Too neatly.

    He walked over. Snow crunched underfoot. The air didn''t warm. If anything, it leaned colder now. He crouched beside the rock and brushed the frost off the top.

    A mark.

    Just one.

    Scratched in. Rough. Sharp lines. Not carved with a tool.

    A claw, maybe.

    He traced it with his glove. Not a rune. Not a sigil.

    Just a circle.

    A broken one.

    Lira appeared beside him.

    She said nothing.

    Because what was there to say?

    Lindarion stood again. Dusting snow off his sleeves. Watching the trees like they might answer for this.

    ''Something got out. Something left. But not before leaving a very dramatic fire pit and an emotionally charged circle on a rock. Excellent.''

    He looked at Lira.

    She didn''t blink.

    "We should go back."

    "Yeah," he said. "Let''s do that before it circles back to finish its art project."

    They turned, the snow crunching behind them in slow rhythm.

    Neither of them spoke the rest of the way down. Not out of fear.

    But because whatever had been there?

    —

    The walk back was almost peaceful.

    Almost.

    The kind of peace that came with tension. Like a rope stretched just shy of breaking, humming in the cold air with invisible weight.

    Lindarion kept his hands tucked in his sleeves. The fire affinity stayed low, a slow thrum behind his ribs like it was bored but polite about it.

    Lira walked ahead, not saying anything. Typical.

    Every time he glanced over, she was looking somewhere else. Treeline. Ridge. Backward.

    Never at him.

    Which was fine.

    ''Silent walking is just bonding with extra steps.''

    They were halfway back to the village when the scream hit the air.

    High. Sharp. Human.

    Not echoing through the mountains like most screams. This one was close. Pulled tight and flung right into the trees like someone had thrown it.

    Lindarion froze.

    So did Lira.

    They didn''t look at each other.

    They didn''t need to.

    They ran.

    The forest turned into a blur of limbs and snow. Branches slapped against his arms, ice shattered underfoot, and the incline worked overtime trying to roll his ankle. None of it mattered.

    The scream hadn''t come again.

    Which was worse.

    Lira darted through the underbrush like it owed her money. No wasted steps. No sound.

    Lindarion, on the other hand, did not have stealth. He had speed, panic, and the deeply ingrained sense that if someone screamed nearby, it was probably his problem.

    They crested the ridge.

    The clearing below was small. Snow thinned here, trampled into patches of mud and churned frost. And in the center—

    Ila.

    The same girl from the other day. Hair tangled, eyes wide, face pale enough to vanish against the ground.

    She wasn''t hurt.

    Yet.

    But she was pointing. Upward.

    Lindarion looked.

    Saw movement.

    Then blinked.

    Then regretted it.

    A shape clung to the side of the cliff. Gray skin stretched tight over a long frame, like someone had taken a human, forgotten the proportions, and handed it a spine made of knives.

    Its eyes, plural, glowed faint red, flickering like embers dying out.

    Its mouth opened.

    Too wide.

    Too vertical.

    And teeth.

    Just.

    Too many.

    Lindarion stepped in front of Ila instinctively, fire already humming in his palm.

    ''...Nope. We are not doing this again today. I just had food.''

    Lira moved right beside him.

    No sound.

    Just presence.

    She raised one hand, darkness coiling at her fingertips.

    The thing on the cliff didn''t drop.

    It unfolded.

    Legs that bent wrong. Arms too long. Neck that stretched like it hadn''t read the anatomy manual correctly.

    It hit the ground hard.

    Didn''t flinch.

    Lindarion exhaled, just once.

    Then spoke to the girl behind him, voice flat. "Run."

    "I—"

    "Now."

    Ila scrambled up and bolted.

    Good.

    He didn''t need an audience for whatever flavor of nightmare this was.

    Lira had already moved into a half-crouch. Blade out. Not raised. Just ready.

    He rolled his wrist.

    Let the flame gather into a long, thin line along his forearm.

    The thing hissed.

    Not at them.

    Just in general.

    Like the air had offended it by existing.

    Lindarion muttered, "Tell me this isn''t another Hollowcarver cousin."

    Lira''s voice was low. "Worse."

    "Oh good."

    The thing charged.

    Of course it did.

    Because apparently, rest days were a myth.

    He moved sideways. Flame split off his hand, arcing toward the monster''s legs.

    It jumped.

    Over.

    Landed.

    Too close.

    Lira met it mid-lunge with a slash that bled shadow. The thing screamed, or made a sound that wanted to be a scream but got lost somewhere in translation.

    It didn''t bleed.

    Just cracked.

    Its side split open like old bark. No organs. Just black mist leaking out, thick and slow.

    Lindarion''s eyes narrowed.

    ''This thing isn''t alive. Not properly. Not anymore.''

    Which meant fire might work.

    He pushed more into his palm, built the pressure behind the threads. A burst, not a line.

    Then released.

    The fire shot forward like a needle made of spite and too much homework. It hit the creature''s chest and bloomed outward.

    Mist exploded.

    Lira was already behind it.

    Her blade cut up, then down, then vanished into the back of its neck.

    A pause.

    A twist.

    Silence.

    Then collapse.

    The creature folded like wet paper. Its limbs sagged. Its eyes flickered once.

    Then dimmed.

    Lindarion exhaled.

    Hands still up.

    Because of course something else might go wrong.

    Nothing did.

    Not yet.

    Lira stepped back.

    No blood on her. Just that calm.

    "Second time," he muttered. "Two in two days."

    "It''s not random."

    "No kidding."

    She turned to look toward the trees where Ila had run.

    "We''ll need to check if she made it back."

    Lindarion didn''t respond.

    Not because he didn''t care.

    But because his brain was busy writing a very long, profanity-laced letter to whoever was sending eldritch beasts his way like fanmail.

    He looked down at the monster''s remains.

    Then up at the sky.

    ''Next time I say yes to a "simple escort," someone punch me.''

    They turned.

    And started back. Again.