I hacked until my chest felt like it would tear open, breath slicing through my throat. My arms gave out, and I clawed at the ground, mud and grit grinding under my nails. Cold slime clung to me, soaking through, burning. I wiped at my face, only smearing more filth into my eyes.

When the spinning stopped, I forced myself up, trembling, every muscle screaming. My clothes hung off me, soaked and stinking, streaked with blood. I looked down at the wreck of myself and wished I hadn’t.

Then there was the kid, standing there with that dumb, proud look, soaked to the bone like a stray mutt who’d just pissed on the carpet. I coughed out a bitter laugh, though it sounded more like a growl.

"Fucking perfect," I snarled, voice shredded to hell. One shot to prove I wasn’t dead weight, and it gets blown to pieces by this idiot—barely out of diapers and running on fumes for brains.

My chest burned like I’d inhaled fire, hands still cramped from dragging myself out of that sludge, and there he was, standing like he’d just pulled off a miracle. I didn’t bother looking at him as I turned away.

Maybe he said something. Maybe he didn’t. Who cared? All I could hear was the ringing in my skull and the wreck of my own breath. The river hadn’t killed me, but this? This sure as hell might.

I could feel blood sliding down the side of my face, sticky and warm, getting in my eye and blurring everything worse than it already was. There was a nasty gash on my head, the pain only now registering that the adrenaline was wearing off.

Felt like someone had split my skull open and decided to leave it half-finished. My whole head throbbed like it was about to split apart, and the blood kept coming, dripping into the mess already covering me.

“Hey,” the kid called out again, his voice steady in a way that grated. “You… you okay?”

I stopped dead.

My fists curled tight.

Nails biting into my palms hard enough to break the skin. My shoulders went rigid, and I dragged in air through clenched teeth like I was choking it down. Slowly, I turned to face him, letting the rage build like a fire in my gut. I locked eyes with him, my glare sharp enough to cut.

“Do I look….okay to you?” I snapped, each word dripping with venom.

The kid flinched like I’d slapped him, his grip slipping on the oversized sword he’d barely managed to drag this far. His knuckles were bone white against the hilt, his hands shaking like a leaf—whether from the weight or the situation, I didn’t care. He looked ready to puke if I so much as breathed wrong, but the little bastard held his ground.

"I just…" he stuttered, swallowing like it might keep his voice from cracking. It didn’t. "You were—he had you, and I—"

His face drained white, knees shaking like they were about to give out. "I wasn’t trying to—"

"Trying to what?" I snapped, closing the distance until I could smell the fear pouring off him, thick with sweat. "Trying to think? For once? Before flailing that chunk of scrap metal around like a goddamn moron?" I jabbed a finger at the blade shaking in his grip, his knuckles locking up like letting go would kill him.

The urge to tear into him burned hot, the words piling up in my throat, jagged and mean, ready to cut him down to size. I wanted to scream at him about how I didn’t need saving, about how I’d had it under control before he stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong.

But then I stopped, just for a second, and actually looked at him.

His face was smeared with mud, streaked with scratches and sweat. His chest heaved like he’d been running for miles, and his knuckles were locked tight… so tight around that damn sword they looked ready to crack.

What the hell was I even doing? Screaming at some dumb kid who’d jumped in, blind and reckless, because I’d been a hair’s breadth from having my neck snapped like a chicken’s? Tearing into him when the truth was I’d been too slow. Too weak.

The anger boiled hotter, carving me up from the inside like a dull blade. Not at him. At me. At the useless sack of shit I’d turned into, getting hauled out of the fire by some kid who couldn’t even grow a beard yet.

“Fine,” I ground out, the word tasting like bile.

It wasn’t thanks. It wasn’t even close. Just a bitter grunt, grudging acknowledgment. “You did fine.”

The kid’s shoulders sagged like I’d handed him a goddamn medal. That stupid look of relief on his face made me want to punch something, anything, just to drown out the itch under my skin.

I couldn’t look at him anymore. My eyes dropped to the muck around my boots, thick and slimy, pulling at me like all the shit I couldn’t shake.

Up ahead, the real fight raged on—screams ripping through the air, steel crashing like a war drum. People out there earning it, spilling their guts for it. And me? I was stuck here, wheezing like a dying dog; useless, so out of depth from what I was used to in a life prior.

My fists were clenched so tight the filth dug into the cuts on my hands, sharp and filthy. Just another slap in the face that I was drowning in shit I couldn’t handle.

Damn that bastard, Being X.

The bile I wanted to spit boiled in my chest, clawing at my throat like broken glass, too jagged to let loose without ripping myself apart. I shoved it down, choking on it, like all the other rotting filth festering in the pit of me.

The fight twisted around us like a rabid dog, chewing through the noise and spitting out chaos. The clash of steel gave way to something worse—wails, high and cracked, like animals caught in traps. Shadows stumbled through the muck, slipping, dragging, dying. Men, if you could still call them that, flopped face-first into the dirt, guts spilling or skulls cracked. Bodies piling up like so much garbage.

The enemy shattered.

They scattered like rats, scrambling over each other to get away. Some dove headlong into the river, probably thinking drowning was better than getting gutted. Others froze up, slack-faced, looking like they couldn’t decide whether to shit themselves or just stand there and take it. Swords hit the ground, shields were left behind, and they ran for any hole that might keep them breathing. The ones too stupid or too scared to move just stood there, shaking and useless, waiting for the blade to drop.

A Hound tore past me, his axe slick with blood that wasn’t his, his face painted in it like some kind of sick war mask. He roared like a lunatic, his grin all teeth and rage. “Don’t let those bastards run! Cut ’em down!”

The pack didn’t need a second invite.

They howled like animals, charging in, hacking and stabbing anything dumb enough to still be breathing.

One poor bastard was thrashing in the river, arms flailing like he thought he could swim out of it. He jerked hard when a spear rammed through his back, the point bursting out his chest in a shower of red, leaving him to sink like a stone.

Another one hit his knees, hands up, blubbering for mercy that wasn’t there and never would be. Pathetic. It didn’t stop the axe—it came down hard, splitting his neck with a wet, meaty crack. His head flopped sideways, barely dangling by a string of gristle, before he pitched forward into the shit, face-down and twitching like a slaughtered pig.

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The air reeked—blood, piss, shit—thick enough to make your guts churn, but by now, I barely noticed.

The Hound with the axe stopped, chest heaving like a bellows, his face a mask of dried blood and grime. He spat into the filth, the glob landing next to some poor bastard’s mangled hand. “Ain’t nobody crawling out of this shit tonight,” he growled, his grin stretching wider, all teeth and malice. “We finish it. Right here. Right now.”

And they did.

The screams didn’t last long. The wet crunch of blades ripping into flesh, bones popping like twigs, and bodies thudding into the mud drowned out everything else. The river kept moving, swallowing the corpses without a second thought, dragging them off like trash.

Through the haze, I spotted Gambino, wiping his sword clean on a dead man's shirt. His voice cut through the chaos like a whip, sharp and mean. “Take the wagons! Anything that moves, kill it. If it’s dead, strip it. Burn everything! Leave no one breathing!”

The men roared, a low, guttural noise that turned the stomach. They swarmed like rabid dogs, tearing through the last scraps of resistance, hacking and slashing like it was a game they couldn’t get enough of.

The cheers blurred into the dull pounding in my head, like a drumbeat I couldn’t shake. The stink of death, smoke, and burning shit hung heavy in the air, thick enough to make you gag. Bodies bobbed in the river, arms and legs snagged on reeds, twisted and limp like busted-up dolls, the current tugging them downstream, quiet, steady, uncaring.

Thick, black smoke billowed up from the wagons, choking the air. It stuck to your lungs, greasy and suffocating, blotting out the moon until the night felt like it’d been swallowed whole.

Gambino stood at the river’s edge, boots sinking deep in the mud. Blood streaked his face, cutting through the grime like war paint. His nose was still dripping from a hit he’d taken earlier, but he didn’t even bother wiping it. One of his men limped toward him, his second in command—a big bastard with a lumbering gait that was now slowed by a fresh, ugly limp and an arm that hung uselessly to a side.

“How many?” Gambino barked, sharp enough to make the second jerk like he’d been slapped.

The man hesitated, eyes darting to where the mercs were dragging corpses into the mud from the shallows to begin looting them. One of them shoved a body face-first into the muck, cackling like it was the funniest thing he’d ever done.

“At least twenty,” the second muttered, voice low like whispering might make the number hurt less. His hand shot to the back of his neck, rubbing like he could scrub the truth off his skin. “Plenty more fucked up real bad.”

Gambino’s jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder his teeth didn’t shatter. “Twenty?” he growled, the word dragging out, slow and jagged, sharp enough to cut.

He stepped forward, shoulders squared, chest out, every muscle wound so tight it looked ready to snap bones. He didn’t need to be tall to be terrifying; the way he moved screamed it louder than words. The second held his ground, but the sweat carving rivers down his face and the way his throat bobbed like he’d choke on the silence said everything.

“Could be worse,” the second muttered, shifting like his feet were on fire, his eyes flicking anywhere but Gambino’s face.

“Could be worse?” Gambino barked a laugh, bitter and ugly, more spit than sound. He hawked a glob of phlegm, spitting it square on the chest of a dead guard slumped in the muck. The bastard didn’t blink, didn’t flinch—just stared up at nothing, eyes glassy and useless under the black sky.

Twenty. Maybe more if you counted the ones who’d still croak by morning. Not greenhorns meant to catch arrows with their skull either but veterans.

A third of us wouldn’t hold jack, and half wouldn’t last longer than it’d take the enemy to floss their teeth with our ribs.

Gambino let out a low, guttural growl, spinning on his heel so hard the mud grabbed at his boots, clinging like it wanted to drag him under. He yanked them free with a wet, sucking rip, every move sharp and jerky, pure pissed-off energy barely held together.

Then his eyes snapped to me, and that sneer twisted his mouth again, curling it with a mean edge.

He didn’t say a word, just let his eyes drop to the mangled mess of the enemy leader at my feet. His lip twitched, curling higher.

Then his gaze slid past me, slower, meaner. That sneer stretched wider, sharper, and his eyes landed on the kid a few paces behind me.

“Guts!” Gambino’s voice cut through the stink and noise like a whip, loud enough to make the boy flinch.

The kid looked like he’d crawl into the dirt if he could. Pale as a goddamn ghost, face smeared with mud, blood, and sweat. His mangy mop of black hair wetter than a dog.

His hands gripped that hunk of steel tighter than a drowning man grabs a rope, but it didn’t stop him from shaking like a leaf. His knees buckled, his chest heaved, and for a second, it looked like he might keel over right there.

Gambino’s eyes dragged over the kid like he was a carcass on the chopping block, sizing him up piece by piece. That sneer on his face twisted tighter, colder, until it looked like it might cut through skin. Then he barked out a laugh—sharp, mean, not even close to amused.

“That’s how you fucking do it!” he roared, loud enough to make the nearest men jolt. “Took down a goddamn commander while the rest of you cowards were pissing yourselves in the river!”

The men muttered, shuffling in place, eyes darting toward the kid. A few gave stiff, grudging nods, but most looked at him like he was shit they’d stepped in—curled lips, narrowed eyes, all venom. The boy didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move a muscle. His face stayed locked in that frozen, pale mask, tight enough to snap, but his eyes… His eyes burned, wide and wild, locked on Gambino like a tether keeping him upright.

“Guts,” Gambino said again, softer but twice as sharp, his lip curling like he’d just tasted something sour. He clapped a heavy hand on the kid’s shoulder, hard enough to make the boy sway. “Guess you're not as useless as you look huh.”

Then Gambino turned to me, and whatever flicker of approval he’d thrown the kid was gone, snuffed out like it had never been there. His sneer twisted back into that full-blown look of disgust.

“And you, mouse, ” he snapped, voice low and dripping with venom, “standing there like a soggy sack of shit. What the fuck are you waiting for, a goddamn invitation? Move your ass, or I’ll drag it back into the river myself!”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, knocking what little breath I had out of me.

Rage burned up my throat, hot and choking, desperate to get out, but all I could do was stand there and grind my teeth until my jaw felt like it would crack.

Every inch of me screamed. My clothes stuck to me like a second skin, reeking of river water, sweat, and blood—mine and God knows who else’s. My legs felt like they’d snap if I so much as shifted, but I hauled my sorry carcass upright anyway. My knees wobbled, my vision spun, but I stayed up. Falling wasn’t an option.

Gambino was already walking away, barking orders at the men like nothing had happened. “Loot faster, kill cleaner! We’re not running a charity here!” He stopped to kick a body in the ribs, checking if it was dead. It groaned. He stabbed it without a word and kept moving.

“The rest of you!” Gambino’s voice tore through the murmurs, sharp and raw. “Strip the wagons bare, or I’ll strip the flesh off your damn bones! Move!”

The men jolted into action, shoving past one another like rats fighting over scraps. Nobody wanted to be the one caught dragging their feet. Boots stomped, hands grabbed, curses flew. Someone yanked a tarp too hard, ripping it, and a string of panicked swearing followed.

Gambino didn’t even look back. His boots splashed through the mud, every step like a hammer driving home a nail. His shoulders were hunched, tension carved into every inch of him. He barked orders at anyone close enough to hear, each word laced with venom. “You call that looting? I’ve seen drunks pick pockets faster! Move it, you useless sacks of shit!”

The men muttered under their breath, but not loud enough for Gambino to hear. Nobody wanted to test him tonight. Not after the kind of slaughter we’d just crawled out of.

A shout rose from near the wagons, cutting through the noise like a blade. “Boss! Over here!”

Gambino froze mid-step, his head snapping toward the sound, his eyes narrowing. “What now?” His voice was a growl, low and dangerous, promising pain if this was another waste of his time.

The man by the wagon shifted, gripping the edge of the cart like it might swallow him whole if he let go. His face was pale, his eyes darting like a trapped animal’s. “Boss, uh… You’re gonna want to see this.”

Gambino’s jaw worked, his teeth grinding audibly. He moved toward the man, every step slow, deliberate, like he was deciding whether to kill him before or after hearing what he had to say.

“If you’ve dragged me over here for nothing,” Gambino started, his voice low and sharp, “I’ll hang your intestines from the nearest tree—”

“It ain’t nothing!” the man stammered, his voice pitching higher. He flinched back, one hand twitching toward the tarp covering the wagon.

Gambino shoved him aside with one arm, not breaking stride. “Then quit pissing yourself and get to the damn point.”

The tarp came off in one motion, slapped the mud, and splashed filth up Gambino’s boots.

The waning moonlight caught on metal.

Gambino stared down at the haul, his body rigid, his face unreadable. Then his mouth split into a grin so wide it looked like it might crack his skull.

Teeth bared, sharp and feral, his laughter cut through the stillness like a knife through butter.

“Well, boys,” he drawled, turning to face the rest of us.

“Looks like we’ve just struck gold.”