The fire crackled low.
He sat there, staring into it. Steel-encased legs crossed beneath him, shoulders hunched beneath the tattered cloak. The flames flickered against his dark armor—crooked, worn, imperfect. Just like him.
He had built the fire after an embarrassing amount of failed attempts— fingers too thick in gauntlets to handle dry grass properly. Still, he got there in the end. Somehow.
Across the fire, the horse lay resting.
Its leg was wrapped in a crude mash of herbs and cloth—picked from nearby weeds and tied together by instinct, not knowledge. Whether they would help or hurt, he had no way of knowing. But he tried.
He looked up.
The sky above was endless. A black canvas, pierced by a scattering of cold white stars.
They didn't twinkle. They just stared.
A quiet beauty,the beauty of the unknown.
He exhaled under the helm. The heat of the fire mixed with the breath inside the metal, making everything feel stuffy.
So he took the helmet off.
It came off with a hiss and a quiet clank as he set it beside him. The cool air against his face was almost enough to relax him.
He looked at the fish—two of them, speared on sticks, roasting over the open flame. Scales curling. Flesh cracking. He caught them from a pond within the field.
He didn't know what they were. Didn't know if they'd kill him or keep him alive.
But that was a worry for tomorrow.
He looked at his hand. Slowly, shadows crept from his fingertips, curling around his palm.
The sword appeared again.
Same as always.
Forged from shadow, cold to the touch, but not unfamiliar. The runes on its blade pulsed faintly under the moonlight, as though breathing. The weight was perfect. The handle fit like it had been waiting for him.
He dismissed it. Then stared at his helmet. Touched it. It vanished into the same black smoke.
"Huh," he muttered.
He summoned it again.He dematerialized again. For some semblance of entertainment.
Then he leaned back against the cold earth and let himself drift into sleep.
---
The next morning.
He woke to the soft breath of dawn—not quite sunlight, not quite shadow.
The fire was dead. The coals had cooled.
He turned.
The horse was gone.
He stared for a long second. Then stood.
"…Not my problem."
He stomped out the last of the ash, brushed dirt off his armor, and walked into the field after putting his helmet on.
The grass was taller than yesterday. Or maybe it only felt that way. It brushed against his greaves, his waist, then slowly climbed to his chest. It whispered as he passed through.
The wind moved slow. The sky above was still gray, undecided between rain and light.
Now and then, the grass grew too thick.
He summoned the sword. Swung lazily. It sliced clean paths through the stalks.
Then—
A sound.
Low. Distant. Wrong.
A roar. But not of a horse.
He stopped mid-step. Gripped the sword tighter.
"…God damnit."
He scanned the field, but the reeds were too tall, too dense.
Another roar.
Then something moved.
A blur.
Fast.
He twisted. Instinct only. The sword came up just in time to knock it aside—a thud landed near his feet.
Not a beast.
A dagger.
Thick. Jagged. Crooked, like it had been twisted out of bone and tar. It wasn't forged. It grew.
He stepped back.
Another blur. He parried. A third came—he caught it with his hands, barely, and hissed beneath the helmet.
He dropped it. Looked at his palms.
The gauntlets were cracked. Dented deep enough to sting.
And then—footsteps.
Light. Then heavy. Then irregular.
Two legs. No, three. Four? More?
He couldn't tell.
Then it leapt.
A mass of tangled limbs burst through the grass. It landed, skittering, twitching.
Ten arms curled around its own body like a parasite holding itself together. Six legs scraped across the dirt with too many joints. Its body hunched like a question mark about to snap.
And its face—
Hidden.
But between the limbs, he saw eyes. Dozens. Two large ones that stared like lanterns. A cluster of smaller ones, twitching in rhythm.
The thing picked up the dagger with hands too human to belong to it.
He didn't speak.
Then—
Quietly: "What are you?"
The thing growled. Deep. Wet.
And charged.
He swung. It ducked. The dagger scraped his shoulder. He stepped back, twisted and blocked.
"GAHHH—YHSHGAAAHH!!"
It screamed. A noise like a dying animal dragged across glass. The pitch cracked halfway through, like the thing couldn't control its own voice.
He cut once. Twice. Severed two of its arms.
It didn't even flinch.
They fought in silence. Blades, claws, limbs, steel—grass flew into the air. Blood soaked the soil. He didn't know whose.
It slashed. He parried. It jumped. He countered.
Then—
A window. A window of opportunity. The opportunity for victory through violence.
He drove the sword into its center.
It shrieked. Arms thrashed. He stepped in, grabbed the hilt, and ripped the sword upward, through its chest, up its neck, and out the top of its skull.
It collapsed.
"Gh… haah…"
He stood over it, panting beneath the helm.
Then—
A sound.
A hundred sounds.
Rustling. Running. Screaming.
Footsteps from every direction. Dozens. Hundreds.
The field moved.
He didn't wait.
He turned. And ran.
Sword dematerialized. Breath tight.
Through grass.
Through wind.
Through shadow.
And behind him, the limbs followed.