The symbols pulse unnaturally, the air thick with the scent of flesh and blood. Whatever Xarxar is attempting, it is active.

  The symbols and writings on the circle writhe and curl toward Xarxar's blood. They mix with his blood, the ink changing the color. The smell of blood turns to rot. The red blood becomes black kuor.

  Then—

  Xarxar's body rises to his feet on its own, as if something pulls him up. His dead expression shifts to a smile. Black kuor oozes from his wound and hardens, splitting into four thick tentacles that root into his torso—where the wound is. They stretch, twist, and coil, flexing as he balances on his feet.

  The tentacles move independently, slashing the air, probing the floor, testing the space between us. One lashes outward, scraping the edge of the circle. Another reaches forward, crawling along the ground. His steps follow the pull of the tentacles, dragging him closer, the motion unnatural.

  His transformation is complete. No longer a man, not even a corpse. He is a feral.

  “I am back,” he declares with a sharp chuckle.

  I exhale a loud breath, muscles tensing again. “You can't be serious.”

  Bang. Bang.

  I test his reaction. The tentacles lash out, stopping two rounds away from his head.

  Before I can reload, all four tentacles whip toward me. They strike with speed and force, cracking the floor and sliding behind me.

  I run along the left side of the room, using a pillar as cover while reloading.

  BAM. BAM. BAM.

  The tentacles strike again, slamming against the floor with relentless force. One pillar splinters and collapses.

  Bang.

  The bullet grazes where his shoulder should be, but a tentacle intercepts it, twisting under the impact.

  The feral lunges forward, mouth open, arms and tentacles aimed at me.

  Ding.

  I drop a shardfang and roll to the left.

  Boom.

  It detonates beneath the feral, shredding one tentacle. Blade fragments embed themselves across its body.

  The feral jolts, skidding forward from the explosion. Dust and shards scatter, sliding into cracks in the floor.

  It rises again, slow and struggling.

  “DAD, COME HOME!” the feral cries, the sound echoing off walls and pillars, bouncing across the room.

  Bang. Bang.

  Bullets strike the joints on its legs from behind. Metal and stone rattle under the impact. It collapses to its knees.

  It turns, two tentacles lifting its body while its legs hang limp, dangling. The remaining two tentacles function as makeshift legs, one tentacle guarding it. Each step leaves cracks across the floor.

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  It charges again. The floor groans under its weight. It lashes a vertical whip. I crouch. The whip tears into a pillar behind me. Concrete chips fall.

  Bang.

  The shot hits its belly. The spine bends, upper body buckling.

  Woosh.

  A whip strikes from the left, sending me across the room. I collide with the wall. Pain shoots through my ribs. It hurts but I gain a distance advantage.

  I spit blood, rise.

  “DIE!” the feral cries again. Its body bends downward. Two tentacles supporting it move slower, scraping the floor, leaving shallow grooves in the stone.

  I throw my last shardfang. It spins through the air. The feral lifts a tentacle as cover, but the shardfang lands on it.

  Boom.

  Two tentacles remain.

  The feral stops at the center, lying on its back, facing the ceiling. The remaining tentacles flail, scraping against pillars and floor, knocking debris.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  I empty the revolver. The feral stops every single round.

  Swoosh.

  A trackfang flies toward it.

  Distracted by the first, I throw the hidden trackfang from behind a pillar. Its target: the feral’s head.

  Ding.

  The first trackfang is deflected.

  Stab.

  The hidden trackfang lands clean. Black kuor bursts from its head. The liquid pools across the stone, hissing as it hits the floor, spreading slowly.

  The tentacles collapse first, dragging streaks of black across the stone. Its body slowly loses its motions.

  “I don't want to die,” it cries, a single bead of tear falling.

  Then it stops moving completely.

  Xarxar is dead.

  My breath slows. Muscles relax. Heart calms. Again.

  I gather the two Trackfangs I used in the fight. Their alchemical properties are gone, but they remain sharp enough for close combat. I slip them into their respective pockets.

  A single note lies on the desk at the end of the room, catching my eye. I walk toward it, careful not to disturb anything else. The page is torn, edges frayed, resembling the pages in my diary. The writings are indecipherable, gibberish to anyone. I slip it into my pocket without a second thought.

  As I move through the corridor toward the grand hall—

  Creak.

  A door swings opens. The sounds come from the grand foyer.

  My heart races again. I hastily move through the hall opposite of the sound.

  A moment later.

  Light spills from the doorway toward the foyer, and a man—a guard—emerges.

  “Who’s there?” he shouts, eyes darting first to me, then to the floor. The lessies’ corpses and black kuor stain the tiles. “What’s this liquid?”

  I pivot sharply into the nearest corridor.

  “Hey, wait!” he calls, giving chase.

  I run through the corridor, trying to find my way up. My footsteps echo, giving him a rough sense of where I go.

  Preeeeeeeeet.

  A sharp whistle cuts through the mansion. Footsteps echo in tandem somewhere beyond the walls, a rhythm of pursuit.

  It isn’t hide-and-seek. It’s more like a chase.

  I reach the second floor first, moving through the corridor I passed earlier. Some guards catch up, clearly using routes I don’t know.

  I reach the balcony I used during my entry. From there, I descend using the hooked vines already in place, gripping them firmly as I go down.

  “There!” a guard shouts as I land.

  “He wears a weird mask and a patchy coat!” another guard calls, spotting me as I run across the courtyard.

  “Quick! He’s entering the stable!”

  The closest horse is black, muscular, the kind that has seen battles. I leap onto it and sit upright, ready.

  A guard finally spots me, standing in the doorway. I spur the horse forward.

  It neighs and surges ahead. The guard in its path is trampled under hooves, crushed in an instant.

  More guards pour into the rear courtyard, but the horse is already galloping. It barrels past multiple guards. Some try to block the path and are shoved aside immediately, knocked off balance by the sheer force of muscle and momentum.

  The horse races from the rear courtyard along the mansion’s side, hooves striking stone, then bursts into the front courtyard. No guards in the front.

  The front gate lies open.

  The guards chase on foot, boots pounding against stone. They’re too slow.

  “WAIT!”

  Clatter. Clatter.

  The sharp rhythm of hooves rises from behind them.

  I turn my head once to check. Two guards on horses.

  I spur my horse again. It stretches forward, muscles tightening, stride lengthening, speed building.

  We cross the gate into the neighborhood street.

  “STOP!” the guards scream, their voices echoing through the sleeping district. Windows creak open. Faces appear in dim frames. Those who haven’t slept peek through curtains.

  The chase becomes spectacle. A few even cheer.

  I glance back again. They’re getting closer.

  I pull out the Trackfangs.

  Swoosh.

  The first blade flies true and strikes a horse in the head, killing it instantly. The animal collapses mid-stride. The guard is thrown violently, crashing into the high fence of a nearby mansion.

  Gasps and shouts erupt from the onlookers.

  Swoosh.

  I throw the second. The guard reacts quickly, steering his horse sharply aside. The blade slices through empty air and clatters somewhere unseen. It misses.

  But it buys me distance.

  I spur the horse again, forcing it toward its maximum speed. The animal responds, lungs burning, hooves striking harder, faster.

  The neighborhood vaporgates loom ahead, releasing tall veils of mist that spill across the street like drifting curtains.

  We rush forward and cross through the vaporgates.

  Mist swallows us.

  The neighborhood behind fades into a blurred silhouette, sound dampened, visibility fractured.

  We move quickly through the street beyond. Hooves clatter over cobblestones, sharp and relentless, echoing into the thinning night.

  With no one else chasing me, I slow the horse gradually, letting its breathing steady, letting the rhythm of pursuit finally dissolve into distance. When I’m certain no shadows follow and no hooves answer ours, I slide down from its back.

  The horse shifts beneath me, steam rising faintly from its flanks. I give it a light pat along the neck, then turn it loose.

  It hesitates for half a second before trotting off into the dim stretch of road, disappearing between low lantern light and drifting mist.

  Then I walk.

  Through alleys after alleys.

  Narrow passages where laundry lines sway overhead. Between brick walls that trap the cold air. Past shuttered windows and stacked crates and sleeping districts unaware of how close chaos had passed them.

  My steps grow quieter with each turn.

  Disappearing into the shadows.