The moment before the second horde descended was thick with tension, the air humming like a plucked bowstring. Aethon stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the other survivors—fifty had become thirty, and now, as the walls of the Chamber of Endless Hordes groaned open once more, they would be whittled down further.
Ilris, the greatsword-wielder, rolled her shoulders, her blade—a monstrous slab of blackened steel—already slick with the ichor of the last wave. She shot Aethon a glance, her dark eyes assessing. "You fight like a man who expects to die," she said, her voice rough as gravel. "But you don't. Why?"
Aethon didn't answer. The Reaper's Fang purred against his hip, its whispers curling through his thoughts. "She sees too much."
Nearby, Lady Virelle spun her lightning-whip in lazy arcs, the air crackling around her. She had the poise of a duelist, every movement precise, every strike calculated. She didn't waste energy—she invested it.
And then there was Korbin the Fox, crouched low like a feral thing, his glass dagger catching the brazier light. He flashed Aethon a grin full of crooked teeth. "You and that sword got history, eh? Bet it's a bloody one."
Aethon ignored him. His gaze flicked to the edges of the chamber, where Tavish of House Grenwyld lurked. The nobleboy's rapier gleamed, its gilded hilt too ornate for real battle. But his eyes—sharp, calculating—never left Aethon.
"He's waiting," the Reaper's Fang murmured. "He'll strike when you're weakest."
Aethon tightened his grip on the hilt. "I know."
Then the walls split, and the horde poured forth.
The Bloody Ballet
The ghouls came first—emaciated, grinning things with too-long limbs and fingers that clicked like insect carapaces. Aethon moved without thought, the Reaper's Fang guiding his strikes, its edge parting flesh and bone with eerie precision.
Ilris fought like a storm given form, her greatsword carving through the tide in wide, brutal arcs. She didn't dodge—she plowed, trusting her strength to carry her through.
Lady Virelle was elegance incarnate, her lightning-whip snapping out like a living thing, searing through ghouls before they could close the distance.
Korbin? He fought dirty. He slit tendons, hamstrung foes, and vanished into the chaos before retaliation could come.
And Tavish?
He fought like a noble—flourishes, feints, all style and no substance. But his eyes kept darting to Aethon, measuring, waiting.
Then the shadows came.
They peeled from the walls, formless at first, then twisting into grotesque parodies of the fighters themselves. A doppelgänger of Aethon lunged, its mouth stitched shut, its eyes hollow.
The Reaper's Fang recognized it before Aethon did.
"A memory," it hissed. "One of ours."
Aethon didn't have time to wonder. He severed the shadow's head, but not before it whispered in his mother's voice.
The shock cost him.
A ghoul's claws raked his shoulder, pain flaring white-hot. He staggered—
And Tavish moved.
A "stumble" sent him crashing into Ilris, disrupting her swing. A skeleton's blade sliced toward her exposed side—
Aethon intercepted, steel meeting bone. The impact shuddered up his arm.
Tavish's eyes widened as Aethon rounded on him.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the two of them.
Then the Reaper's Fang took over.
Aethon's boot hooked Tavish's ankle, sending him crashing to the stone. The nobleboy's rapier skittered away.
The sword urged him forward. "End him."
Aethon hesitated.
Tavish's breath came in panicked gasps. His spectacles were cracked, one lens shattered.
The Reaper's Fang pressed against his thoughts, hungry. "Do it."
Aethon raised the blade griitng his teeth as the heavy metal to deliver th final blow on him, causing
Aftermath
The survivors stood panting, bloodied, but alive. Twenty-seven remained.
Ilris wiped her blade clean, eyeing Aethon with something like respect. "You fight like a man with nothing to lose," she said. "But you hesitated."
Aethon didn't answer.
Lady Virelle flicked ichor from her whip, her expression unreadable. "That shadow… it knew you."
Korbin just grinned. "Damn, that was fun."
And Tavish?
He scrambled to his feet, his fine clothes torn, his pride in tatters. But his eyes burned with something darker than humiliation.
Vengeance.
The Reaper's Fang chuckled. "He'll come for us."
Aethon sheathed the blade. "Let him."