The ash in the air burned the back of my throat. It wasn't from fire but the constant churn of boots, bodies, and something festering in the mud. A rot that hung heavy, thick like tar, and stuck in the teeth of your breath. My lungs felt scorched every time I inhaled, like I was dragging in hot gravel.
Before the first blackout, I thought I heard faint laughter, soft, brittle, like glass cracking somewhere just beyond the tents. It was gone before I could be sure.
I crouched low, slipping between ranks of silent prisoners. Their eyes were hollow, their shoulders slumped in defeat. Chains clinked softly like wind chimes in a graveyard. The air felt brittle, fragile, like it could shatter if anyone breathed too hard. My breathing grew erratic, shallow. The air thickened around me, every inhalation a fight. A pit of dread bloomed deep in my chest, spreading like poison.
I glanced again at Lyra.
She hadn't moved from her huddled shape, arms drawn tight around her knees like she was trying to disappear into herself. Her eyes were barely open, vacant with exhaustion or terror. Her face was smudged with soot, her lips cracked from days without water, and her hair hung like tangled rope around her face.
"Lyra," I whispered, inching closer, my body tense as a drawn bow, until my shoulder brushed hers.
She startled, blinking up at me with wide, fearful eyes. Just then, a sharp voice cut through the silence.
"Quiet! Not so loud," hissed an older woman, stepping between us with a commanding presence. Her eyes were sharp, wary. "They'll hear."
Lyra's breath hitched, her body trembling under my touch. I pressed a finger to my lips.
"It's happening," I said.
Her lips trembled. "What is?" Her voice was no louder than a breath, hoarse and dry like paper tearing.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I don't know. But something's moving. The old man has been watching the guards. I think he's... counting them. Timing something. Then he looked at me. Like I was supposed to know."
Her face went pale.
I caught a sudden shift in her posture. Then my gaze flickered to the woman nearby—the older woman stiffened, her hands clenched tight at her sides. Her voice shook with pure fear when she whispered a name, one I didn't catch. The coldness I'd never understood about my mother's tone around certain customers suddenly made sense—there was something darker beneath it all.
My heart hammered. My breath shortened. The claustrophobia wrapped around me like a noose. I felt as if the earth might tilt, the sky crush down.
"You're going with him?" She asked.
"He's not one of them," I said. "He's different."
Lyra sat up a little. "They're all different until they slit your throat in your sleep."
I didn't know how to explain it. The way the older prisoner moved. The way the guards avoided him was like he was already half gone.
"He's planning something. I can feel it."
"Shhhh, are you two trying to get us killed?" The old woman hissed. We had suddenly noticed a couple of prisoners perked up at our conversation, but I had not cared; this was a life-or-death situation, and her stares of daggers did not scare me.
Lyra continued our conversation like a beat had not been missed, she gave me a look like I was a kicked dog still wagging its tail before saying. "You feel it. Great. That'll keep us alive."
I shook my head. "He's waiting for something. Maybe for the right moment. He doesn't want to die here either."
Lyra's voice softened, but her grip tightened around her knees.
"And what if he just wants to run and leave us all behind? Or worse, what if he uses us?"
"I'd rather take that chance than sit here and wait to be marched into another cage or worse, used as an example by… He" We both turned to look at the captain, hiding his joy with a calculated face of boredom. Disgusting.
Lyra turned her face away, toward the dark woods beyond the camp.
"You don't even know where he's going."
"I don't care."
That made her look at me again. Like she wasn't sure if she hated me or was just afraid of how much I meant it.
"You're stupid," she said finally. "Stupid or desperate."
"Both," I said.
She didn't respond. Just stared at the dirt like she was trying not to cry.
Then quietly, without looking up:
"If I scream for you later and you're gone, I hope it haunts you."
It already did.
A sharp click cracked the silence.
Then another. Slower. Louder.
I turned toward the cages.
The creatures hadn't moved in days, not really. But now their clawed limbs twitched against the bars. Their necks snapped in unison. Heads bobbed once. Twice. Then stillness again.
Click... click... click.
The rhythm grew, deliberate. Almost like... drumming.
The clicking grew louder, relentless like a heartbeat pounding in my ears—drums calling warriors to war, or death itself to the feast. It echoed all around, a staccato rhythm that set my nerves on edge and sent a chill crawling under my skin. My breath came in short, uneven gasps, thick in the heavy, smoky air. The scent of burning wood mixed with the coppery sting of blood and the acrid bite of ash made my throat close tight, like a fist squeezed around it. Every breath burned, but I couldn't stop.
I slid through the camp shadows, muscles coiled tight with tension, footsteps soft and calculated. The fire's flickering light danced across faces, some blank with fear, others twisted in pain or silent despair. I kept my eyes low but sharp, scanning for Lyra. Her pale form lay curled near the edge of the group, a small island of quiet in the chaos. I had to reach her, had to tell her the escape was starting.
My heart hammered like a drum in my ears, loud enough that I feared it might betray me. Yet beneath that thunder was something new, an ember of something fierce, a flicker of hope daring to catch flame. The mask I wore, forged from years of hiding and pretending, cracked just enough to let that warmth in. I wasn't just a frightened boy anymore; maybe, just maybe, I could be more.
I whispered her name. Lyra's eyes snapped open, wide as saucers, sparkling with a blend of confusion and relief. I reached out, fingers brushing hers, trembling. "It's happening. The plan. Now."
Behind us, the clicking grew to a frenzy, a tribal war chant rising with the fire's roar. Smoke curled thick, twisting upward, blackening the sky. The flames licked higher, devouring dry wood with hungry speed, casting monstrous shadows that stretched and writhed.
The masked man was still there, standing beneath the pale sky, watching the horizon like it might split open and deliver answers. His shoulders were too still. The way a predator freezes before the strike.
I searched for the old man.
He was just where he always sat back against the cart, chin tucked down, but his eyes were open and glinting. He looked at the cages, then at the guards, then at the sky.
And then he was gone.
Not vanished like magic. Just... lost in the crowd. A blink. A moment. The shape of him was swallowed by bodies and movement. A ghost through smoke and shadows.
The next click was deafening.
Guards turned, frowning toward the creatures. One soldier raised a spear.
"What are they doing?" he muttered.
Another click, no, a dozen. Rising, overlapping. The creatures were all clicking now, mandibles tapping like woodpeckers against iron. Louder. Faster. Feverish.
"They're... agitated," one of the guards said, taking a step back.
The captain stood.
"What the hell is going on?"
He strode toward the cages, dark cloak sweeping the mud. The masked man followed, silent.
"Shut them up," the captain snapped.
"I can't," the masked man replied, voice low and strange. "They know."
"Know what?"
Suddenly, shouts rang out, jagged and sharp. "To arms! The prisoners ' rebellion!" The guards scrambled, voices fracturing into curses and commands. "Hold them! Stop the fire!" "Fall back! Reinforcements!" Their panic was a raw, ragged thing, and it fed the chaos like fuel.
A prisoner cried out a desperate, ragged sound that cut through the cacophony, and others answered with whispers, gasps, and cries. The world fractured into noise and movement, bodies twisting in tangled bursts of fear and fury. The mud beneath my feet squished wet and heavy, cold clinging to my ankles as I moved faster, nearer Lyra.
The captain's voice rose above the chaos, dark and slicing through the turmoil like a blade. "You fools! The price of rebellion is death! All of you will learn what happens to those who defy me!" His tone was venomous, but there was something deeper in his glare when his eyes found mine, a piercing chill that sank into my bones.
Beside him hovered the shadow, a thing of nightmare and smoke, a sick pulse of darkness that sent dread spiralling through my chest. It was like death made flesh, a living void with eyes that burned like dying stars.
The fire's heat was suffocating now, a wall of flame pressing against us, yet it ignited a spark inside me, a fierce, wild flame of defiance that burst from my chest. My hands clenched into fists; the mask I'd worn for so long cracked wide open, revealing raw fear, fierce hope, and something like courage.
I stole one last glance at Lyra, her trembling hand gripped mine, and I knew we would either burn or break free. The night was alive with screams, the scent of smoke and blood thick as a storm.
A shriek split the air.
It wasn't from the creatures. It was human, and it came from the western line of tents. A thin pillar of smoke rose like a finger pointing to the heavens.
Then another scream. And another.
"FIRE!" someone shouted. "Fire in the supply tents!"
Soldiers scrambled, weapons half-raised, confusion pinning them in place. Some dashed toward the flames but tripped over each other. One fell face-first into the mud, his torch flying, and another accidentally dropped a bucket, the water soaking only his boots.
*BOOM* An explosion.
It wasn't massive, not alchemy, not magic, but it was enough to tear canvas and scatter fire across dry grass. The smoke roared upward. Sparks rode the wind like fireflies, and suddenly the world was aflame.
The guards were in chaos. Barking orders. Shouting over one another. Racing toward the flames with water buckets that spilt before they reached the source. A horse broke free, whinnying, its eyes wild with fear, and trampled two soldiers trying to calm it.
I crouched low, scanning for the old man again nothing.
Then I saw Lyra. She wasn't running, not yet, but her head was up, eyes wide. Her face had changed, alert now. Waiting.
Screams rose again, this time closer.
A guard staggered back from a prisoner, blood pouring from his throat. Another was pulled down, fists and teeth descending. One of the women, no, a girl, slammed her elbow into a soldier's jaw and then bit his face as he screamed.
They were attacking.
Everywhere, prisoners surged. Shackles became weapons. Stones became fists. Hope, raw and desperate, became a blade.
I saw one man, bald, missing fingers, bash a rock into a guard's skull until it split. Another kicked a fallen soldier in the neck until it bent the wrong way. Screams, wet and gurgled, echoed off the cage walls.
The smell of iron hit me. Thick, metallic, like a mouthful of blood. It coated my tongue, crept into my nose, and burned behind my eyes.
I stumbled back, then forward, then back again, a heartbeat away from panic.
Clickclickclickclickclick.
The creatures were frenzied. Their limbs clanged against the bars. One snapped its teeth through the gaps. The sound was no longer drumming, it was a war chant. A primal call to arms.
The captain raised his hand, eyes blazing.
"ENOUGH!"
His voice cut through the madness, raw and furious. The air seemed to tremble with it.
He marched forward and seized a prisoner, a boy barely older than me, by the collar. The child thrashed, but the captain slammed him to the ground and dragged him before the cages.
"You want freedom?" he bellowed. "You want chaos?"
The firelight turned his face into a demon's mask, sharp shadows, and gleaming teeth.
"All day. All night. So many of you. But don't think I won't kill every last one. I'll start again."
He looked straight at me.
Not around me. Not near me. Directly into me.
I froze.
He tilted his head, a mock curiosity in his eyes. "It was you, wasn't it?"
He raised an eyebrow.
Then the fire behind him erupted.
A burst of wind swept through the camp, fanning the flames higher. The smoke twisted like a serpent, blackening the sky. Light danced across the battlefield, turning the prisoners and guards into flickering silhouettes of carnage.
The heat hit me like a punch.
It seared my cheeks. My lungs screamed. Every breath was smoke and sweat and something burning hair, maybe. Or skin.
The fire had swallowed the camp now. It moved like a living thing, slithering across tents, devouring the wooden cages, splitting shadows apart. Prisoners ran in every direction, some screaming, others just silent and wild-eyed, like animals bolting from a butcher's blade. One woman tackled a guard and tore at his face with her bare hands. Another prisoner grabbed a blade from a dead soldier and used it to hack at the chains.
The panic wasn't organised, it was pure, feral survival. People running into the fire just to avoid the creatures.
I froze. Because I had seen this before.
This chaos. The burning sky. The creatures crawling out of blackened smoke. The people screaming, scrambling, begging. This was the vision. The one I had been forced to see when the creatures invaded my mind. The same sick feeling churned in my gut, heat flooding my chest, burning me inside as the world burned outside.
Then came the click, one final, massive beat. Like a drum slamming against the world.
And everything changed.
The world fractured.
The sky went white. The ground fell away. I saw nothing. I heard nothing.
Then came the visions.
I saw Veridion. Not as it is, but how it was meant to be. Towering spires of glass and silver. Gardens that floated on air. Magic pulsing through crystal veins beneath the cobbled streets.
People laughed. Not just humans. Elfkin. Lizardfolk. Children with feathers. Old women with eyes of fire. All living together.
Then I saw it fall.
A tide of darkness. Slaves in chains. Magic twisted into weapons. Children screaming beneath the banners of men who called themselves kings.
Then a face.
He looked just the same, only younger, eyes burning with the same madness. He held a torch, standing before a pyre.
He looked straight at me.
"You're not ready," he said.
I screamed.
I knelt in the mud, shaking, my breath ragged. The scent of ash still clung to the back of my throat, bitter and burning. I could taste it like smoke filtered through rusted iron.
My hands trembled, sticky with blood—his blood. I was back in the fire. The real one. The heat blistered my lips. My hands were bleeding. My ears rang with screams.
Something was inside me, awake now. Buzzing beneath the skin.
The ground was moving. No, not the ground, the creatures.
Click… Click-click… click-click.
Their cages had broken.
One by one, the beasts poured out not toward us, not toward the prisoners, but toward the guards.
And they didn't kill.
They devoured.
One leapt onto a soldier, its claws slicing through armour like butter. It buried its face in his chest and chewed. Another creature disembowelled a guard with a single strike and flung his intestines toward the fire.
I saw a third, smaller, faster slice the throat of the masked man before he could lift a hand. He gurgled. Fell.
I didn't move.
I couldn't.
Until I heard Lyra scream.
I spun.
She was pinned by a soldier, not to hurt her, but as a shield, a knife pressed to her throat. Her lips were still cracked, blood now blooming along one edge.
I ran.
No thinking. No breathing.
Just running.
My body moved of its own accord. I tackled the man from behind, teeth bared like an animal. We tumbled through the mud and ash. He slashed at me, caught my cheek, and I screamed, driving my fingers into his eyes.
His scream was louder than mine.
I grabbed his knife.
I didn't hesitate.
The blade sank in.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Blood soaked my hands.
He stopped moving.
My fingers trembled around the handle. The blood on the blade was hot, too hot. It steamed in the ash-thick air, and he couldn't let go. His hand was locked, useless. Lyra's breathing was wild, but she didn't pull away. She just stared at me like I wasn't real. Like the boy who'd crawled into the cage with her had died, and this was something else in his place. I wanted to say something. Apologise. Ask if she was okay. But the words stuck in the thick soot coating my throat.
What have I done? What would Mother say if she saw me like this?
I looked down at the soldier's crumpled body, face unrecognisable, blood still pulsing from the ruined throat. He had been stabbed twice, I remembered that clearly. Once to stop him. The second… that second one hadn't been necessary.
And yet I had done it anyway.
Lyra's cracked lips parted like she wanted to speak. But she didn't. Her silence was worse than a scream. A tear cut through the grime on her cheek, carving a path through old bruises. The creatures were clicking again faster now, louder. Like a thousand bones tapping on stone. It echoed inside my skull, matching the flutter in my chest.
The ash scratched my throat every time I breathed. I coughed and tasted blood, his or someone else's, I wasn't sure.
Behind us, the fire roared.
Prisoners surged forward.
The creatures howled again, a high clicking chorus that made his bones rattle.
I squinted through the smoke, searching the chaos.
Where was the old man?
Why had he told me to wait?
Where was the captain?
The only thing for sure was that the chaos remained.
And I-
I was alive.