The carrion beast struck like a battering ram. Elias swung first, putting all his weight behind the blow, but the sword bounced off the bone plates on its head. The force numbed his arms. The beast's momentum pushed him against the wall, boots scraping against the stones. A soldier dragged him out of the way just in time for the creature's claws to slice the space he was occupying.
"Hold the line!" bellowed the Warden, his voice cutting through the chaos like the crack of a whip.
The wall-top was a vortex of steel and claws. Arrows sprayed down from above, some burying themselves in the beast's mottled flesh, others shattering on bone. The little carrion shot in among the soldiers, snapping and tearing, their speed making them hard to locate.
Elias kicked himself back onto his feet, sword raised. His breath misted in the chill night air. Don't freeze. Don't think. Move.
The smaller carrion lunged. He dodged, striking down in a wild arc. The blade sank into the creature's neck—not deep enough to be fatal, but deep enough to get a yip and a retreat out of it. Black ichor sprayed across his hoodie, burning through the fabric in sizzling spots.
"Mind your flank!" someone shouted.
Elias turned just in time to witness the larger beast bearing down on him again.
The Script flared into life unannounced.
"The creature succumbs to the Warden's blade—if the Reader can divert its attention."
His gut churned. That was what he had dreaded it would say—now he was to be a decoy.
"Damn it," he swore.
He advanced, wielding his sword, calling out as loudly as he could. "Hey! Over here!"
The beast's demon eyes focused on him in an instant. It emitted a scream of noise that rattled the air. It charged.
Elias's reflexes screamed at him to run. He was able to stand his ground until too late, then dodged aside. The beast's bulk hurtled past him—into the Warden's outstretched blow.
The Warden's sword fell like a headsman's axe, biting deep into the exposed side of the beast. It howled, thrashing, claws ripping deep into stone. Soldiers charged, spears thrust against it from all sides. The monster's roars became gurgling growls, then nothing.
One down.
The smaller duo were still battling like fiends, but without their alpha, the soldiers pushed them back. One was felled by an arrow in the eye; the other was penned and speared until it was dead.
The sudden silence after was deafening.
Elias leaned against the wall, chest heaving. His sword arm trembled.
The Warden moved toward him, blade wet with blood. "You drew it intentionally," the man said.
Elias swallowed hard. "The… writing told me you'd slay it if I were to get its attention."
The Warden's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "You've read the Script twice now?"
"Three times," Elias replied. "No—four."
The Warden glared at the soldiers who stood close by. "Remove the dead. Burn carrion before dawn." Then to Elias: "With me."
They descended from the wall, walking around the shattered gate. The carrion corpses were already emitting a fetid, acidic stench. Soldiers covered their mouths with cloth while they labored.
In the Warden's office again, the man closed the door behind them. "You need to understand something, outlander. Those words you see? That's no gift."
"I kind of figured that," Elias replied. "But what is it?"
The Warden gazed at him for a moment before answering. "A mark of a Reader. A few exist in the world—those who can glimpse pieces of the Script. Most don't live long enough to do any good."
"Why not?"
"Because the gods pay attention."
The words landed like a rock in Elias's belly. "Gods. As in… plural?"
The Warden nodded once. "They wrote the Script. We're living in their book. Readers… alter it. And the gods don't approve of their book being altered."
Elias gazed. "So I'm… what, a glitch in their book?"
"That's one way to look at it." The Warden leaned forward. "If you hold an appreciation for your business, you will keep this to yourself. The less who know, the better."
Elias stopped. "But you do."
"I was a fighter alongside a Reader many years ago. It didn't go well." His eyes grew hard. "Your path will be brief and bloody if you are careless."
The woman appeared in the doorway before Elias could say anything. "Warden. Scouts report the raiders have retreated. No more carrion saw."
The Warden concurred. "Good. Double the watches for a week."
She glanced over at Elias, something unreadable on her face, before gathering her gear to leave.
They left Elias to sleep once more, though it was not rest. His dreams were fractured images—glowing letters in midair, faceless deities writing with quills as large as spears, monsters tearing through walls as the Script floated above them like prediction.
In the morning, the Warden called him to the courtyard. Soldiers were training—columns of them driving spears in unison, others practicing shield walls. The air was clean but sharp.
"You'll train," said the Warden. "A Reader unable to fight dies quickly."
Elias stared at the columns of soldiers. "You want me to keep up with them?"
"No. You need to live long enough to be useful."
The training was brutal. A hardened-up sergeant screamed at him, having him do repetitive simple strikes again and again until his arms felt like lead. The sword was heavy and imbalanced in his hand—if you could even describe that experience at all. Being a member of the high school fencing club didn't cut it.
Glimpses of the city beyond the training area popped in between drills. It was larger than he had envisioned—curving streets, market stalls under worn woolen cloaks, buildings housing uneven stone patchwork. Smoke rose from a score of chimneys. People looked at him with suspicion and curiosity in equal measure.
They stopped to drink water at noon. Elias sat down on a bench, rubbing his wrists.
"You fight like a farmer, not an army man," the sergeant said beside him.
"Thanks," Elias growled.
"It's not a criticism. Farmers survive. Soldiers die young." The man's eyes tightened. "But you… you have weird luck."
Elias smiled. "Yeah. Luck."
The Warden summoned him back later in the day. There was a map spread out on the desk—a rough drawing of the lands surrounding them. The Warden indicated a location east of the city.
"This is where you woke up?"
"Yep," Elias said. "Near a ruin. Dead dude in armor. Fog everywhere."
The Warden's jaw tightened. "That's carrion ground. And more worrying—it's within a day's march of the Black March."
"The what?"
"Old battlefield. Abandoned for centuries. But recently… there are signs of movement there." His gaze locked on Elias. "If the Script showed you something there, it means it will matter."
Elias frowned. "Matter how?"
The Warden didn't answer directly. "You'll find out. Soon enough."
That night, the Script reappeared. No sound, no warning—only words thudding faintly against the darkness of his small room.
"The Reader meets his first friend at sunrise. The friend will not survive the day."
Elias scowled at the words until they vanished. There was no sleep whatsoever.