, but he could not turn away from his father. Something was wrong…

With a clatter of rocks, Stondemaier drew himself upright. Ophelia staggered at his sudden movement. Ansoir did not realize that his father could still move like that.

Burgermeister Stondemaier Jaqlov’s mouth opened like a crumbling sinkhole. “They are coming.”