Chapter 43 — The Field of Teeth
Rowan woke with a jolt.
No bed. No ceiling. Just sky—gray, roiling, vast. The air stank of burning metal and old blood. Beneath him, scorched earth and broken armor. Something screamed.
He sat up, and the weight nearly crushed him. Plates of blackened steel clung to his body, scorched and dented, far heavier than they looked. A sword lay beside him, long and chipped, half-sunken into the mud. He didn't remember picking it up. Didn't remember putting on the armor.
Didn't remember coming here.
A horn wailed in the distance—low, guttural, sick with distortion. The sound twisted something in his stomach. His breath hitched.
He stood.
Rows of soldiers stretched before him. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. But they weren't people. Not really. What passed for human among them was twisted—muted eyes, faces half-covered by masks or bandages, mouths stitched shut. They stood in loose formation, weapons trembling in their hands. No banners. No war cry.
No hope.
Beyond them—
The enemy.
Things.
He couldn't name them. He didn't want to. The creatures came from the dark, crawling, shifting, forming shapes that broke apart and reformed. Jaws too wide. Limbs that bent backward. Skin that seemed to pulse, shimmer, then vanish. Some were the size of horses. Others, titans.
And they moved like hunger incarnate.
Rowan staggered forward, sword dragging behind him. He passed soldier after soldier, none meeting his gaze. None breathing.
They weren't real.
Or they were, and he wasn't.
The first scream came a second later. Then another. Then twenty. A roar thundered across the field. The creatures surged.
And the world tore.
Bodies split like paper. Blood sprayed high into the air and came down as steam. The line shattered instantly. Men and women were flung like toys, weapons crushed before they were raised. One monster pierced five people on a single talon. Another opened its mouth and screamed—not with sound, but with a force that cracked bone and shredded thought.
They were coming.
Faster.
Closer.
Rowan didn't run.
He couldn't.
His feet were rooted. His mind was fracturing.
How could anyone fight this?
These were the monsters. The ones from the Breach. The same things that had destroyed cities in his world. The same ones his parents spoke of in whispers when they thought he couldn't hear. He'd seen the aftermath once—on the screens at the Containment Center. Glimpses of torn land and broken bodies before the footage was sealed.
This wasn't a Trial.
This was a massacre.
He took a step back.
Another.
The ground trembled.
The front line collapsed entirely. What had once been soldiers was now a heap of limbs and red-soaked soil. The creatures turned, skittered, stalked toward him. Not running. Not charging. Just moving.
They didn't need to hurry.
There was no fight left.
Just him.
He looked down at his hands.
Gauntlets. Burnt and covered in cracks.
He couldn't even feel them.
His mouth moved, but he didn't know what he was trying to say. No words came. Just the taste of ash. The same taste he remembered from the dream, from the fire.
His thoughts were drowning. Panic clawed up his throat, but it couldn't get out. His body shook.
What's the point?
He couldn't touch them.
He couldn't stop them.
He wasn't one of those Seeker-Class warriors like his parents. He was just a boy. Just a scared, broken thing trapped in the skeleton of a soldier.
The nearest creature slowed.
It looked like it was smiling.
Rows of teeth. More than should fit. Black and wet and endless.
Rowan raised the sword.
His arms almost gave out.
The creature lunged.
He swung.
Metal shrieked.
The impact should've cut it. Should've at least slowed it.
It didn't.
The blade shattered.
Pain exploded through his arm. He hit the ground hard, mud and blood filling his mouth.
The thing hovered over him. Watching.
Not attacking. Not yet.
Just savoring.
Rowan's chest heaved.
Every nerve screamed.
He wanted to run. He wanted to cry. He wanted to disappear, to unmake himself, to never have been chosen at all.
And deep beneath all of it—
Rage.
Why?
Why him?
Why this?
Why throw him into fire after fire, Trial after impossible Trial, only to bring him here—to die?
His eyes burned.
He tried to crawl backward.
Another shadow passed overhead. Another beast. Another death, walking toward him on broken legs.
And yet—
He was still breathing.
Still alive.
Still waiting.
Because something in him—something raw and jagged—refused to give in.
He screamed.
Not a word. Not a name. Just sound. Just defiance.
The monster lunged again.
And everything shattered into light.