The cold hit harder now.

    Not the polite kind from earlier. This was the kind that crept down your shirt collar and whispered mean things to your spine.

    Lindarion pulled his scarf higher.

    Ashwing bounced once behind him, tail smacking against the wood of the doorway like a drumroll nobody asked for.

    Ahead, the village square was lit with only three lanterns. Two were flickering like they were considering retirement. One was already dead.

    Great.

    Ren yawned beside him. Not because she wasn''t alert. Just because she had the emotional range of a bored cat and the sleep schedule of a raccoon.

    ''Sleep? In this economy?''

    Meren was trying to lace his boots while walking, which was a bold strategy. He tripped twice. Pretended both were stretching.

    Ardan checked his sword. Checked it again. Then did nothing, which was somehow still threatening.

    Raleth led them toward the northern fields, jaw tight, pace brisk, and voice pitched just loud enough to carry.

    "Scouts say they''re spread along the treeline. At least four figures. One larger. Two fast. One unknown."

    "Sounds like a party," Ren muttered.

    "No party," Raleth replied. "No torches. No words. Just breathing."

    Meren made a noise that suggested he would rather be anywhere else. Possibly in a hole. With a blanket.

    Lindarion glanced sideways at Lira. She was quiet, but her steps had changed. Lighter. More forward. Like her body was walking before her brain had caught up.

    He didn''t ask what she was thinking.

    He knew.

    Same as him.

    Another attack. Too close. Too soon.

    ''Something is pulling them in. Or pushing them out.''

    They reached the edge of the village.

    Just beyond the fields, the treeline stood like a wall. Silent. Perfectly still. The wind didn''t dare touch it.

    Ashwing stopped walking. His body stiffened.

    His eyes locked on the dark.

    Lindarion followed his gaze.

    Movement.

    Shadows that didn''t match the trees. Shifting too slow to be wind. Too deliberate to be natural.

    Lira stepped forward.

    So did Ardan.

    Ren''s hand went to her sword.

    Meren whimpered and crouched slightly behind a barrel.

    ''Strategic use of cover,'' Lindarion noted. ''And cowardice. Equal parts.''

    A shape broke from the tree line.

    Too fast.

    It didn''t leap. It skated. Across the frost like it hated friction. Limbs long. Body narrow. Mouth split in four directions like a flower made of knives.

    Lindarion raised his hand.

    Fire met it mid-charge.

    The blast hit center-mass. It didn''t stop the thing, but it staggered. The mist peeled away from its sides like paint under acid.

    Ardan moved.

    One step.

    Then he was there.

    His sword carved up through the thing''s chest. A clean line. No hesitation. No elegance.

    Just done.

    The monster cracked. Fell.

    Dissolved.

    Behind it, more followed.

    Not in a line.

    In a wave.

    ''So that''s how we''re playing this.''

    Ren stepped up beside him.

    "We holding the line?"

    "Until it breaks."

    She grinned. "Awesome."

    Meren looked ready to cry. Or throw up. Or both. Probably both.

    Lira crouched low, blade already coated in a slick sheen of her own mana.

    Ashwing growled. Not cute. Not small.

    Deep.

    Lindarion exhaled. Rolled his shoulders once.

    The fire affinity pulsed again.

    Not loud.

    But ready.

    ''Let''s make this quick.''

    The next shadow lunged.

    —

    The second shadow didn''t die clean.

    It came in low, sliding through the frost like an eel made of knuckles and spines. Lira intercepted it with one fluid step and a downward strike that buried her dagger deep into its shoulder.

    The thing didn''t scream.

    It just twitched. Backward. Like it wanted to retreat inside its own body and try again with less pain.

    Lira followed. Blade still in.

    One sharp twist.

    Pop.

    The shoulder snapped backward, bone or whatever passed for bone in these things was grinding under pressure. Mist bled out. Not red. Not blood. Just fog with a purpose.

    ''Tidy work,'' Lindarion thought. ''Remind me not to borrow her hairbrush.''

    More were moving now. Fast.

    No formations. No noise.

    Just shapes slinking in across the field. Shadows on ice. Teeth first.

    The snow carried a wet iron smell now. Not blood. But something close. Something old. Like metal that had been left in the cold too long and learned to breathe.

    Ren darted forward with a hissed curse. Her blade hummed to life with that frostline glow, slicing a figure in half mid-spin.

    One down.

    Three more took its place.

    Ardan stayed back. Not from fear. From calculation. Watching how they moved. Waiting for something worse to crawl in.

    Meren had wedged himself between two carts and was muttering a prayer that definitely wasn''t in the approved academy hymnals.

    Ashwing let out another low growl, tail coiled, teeth bared.

    He didn''t lunge. Not yet.

    He was waiting.

    Smart.

    Lindarion lifted both hands.

    The fire came easy now. Too easy. It rolled down his arms like ink through parchment. Hot. Controlled. It didn''t roar, it waited, as if it was the one with expectations.

    He didn''t say anything.

    Didn''t need to.

    He stepped forward.

    And swept the flame across the field.

    It didn''t flash. Didn''t explode.

    It just moved, long and low like a scythe of heat, slicing through the nearest three shadows with barely a flicker. Their edges curled inward. Their middles melted.

    One tried to keep going.

    Ashwing corrected it.

    The dragon lunged, teeth bared, and clamped down on the thing''s neck. The crack echoed like someone splitting wood. Then silence.

    Ren let out a sharp whistle. "Remind me to never babysit him."

    "He''s housetrained," Lindarion said flatly.

    "On what? Demons?"

    Lira didn''t comment. She was already cutting through another.

    Her strikes weren''t flashy. But they were precise. She moved like someone who had studied this choreography on blood-soaked floors and then re-written it better.

    Another shadow surged toward her.

    She didn''t flinch.

    She sidestepped.

    Twisted.

    Drove a second blade into its base.

    It dropped like it forgot what vertical meant.

    Lindarion felt the heat rising off his palms now. Real heat. Not mana-warmth. Burn-warmth. He let it creep higher. Let it flare. The scent of scorched ice hit his nose, sharp, bitter, with a hint of melted leather.

    A shadow charged him.

    He didn''t wait.

    He threw the fire directly into its mouth.

    It lit from the inside, swallowing light before folding in on itself like a bad memory.

    Behind him, Ashwing let out a sneeze.

    More smoke.

    Maybe a little lightning.

    ''Great,'' Lindarion thought. ''He''s upgrading. Hope he doesn''t learn how to speak next.''

    More shapes appeared at the treeline.

    Not dozens.

    Hundreds.

    Their bodies dragged in uneven pulses—long arms, too many joints, skulls shaped wrong like masks made for someone else''s face. Some crawled. Some leapt. All of them hungry.

    Ren backed up a step, breath visible, sword loose in her hand.

    "So," she muttered, "we''re very outnumbered."

    Lira exhaled once through her nose. "Only if we stop moving."

    Ardan finally unsheathed his sword with a quiet ring that sounded far too polite for what was about to happen.

    Lindarion cracked his neck.

    ''Well...''

    His boots scraped into position.

    His palms flared.

    The cold pressed harder.

    The monsters didn''t stop.

    And neither did he.

    ''Let''s see who breaks first.''