Wagon’s old. Wheels grind with every bump. Chains rattle. Twenty of us, manacled to iron bars bolted into the wood. No room to move, barely room to breathe. The quiet’s heavy—fear weighing it down.

All my things—scissors, bones, spell gear—locked in a chest at the back of the wagon. Feels like it’s glaring at me.

To my left: the geloton. The one I accidentally made in the swamp. Her translucent skin pulls tight over half-melted features, an almost-face stretched too thin. She sits motionless, like stillness is all she knows. There’s something off about her—like a blank slate. Her head tilts at the smallest noises, curiosity sharp, but there’s no recognition behind it. No memory. It’s like she’s a child in there, fresh and hollow. The lizardfolk woman who "supplied" her skeleton left nothing behind. I didn’t mean to make her, but there she is. Can’t unmake her now.

Across from me: the changeling. Armor gone, probably stripped after they caught her. She’s wearing an oddly nice suit—something you’d expect in a bigger city, not here. It fits too well for a prisoner. There’s something off about her, a kind of stillness, like she’s waiting for someone else to decide what she should be. She smells faintly like a cleric—like servitude—though the role doesn’t seem to fit. Her eyes flick to the guards, then back down. Smart enough to stay quiet.

And next to her—the woman.

I can smell blood on her. Not fresh. Not rot either. Old blood, clinging like it belongs there. She’s muttering to herself—two voices, layered but off. One sounds too young for the body it’s coming from, high-pitched and eager, the other deeper, more grounded. They argue in broken fragments, barely audible over the creak of the wagon. Her hands twitch in her lap, fingers tapping out some private rhythm. Chains bite her wrists just like the rest of us, but she barely notices.

I don’t say anything. Just file it away.

Six guards ride alongside. Four of them look like they get paid to die. The other two? Different. Cleaner gear, tighter grips on the reins. One fidgets with his gauntlet—nerves bleeding through. The other’s still as stone.

The forest presses close. Trees lean in, bark dark, branches clawing at the sky. Fog curls low, thick around the wheels, moving like it knows something we don’t. The horses hate it. One rears, panicked, before a guard yanks it back into line. Prey always feels it first.

The coin in my pocket’s heavy. I don’t flip it. Not here. Not now.

Then the wagon lurches.

The hit’s hard—wood splinters, iron screams—then something huge slams into the side. Chains snap taut, bodies thrown sideways. Someone yells. Then it’s drowned out.

I see it through the fog—scaled, sleek, panther-shaped but off. Too many joints in the legs. Ridged spines, black scales slick with something wet. Long teeth curve out from its jaw, wrong angles, too sharp.

Then another.

Six, maybe. Hard to count.

The first guard doesn’t even scream. One second he’s on horseback, the next he’s not. Just blood in the air. Another gets dragged into the fog—boots kicking, then not.

The bigger guard lands a spear deep in one of the drakes. It doesn’t matter. The thing twists, shreds him open. Horses bolt. The wagon jerks, but doesn’t tip.

Blood’s everywhere now. Thick in the air. I can smell it stronger. The woman across from me hasn’t moved.

I watch the drakes tear into the guards, and my mind drifts.

Good bone structure. Strong jawlines—those spines alone could work as binding rods. Muscle’s fresh, too. If I could get to the core without ruining the marrow—maybe lace necrotic charge straight into the—

A scream rips through the fog. Not a guard this time. Prisoner.

Focus.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I wrench against the manacles. Metal cuts deep, but I don’t stop. Twist. Pop. One wrist slides free. Pain’s there, but distant. Not important.

No relief. Just done.

The woman across from me—the one reeking of blood—watches me now. Her eyes catch the light wrong. Too sharp. Too still.

“Smash,” I say, nodding toward the chest at the back.

She blinks. Doesn’t move.

I motion toward the chest, a small, deliberate gesture.

Then I’m gone—slipped down, out of sight. Mud swallows me as I crawl under the wagon, cold and thick. Claws rake across the boards above me, deep gouges in old wood.

Screaming keeps going. Then stops.

Blood leaks down through the slats. Slow. Steady.

Good material.

A hollow crack echoes through the fog—the chest. She did it. I don’t waste time.

I slip out from under the wagon, crouched low. Drakes are busy—claws deep in soft things that used to be guards. I dart to the broken chest. My bag’s there, half-spilled. Someone’s already reaching for it.

Not today.

I slam my boot into his hand—hear bones snap—then grab the scissors first. Cool metal. Right weight. Everything else follows fast—bones, reagents—shoved into my pack before anyone gets clever.

The woman’s gone. So is the geloton. The changeling, too. Fleeing into the fog, the three of them moving fast, shapes blurring at the edges.

I pull the hood low, slip into the shadows, and follow.

They clear the wreck, vanish deeper into the mist.

I keep my distance. No reason to catch up.

Yet.

Fog thickens as I follow. Their shapes blur ahead, moving deeper into the mist. I don’t rush. There’s no point. My thoughts drift—back to the wagon, to the bodies we left behind. All that bone, still warm, wasted in the dirt. Could’ve made something clever out of those drakes—muscle, sinew, marrow—tools, maybe even a pet. My fingers twitch, imagining the work.

Branches crack somewhere ahead. I barely notice. My boots press into damp leaves, but I’m walking blind—mind stuck in the wreckage we left behind. Good material, gone now. A waste.

Then—howling. Real wolves this time. Not close. Not far either.

The blood-scented woman yells into the fog. “Puppy!”

She keeps going, loud and shrill, like the idea of wolves excites her. “I want a puppy!”

Over and over. No rhythm. No sense.

I stop walking. Pull a small vial from my pouch. Its glass is cold against my fingers. I pop the cork and suck the contents down—thin, sour, sharp as iron. It bites at my throat, but I feel the magic coil deep inside. Stolen Breath. Hollow strength, borrowed for a while.

I exhale slow, steady.

“Not dying today.” I mutter.

The howls come again—closer this time.

The woman keeps yelling.

I keep walking.

The howls cut closer, then shapes flicker in the fog—low, fast, teeth bared. Wolves. Three of them.

One lunges before I even bother reacting. Jaws clamp onto my arm—pressure, heat, sharp pain right where the teeth meet bone. I twist hard, yanking my arm free. Blood wells up, soaking into my sleeve, but the wolf stumbles back, growling low.

I sigh. Blood seeps through my sleeve, but it’s shallow. Messy, not dangerous.

With my free hand, I dig into my pouch, fingers closing around a jagged shard of bone. It’s light, porous—perfect. I whisper a word into it, voice low, breath cold. The bone darkens, the scent of fresh blood radiating off it, sharp and thick.

The wolf snarls, snapping again, but I’m already moving.

I hurl the bone into the fog, as far as I can.

The wolf hesitates, nose twitching, before bolting after it, vanishing into the mist.

The others aren’t so patient. One charges the blood-scented woman—who still looks way too excited about all this—and the geloton moves fast, lashing out with a heavy swing that cracks bone with a wet snap.

The last wolf circles the changeling. She shifts, moving light on her feet, and swings a flail—where she got it, I have no idea—slamming it into the wolf's side. The chain snaps tight, the spiked head crunching through bone. The wolf drops without much fuss.

I flex my arm—torn but functional. Blood still trickles. Nothing worth worrying about.

Somewhere in the fog, the third wolf tears into the baited bone, low growls muffled by the mist.

I dust off my sleeve, already stiff with drying blood.

“Efficient,” I mutter.

We keep walking.

But not for long.

While I pull shards from the dead wolves—clean breaks, still warm—the third one returns. I hear its low growl before I see it, pushing through the fog. It sniffs the air, blood still smeared along its muzzle. Smarter than the others. More stubborn.

I glance up, hand still deep in the torn chest cavity of one of its packmates.

Then the blood-scented woman moves.

She blurs forward, faster than she should be—vampire, of course—and slams into the wolf. Her greataxe sweeps wide, catching the beast mid-lunge. Bone snaps, flesh tears, and somehow—somehow—she rips its spine clean out as the wolf crumples.

She holds it up, grinning wide, the vertebrae still slick.

I stare. The physics of it make no sense.

“Useful,” I murmur.

Before I can say more, another figure steps from the fog—tall, bow still half-drawn. His skin is warm-toned, sun-kissed—someone who belonged somewhere brighter, hotter, not here. Nothing obvious gives him away, but he’s too clean for this place. Doesn’t fit. My gut prickles—disguise, maybe, or something else beneath the surface. Either way, he’s been here a while. Probably drawn in by all the noise.

“Camp nearby,” he says, voice low, calm. “Safer than this.”

The others follow him without question.

I don’t.

Instead, I slip into the fog again, trailing from a distance. Easier to watch when they think you’re gone.