He moved before I could blink.
Nara staggered back, her arms crossing instinctively in front of her chest as though she could ward him off with nothing more than a wish, but Fitch wasn't in the business of respecting wishes. His leg snapped up with a vicious precision, the heel of his boot driving straight into her stomach like the kick of a horse.
The sound she made was awful, a crushed gasp that shredded itself into silence as her body folded in half. She collapsed to the stone, hands clutched tight around her gut, gasping like a fish yanked from water.
And Fitch—smiling, calm, almost bored—strolled away from her as if he hadn't just emptied her lungs with a single strike.
My fists clenched so hard the bones ached. Rage clawed at me, twisting my gut with a fire that begged for release. Every instinct screamed at me to cross the distance, to drive my dagger between his ribs, to paint his smile in red. But instinct isn't survival, and survival demanded patience.
This was a boy in name only, a Bishop-class monster in the skin of youth, and stepping between him and his prey would only turn Nara's fate into mine. So I forced my jaw shut, bit down on my own fury until it tasted of iron, and watched.
Fitch reached a fallen robed figure, nudged the corpse with the toe of his boot, and bent to snatch up the cloth. He shook it out casually, then tossed the robe in Nara's direction. The fabric landed across her trembling body like a funeral shroud.
"Clothe yourself," he said, his voice light, whistling through his teeth as though this were all part of some private tune.
Nara stared at the robe, tears clinging stubbornly to her lashes, but with jerking, broken movements she pulled it around herself, covering the skin she could. Humiliation bled from every line of her body, and I hated myself for not stopping him more than I hated him for the cruelty.
Then Fitch turned to Callow.
The man in the lab coat had been trying to disappear into himself, his shoulders hunched, his spectacles trembling against the bridge of his nose. He looked at Fitch as though staring at a divine judgment. The boy tilted his head, lips pursing around another whistle, a high, lilting sound that bounced off the wet stone like a mockery of birdsong.
"Now," he said idly, "what to do with you?"
His voice was maddening in its casualness, as though we were discussing the fate of a spare piece of bread rather than a man. His eyes wandered over Callow, bright with consideration, then deepened into a smirk that promised nothing kind.
Salem's blade was still pressed to Callow's neck, but at that smirk, something shifted. Slowly, deliberately, Salem stepped back. His sword lowered by inches until the tip brushed against the stone floor.
It wasn't surrender. It was… acknowledgment. A silent admission that whatever authority Salem had wielded, it was ash in the presence of this boy.
My heart thudded painfully at the sight, because if even Salem deferred—Salem, who treated gods and monsters alike as obstacles to be cut down—then what did that leave for me?
Callow began to shake. His teeth clicked together, hands quivering as though his own skin betrayed him. He tried to steady himself, failed, and then in a burst of desperation he lunged. His hand shot out, clawing for Fitch's throat.
It happened too fast to follow.
Fitch's arm blurred, his hand snatching Callow's wrist in mid-air. The boy's knee rose like lightning. Bone cracked. Callow's scream tore the air, high and thin, but it died as Fitch's other hand whipped across his face.
The slap was sharp, casual, dismissive—yet its effect was ruinous. Callow's head snapped back at an angle no spine should endure. His neck cracked loud enough to echo in the chamber. The body went limp, folding to the ground in a heap of lab coat and wasted breath.
My knees almost buckled. The sound—the sight—the finality of it—hit me like a physical blow. One moment alive, the next discarded. Just like that. I wanted to laugh, or vomit, or scream, but all I could do was drag air into my lungs like I'd forgotten how.
Fitch, delighted, gave a short nod as though approving his own performance. Then he turned back to Nara and beckoned with a finger. "Come."
His tone was light, coaxing, but underneath it lay the kind of weight that crushed choice flat. Nara's eyes met mine then—wide, drowning in desperation, silently begging for rescue. But no sound came. No plea. She rose unsteadily, her borrowed robe dragging against the slime-slick floor, and stepped toward him as though pulled by invisible strings.
They moved past me. For a heartbeat, I thought perhaps he would ignore me, that my insignificance granted me mercy. Then Fitch stopped. His head turned, his eyes locking onto mine, and for the first time his smile lost its warmth. It became sharp. Deliberate. Hungry.
"The Lady of Fangs," he said softly, "sends her regards."
The words lanced through me. My body stiffened, every thought seizing on that cursed name, but before I could reply, before I could even breathe, Fitch leaned closer. His whisper was a blade at my ear.
"She'll be expecting you," he murmured, "at the upcoming auction."
Auction? My mind tumbled over the word, clawing for meaning, for context, but nothing came. By the time I blinked, Fitch had turned away, his hand firm on Nara's shoulder, steering her deeper into the sewers. His whistling rose again, faint and echoing, trailing behind him like a phantom refrain.
And then they were gone.
I exhaled shakily, only realizing then that I had been holding my breath. My hand trembled on the hilt of my dagger. My chest burned with a dozen swallowed words, each one tasting of failure.
Rodrick's voice cut the silence, low and ragged. "We need to get out. Now. The sewers aren't safe anymore." He pushed himself upright, his face pale but resolute, one hand pressed tight against his bleeding side. "Let's—"
His orders cracked apart in the air, splintered by a new sound—the grotesque shifting of flesh.
I froze. Slowly, my gaze dragged back to the corpse sprawled at our feet.
Callow.
His head twitched. Once. Twice. Then, with a hideous grinding, it twisted back into place. Vertebrae popped and realigned with wet snaps. His arm, broken and bent, writhed and straightened, bones snapping back with obscene efficiency. And then the body stirred.
He stood.
I stumbled back in disbelief. The man's limbs stretched unnaturally, tendons thickening, his fingers lengthening into points that gleamed with a metallic sheen. He grew taller, leaner, each motion accompanied by the sound of tearing flesh and knitting bone.
When at last he stilled, his face was split by a smile so wicked it seemed carved into him by unseen knives.
Salem didn't hesitate. His blade flashed, darting toward Callow's neck with surgical precision. But Callow's hand rose, bare, unarmed—and caught it.
Steel rang against flesh and stopped dead. My eyes widened as his elongated forearm held the strike at bay without effort. He laughed, the sound rich and wrong.
Then everything erupted.
Salem pressed forward, teeth clenched, blade biting deeper into that inhuman arm. I circled wide, dagger flashing in my grip, searching for an opening. Callow twisted, the unnatural strength in his body forcing Salem back step by step.
"Move!" Salem barked, and I did, lunging low, my dagger slicing for his ribs.
The blade cut deep. Too deep. The resistance was strange—flesh that wasn't flesh, muscle that flexed like steel cords. Callow snarled and lashed out, his elongated leg snapping like a whip. Pain detonated across my side as the kick sent me sprawling across the stone, air bursting from my lungs.
I rolled, coughing, forcing my body to move. My dagger clattered, then slid back into my palm as though unwilling to abandon me. I rose to a crouch, vision swimming, but my eyes locked on Salem as he drove forward again.
Callow moved like a beast, his arms bending at impossible angles, striking with a ferocity that shredded air itself. Salem met him blow for blow, sparks flying where blade met bone. I darted in, slashing when I could, retreating when I must, every step a dance against annihilation.
"Incarnic magic," Salem grunted between strikes. "Self-transmutation of an extremely advanced level." His words barely reached me over the clash, but they landed heavy. Incarnic. Flesh warped and remade at will. A man rewriting his own body with each breath.
I spat blood, tasted iron, and let a laugh scrape free of my throat. "Lovely. As if he wasn't unbearable enough upright, now he's decided to play monster."
For a heartbeat—just one fragile, dangerous heartbeat—I almost let myself believe we had him. Salem moved like a phantom, his blade carving a deep line across Callow's chest with the kind of precision that should have ended any man, bishop or beggar alike. I lunged in his shadow, my dagger sinking into Callow's side, twisting hard until blood bubbled against the steel.
Rodrick, bless his half-ruined lungs and stubborn arms, snatched up a broken beam and hurled it like a javelin, the crack of wood against Callow's skull ringing out like justice finally delivered.
And then there was the knight. Gods help me, there was the knight—barreling into the fray like some deranged war-god stripped of dignity but not of fury.
His fist crashed into Callow's jaw with the force of a battering ram, then another, then another, each strike punctuated with some half-sung hymn to valor that made me want to retch and cheer in the same breath.
For one surreal moment, the naked lunatic and Salem fought in tandem, steel and flesh, precision and chaos, grinding Callow back step by step.
The man staggered. He swayed. His form twitched as though it couldn't quite remember what shape it wanted to wear. I saw instability in his stance, the shiver of something breaking apart under the strain of its own abomination, and my heart clawed toward hope.
Then the shadows moved.
From the far edges of the chamber, pale shapes began to emerge. Crawling, twitching, dragging themselves from the filth and slime. The blind creatures from before, their sewn eyes weeping black threads, their mouths open in silent moans. Dozens of them. Scores. My heart seized.
I braced, expecting them to fall upon us, to tear us down in a tide of pale flesh. But they didn't.
They turned to Callow.
One by one, they lurched toward him. Their hands reached, grasped, clutched. They pressed themselves against his body, their pale forms melting, merging, sinking into his flesh as though he were a vessel made to contain them. His body swelled, distorted, reshaping with each addition.
His laughter deepened, warped, filling the chamber with triumph. And in that moment, watching the impossible unfold, I realized the fight had only just begun.