The fireball hit exactly as I’d intended. Fast, brutal, and impossible to ignore.

  Fire and stone tore through the chamber. The blast punched outward, jagged debris slicing through the air, heat rolling through the boss chamber in waves that left an uncomfortable memory of sensation in bones that could no longer feel.

  Smoke and dust swallowed everything.

  I tightened my grip on the staff, already looking past the wreckage.

  And, of course, they were still standing.

  The adventurers who had torn through my dungeon like it was a minor inconvenience before were bloodied now, but intact. Some of them, anyway.

  The cleric was pale, her holy symbol flickering weakly at her chest. The shield-bearer was already moving, setting his stance like a wall given purpose. Behind him, the rogue flickered in and out of view, her daggers glinting as she picked her openings. The other mage clutched his logbook to his chest as if it might do something useful, his free hand pressed to a wound at his ribs.

  And then there was the knight. That was new.

  He strode through the wreckage with terrifying purpose, his sword wreathed in golden fire. He wasn’t running. He didn’t need to. His every step was measured, steady, like he was claiming the ground beneath him. The blade hummed, a low, resonant sound that curled against my senses like a whispered threat.

  “Now,” I said, low and sharp.

  The kobolds surged forward.

  Grib was first, because of course he was.

  He moved like a sprung trap, small and fast, his jagged mace an extension of his fury. The weapon glimmered faintly in the firelight as he swung, a relentless storm of momentum and sheer goblin tenacity.

  Krix was behind him, low and fast, his spear glinting like the promise of something sharp and inevitable. Their voices rose into a crescendo of snarls and war cries as they collided with the enemy.

  The shield-bearer planted himself firm, meeting them head-on. His sword flashed once. Quick and brutal. The first kobold dropped, but Grib was already there, his mace slamming against the adventurer’s shield in a burst of sparks. Again. And again. Each strike heavier than the last, forcing him back step by step.

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  Krix darted in at his flank, his spear angling for the gaps in armor, a predator’s precision in every movement. The adventurer twisted, catching the blow just in time, but the rhythm was shifting.

  The cleric struggled. Two kobolds had pinned her near the wall, their claws raking at her staff as she swung it in frantic arcs. The holy glow of her symbol pulsed weakly, pushing them back for a breath, but not enough. Not for long.

  The rogue flitted between the chaos, quick, efficient, leaving kobolds crumpling in her wake. But she wasn’t fast enough. For every one she cut down, two more closed in.

  And then there was the knight.

  He didn’t fight through the battle—he simply moved through it, like the world had decided he was going to win, and everything else had to get out of the way. His sword cut the air with an ease that suggested it had always been the way things were meant to be.

  A kobold lunged at him, and it was over before it knew it had started. Another tried to close in. And he turned. Just a shift of weight, a flick of the blade. And it was gone.

  Unstoppable.

  Holy fire rose around him, bright and terrible, casting long shadows across the battlefield.

  He wasn’t fighting. He was ending things.

  I stepped back, my staff trembling slightly in my grip.

  The kobolds were holding their own, but it wouldn’t last. The cracks were forming. The exhaustion bleeding into their movements, the steps that came a second too late. Grib and Krix were relentless, but they were slowing. The knight was inevitable. And he was coming for me.

  I felt it—the weight of him, the sheer certainty that no matter what I did, he would reach me. That I was an obstacle, not an opponent. That he had done this before, and he would do it again.

  I didn’t want to feel this way. Didn’t want to be torn between fight and flight, between instinct and logic. But it wasn’t about me anymore.

  It was about them.

  The kobolds who had chosen to fight at my side. Who believed in me. Who saw something more in a pile of bones than even I did.

  Like the goblins before them.

  The memory hit like a blade to the ribs. The first adventurers had cut down Grib before. Cut him in half. I had been powerless then, watching as they carved through the only allies I had.

  Not this time.

  These adventurers were strong. Skilled. They had trained for this, practiced, honed their weapons and their faith and their belief in their own right to stand here. But they had come to kill. To destroy.

  And if it was them or me and the kobolds…

  I already knew my answer.

  The knight stepped forward, slow and certain, his sword wreathed in fire, casting flickering light across the cavern walls.

  I wasn’t a hero. Maybe I was the villain.

  But I knew one thing.

  I was still Edgar. And I wasn’t leaving without a fucking fight.

  The knight’s sword rose.

  I stood my ground.

  “You want me dead?” I said. “Then let’s get this over with.”

  The knight didn’t hesitate.