They marched east for two days, putting distance between themselves and the gully's wreckage. The survivors barely spoke, each man and woman hollowed by loss and fatigue. At night they huddled around low fires, whispering of the ground still shifting beneath them, wondering if the Dreadborn were truly buried.
Kael lay close to the embers, cloak pulled tight. Lyren slept nearby, brow furrowed even in rest. Garrick had the watch, pacing at the edge of the circle with his spear balanced across his shoulders. Ayla dozed sitting up, dagger still clutched in her hand. Nell, usually restless, was silent, his face turned away.
Kael's thoughts wouldn't still. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw bodies dropping into the chasm—comrades dragged under collapsing earth, screaming as the darkness swallowed them. He heard Daric's shouts, the scrape of claws on rock, the crash of stone sealing it all away. Worse was the whisper of movement that seemed to echo inside his head, faint scratching like nails on old wood.
By dawn, his nerves were raw. When Captain Daric roused them to move, Kael welcomed the distraction. They set off along the ridge, boots scuffing through brittle grass. Birds circled overhead, silent watchers. The horizon was a dull smear of grey clouds.
They reached a small rise by midday, overlooking another tangle of ruined structures—old stone halls half-sunk into the earth, roofs caved in, doorways gaping like open wounds. Daric signaled a halt.
"We rest here. Pairs on watch. We're too close to deep nests for comfort, but I won't run these people to death."
Kael settled on a broken wall beside Lyren. Neither spoke for a long time. Finally, Lyren ran a hand through his hair and let out a humorless laugh.
"Still remember when all we worried about was how far we could throw a knife. Or if you'd finally manage to beat me in sprints."
Kael gave a ghost of a smile. "Those days were too easy. Can't even picture them sometimes."
"Means you're changing." Lyren's eyes were serious now. "We both are. And I don't know if it's for better."
Kael didn't answer. They sat in uneasy silence, watching Garrick and Ayla circle the perimeter. Nell was perched atop a chunk of wall, scanning the distant hills with that cold, distant look he wore more often now. Something in the way Nell's eyes moved—calculating, almost impatient—left Kael uneasy, though he couldn't have said why.
As night fell, wind swept through the ruins, stirring old dust and brittle leaves. Fires were lit low. They ate in silence, cold rations that tasted like damp ash. Kael's thoughts drifted to the families they'd left behind. He pictured his mother's small kitchen, the crack in the stove pipe that always leaked smoke. He wondered if the village still stood, or if Dreadborn claws had torn it down already.
A scream snapped him back. Not far—maybe a hundred paces beyond the outer watch line. Everyone sprang up, weapons drawn. Daric didn't shout orders; he only raised his hand and pointed. Squads fanned out instantly.
Kael's heart slammed against his ribs as he and Lyren moved through the rubble. Ahead, Ayla and Garrick were already closing on a crumbling archway. Another shriek split the dark. Then silence.
They found the remains of one of the forward scouts. The young man's chest was ripped open, ribs split wide. Black ichor stained the ground nearby—Dreadborn blood, still steaming in the cold. Whatever had killed him had been hurt, but not finished.
Daric stood over the corpse, face carved from stone. "Get your eyes sharp," he growled. "We didn't bury them all in that pit. They're still hunting. Which means so are we."
The next hours stretched long and cruel. Daric ordered them into staggered patrols circling the ruins, torches held low to keep shadows sprawling across the stone. Every scrape of boot on gravel made Kael's skin crawl. The group's usual quiet camaraderie had splintered into tense, watchful silence. Even Lyren kept glancing over his shoulder as if expecting claws to burst from the dark at any moment.
At one point, Garrick slipped on loose rock and nearly tumbled into a shallow sinkhole. The noise echoed off the ruins like distant laughter. Kael reached down to haul him up, and they shared a nervous grin that faded almost as soon as it appeared.
The worst was how the smell clung to everything. That sickly-sweet rot, threaded with iron. Kael couldn't wash it from his nose. Even when they rested, huddled around sputtering fires, the scent seemed to cling to their skin, rising in faint ghosts of decay.
Hours later, Lyren nudged him and pointed across the courtyard to where Nell was speaking with Ayla, too quiet for them to hear. Something in Nell's posture—tight shoulders, clipped hand gestures—made Kael's stomach knot. He didn't trust the way Nell kept scanning the shadows between words, as if waiting for more than just monsters.
"You see that?" Lyren muttered.
"Yeah." Kael's throat was dry. "Keep it in mind. But don't draw it out now."
Lyren gave a tense nod. They moved on, blades ready.
A little before dawn, the Dreadborn came again. Not in a furious swarm like in the gully, but swift and silent—shadows given breath. The first Kael knew of it was Garrick's strangled shout. He spun, caught only a blur of black muscle and hooked limbs. Garrick was gone, a smear of red across the cobblestones. Kael's body reacted on instinct, sword snapping up as a second creature lunged.
The thing was smaller than some they'd faced, barely taller than a man, but it moved with a slick, jerking speed that was worse than any bulk. Its jaw split open in a vertical line, revealing rows of uneven fangs. It shrieked, a sound that drove knives into Kael's ears. He ducked, rolled under a slashing claw, came up inside its reach, and drove his blade home.
The steel punched through the soft spot just beneath its jaw. The creature spasmed, claws raking shallow lines down Kael's back, then crumpled into a twitching heap. Hot ichor soaked his boots. He staggered back, gasping, eyes darting for the next threat.
Ayla was down the path, pinned under another beast. Her scream cut short when it bit into her shoulder. Lyren charged in with a roar, swinging his blade in a reckless arc that nearly cleaved the thing's head clean off. It thrashed, then collapsed beside her.
Kael ran to them, heart jackhammering. Ayla was still alive, but bleeding badly, clutching at her mangled arm. Lyren pressed his hand to the wound, voice breaking as he tried to soothe her. Kael knelt beside them, eyes scanning the ruins for more of the shifting black shapes.
Nearby, Daric fought like a demon. His cloak was in tatters, sword a blur that left arcs of dark gore in the air. Two more Dreadborn lay twitching at his feet. He shouted orders, rallying the squad into a tight knot.
They fell back to an old temple hall, dragging the wounded. The doors slammed shut behind them, iron bolts screeching into place. Outside, the creatures hissed and scratched at the stone, but did not immediately try to break through.
Inside, it was dim, columns rising into shadow. Cracked murals lined the walls, faded images of long-dead saints looking down with hollow eyes. Kael collapsed beside Lyren and Ayla, chest heaving.
"She's stable," Lyren breathed, though his face said otherwise. Blood was everywhere.
Captain Daric stalked past, wiping his blade. His eyes, hard as iron, swept over them all. "Get ready to move at first light. We can't stay boxed in. They'll try us again, and next time they won't be so cautious."
Kael just nodded. His entire body buzzed with the leftover terror of the fight. Lyren's hand clapped down on his shoulder, grounding him. They sat together in the half-dark, listening to the quiet drag of claws on the outer walls, waiting for either dawn or death.