There was a ringing in his skull.

  Sharp.

  Insistent.

  Not a scream, not a howl. Just one piercing note splitting the world in two.

  Sound, he realized distantly. An explosion.

  The wall he’d been standing beside was gone—turned to dust that hung in the air like breath held too long. It stung his eyes, burned his throat. The floor was fractured stone, hot beneath his boots. The air tasted like fire and failure.

  Markus had taken hits before. Plenty.

  Blows that left his ribs humming for weeks. Falls that rearranged bone.

  But this was different.

  This felt like being shattered and glued back together wrong.

  A second ago, he’d been with the others.

  Now there was only ruin.

  His shield was still on his arm. Good.

  Sword in hand. Better.

  He was breathing—barely—and every breath felt borrowed.

  Then the goblin came.

  It moved like it didn’t believe in bones. Or gravity. Or restraint.

  Somehow deliberate in it's erratic, wild movements.

  Two hands wrapped around a jagged iron mace, swinging like it had been waiting its whole life for this moment.

  Markus got his shield up in time.

  The blow hammered into him.

  Hard enough to rattle teeth.

  Hard enough to shift something inside.

  His boots scraped backward across stone, armor shrieking.

  A lesser shield would’ve cracked. Would’ve folded.

  He wasn’t either. Not yet.

  He shoved back and bought himself half a step.

  Then the kobold hit him. Low, fast, precise. A spear slipping past his guard like it belonged there.

  No wasted movement. No flourish.

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  These weren’t dungeon fodder.

  Markus twisted, caught the shaft with his shield’s edge, forced it off-line. Swung wide with his sword to make space.

  There was no space.

  Only pressure.

  They didn’t fight like individuals.

  The goblin was weight. The kobold was wire.

  One pressed. One pierced.

  Not a fight. A process. And then the voice came—cold, calm, too far away.

  “Take them alive if you can.”

  The lich.

  The Bone King.

  Whatever the hell it called itself.

  That was when Markus knew they were already dead.

  Alive wasn’t mercy.

  Alive meant a reason.

  And that was always worse.

  He tried to break them. Force a mistake. Disrupt the rhythm.

  But there was no rhythm to break.

  The goblin’s mace came down again. He parried. Barely.

  The kobold feinted left. Stabbed right. Caught his shoulder under the plate.

  Every move was a counter. Every hit seemed part of a plan.

  He looked for a gap—any gap—and saw Marielle.

  Still standing. Barely. Her robes were torn, soaked in dark red. Her staff trembled as she tried to hold a barrier, the holy symbol in her hands flickering like a candle on its last breath.

  Every time she lit it to release a prayer, something chipped it away.

  She wasn’t going to hold.

  Devon was down. Pinned against the wall. His logbook was in pieces. His hands still sparked from whatever magic had failed.

  His mouth moved, shouting something. But the battle drowned it out.

  Then Raven.

  Gone?

  No—there. Still moving. Slower. Less sure.

  A blur behind her.

  Markus opened his mouth. Too late.

  The club hit her hard. Bone-breaking hard. She collapsed. Silent.

  She didn’t get up.

  It was wrong. Raven didn’t stay down. Not ever. She'd run before she stayed down.

  But she was down now.

  Devon was next. A burst of light. A spray of blood.

  Then Marielle.

  Too fast.

  Too clean.

  One moment they were there.

  The next—gone.

  Markus heard a sound—raw, torn from the throat. It took a second to realize it was his own.

  “Marielle!”

  The goblin came again. Mace raised.

  Markus didn’t dodge. Didn’t block.

  He drove into it.

  Shield-first.

  The goblin hit the wall behind it with a crunch that didn’t sound survivable.

  He turned.

  The kobold’s spear found his ribs.

  Clean. Deep. Final.

  Pain exploded through his side.

  His legs faltered.

  His sword dropped.

  That was it. He didn’t think.

  He ran.

  He didn’t know where. Didn’t care.

  Blood pattered behind him with every movement. Every step screamed. Every breath felt stolen.

  Take them alive.

  Alive for what?

  Behind him:

  Claws.

  Footsteps.

  Voices.

  One shouted after him, gleeful and cruel.

  “Where human go?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Didn’t stop.

  Didn’t look back.

  Just kept moving.

  Because if he stopped—

  He wasn’t starting again.