Bette was bowled over by a blow from the side. She and her assailant tumbled, rolling with the force of the hit. Bette found herself pressed to the ground by a weight on her back and, when she tried to raise her head to see whoever it was that had attacked her, they grabbed the back of her skull and pushed her face into the mud.

She fought, wild and blind, panic and the need to breath overriding her sense.

“Quit it,” a voice hissed above her ear. “Ye fool girl! If yah scream, ye’ll kill us both.”

The reminder of the monsters and their acute hearing made her freeze.

The person reached down and pulled her from the muck, wiping it from her mouth and nostrils, before clamping a hand down over her lips.

“Yer a right fool, charging after them things” they said, but they were pulling her to her feet. “What ye’d expect to do? Whet their appetite?”

They spoke like a commoner. They also had a subtle burr of an accent, one she recognized as a Northland one. Not the posh Northern accent, found among gentry and in the largest cities, but the accent of the far North—the hinterlands of the wild folk and the… the beastkin.

With them peering down at her, she was able to look back up at them. The person who had dragged her back from her reckless charge was a beastkin. It wasn’t necessarily obvious: they had no animal ears that she could see, nor a tail, nor were they covered in fur. The only tell were the golden predator’s eyes, gleaming with reflected light, that glared down at her from a sharp face and the flash of carnivore teeth.

They were scruffy and weather-beaten, with hair bleached of color from time in the sun pulled back in a messy tail at the base of their neck. They were covered in mud from their tumble. They couldn’t have been much older than Bette. Surely not even as old as Tibby.

They glanced towards the beasts, then began to pull her away, hand still clamped tightly over the bottom half of her face.

“C’mon! Dunno how or why ye left the village, but its too late to shelter a’hind walls,” they muttered. “I got a dugout where I stashed some supplies. Ye can hide yer fool self there.”

Still they refused to release her jaw so she could speak. Lacking other options, she bit down on their hand.

The beastkin hissed a curse and yanked their hand away from her mouth.

“Wha’s the matter with ye! Ye lost yer mind?”

“I appreciate your assistance,” she murmured, without any warmth, “but I’m not here simply to run away after seeing the danger. By all means, if you have a safe place, please retreat to there for the time being.”

“Wha-“ the child began, looking at her like she’d grown a second head. Bette was already turning back, however. “Wait! You crazy fool—do ye even know what those things are?”

“Hellhounds,” she told them. “Mana-eating monsters attracted to large sources of mana. Normally solitary hunters, but they can exhibit group hunting behavior when the target is too difficult to bring down alone.”

“I know that,” they snapped. “How do you know that?”

“I read about it,” she said with conviction. “I don’t remember where but I remember what I read.”

Their face was a picture of disbelief.

“You read about them and now ye want to, what, to fight them? Did ye not see them?”

Their voice was strained by real fear, and Bette was unwillingly reminded of the unnatural gleam upon their hides when they moved through the forest below her. Everything in her rebelled against the idea of going near those things. But she couldn’t run away! She wouldn’t flee in the face of danger when her people were in need.

“You— c’mon, just,” they cut themself off with a huff. With their longer legs, they easily overtook her and planted themself in her path. “I see yer a mad fool and I won’t talk no sense into ye.”

Bette tensed. She didn’t think she could outrun this person, and if they were going to stop her forcibly she didn’t have many tools to defy them.

“Then yer gonna have ta come with me,” they sighed. “Gods alive know y’ain’t the only mad one here.”

Bette eyed them suspiciously.

“Speak plainly,” she ordered. “What is it you intend to do? Where do you seek to go?”

“Yer one to talk ‘bout speaking plain,” they said with a huff. “My great-uncle lives in this village. I came to help him escape.”

“He lives here but you do not?”

“It’s none your business, little miss. I’ll get ye in the village, and then ye can do whatever hare-brained thing yer thinking of.”

“You have a way into the village?” She asked, brightening. That would certainly speed up the process. If it allowed them to bypass the hellhounds stalking the perimeter, that was even better.

“Ye won’t like it,” they said. “And don’t come a’wailing from the other side if ye get yerself killed. But yeah, there’s a safer way in.”

“By all means,” she told them, “lead the way.”

The beastkin turned on their heel, waving at her to follow. She did.

They began to circle around through the forest, keeping a respectable distance from the edge where the hellhounds might be searching for a way past the wall. The child stopped occasionally, squinting at scratches in the trees or a collection of pebbles at the base of a log. It lacked any purpose that she could see, but perhaps there was some kind of code at work? Or perhaps they had marked the path for themself, using signs they and no one else would recognize.

After a dozen minutes of wandering, Bette began to wonder if this was nothing but a ploy to keep her out of trouble.

But what purpose would that serve for them? Then again, what sense did it make that a beastkin elder was living in a small depot village on the edge of the Horizon land?

Even if the child had figured out her identity, the beastkin didn’t know or care about human nobility any more than the humans knew of their own.

In fact, despite sharing the continent since time immemorial, humans knew very little about their neighbors. Partly, this was because of the beastkin’s own tendency towards secrecy and hostility to outsiders. However, it was more so the result of millennia of conflict and discrimination between the two species.

The beastkin had been a possible character option in Blades of Jor, but aside from aesthetics, there hadn’t been much to them in the lore of the game. Given what she knew, it made sense; the topic was a thorny one in imperial circles. Too complicated and political for a game about fighting monsters.

Bette knew a bit more than most about the beastkin as the heir to the North. The Northern lands had long been home to a variety of beastkin nations. Her studies included a basic education about the history and relations between those tribes and her own country. She knew that beastkin lived much longer lives than humans, but didn’t reproduce at nearly the same rate. The human population naturally outstripped theirs; the conflict over space had erupted into strife and wars at various points throughout history.

The creation of the Empire of Light had pushed the beastkin even further into the wilderness, to the remote and dangerous territories of the continent.

The more she thought about it, the more unusual it was to find this beastkin here. There were some kin who lived in human places, but they were few and far between: usually outcasts from various tribes or hybrids rejected by the clans of their parents. But there was no sign of an outcasts’ brand upon their form.

Perhaps it is the relative who is the outcast, she considered. If it happened not too long ago, the great-uncle could have been a cherished figure for this person.

“Here it is,” they said suddenly, stopping in a patch of forest that looked no different from any other patch.

They were far enough away from the hellhounds by now, but Bette didn’t risk raising her voice. She only looked around at the obviously empty space and then looked askance at their guide.

Golden eyes rolled in exaggerated exasperation. They pointed straight down at the ground. Their nail came to a point, she noticed. Was it actually a claw?

When she didn’t move, the beastkin child sighed and kicked at the underbrush, violently uprooting little plants and sending dirt flying. She took a step back—though her dress was already hopelessly ruined by her excursion.

Finally, she saw what they were pointing at. Planks of wood set into the ground like a little platform. Upon closer inspection, she realized this was a little trapdoor. Curious, she lifted the door slightly, but she could see nothing in the dark below.

Okay, I’ll bite, she thought.

“What is this?” She asked, glancing back up at them. They were smirking down at her with all the grace of a sore winner. She scowled.

“This, strange one,”— bold words for a beastkin far from their tribe in the outskirts of a human settlement— “is an old fox den.”

She stared up at them. Then, it hit her: “Oh! A tunnel! It goes under the wall, yes?”

“Exactly,” they said, crouching down to pull the door open all the way. “Climb in, and I’ll close the way behind us.”

That… did not sound safe. A fox might use these tunnels as it pleased but, even if she was small, she was bigger than the typical northern frost fox.

Seeing her look the bearskin shook their head. “There’s an itty door on it, ain’t that so? People be using this for ages to smuggle supplies or step out on their families. Been shored up, ye see? I use it all the time!”

That was comforting. They were much larger than she was, and if they said adults had used these tunnels regularly, they were likely safe.

And she couldn’t very well get any more mud covered than she already was.

“I won’t know where I’m going if I take the lead.”

“S’alright, there’s only one way to go,” they said. “Last chance to turn back. Y’ain’t gonna like it down there.”

Bette screwed up her face in a picture of determination, and swung herself down into the tunnel. It wasn’t as far a drop as she expected—her head only just cleared the ceiling. Any grown human would have to crawl in here. The beastkin child would certainly have to stoop.

Above her, the child dangled their legs down while pulling moss and plant cover back around the portal. As they pulled the door shut, Bette realized there was a rather clever tarp over the wood that trapped debris, effectively creating a carpet of camouflage. They jumped as they pulled it closed, and the door fell shut behind them with a soft whump on the dirt of the forest floor.

They were plunged into darkness more complete than that of the world above. Even the beastkin child’s eyes no longer reflected any light. They were well and truly blind down here.

“Keep your hands out in front of ye,” their voice called softly from somewhere behind her. “The tunnel gets narrower later on.”

She nodded before realizing they wouldn’t see it.

“Alright, I understand.”

“Let’s try to make no sound when we get up ahead a ways—I don’t think those beasts can hear us down here, but I don’t wish to chance it. They start pawing up there and we’ll be done for.”

A sudden awful thought occurred to her.

“What happens if the whole tunnel collapses and we’re trapped down here!”

“It ain’t happened yet. Though I guess if it does we got not much choice in the matter.”

Very reassuring.

But it wasn’t any more dangerous than her foolhardy charge would have been. This way, there was a chance the hounds wouldn’t notice them, and they wouldn’t be stopped by gatekeepers.

“C’mon, get movin’,” they urged. “The wall won’t stump ‘em forever. We’ll be lucky to get in before they do!”

Bette whispered a soft affirmative and began the trek into the darkness.

“By the by, I didn’t get yer name.”

Now wasn’t the time to reveal her true identity. She couldn’t guess how they would react to the news that they were helping a princess sneak into a village besieged by monsters.

“You may call me Bette.”

“Aight. Then call me Windale.”

The tunnel was not quite wide enough for them to walk side-by-side, and shuffling their order would have been awkward, so Bette was forced to take the lead. As Windale had told her, the tunnel narrowed even further, and the ceiling dropped more and more until they were both forced to crawl on hands and knees.

Occasionally, she heard clicking or skittering in the darkness. More than once, she felt something touch her, but she told herself it was her imagination. Or maybe Windale checking where she was. Or anything other than what it likely was—the insects and other creatures that called the underground their home.

At least there probably weren’t any foxes. Ironically.

“This is awful,” she whimpered, because misery demanded to be shared.

“I said ye wouldn’t like it.” Windale’s voice was barely a breath behind her.

She felt something wet and squishy slide between her grasping fingers.

She swallowed bile and prayed to the dead gods for mercy.

It went on forever, the scrape of her dress across the dirt and nails digging through loamy soil. She felt her way forward in absolute darkness. Only the sound of Windale’s breathing assured her that she was not alone in this emptiness. Well, that and the soft sounds of creatures moving somewhere beyond, but they didn’t count. She wanted those to stop making noise.

Occasionally, she felt something crunch under her knees—were those bones?

Delicate little mouse or rabbit bones, she thought. Leftovers from the carnivores that used this tunnel. She ignored any other possibility. She couldn’t think of another she could stomach and still keep her bile where it belonged.

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Bette's fingers brushed against something solid and cold. She stopped moving forward and, experimentally, rose to her knees. She kept a hand above her to check for the ceiling but found nothing but air.

"Windale," she spoke. "I believe we've reached the end of the tunnel.”

“Aye,” they acknowledged. “Can ye reach the door?”

“Is it above…?” She got to her feet and stretched up, trying to find the exit. “I can’t reach it.”

“Move aside then.”

With a huff, Bette flattened herself against the wall so Windale could shimmy past her. She ducked back into the tunnel so they had room to maneuver, listening intently for any sign of life on the other side.

A soft thump and rush of cool air told her they had opened the way, though there was no more light than before.

“I’ll boost ye up,” Windale whispered. “Look and tell me if there’s anything up there.”

How was she supposed to do that when there was clearly no light? Feel around until she stumbled into a door? Nevertheless, Bette did as she was asked, stepping up onto Windale’s laced fingers and pushing as he rose.

She caught the lip of the opening. It felt like stone beneath her fingers. They must be inside somewhere, which also explained the darkness. Outside, the ambient light of the moon would help at least a bit.

With Windale pushing up and her pulling, Bette managed to drag herself out onto the freezing floor. She reached back to offer them a hand up.

“Ye can’t possibly lift me, ya twig,” Windale choked back a laugh. “Just step back. I’ll get out my own way.”

Bette scowled and withdrew. They didn’t have to be a jerk about it.

Since they could apparently get up on their own, she turned and began a search of the room. Like in the tunnel, she felt her way forward, carefully testing each step before committing to it.The air moved around her, so there was an opening somewhere.

Her hands touched glass. She felt along the smooth contour of the shape—the neck of a bottle. It sat in a wooden rack of others of the same make, it seemed, each topped with a rough cork.

Was it a wine cellar, she wondered? Though the spot in the woods had been a simple wooden door, this was then a trapdoor built into the basement of a house. Somehow, she hadn’t expected to emerge inside a structure. She’d pictured it spilling out into a small patch of dirt on the other side of the fence.

She felt along the rack until she found its end, then reached forward a bit more.

The way the air moved… and it smelled a bit cleaner over this way…

She found the latch of a door.

“Windale, hurry! We can’t have much time left,” she called softly. “I found the door!”

The door was shoved open from the other side, knocking a surprised Bette back into the wine rack. A light shone suddenly inward. She ducked her head, throwing her arms up to block her eyes from the sudden assault.

“Got ya, ya little rat!” A voice growled.

A rough hand seized her by the hair and began to drag her forward.

“Ouch!” She shrieked, indignation surging within. “Unhand me! Who are you! Release me, at once!”

“Oh, no you don’t! You brats think you can grab whatever ya want a’cause the crisis,” he retorted, yanking on the fistful of black. She yelped. Tears welled in her eyes at the pain. She could feel the hair tearing out by the roots. “Well I ain’t born yesterday. I know you rotten kids been stealing my stock. Couldn’t resist it on today of all days, when the gods’ creation calls for calamity ‘pon us.”

“Sir, I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about,” she ground out. “I came with a person through a tunnel—I’m here to help with that calamity! Just let go!”

Rather than let go, whoever it was merely took hold of her arm, too, and pulled her bodily through the door. She stumbled on the steps as they climbed, knocking her shins more than once in her struggle. She could feel her temper fraying as they went, each knock jolting the fuse a little farther.

“Windale!” She yelled, abandoning caution. “Windale, you con, tell this man we mean no harm!”

There was no response. Of course there wasn’t. She was the distraction so Windale didn’t get caught sneaking in. How had she just blindly trusted that beastkin child who threw her into the mud the first second of their acquaintance? No, there would be no help from that quarter.

As they emerged into the lit front room of a small tavern, Bette’s eyes finally adjusted to the light and let her glimpse her captor.

He was a big man, not necessarily fat but more solid. He looked like he could heft a barrel over his head in one arm, an arm which was as thick around as her own midsection. He had wiry red hair everywhere on his face except for the top of his scalp, and his eyes were dark as mud. With the apron, she had to assume he was the owner or chef of this establishment.

He, too, got a look at his little thief and clearly was taken aback by what he saw. No wonder: a dirty, too-pale girl in fine clothes that were drenched in mud with sharp red eyes and a look of barely concealed fury was surely not what he’d expected to fish out of his basement.

Surprised, he loosened his grip enough that she could jerk out of his hold.

“Do I look like a common thieving waif!?” She seethed.

“You, uh, yer– you look a might bit strange,” he blurted out, clearly unprepared to be questioned by his captive. “Covered in muck but fancy-like… who are you? Y’ain’t one of the local kids!”

“Take a good look at my face,” she ordered. “Look at my eyes. What do I look like, peasant?”

The man stared down into her burning red eyes, face growing pale. Good, she thought. Pulling on a little girl’s hair! Especially her own! He should be terrified of her. He would be lucky if he survived this encounter with only his ego bruised.

“A- a demon,” he whimpered, taking a step back.

“What.”

“Ye… ye brought them hell-monsters…”

No. What?

“No,” she began, but it didn’t seem like he could hear her. She took a step forward, raising her hands like she would to a startled horse. “Hold, sir! Think it over again!”

The man was already turning and running. She had no hope of holding him back, big and burly as he was, so she just watched him disappear out the door, leaving her in a dimly lit tavern room.

“What,” she asked the air.

A delighted chortle rang out from behind her. She spun to find Windale emerging from the stairs, nearly doubled over with laughter.

“By the gods,” they gasped. “He… ye were… ‘look at my eyes!’ And then ‘Ah, a demon!’ I can’t breathe!”

“You sniveling coward,” she accused. “You used me as bait!”

“No, no, not at all,” they waved their hand at her, still shaking with giggles. “Didn’t know Den had caught on to the game! I was nah gonna risk my neck for some weird waif-girl I found in the forest though. Better he spy ye than me!”

Bette ground her teeth, but she couldn’t deny the logic in that. Far better for her to be caught and punished than for a beastkin child to be caught and possibly killed for breaking into a human dwelling. Bette was a young, human girl. No one would think her capable of much, especially not of crime.

Well, apparently some people would think she was a demon, but that had to be an outlier. She refused to believe she looked that scary. She looked like her mother. Everyone said so! Her mother was beautiful. How did this man not know the face of his regent? The red eyes of the Drakuhl line were famous!

“I’m so glad you find my pain and humiliation to be entertaining,” she growled. “He might not have taken you for a beastkin at all! Perhaps you’d be a fairy!”

That made Windale break down into laughter once more. She seriously considered grabbing a chair from the bar and throwing it at them.

“No, no, didn' want ye to get hurt,” they shook their head, finally able to speak. “The rest of the villagers are at the headman’s place! I thought he wouldn’t be here! Honest!”

Whether they were lying or not was of no consequence to her, she decided. They were splitting up here. If the rest of the villagers were indeed at the headman’s residence, she would make her way there to share her insights and alert the guard to how close the hounds were. They couldn’t have posted sentries beyond the wall, not with monsters on the prowl.

“I’ll go my own way,” She told them. “Good luck finding your grand-uncle—if he even exists!”

She spun on her heel and marched for the door.

“Oi, do ye even know where yer going?” They called to her back.

“The middle of the village! Where else would the headman’s house be?”

“I thought ye were one of the village kids, but Den knows everybody. Who are ye? What do ye intend to do here?”

“Didn’t you hear?” She sneered. “I’m a demon!”

She pushed open the tavern door. A bracing rush of cold air reminded her that it was still early spring, and the dark cemented it further. It would be some time before the sun crested over the mountains. Dawn was late this early in the sun season.

She glanced from side to side, looking for a sign of the way the tavern owner had gone, but saw no sign of him. The village was a collection of wooden buildings, with unfinished panels still showing on most of the walls. The whole town seemed empty and eerily quiet. She should be able to hear the footsteps of the man, at least, right?

She turned her eyes upward to check for the moon.

Instead, she saw a roll of black ripple across the roof of the longhouse across the way.

Without thinking, she stepped back and shut the door.

“I thought ye were leaving.”

“They’re inside,” she breathed.

“What did ye say?”

“They’re inside,” she tried again, barely louder. “They’re already in here.”

Windale looked confused for a moment. Then the color drained from their face.

“The hellhounds?”

She looked back at them, trembling. Her face must have said the answer for her because they swore viciously.

“They’ll have heard the door, or Den, or… gods alive, they probably smelled ye when ye opened the door. Get away from it, c’mon!”

“They’ll follow the scent trail if they’re after me,” she told them. “I don’t think they’ve found their target yet! They’re still hunting.”

“That don’t mean they won’t try for an easy snack! Shit, fuck, gods alive!” They grabbed the side of their head, tugging on their flaxen hair.

“There’s no need to be coarse,” she sniffed, though she couldn’t really blame them. She wanted to curse until she was blue in the face.

After a moment, Windale let go of their hair and stood straight. They gave her a solemn nod..

“Get ye back to the cellar, missy. If ye hear them scratching at the door, knock over the spirits and set ‘em alight. Then scurry back through the tunnel as fast as ye can.”

“This whole village is made of wood,” she said, incredulous. “A conflagration fueled by an accelerant will kill everyone in this place in a dozen minutes.”

“The ‘hounds’ll kill ‘em just as quick. Least ways you’ll get out alive.”

They leapt behind the counter, digging around in drawers and opening cabinets.

“And what about you?”

“I gotta find my uncle,” they said, emerging with a brace of kitchen knives and a pack of matches. They tossed the matches to her and she caught them. “We all do what we gotta do.”

You’re going to fight them with a leather roll of kitchen knives and your bare hands?

She wanted to tell them they were being stupid, but their last sentence echoed through her head. We do what we gotta do. She hadn’t come here with any more of a substantial plan than Windale, but she had come all the same. There was something within her that compelled her to try, even against all odds. It must be the same with them.

“Two will be more effective than one,” she told them.

“I ain’t gonna protect you, princess.”

They weren’t addressing her by her title, merely using the implication to show her that she was too weak to help. That wasn’t true. Because she was a princess—the heiress of the house Drakuhl, blessed and cursed by the Dragon of the North. The Black Dragon who had once ruled over these lands, including the monsters that had inhabited them a thousand years before.

Kuhn was a powerful magician and an able sword fighter, she thought, but I am not without my own powers. If I could move air with the power of the well inside me, maybe I can do more. I have to try.

“You won’t have to,” Bette told them. “I will protect you. You and everyone in this village. Or I will die trying.”

Windale looked her up and down, doubt clear in the set of their mouth. Bette knew she did not look the part of a princess at this very moment, but she had to trust that the heart of a ruler still shone through the flaking mud and the messy dress. She steadily met their eyes, refusing to back down or look away.

“I thought ye were heading for the town center,” Windale said, crossing their arms over their chest.

Bette nodded.

“Then how are ye going to protect me and and ye and the village all at once?”

Bette blinked, befuddled.

“I thought you said everyone would be with the headman.”

Windale frowned. Had he been deceiving her about where he was going?

“Well, clearly if Den was here, some others could have stayed in their homes. Holed up, barricaded in, and the like.”

There was something more at work here. Windale looked uncomfortable, like she’d asked a question he hadn’t anticipated.

“So your uncle,” she said slowly, “you think he won’t be with the others, either?”

Windale struggled, clearly trying to find the right words.

“He’s… different from the others. They’re not… kind to him.”

Oh. Windale suspected his great uncle would not be welcome in the village center, or else not comfortable with relying on the human guards for protection.

Technically, the definition of ‘monster’ as ‘a mana-enriched beast, dissimilar to any other beast to be found with only a natural level of mana’ included beastkin. Bette thought it was understandable; it was like how humans could be included under the moniker of ‘animal’. However, the actual history behind this label, and the research that went into it, proved it was born from a darker reasoning.

Beastkin were academically imagined to be half-man, half-monster beings. Though the archaeological record dismisses this notion, the superstition remained popular. Hundreds of years of thought could not be overturned so easily. The view of beastkin as potential enemies, aiding the monsters that sought to devour humans was widespread. Even without the element of fear, many considered the beastkin to be something ‘lesser’ than humans, more base of a creature because their forms mimicked beasts of nature that humans believed were less intelligent.

The situation had improved a bit in the last few decades. The Capital had regulations against discrimination of any kind. Drakuhl had stringent labor laws that protected beastkin workers. Other territories had their own codes, varying in strength and enforcement.

The letter of the law and the reality of it, however, could be very different things.

“Very well,” she said at last. “The situation is different than I expected. If the villagers are in one place, then it is likely fortified and guarded. It is the rest of the town that will be in the greatest danger, I suppose. I will accompany you and warn anyone we find that the danger is already within the walls.”

They locked gazes for a moment longer, but the stubborn set of Bette’s jaw must have shown them that arguing was futile. Windale sighed and turned towards the back of the bar.

“Fine, ye strange lass, you can come with me. Just keep up with me, keep watch, and keep quiet.”

They didn’t look back, but Bette hurried to follow.

It was lucky Bette had spotted them before they left the shelter of the tavern. She wondered if the tavern keeper was alright, or if the hellhounds had snatched him up into the night. From the game she knew that they could rip someone apart easily—they’d done it to NPCs she’d passed in her first attempt at fighting them.

If he was dead because he’d left the tavern at the wrong time… it would be her fault.

She bit her lip, hard.

Ahead of her, Windale cracked open the backdoor and peered out into the alley. Nothing moved. They sniffed the air, but showed no sign of scenting danger. No sign that the hellhounds had passed through this way. They swung the door wider and, crouching slightly, scurried out into the faded moonlight.

With a cat’s grace, they leapt from the ground to the top of a huge pile of firewood, then down to the ground ahead.

Bette wasn’t as quiet as them, but she was small and light, and her dark hair and cloak were good camouflage in the shadows. Being covered in mud was a boon; it would mask her scent. As they had asked, Bette kept her eyes on the rooftops, head swinging back and forth as she tried to survey the area around them.

Given the size of the village, it wouldn’t take long to get to the center. Even going to the other end of the village, or circling around beside the wall wouldn’t take more than an hour. If the hellhounds were following the messenger’s trail, it made sense that they would be bearing down on the center, where he undoubtedly met the headman.

Their course along the unfinished gravel road was eerily quiet. Her ears strained for any hint of movement, any telltale sign of life, but the area remained still as death. Shifting shadows cast by the clouds overhead as they drifted over the moon rent her nerves. Any flash of light or squirming darkness could be a tentacle, tipped in teeth, reaching out to devour her.

What would she do if they were attacked? She had managed to move the air but she didn’t know if the vortex was any use in deterring the enormous hellhounds. To build up enough force to move the, she would likely have to rip the boards from the buildings surrounding them.

Could she do the opposite, then, and push the mana she’d drunk down into the world? If she generated enough force she could maybe do some damage. A spot in her shoulder prickled with the phantom pain of the shard of power that had lodged there after her bought with channeling her mana before. It would be dangerous in the extreme to try it again.

But what choice did she have, otherwise? She couldn’t afford to ignore a tool in her arsenal just because it would hurt.

“How did they get through the wall so quickly?” Bette asked herself.

Windale, who had joined her on the ground again, shot her a glare.

“How would I know? Ain’t got nothing to do with it,” they hissed.

Bette bit back a snappish rejoinder. They were reacting to the prejudice of her kind, not to her. It was understandable. Even if she didn’t like being regarded as some kind of bigot. Now was not the time to defend herself against imaginary accusations.

“I meant to say,” she whispered, “it would be useful to know how they got by, since any trap we try to lay might not work depending on their capabilities.”

“Ye want to dig a pit, or something?”

“Or something,” she mumbled, casting a nervous glance around.

If they had maneuvered under or over the barricade, that was a clear weakness in Drakuhl building that needed to be addressed. The other possibility, that they had forced the gates open, was even more terrifying. And the third, distant probability worried her most of all.

What if someone had let them in?

Hellhounds don’t normally act this way, she thought. She didn’t want to consider the why while the crisis was ongoing, but the thoughts crept in despite her best efforts.

Is it a sign of things to come? Or worse, is it the misfortune promised by the dragon?

“Stop,” Windale breathed, laying a hand on her shoulder to keep her from stepping forward. “Stay!”

I am not a dog, Bette thought, glaring holes in the back of the beastkin’s head.

The place they’d come to seemed no different from any other corridor between the towering wooden buildings. Windale sniffed the air, moving forward carefully with each inhale, following whatever scent filled their nose. Finally, the beastkin knelt before a pile of discarded rags lain beside a building.

“Uncle,” Windale urged, putting their hand into the pile.

Bette blinked. Her eyes reassessed the image, and the pile of rags was not, in fact, a pile of rags at all. It was a person, crumpled up in a ball. He was an old man, with sagging skin and a weary, lined face. His hair was long and starkly white, even below the grime it had gathered from the dirty space where he laid his head.

“He’s…,” she started, than stopped herself.

He’s human, she almost said.

“He’s the brother of my father’s father,” Windale said, defiance in their tone. “He’s my great-uncle.”

“Winny?” The man whispered, perking up at the beastkin’s voice. “Winny, my child, is that you?”

“I’m here, uncle,” Windale rushed to assure him, grabbing the man’s arm and helping him to his feet. He was unsteady, but he leaned on his relative. His eyes stared into the middle distance, milky and white.

He’s a blind man, she realized. A blind human. And Windale came to save him. How complicated.

“Was that illusion magic?” She inquired, intrigued despite herself. It had been like an optical illusion. One minute the image was a thing, and then the next it was something else. The configuration hadn’t changed, but Bette was certain that something was revealed when Windale touched it.

What kind of skill or magic could do that? She wanted to know.

“Who…?” The man started, head swinging towards the sound of her voice.

“Forgive me, sir,” Bette said, curtsying. Though he wouldn’t see it, manners were manners. “I am Bette. Your great-nephew and I have come to aid you and those in the town.”

“The hounds beckon from the shadows,” he replied, nodding sagely.

“Uncle, I came to get ye out of here.”

“Does your mother know where you are, Winny?”

Windale scowled.

“Who cares what she knows.”

The old man frowned. He looked terribly sad.

“Windale, my child…”

“Uncle, we have to go,” they interrupted.

“The hellhounds have already infiltrated the village, sir,” Bette said, backing Windale up.

“Then we have already met our end,” he said. “You should not have come, my child. Nor you, young lady with the noble speech. This is a dangerous path you both now tread.”

That’s when the screaming began.