Smoke and ash filled the air, stinging Ezra’s eyes and clogging his throat as he crouched behind the splintered remains of a barricade. His knuckles were bloodied, his breathing ragged, but he couldn’t stop now. Not while the walls of Refuge still stood.

All around him, the battle raged. Flames licked at the edges of the settlement, casting everything in an otherworldly glow. The screams of the wounded and the clash of weapons rang out like a chaotic symphony, each note driving home the stakes of their fight. Ezra wiped the sweat from his brow, his grip tightening on the wrench he held. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Above him, Mara shouted a warning, her voice cutting through the din. “Ezra! Incoming!”

He turned just in time to see a raider charging at him, a crude blade raised high. Ezra threw himself to the side, the weapon missing him by inches. He swung the wrench upward, the heavy metal connecting with the raider’s wrist. The man screamed, dropping his blade, but Ezra didn’t stop. He swung again, this time at the raider’s head, the crunch of bone echoing as the man collapsed in a heap.

Ezra stood over the body, his chest heaving. For a moment, he froze, his mind flashing back to another time, another life. He had fought before—not to protect, but to destroy. Back then, he’d wielded weapons as a tool of the Sanctified, cutting down anyone Magnus deemed unworthy. The memory made his stomach churn.

“Ezra!” Mara’s voice snapped him back to the present. She was perched on the wall, her bow raised, loosing arrows into the advancing horde. “Get your head in the game!”

“I’m here,” he called back, though his voice wavered.

And he was. Here, in Refuge, fighting for something instead of against it. But the weight of his past hung heavy on his shoulders, threatening to drag him under.

The west wall was crumbling, and the defenders there were falling back, their numbers thinning. Ezra grabbed the arm of a wounded man—Caleb, one of Marcus’s guards—and hauled him upright.

“Go!” Ezra shouted, shoving Caleb toward the inner defenses. “Get to the gate!”

“What about you?” Caleb asked, his voice weak.

“I’ll hold them off!” Ezra snapped. There was no time for argument.

As Caleb stumbled away, Ezra turned back to the advancing raiders. His heart pounded in his chest, but his grip on the wrench remained steady. One of the attackers stepped forward—a woman with a cruel grin and a serrated blade. She laughed as she closed the distance between them, her movements slow and deliberate.

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“You look like you’ve seen ghosts,” she taunted. “Maybe you’ll join them soon.”

Ezra didn’t reply. He waited, letting her get close, then struck. His wrench swung in a tight arc, catching her across the jaw with enough force to send her sprawling. Another raider lunged at him from the side, but Ezra ducked low, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut and sending him tumbling into the dirt.

“Not today,” Ezra muttered under his breath, though the words felt hollow. Every swing of his weapon, every step he took, felt like penance for the sins of his past.

A sudden roar pulled his attention toward the center of the battlefield. Reynard, Magnus’s brutish lieutenant, was barreling through the defenses, his spiked gauntlets leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Ezra’s stomach tightened as he watched Reynard lift a defender clean off the ground and slam him into a pile of rubble.

Ezra knew he couldn’t let Reynard reach the inner gate. Gripping his wrench tighter, he forced himself to move, weaving through the chaos until he was face-to-face with the massive man.

Reynard grinned, his jagged teeth glinting in the firelight. “You don’t look like much,” he growled. “You sure you want to dance with me?”

Ezra didn’t answer. Instead, he lunged forward, aiming for Reynard’s knee. The wrench connected with a sickening crack, and Reynard bellowed in pain. But the brute recovered quickly, his gauntleted fist swinging down like a hammer. Ezra barely dodged, the force of the blow sending splinters flying from the ground where it struck.

“You’re fast,” Reynard said, his grin widening. “That’ll make breaking you even more fun.”

The fight was brutal. Reynard’s sheer strength was overwhelming, but Ezra was quicker, darting in and out of range, striking at weak points when he saw an opening. The wrench wasn’t much against the brute’s armor, but it was enough to slow him down, to make him bleed.

“Why do you fight so hard, boy?” Reynard taunted between swings. “Your kind doesn’t belong in this world. Magnus will burn this place to the ground, and you’ll die with it.”

Ezra’s jaw tightened. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

With a surge of adrenaline, he feinted to the right, then brought the wrench down hard on Reynard’s unarmored hand. The brute roared in pain, dropping his weapon. Ezra didn’t hesitate. He drove his knee into Reynard’s chest, then swung the wrench one final time, striking him square in the temple. The giant man fell, his body hitting the dirt with a heavy thud.

Ezra stumbled back, his breath ragged, his entire body trembling. Around him, the defenders of Refuge began to rally, pushing the raiders back toward the outer walls.

As the battle raged on, Ezra found himself near the inner gate, where Grizzley and Sam were holding the line. He caught Grizzley’s eye, and the older man gave a curt nod.

“Good work, kid,” Grizzley said, his voice gruff but steady. “You’re earning your keep.”

Ezra smirked faintly, though the weight of the fight still pressed heavily on him. “Let’s hope it’s enough.”

“It’ll have to be,” Sam said, glancing at the smoldering remains of the west wall. Lila stood close to him, her spear at the ready, her face pale but determined.

Ezra tightened his grip on the wrench, his resolve hardening. Whatever happened next, he would stand with them. He wasn’t fighting for redemption anymore. He was fighting for the people beside him—for the chance to prove, once and for all, that he wasn’t the man he used to be.

And as the fires burned and the screams echoed, Ezra felt something he hadn’t in a long time: hope.