My eyes blew wide. Freya’s dagger was inches—no, centimeters—from the escort’s face, a silver streak of righteous fury slicing through the dim air of the cargo car.
Then, a motion, so unbearably fast it seemed to rip a hole in reality itself. I blinked, just once, and the next thing I saw was Freya’s blade caught between two of the escort’s fingers, held there like a child’s toy.
"Saints above," I muttered from beneath my breath, disbelief choking me as Freya’s fury shattered into wide-eyed shock, her body rigid with the impossibility of it.
Before she could react, the escort moved—a blur of precision and malice. His leg snapped up, planting an earth-shattering kick straight into her gut.
The force sent her flying, her body a ragdoll hurtling across the car, slamming into the far door with a sickening crunch.
The windows behind her exploded outward, glass spraying like shrapnel, glittering in the flickering light. She crumpled to the floor, motionless, her dagger skittering across the metal with a pathetic clatter.
The air itself seemed to vibrate, the weight of that single action slicing through the oppressive silence that enveloped us.
There was no need for debate, no space for words. The aftermath of that kick was a call to war.
My crew erupted from their hiding spots, a flood of desperate courage surging toward the escort. Dregan, Atticus, the beastman, and the others—shadows peeling from crates and corners, weapons drawn, eyes burning with defiance.
"You bastard!" Dregan bellowed, his voice a guttural snarl, spit flying as he charged. "I’m gonna shove that mask so far up your ass you’ll taste porcelain!"
Atticus, calm as ever, adjusted his cloak, his fingers already fishing for a vial, his face a mask of poised determination.
I remained crouched behind the splintered crate, my pulse a war drum in my throat, every instinct screaming at me to run, to hide, to vanish into the dark. But I couldn’t. Not now.
The youngest of our crew, a wiry kid named Tobin, was the first to close the distance, his short axe gleaming as he charged with a reckless snarl. "You’re done, you masked freak!" he shouted, his voice cracking with defiance as he swung the axe, aiming for the escort’s chest.
It was useless.
The escort moved again, a flash of motion so swift it barely registered as human. Tobin’s head hit the floor before his body did, severed clean, a spray of crimson painting the crates.
I clapped a hand over my mouth, stifling a scream, my whisper barely audible. "Holy shit."
There was no weapon in the escort’s hand, just the vague suggestion of movement, a flicker of deadly intent that left Tobin’s lifeblood pooling on the cool metal floor. The air grew thick, heavy with the coppery stench of death.
The crew froze, even the beastman, whose ears flattened against his skull, his growl dying in his throat as he sensed the predator before us.
"This ain’t right," one of them rumbled, his voice a low thunder. "He’s... he’s not human." The others stood paralyzed, their weapons trembling in their hands, the weight of Tobin’s death crushing their resolve.
Well, all except for Dregan and Atticus, who continued their charge, undeterred by the slaughter.
Dregan scooped up Tobin’s fallen axe, his cigar still clamped between his teeth, eyes narrowed to slits as he began to weave around the escort, his movements fluid, predatory.
"You think you’re hot shit, huh?" he growled, the axe glinting in his hand. "I’ve gutted bigger bastards than you for less!"
Atticus, ever the alchemist, began flinging vials from his cloak, glass shattering against the floor, releasing clouds of acrid, shimmering smoke—blinding, choking, meant to disorient. The escort didn’t even flinch. He sidestepped Dregan’s axe with an almost lazy grace, his body flowing like water, untouched by the chaos.
"Is that all?" he drawled, his voice laced with vague amusement.
I couldn’t stay hidden any longer. My fear was a living thing now, clawing at my insides, but the sight of Tobin’s headless body ignited something hotter, something reckless.
I stood, my knees shaking, and counted those phantom beats in my chest—one, two, three. By the eighth, the world folded inward, shadows twisting around me like a cloak.
I vanished into that other realm, the car fading into a monochrome haze, my crew reduced to figures of black mist, their movements slow, almost dreamlike. The escort was a silhouette of writhing darkness, his form sharper, more defined than the others, as if this place refused to dilute his presence.
I moved, my body light, untethered, slipping through the mist like a ghost. I reappeared behind Dregan, my hand grazing his shoulder to anchor myself back to reality.
The transition was jarring, the world snapping into focus with a rush of sound and color. "Dregan, Atticus, together!" I shouted, my voice raw and desperate.
They didn’t hesitate. Dregan lowered his body like a coiled spring while Atticus hurled another vial, this one bursting into a cloud of sparking embers that stung the air, forcing the escort to shift his stance.
What followed was a dance of death, a symphony of violence in the cramped confines of the cargo car. Dregan lunged, his axe swinging in a brutal arc aimed at the escort’s ribs. The escort twisted, his body bending at an impossible angle, the blade whistling past his cloak.
"Too slow!" the escort taunted, his voice dripping with disdain.
I began counting again—one, two, three—then vanished before reappearing mid-air, my boot aimed at the escort’s head in a flying kick. He ducked, his hand snapping out, fingers grazing my ankle with a force that nearly spun me into the wall. I twisted, planting my hands on a crate and flipping backward, landing in a crouch beside Atticus.
"Nice try, asshole," I spat, "but I’m not that easy to swat."
Speaking of Atticus, he was a whirlwind now, his hands a blur as he lobbed vial after vial—smoke, acid, bursts of blinding light.
One exploded near the escort’s feet, forcing him to leap, his body twisting mid-air with a grace that mocked us. Dregan seized the moment, charging forward, axe raised, but the escort landed on a crate, using it as a springboard to vault over Dregan’s swing.
I vanished again, counting to eight, and reappeared on the escort’s left, my fist driving toward his kidney. He spun before his elbow crashed into my chest, sending me skidding across the floor, my ribs screaming in protest.
Dregan roared, his axe slicing through the air, but the escort had begun adapting to his movements. He caught Dregan’s wrist mid-swing, twisting it with a sickening crack.
Dregan snarled, dropping the axe, his free hand lashing out in a vicious hook aimed at the escort’s mask. His fist cut through the air, knuckles grazing the cracked edge of the porcelain, and for a fleeting second, I thought we’d finally landed a real hit.
But the escort moved like a viper, his knee snapping up in a brutal strike to Dregan’s stomach, folding him in half with a guttural wheeze.
"Pathetic," the escort sneered, his voice cold as a blade. "You’re all so... predictable."
Before Dregan could recover, the escort’s hand shot out, fingers clamping onto a nearby crate with an impossible grip, the wood creaking under the unnatural strength.
With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the crate toward Atticus and me, the massive slab of splintered timber spinning through the air like a guillotine blade.
It crashed into us with the force of a bullet, Atticus taking most of the blow, yet together we flew. We hit the floor hard, rolling into a pile of crates, wood splintering around us.
"Loona, move!" Atticus shouted, shoving me off and hurling another vial just as the escort closed in on us. This one exploded in a burst of flame, forcing the escort to dive to the side, his cloak singed but his body untouched.
Yet, for the first time, he hesitated—a fleeting, unnatural pause, his head tilting as if the flames had whispered something only he could hear, his masked face fixed on the fading embers with an eerie stillness that made my blood run cold.
Dregan was back on his feet now, his cigar a smoldering stub on the floor. With a strength that would’ve been impossible for most his size, he ripped a metal pipe from the wall, the bolts screaming as they tore free.
"Let’s see you dodge this, you slimy fuck!" he roared, swinging the pipe like a club, his movements wild but precise, each strike aimed to crush bone.
I joined him, vanishing and reappearing as quick as I could muster, my fists and feet a flurry of strikes aimed at the escort’s legs, his arms, anything I could reach.
We were a machine, the three of us—Dregan’s brute strength, Atticus’s alchemical chaos, my wavering presence.
However, every strike we landed felt like a glancing blow, the escort’s body bending and flowing like liquid steel. He moved with the grace of a martial artist, each motion a masterclass in economy and violence.
Alongside that, I couldn’t help but feel that I was tiring, my breaths coming in ragged gasps, my heartbeats uneven as I flickered in and out of the realm of shadows.
Each reappearance felt heavier, the magic pulling at my bones, but I couldn’t stop. Not now. Not with Freya crumpled in the corner, Tobin’s blood pooling on the floor, and the escort’s presence promising more than death.
And then it hit me. I turned to face the beastman. "Gods above! You just gonna stand there gawking like a tourist at a bloodbath?!" I shouted, my voice hoarse.
The beastman, knocking himself out of his stupor, let out a roar that shook the car, his massive frame charging forward like a landslide from hell.
"Finally!" I muttered, my lips twitching despite the fear. "Took you long enough, big guy."
All three of us fell back, giving him some space, faces grim but resolute. Without so much as a warning, the beastman collided with the escort, a clash of titans that ended in a sharp bang, the metal walls groaning under the impact, leaving cracks in the glass.
And that’s when I saw it.
From beneath the escort’s cloak, tendrils of black, fleshy mass erupted, writhing like living shadows. They wrapped around the beastman’s arms, his legs, stopping him dead in his tracks, his roar turning to a strangled growl.
"What in the hells..." I breathed, my voice barely a whisper, my eyes wide with horror.
The tendrils pulsed, their surface slick and unnatural, glistening like oil in the dim light. Atticus gasped, his face paling. "Saint’s preserve us...he’s an Incarnic Mage!" he said, his voice trembling with awe and fear. "And a high-level one at that."
I cocked a brow, my chest heaving. "An Incarnic what now?"
"No time to explain!" Atticus snapped, his hands already fumbling for another vial. Dregan, ever practical, slipped past us, darting toward Freya’s crumpled form, his face set in a mask of determination.
The beastman struggled, his hands raking at the tendrils, but they tightened, cutting into his flesh, drawing beads of blood that glistened in the flickering light.
That was when Victor of all people seized the moment, his voice cutting through the chaos. "They’re at a standstill! Now’s our chance to strike!"
The remaining crew roared their approval, weapons raised—pipes, knives, a rusted chain—charging the escort with reckless abandon.
With his last ditch of effort, the beastman tore free from the tendrils, his claws slashing wildly, drawing a spray of inky black ichor from the writhing mass. For a moment, I felt it—a flicker of hope, a crack in the escort’s impenetrable armor.
"That’s it, big guy!" I called, my voice sharp, urging him on. "Rip him apart!"
Just then, a sharp yell pierced the air, echoing from a few cars down, followed by the unmistakable shattering of glass. My heart stopped. The realization hit me like a freight train, my blood turning to ice. Brutus!
Atticus caught my eye, his gaze sharp and urgent. "Go, Loona!" he shouted. "We’ll hold him off!"
I nodded, my throat tight, and bolted for the door. The train’s rhythm pounded into my ears, the cars blurring past as I sprinted, desperately praying that Brutus was still alive.