The screaming began at dawn.
Not the usual noise of restless livestock or squabbling merchants—but raw panic—a sound that stabbed the sky and tore Mira from her sleep.
She bolted upright.
Then ran.
The marketplace was chaos.
Flames licked up one of the stalls. Chickens fled in all directions. People shouted over one another—fear-split voices yelling words like:
"Monster!"
"It came from the fields—"
"Where's the guard?!"
Mira shoved through the crowd, heart pounding.
Then she saw it.
The thing looked like it had dragged itself straight out of a grave and stitched itself together with rot.
Eight feet tall. Skin like wet parchment stretched over bone. Its mouth was split too wide, full of jagged, broken teeth. It reeked of iron and death.
A Darkling Brute.
The same kind of creature that had devoured the northern crops.
Only this time, it wasn't interested in wheat.
It wanted blood.
A man screamed as it swatted him aside like a fly. Another tried to spear it, only to be crushed under its weight.
Mira's breath caught.
Where was Xerces?
Where was anyone who could fight this thing?
Her hands trembled.
She turned to run—
—but a girl tripped near her. Barely more than ten. The beast turned toward her, slow and deliberate, lifting one clawed arm.
No.
Mira didn't think.
She felt.
And the river inside her surged.
The well at the center of the square burst.
A column of water erupted like a geyser, pure and blinding, slamming into the creature with the force of a crashing tide.
The villagers screamed again—this time in awe and terror.
The Brute snarled, staggering.
Mira stood, arms raised, water swirling around her like a living thing.
The girl on the ground stared up at her with wide, tear-streaked eyes.
Mira breathed.
The river obeyed.
The water curled like a blade and slammed once more into the creature, this time freezing as it hit. The Brute shrieked—its arm shattering under the force.
But the effort cost her.
Her knees buckled.
And the world tilted—
Xerces caught her before she hit the ground.
He'd arrived in time to see it all—the explosion of power, the way Mira moved like she was born to command it.
He looked at her—frightened and fierce and impossibly brave—and then looked at the villagers, their faces twisted with awe and horror.
"She's one of them," someone whispered.
"A witch," said another.
"Marked by the old blood."
Xerces felt something cold settle into his chest.
It was happening again.
Just like it had with him.
Mira stirred, half-conscious.
"I didn't mean to—" she whispered.
"I know," Xerces said, voice low and urgent. "But we have to go. Now."
She blinked up at him. Confused. Terrified.
"But they'll think—"
"They already do."
He pulled her up, cloak wrapping around her as more villagers gathered. Torches were being lit. Accusations were already flying.
They had minutes, maybe seconds.
Mira buried her face in his shoulder.
"Xerces…"
"I've got you."
He turned to the trees.
And they vanished into the woods—one a lich hiding behind stolen flesh, the other a girl whose soul had just awakened the wrath of an ancient river.
Behind them, the village burned with questions