The scream woke him. Not human, not animal—something between that suggested evolution had taken a wrong turn and kept going out of spite.
Ren rolled out of his bedroll as training kicked in (Elanil's training, specifically, which involved a lot of "move or die"). The camp erupted into controlled chaos. Guards took positions, weapons drawn. Mayfell's hands wove protective sigils that hung in the air like geometric prayers.
"Void spawn," Varos identified grimly. "The Mist must have surged early."
"How early?" Ren asked, fumbling for the sword Elanil had insisted he carry.
"Six hours. The barriers are failing faster than predicted."
Through the trees, purple fog rolled toward them. Not like normal mist—this moved with purpose, reaching out with tendrils that dissolved everything they touched. And in it, shapes. Humans would have called them wrong. Elves had more specific words that translated roughly to 'oh fuck, run.'
"Defensive circle," Varos barked. "Protect the princess and the human."
"I can fight—" Ren started.
"You can die," Elanil corrected, pushing him behind her. "Stay close and don't be heroic."
The first creature burst from the mist like a nightmare that had learned ambition. Too many legs, not enough symmetry, eyes in places that violated common sense. It moved in stutters, existing in one spot then another without bothering with the space between.
Varos met it head-on, sword blazing with enchantments. The impact sent reality rippling, grass dying in perfect circles around them. More shapes emerged—some bipedal, others geometric, one that looked like the concept of hunger had gotten lost and decided to grow teeth.
"There's too many," Lysara shouted, her twin blades dancing through something that might have been an octopus designed by committee.
Mayfell's voice rose in harmony with itself, weaving protections that made the air taste of copper and starlight. But even her power had limits, and the mist kept coming.
A creature slipped through their defense—all edges and angles that shouldn't exist in three dimensions. It came for Ren with the single-minded purpose of something that had waited ten thousand years for a snack.
He swung his sword in a panic. The blade passed through it like it wasn't there, which was problematic since its claws seemed very there as they reached for his throat.
Elanil's blade intercepted inches from his neck. She moved like violence given form and purpose, driving the creature back with strikes that left after-images. But more kept coming, drawn to Ren like he was cosmic catnip.
"They're targeting him," Keiran observed, voice strained as he held off two spawn with careful spear work.
"Of course they are," Ren muttered. "Can't have a normal apocalypse. Has to be personal."
He tried to help, really. But fighting cosmic horrors wasn't like gaming. There was no tutorial, no respawn, no convenient weak points glowing orange. Just terror and the certainty that humans weren't meant to sword fight concepts that had gone feral.
"Behind you!" Seylas screamed.
Ren turned to see nothing, because the thing behind him existed in spectrums his eyes couldn't process. But he felt it—cold that wasn't temperature, weight that wasn't mass. His sword came up on instinct, and by pure luck, connected with something solid.
The creature screamed in harmonics that made his teeth ache. Black ichor splattered, sizzling where it hit the ground. The thing collapsed into angles that folded in on themselves until only a stain remained.
"I did it," he said, stunned. "I actually—"
Pain bloomed across his back as another creature's claws found flesh. He stumbled, warmth spreading where cold should be. Elanil's scream of rage was the last thing he heard clearly before the world went sideways.
Rating: 1/10 for combat prowess, 10/10 for dramatic injury, unknown/10 for survival odds.