“Everyone, to me!” Henrik’s booming voice echoes from below.

Scrambling down the wall, we rush toward the breach. The scene is chaos incarnate. Henrik, his warhammer swinging with brutal precision, crushes demons left and right. Beside him, Hubbert wields his massive blade, cutting through the horde with practiced ease.

The demon forces, though ferocious, are funneled into the narrow breach. The choke point works in our favor, turning their numbers into a disadvantage. Inside, the troops form a solid wall of shields and spears, holding the line and cutting down demons as they pour in, one by one. Blood coats the ground, barricading the narrow passage with bodies.

Suddenly, the breach explodes with motion. Bodies, both human and demon, are hurled outward, grotesquely coated in jagged red crystals. The air grows deathly still before the stone above the breach collapses with a thunderous crash, burying the corpses beneath tons of rubble.

The temperature plummets as a red mist begins to seep through the air, chilling us to our cores. From atop the rubble emerges a towering figure, his silver armor glinting ominously in the dim light. Standing at least seven feet tall, the figure carries a massive axe that looks more like a weapon meant to fell giants.

It’s Alfred.

He raises the axe high above his head, its edge reflecting the evening sun, and points it directly at us. His silent command is deafening, and behind him, a vast horde of demons surges forward, roaring in unison.

“Everyone, to the keep!” Henrik's voice cuts through the chaos, commanding unwavering attention.

Henrik leads the retreat, his presence a beacon amidst the panic. We follow in tight formation, sprinting toward the safety of the keep. Behind us, Hubbert and his mercenaries form a resolute wall against the surging demon horde. The Blue Claw, renowned for their grit, fights ferociously to buy us precious time.

I catch sight of David running beside me, his wide eyes betraying sheer terror. He glances my way, his expression pleading for reassurance—or at least a shred of familiarity.

Surprisingly, despite the cacophony of clashing steel and my pounding heart, a strange calm washes over me. My mind feels unnervingly sharp, as if the chaos is sharpening my focus. Maybe it’s the weight of leading this group of terrified young men, their inexperience palpable, or perhaps it’s something darker—a faint, unsettling glimmer of exhilaration amid the mayhem.

The plan is clear: defend the wall at all costs. If the wall is breached, hold the breach. If the breach is overwhelmed, fall back to the keep. And if the keep falls, then we’re doomed.

Laura is among the women and children already sheltering inside the keep. I trust her ability to defend herself, but I can’t say the same for her ability to protect others. Her Red Frost, while powerful, is volatile—far too imprecise to be used safely in tight quarters or around others.

The massive gates of the keep creak open as we approach, the weight of the moment pressing down on all of us. The bridge lowers with a heavy groan, granting us passage across the moat. Knowing Alfred’s terrifying abilities, it’s doubtful the moat will do much to slow him or his forces. The water below will just freeze under his Red Frost.

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We’re among the last to make it inside. As the gate slams shut behind us and the bridge creaks back into place, I pull off my helmet, gasping for air. The adrenaline keeps me upright, but I can’t help silently thanking the grueling labor at Henrik’s forge. Without it, I wouldn’t have made it this far. Sweat, grime, and streaks of blood coat my face as I hastily wipe my forehead.

“Everyone, assume positions!” Henrik’s commanding voice echoes through the keep.

I nod and begin running upstairs, taking two steps at a time toward the massive bedroom my group was assigned to guard. This room, along with others like it, serves as the last line of defense for the women and children sheltering inside. The final fallback point if the demons breach the keep.

As I glance at my group, my stomach sinks. We’re no longer a dozen. The faces that remain are pale and shaken, and there’s a weight in the air—an unspoken grief for those who didn’t make it.

Our group approaches the double doors of the room, weapons at the ready. Other groups are already stationed at their posts, some positioned near the shattered windows with bows in hand, firing down at the advancing enemy. The chaos from outside seeps into the keep, the shouts of commands and cries of battle echoing through the stone walls.

The second floor, where we are now, has a circular layout. A railing runs along the edge of a massive open space in the middle, offering a view down to the main hall. The clatter of footsteps and occasional shouted orders fill the air as defenders rush to their assigned positions.

I stop at the door to the room assigned to protect the women and children. My knuckles rap softly against the wood. “Laura, are you there?” I ask, my voice steady despite the pounding in my chest.

Moments later, her familiar voice answers from within. “Yes, are you okay?” she asks, the worry evident.

“Some of us didn’t make it,” I say as I glance at my group.

David and the other boys glance nervously between one another, their expressions betraying their distress. Their eyes land on me, searching for guidance in the chaos. The weight of their trust feels heavy, but I try to keep my own nerves in check.

“Red Frost. How terrifying,” David says, his voice trembling.

I nod, keeping my tone steady. “We have Henrik on our side; we’ll be fine.”

David’s head snaps toward me, his eyes wide. “You knew he was a mage?”

“Yes,” I answer quickly, not wanting to linger on the topic. “And I trust him. You should too.”

I know I’m the oldest in the group, but the steadiness of my composure surprises even me. Why am I so calm? I’m just as inexperienced as everyone else. The chaos outside, the lives I took just moments ago—none of it is weighing on me the way it should.

I glance at David, his hands trembling around the spear. His eyes dart nervously to every sound. Then, I look at my own hands. They’re steady—unnervingly so. My breathing is even, and my heartbeat feels almost subdued. My eyes widen at the realization.

Why am I not panicking?

The confidence I feel is strange, almost foreign. The memories of the battle, the screams, and the blood-soaked chaos feel distant, like a terrible dream already fading.

Is this what I am? A remorseless killer, indifferent to death.

The thought churns in my mind as I watch the others fidget nervously. David’s trembling hands clutch his spear like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality. My own grip is firm, my breathing steady, and my chest is devoid of the chaos I expected to feel.

Am I broken, or am I simply built this way?

For the first time since arriving in this world, I question who I’ve become. The blood, the screams, the lives I ended—they feel like shadows in the corners of my mind, weightless and insignificant. It scares me how easily I can brush them aside.

What kind of person feels nothing in the face of death?