The wind rushed past the convoy as the Pegacampi cut through the clouds.
Far below, the ruined world stretched toward every horizon, a landscape of collapsed highways, rusting vehicles, skeletal buildings, and wandering shriekers scattered across the dead earth like insects.
At the front of the formation, Lysander rode in silence.
His eyes swept constantly across the terrain below, tracking every movement. Every shifting shadow. Every unnatural disturbance. Decades of training had taught him that survival often depended on noticing the smallest irregularity before it noticed you.
Then something caught his attention.
His hand rose into a clenched fist.
The convoy immediately slowed. Wings beat harder as riders adjusted formation around him.
Lysander narrowed his eyes.
Far below, near a clearing surrounded by overgrown trees, sat several vehicles. Cars, military trucks, vans.
The Velaric's mark on the back of his neck began to glow faintly. His senses sharpened. The world seemed to stretch. Details emerged. Heat signatures. Movement. Faces.
His focus pushed deeper still. Voices.
Two men sat on the hood of a truck, rifles resting across their laps. They were talking.
The words were a meaningless arrangement of syllables to Lysander's ears, but his heightened senses carried every foreign inflection clearly through the wind, letting the exchange ring out across the distance.
One of the men spat into the dirt. "Cada vez traemos menos gente."
The other grunted. "Ya lo sé."
"Antes encontrábamos grupos enteros."
"Ya no queda mucha gente viva."
A brief silence followed.
The first man shifted uncomfortably. "Si volvemos con las manos vacías otra vez..."
The second man laughed nervously. "No digas eso."
"Lo digo en serio." He glanced toward one of the larger trucks. "El jefe ya está perdiendo la paciencia."
The other man's expression darkened. "Sí."
Another pause.
Then the first man muttered quietly, "Capaz que nos coma a nosotros."
Neither laughed.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the conversation itself.
High above them, hiding above the clouds, Lysander's gaze hardened. He couldn't understand the words. Slowly, he lowered his hand. The convoy remained suspended among the clouds while he continued observing the encampment below.
"What is it?" Ysa asked.
Lysander never took his eyes off the clearing below. "It's a camp."
Ysa frowned and leaned slightly in her saddle, trying to see what he was seeing. All she saw was a dense patch of trees and overgrown vegetation. "I just see trees."
"For you." Lysander narrowed his eyes. "There's approximately twelve to fifteen individuals below. Perhaps more. The canopy obstructs visibility."
Ysa glanced at him. "What are they saying?"
"I don't know."
She blinked. "You don't know?"
Lysander's expression remained unchanged. "I can hear them. I cannot understand them." A brief pause. "I am unfamiliar with their language."
Ysa grunted softly.
That wasn't particularly helpful.
The formation hovered silently among the clouds while she considered their options.
Then she made her decision. "We're going in."
The riders immediately straightened.
Ysa's voice carried across the formation. "Draw your weapons."
Dozen of hands moved at once. Water bottles were uncapped. Streams of water poured into waiting palms and open air.
The liquid responded instantly. It twisted. Folded. Hardened. Bows emerged first, elegant and deadly. Spears followed, then scepters, swords, and weapons unfamiliar to any human civilization took shape from the flowing water.
Primitive at first glance. Ancient, even. Yet every weapon hummed with restrained power, as though the ocean itself had been forged into a blade. Sunlight glimmered across their translucent surfaces.
Below them, the ruined world remained unaware.
Lysander's gaze stayed fixed on the camp. "They possess firearms," he warned.
The atmosphere shifted immediately. Several warriors tightened their grips. Others adjusted positions in the formation.
Ysa nodded once. "Then be wary." Her eyes drifted toward the hidden encampment beneath the trees. "Let's see what kind of people we're dealing with."
A beat.
"Capture them alive," Ysa added. Her eyes shifted toward Lysander.
The Velaric met her gaze and gave a single nod. No further words were needed.
The formation banked sharply. Pegacampus' wings tilted as one, carrying the riders downward through the cloud cover.
Below, sunlight dimmed.
One of the men sitting near the campfire frowned and looked up. His face immediately drained of color.
The clouds were moving.
No.
Something was coming through them. Massive shapes. Wings.
The man stumbled backward. "Ay Dios mío..." The words barely left his lips.
More shapes emerged from the clouds. Silver feathers. Towering white beasts. Figures riding upon them.
The man's knees buckled. "Perdóname, Señor..."
Around him, others followed his gaze.
The camp gradually fell silent. Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads tilted upward. Faces paled.
Then the herd broke through the clouds. A thunderous shockwave rolled across the clearing. Wings beat once, barricades rattled, loose crates tumbled across the dirt, tents snapped violently, dust exploded outward in every direction.
Several men and women screamed.
One dropped his rifle.
Another immediately fell to his knees. "¡Es el fin! ¡Es el fin!"
A third staggered backward until he collided with a military truck. "No... no... no..."
One of the younger men grabbed his rifle and pointed it toward the sky with trembling hands.
"¡Por favor, otra oportunidad!"
"¡Es el juicio final!"
Chaos spread through the camp like wildfire.
The riders descended like beings torn from scripture itself. Beautiful. Terrifying. Otherworldly. Weapons shimmered in their hands. Bows glinting at the sunlight. Crystal spears. Scepters glowing with restrained power.
One man broke first. He dropped to his knees and began making the sign of the cross over and over. "¡Jesucristo, sálvame!"
Another threw her rifle into the dirt as though touching it might somehow damn her further.
A third turned and ran. He made it barely ten steps before glancing over his shoulder. The sight stole whatever courage he had left. Slowly, he stopped. Then sank to his knees. "No quiero morir..."
Nearby, an older man openly wept. His hands were clasped together so tightly his knuckles had turned white. "Lo siento... lo siento..."
Another collapsed face-first into the dirt. "Perdóname, Padre, porque he pecado..."
One of the guards still clung to reason. "Tal vez sean personas?"
Nobody listened.
The Pegacampus landed one after another, their hooves striking the earth with enough force to make the ground tremble.
Ysa stepped down first. Lysander landed beside her.
Several people flinched. One whimpered. Another began confessing sins so rapidly that even the men around him stared.
The camp broke. Not into battle. Into panic. A few still clutched their weapons but none dared raise them.
Most simply knelt. Trembling. Praying.
Then—
One of the men finally broke. With trembling hands, he raised his crossbow and pulled the trigger.
The bolt shot across the clearing.
Raine didn't even flinch. The projectile stopped inches from her eye. Her hand had snapped up so quickly that most of them hadn't even seen the movement. The bolt resting between her fingers.
Silence fell.
Raine slowly lowered her hand and looked at the weapon. Then at the man who had fired it.
The fury that crossed her face made his blood run cold.
"No..." he whispered.
Raine dropped the bolt.
The man's face drained of all color. Several of the others simply shut their eyes. Whatever hope they had of surviving this encounter vanished.
Raine raised her bow. Energy crackled between her fingers, condensing into a blinding golden arrow that hummed with power.
The man's eyes widened in terror. He spun and fled.
The arrow flew as a streak of liquid gold cutting through the air.
A heartbeat later, it struck his knee.
The joint exploded in a shower of bone and flesh. The man collapsed with a guttural scream that echoed through the clearing as he clutched the ruined limb.
The others flinched as one. One woman covered her mouth, another's prayers devolved into frantic whispers, while a third stared in horror at the writhing figure on the ground.
The man kneeling beside the injured cannibal had lost control of his bladder, dark warmth spreading across his trousers. He didn't even seem aware of it. His knees shook so violently he could barely remain upright. "Madre de Dios..." he whispered.
No one reached for a weapon after that. No one dared. The screaming man on the ground had made the lesson painfully clear.
Ysa looked toward Raine, who merely shrugged with an unsettling calm. She exhaled through her nose and turned back toward the camp.
Saige stepped up beside her. "What's happening?" he asked quietly. "Why aren't they fighting?"
Ysa stared at the trembling humans kneeling around the clearing. "I have no idea." She cleared her throat and stepped forward.
Half the camp flinched. One man actually whimpered.
Ysa's frown deepened. The reaction only made the situation stranger. She approached the campfire. Then stopped.
Something was roasting over the flames.
For a moment, her mind refused to process what her eyes were seeing. Then she recognized the shape.
Fingers.
Her stomach turned.
A human arm. Grilling over an open fire like a piece of meat.
The clearing suddenly felt colder, despite the fire's warmth.
Ysa's expression hardened. Without a word, she thrust her sword forward and lifted the charred limb from the embers.
The reaction was immediate. Several cannibals lowered their heads in shame. Others began crying softly. One covered his face with both hands as if to block out the reality of what they'd done.
Ysa stared at them with undisguised disgust. "Monsters." The word left her lips as a venomous whisper. She turned.
The others saw what hung from her blade. Lysander's eyes narrowed, the mark upon his neck glowing faintly with gathering power.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. Whatever sympathy he possessed for humanity evaporated instantly.
One of the cannibals suddenly crawled forward, crying and begging.
Ysa instinctively shifted into a combat stance. Before she even registered what he was doing, the man threw himself at her feet.
Instinct took over. Her leg moved. The kick landed squarely across his face. A sickening crack echoed through the clearing.
The man flew sideways. Blood sprayed from his shattered nose. His jaw hung at an unnatural angle as he rolled across the dirt, screaming.
The entire camp froze in terror.
Ysa looked down at him with disgust. Then she pointed her sword at the others. "You will lead me to your base."
Blank stares. Confused faces. Several exchanged nervous glances.
Then one finally raised both hands. " No entiendo inglés! No inglés!"
Others immediately nodded. " No hablo inglés!"
Ysa's eye twitched. The voices rose in a language she didn't recognize. She couldn't understand the words, but the tone was obvious, excuses, delay. Her patience finally snapped. "Tie them up!"
The sirens moved immediately.
Saige stepped forward. He raised one hand. The forest answered. Branches groaned. Leaves rustled.
The trees surrounding the clearing began to sway despite the absence of wind.
Several cannibals gasped. One started praying again.
Roots shifted beneath the earth. Vines emerged from the trunks like living serpents. They slithered from tree to tree, weaving through branches before gathering around Saige.
One after another, he cut and tossed the vines to the sirens.
The sirens spread through the camp.
Most of the cannibals simply extended their wrists while shaking uncontrollably. No resistance. No struggle. One man burst into tears while being tied. Another kept muttering prayers under his breath.
A few attempted to pull away. Those attempts lasted all of three seconds.
A siren's fist sent one man unconscious. Another received the flat of a spear across the side of his head and collapsed instantly.
The rest learned quickly. Within minutes, every cannibal in the camp was bound.
The clearing fell silent once more. Only the crackling of the fire remained.
~~~
Meanwhile, somewhere downstream, deep within the forest, Dylan stirred.
A weak sound escaped him as his eyes opened. Sunlight filtered through the leaves overhead. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance. The river nearby flowed steadily, its sound muffling everything else.
Then the pain returned.
It hit all at once.
Dylan sucked in a sharp breath and immediately regretted it. Something stabbed into his side. He clenched his jaw and remained still until the worst of it passed.
"Jesus..."
The word came out as little more than a rasp. His mouth felt dry enough to crack. Every instinct screamed for water.
Slowly, painfully, he rolled onto his stomach and began crawling toward the riverbank. Each movement felt like dragging broken glass through his muscles. Several times he stopped, breathing hard, before forcing himself onward.
When he finally reached the water, he nearly collapsed into it.
His hand plunged into the river first. Cold water ran across his skin. He scooped up a handful and drank greedily before forcing himself to slow down. Another handful followed. Then another.
Only after the edge of his thirst dulled did he splash water onto his face. Mud, blood, and grime washed away.
His wounded cheek burned immediately. Dylan touched it carefully and winced. The skin around the cut felt hot.
He didn't need a doctor to tell him infection had already started setting in. Getting thrown into sewer runoff practically guaranteed it. He washed the wound again anyway. It wasn't much, but clean water was better than leaving dirt and filth sitting in it.
Exhausted by the effort, he leaned back against the riverbank and began checking himself over.
His abdomen was covered in bruises. One shoulder felt half-dislocated. Scrapes and cuts covered his arms. None of that worried him nearly as much as the pain in his ribs.
Carefully, he pressed along his side.
The moment his fingers reached one particular spot, agony shot through his chest.
Dylan froze.
Broken rib. At least one.
He sat there for a long moment, breathing slowly through his nose while his military training took over. He checked his breathing. Painful, but manageable. No blood when he coughed. No bubbling sounds from his chest. No obvious signs that a rib had punctured a lung.
That was something.
The infection worried him more. Fever chills were already creeping through his body. Sweat coated his skin despite the cool breeze coming off the river.
Dylan rubbed a hand over his face and immediately regretted touching the injured cheek. "One disaster at a time."
He tore a strip from his shirt without thinking. One tight wrap around his torso. Another pull—
His shoulder screamed.
Dylan froze mid-pull, teeth clamping down hard against the sound that tried to come out. For a few seconds he just breathed through it, jaw locked, waiting for the white-hot flare to drop back down to something workable.
It didn't fully. But it dulled enough.
He shifted his grip, favoring the good side, and finished the wrap with one arm doing most of the work. Not ideal. But the pressure locked his breathing shallow and controlled.
A short, sharp exhale. "Good enough," he muttered.
The words sounded ridiculous even to him. Still, staying here wasn't an option. Night would come eventually, and the forest would become a very different place after dark.
Grunting through the pain, Dylan grabbed a nearby tree and hauled himself upright. The world spun violently for a second. Black spots danced across his vision.
He waited until the dizziness eased. Barely.
He looked toward the river. It was the only landmark he had. No map. No compass. No clue where he was. But rivers led somewhere, better than wandering blind through the forest.
Leaning heavily against the tree, he began moving upstream.
As Dylan followed the riverbank, he kept scanning his surroundings. Survival had become automatic long ago. Every patch of movement, every unusual shape, every sound drew his attention.
Eventually he spotted a thick fallen branch lying near the water's edge.
It wasn't ideal. But it would do.
He limped toward it and picked it up, testing its weight before using it as a walking stick. The extra support immediately eased some of the strain on his injured side.
Not much but enough.
His head throbbed with every step. Sweat rolled down his neck despite the cool air drifting off the river. Several times his vision blurred, forcing him to stop and steady himself before continuing.
At one point his foot slipped on the muddy bank.
He stumbled forward. Pain exploded through his ribs. A curse escaped him as he caught himself before hitting the ground.
When the dizziness passed, he noticed a cluster of berries growing from a nearby bush.
Dylan crouched beside them. His father had taught him enough wilderness survival to avoid doing something stupid. After a minute of inspection, he picked a few and ate them. The taste was sour. Not pleasant. But food was food.
He finished the handful and continued upstream.
About an hour later, something unusual caught his eye.
Through a break in the trees, farther from the river, he spotted the corner of a tent.
Dylan immediately stopped moving. The walking stick lowered. His eyes narrowed.
A camp.
Using the trees as cover, he crept closer to the camp, stopping every few steps to observe. His eyes swept across the area methodically—tent entrances, sightlines, possible firing positions, escape routes.
Nothing moved. The entire place looked wrong. Yet he could hear something.
A faint buzzing.
The sound instantly put him on edge. Without thinking, he slipped behind a nearby tree and observed the area.
Minutes passed. No movement. No voices. No signs of survivors.
His gaze traveled across the camp.
The fire pit had long since gone cold. Rust coated abandoned cookware. Fallen branches and weeds had begun reclaiming portions of the site.
Dylan frowned. Slowly, he crept forward. Every step was deliberate. The smell reached him before the tent did.
Rot. A thick, nauseating stench hanging in the air.
His stomach immediately twisted. He stopped beside the nearest tent and carefully grasped the zipper.
The buzzing grew louder. Flies. A lot of them.
Dylan already knew what he was going to find. Still, he opened the flap a few inches. The smell hit him like a punch to the face.
He recoiled instantly. A violent coughing fit seized him. Pain shot through his ribs. "God—" He doubled over, wincing. The stench was overwhelming.
After a few moments, Dylan finally got his breathing under control.
The smell was still there, lingering in the back of his throat, but at least the coughing had stopped.
Grimacing, he shifted his footing and used the branch to lower the zipper further.
The opening widened. His eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. A corpse lay on the floor. Another beside it.
For a second, his brain registered nothing unusual. Then he saw the smaller shape.
The woman was still holding a baby in her arms. A wedding ring remained on her finger.
Dylan froze. The sight hit harder than he expected. For a long moment he simply stared. Then he forced himself to focus.
Sentiment wouldn't keep him alive.
His gaze swept across the tent. A small knife sat partially tucked into a bag near the bodies. But first things first. Using the branch, he carefully poked the woman's shoulder.
No response.
He poked again.
Nothing. The bodies were long past the point of rising for any reason.
Satisfied, he crouched beside the entrance and reached for the bag. The movement sent a sharp spike of pain through his ribs. He ignored it.
Dylan immediately backed out and zipped the tent shut again. The smell diminished slightly. Not enough. But enough.
Sitting heavily on a nearby log, he opened the bag and dumped its contents onto the ground.
A few diapers fell out, expired medicines, a baby bottle, a towel, and a dirty pacifier.
Then something metallic dropped into the dirt.
Dylan stared.
A revolver. Now that was useful. He picked it up and inspected it carefully. Rust had begun creeping across parts of the frame, but not enough to render it useless.
He swung the cylinder open. A few rounds remained. He checked the action. The mechanism still functioned. The trigger felt stiff but workable.
After a brief inspection, he nodded to himself.
He reached for the towel, then stopped halfway—his shoulder gave a dull, sharp warning.
Dylan shifted his grip to the other hand instead. Once everything was packed away, Dylan slung the bag over his shoulder and pushed himself back to his feet. The weight of the bag tilted unevenly as he adjusted it, keeping it off the injured side without thinking about it too much.
The added weight wasn't much but still.
Everything hurts.
Every tent he checked confirmed the same thing—no life left here.
In one of them, he found a man slumped against a tree just outside the entrance, head ruptured, dried blood dark against the bark. A pistol still hung loosely in his hand. On his finger, a wedding ring—plain, worn down. It matched the one he had seen earlier on the corpse inside the first tent.
That detail sat in his mind longer than it should have.
He didn't say anything to it. He just bent and picked the pistol up and kept moving.
He spent the next few hours moving through the abandoned camp on a broken rhythm, limping when the pain spiked, stopping whenever his strength dipped too low to continue, then forcing himself forward again.
Eventually, he found a smaller tent that hadn't been completely torn apart. No bodies inside. Just the remnants of someone who had left in a hurry—or never came back.
He searched it carefully.
A worn sleeping bag lay in the corner, torn open along one side. He checked it anyway, pressing it down to confirm it was dry enough to use. Satisfied, he took what he could from inside, anything remotely useful, then stepped back out.
Starting a fire took him longer than it should have.
His hands wouldn't cooperate at first. The fatigue made everything feel delayed, like his body was reacting half a second too late to his own commands. The first attempts failed completely—no spark, no ember, just frustration.
He tried again.
This time, something caught. A faint ember flickered into life, weak at first, then slowly building until it finally held.
He watched it for a moment like he didn't fully trust it to stay.
When it didn't die, he exhaled through his nose—quiet, relieved in a way he didn't want to admit.
Only then did he sit down.
He leaned back against the tent, the firelight casting uneven shadows across the remains of the camp, and began going through the supplies he had gathered, one item at a time, as if organizing them could also organize whatever was left of his thoughts.
~~~
Back at Havenwall, Lucas moved through the settlement with a growing tension in his stride, stopping anyone he passed. "Have you seen David?"
Each answer came the same.
"No."
"No."
"Haven't seen him."
By the time he reached the gate, his pace had already shifted from searching to urgency.
Yve and Ava were there, working on a wooden sign Ava had made yesterday. Yve was securing it into place while Ava steadied the frame.
Lucas approached immediately. "You girls seen David?"
Ava shook her head.
Yve didn't look up right away. "No. Why?"
"I haven't seen him since yesterday."
That landed heavier than it should have.
The movement around them slowed slightly, as if the air itself had noticed the shift.
Yve paused mid-motion. The hammer in her hand stopped. For a second, she just stood there.
The feeling returned.
The same feeling that had been following her since the manor. Since the conversation beneath the Pegacampus wings. Since that morning.
Little things she hadn't understood at the time drifted through her mind. Her grip tightened around the hammer.
Ava straightened.
Lucas watched her carefully. "Yve… where's David?"
For a moment, Yve didn't answer and her eyes unfocused. Not because she was distracted. Because her mind was suddenly moving too fast. One memory connected to another. Then another.
Her stomach dropped.
A beat.
"Oh my heavens."
The words came out with a long exhale, almost like she was trying to contain something larger than panic.
Lucas' expression tightened immediately.
Ava noticed it too.
Yve's gaze drifted past them, unfocused at first—then sharpened. Her eyes narrowed slightly, like a piece of a pattern had finally clicked into place.
Lucas followed her line of sight, then snapped back to her. "Yve… where's David?"
Yve swallowed. "It might not be David."
Ava blinked. "What?"
Yve shook her head slightly, like she was trying to correct herself mid-thought. "How could I be so stupid?"
Lucas stepped closer. "What are you talking about?"
"I knew something was wrong with him," she said, voice tightening. "I just couldn't figure it out. I saw it the moment I saw him back at the manor. His face—something was off. I thought it was nothing. I thought it was just exhaustion. I—" she exhaled sharply "—I should've known."
A chill settled into Lucas' posture.
Yve looked up at him now. "David is a Skindrifter."
Silence hit like a physical object.
Ava took an instinctive step back.
Lucas didn't move, but his face changed instantly. "What…?"
Yve hesitated. "I—" Her voice softened, but not with comfort—more with certainty she hated. If the one we brought back isn't him, then that means it took another identity."
Lucas' jaw tightened. "Then anyone here could be one."
Ava frowned, forcing herself to stay grounded. "Hold on. Circle back. Are you saying the real David is dead?"
That question hung in the air longer than the others.
Lucas' expression darkened. "No," he said sharply. Then again, quieter. "No. Don't say that."
Yve shook her head quickly. "I don't know. Skindrifters need live blood. If it couldn't move him without getting caught, it would've left him contained. But I don't know where."
She hesitated.
"Maybe the manor."
Lucas turned immediately. "I'm going."
"Wait." Yve stepped forward. "It's too dangerous."
"I don't care."
"I'll send Duncan," she said quickly.
Lucas froze. "But—"
"This place needs a leader," Yve cut in. "You can't abandon it." Her voice lowered slightly. "There's a Skindrifter inside these walls, Lucas. If you leave now, you're taking your attention away from your own people."
A pause.
Her gaze sharpened. "You need to watch your family."
Yve's voice lingered behind him as she moved through the compound. "Remember what I said. Don't let yourself be alone even for five seconds."
Then she was gone, cutting deeper into the settlement without waiting for a response.
Yve reached the makeshift workstation where Duncan was organizing tools and supplies. "Duncan."
He turned immediately. "Yes?"
She didn't ease into it. "David. David is the Skindrifter."
The words hit like a physical jolt.
Duncan went completely still. "...You're sure?"
"Yes."
A beat passed. Then his expression tightened—not disbelief, but rapid recalibration. Like his mind had already moved past shock and straight into consequences.
"I haven't seen him since yesterday," he said slowly. Then he frowned harder. "Wait—was that why his fingernails looked like they were peeling?"
Yve's head snapped slightly toward him. "What do you mean?"
"Yesterday," Duncan continued, thinking back, "I noticed his nails. They were… coming off. Thought it was some kind of skin degradation. I told him to let Ysa check it, maybe get it healed."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Duncan's expression shifted as memory caught up with meaning.
Yve exhaled sharply through her nose. "I was with Ysa all day. He never came."
Duncan's face tightened.
Yve began pacing. Slow, controlled steps that didn't quite hide the tension building behind them. "He must've switched identity," she muttered. "That means one of us is a Skindrifter."
She stopped. Then looked at him directly. "You can't be alone."
Duncan let out a short, humorless breath. "Yeah. I figured that part already matters now."
"Good," Yve said. No room for debate. "Then listen carefully."
"I am."
"I need you to find him."
That made him pause. Not from hesitation—but from understanding exactly what she meant. "You mean the real David."
"Yes. He might still be alive," she said. "I think the real one is still at the manor. If he is, he's likely being kept there—contained."
Duncan nodded once. No dramatics. No bravado. Just immediate acceptance of the weight of it. "I'll bring him back." A beat. Then he corrected himself, quieter and more precise: "I'll get him out."
Yve held his gaze for half a second longer, then nodded. "Take Darnell," she said. "You don't go into that kind of danger without backup."
"Already on it." He grabbed his gear and moved, voice rising as he called for Darnell without breaking stride, already transitioning from worker to operative as he disappeared between the structures.
The sun was already dipping behind the edge of Havenwall, dragging long shadows across the compound. To most of the residents, it was just another ending day—work finished, food secured, doors closing early as exhaustion settled in.
But Yve wasn't seeing any of that. Her attention moved differently now.
She stood still for a moment in the middle of the walkway, letting her gaze sweep across the people passing by. Every face. Every movement. Every pause between steps. She watched them like she was counting something invisible.
Her fists slowly clenched. Something was wrong. She could feel it under everything. Then her eyes dropped to her wrist.
Coiled there was the small serpent—sleeping, motionless, almost decorative in its stillness. Nierven hadn't stirred in hours.
Yve stared at it for a moment longer.
Then she acted.
A thin extension of her claws slid out, controlled and deliberate. She drew a shallow cut across her opposite hand. Blood welled up immediately.
Without hesitation, she tilted her wrist and let a few drops fall onto the serpent's mouth. "Wake up," she said quietly.
At first, nothing happened.
Then Nierven twitched. A faint ripple moved through its body. The eyes opened. Slow at first—then fully alert.
A faint glow ignited behind them as the serpent began to move, its body tightening and shifting against her wrist as if it had regained awareness of the world all at once.
Yve didn't stop walking.
She turned and moved deeper into the compound, her pace steady, Nierven now fully active, coiling and uncoiling along her arm with renewed life.
She reached the medical building without hesitation.
She climbed the stairs to the rooftop, each step quieter than the last, the compound stretching out beneath her as the last light of day faded.
Up there, the wind hit harder. Colder. More open.
She lowered Nierven to the rooftop floor. The moment he left her hand, his body began to shift.
Scales tightened and expanded in controlled waves, his form stretching outward as bone and muscle reorganized beneath the surface. In seconds, he had grown—now standing slightly taller than Yve herself.
He paused once the transformation stabilized.
Then he lifted his head. The serpent looked around slowly, taking in the rooftop, the wind, the building, and finally Yve.
A low hiss escaped him.
Yve didn't flinch. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. "Hey," she said softly. "How are you, buddy?"
Nierven responded the only way he knew how—another hiss, deeper this time, but without aggression. His tail moved around her legs, coiling loosely, not restraining her, just anchoring.
Yve exhaled and ran a hand along the side of his head. Then she frowned slightly. "Why were you coiling so tightly earlier?" she asked. Her fingers brushed over her wrist, where faint red pressure marks were still visible. "You bruised me."
Nierven tilted his head. Another hiss.
Yve studied him for a moment. "…Were you trying to tell me something?"
The serpent didn't answer in words. He shifted instead, slithering toward the edge of the rooftop.
Slow. Intentional. His posture changed immediately, less idle, more focused.
Yve followed his gaze.
Below them, Havenwall spread out in layers of light and movement.
Nierven's hissing grew sharper, more insistent, like pressure building behind a warning Yve could almost understand but not fully translate.
Yve narrowed her eyes slightly. "Are you sure?"
The serpent answered immediately, another hiss, followed by a low growl that carried no ambiguity.
Silence followed.
Yve's lips parted slightly, but no words came out at first.
"…Okay," she said at last, quieter now, her voice tightening at the edges.
She reached beneath her shirt and pulled out the dog tag Dylan had given her, then let it hang freely in the air. The metal caught the rooftop wind and swung slightly, glinting faintly in the fading light.
Nierven shifted immediately.
His head lowered with slow precision, attention locking onto the tag. He moved closer until the chain and metal were within inches of his snout.
A sharp exhale passed through his nostrils.
The serpent sniffed once.
Then again, slower.
A low grunt rolled through his body. His pupils tightened, then widened in a sharp, uneven dilation, tracking something embedded in the scent that wasn't surface-level. His posture went still, fully focused now, as if the tag had become a point of verification rather than an object.
Yve lowered her hand and slowly ran it along Nierven's head, the motion steadier than her breathing. "Find him," she said quietly. A pause stretched between the words. Then her grip tightened slightly against the dogtag. "And don't let him die."
Nierven hissed once. Short…and final.
Then his body began to contract. Scale by scale, muscle by muscle, he reduced in size until he was no longer towering beside her, but a normal serpent once again—small, compact, precise. Without hesitation, he slithered to the edge of the rooftop and slipped away into the structure below, disappearing from sight.
Yve didn't move. The wind brushed past her, pulling at loose strands of her hair, but she stayed completely still at the edge of the roof, fists knuckling so tightly they trembled with the sheer force of her restraint. Across the backs of her hands and rippling up her forearms, rigid scales flared to life —then stopped as she forced them back down, jaw locking tight.
She didn't blink for a long time as her eyes tracked downward , following a figure walking across the street.
Focused.
Locked.
On Dylan.
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Author's Note;
Hey guys! YGN the Realmmaker here.
So. This chapter. 😭😭 YOU'RE WELCOME. Between the divine judgment happening in the first part and making sure Dylan's injuries actually made sense medically...I wanted to give him two or three broken ribs but that felt a bit too "Hollywood", I mean Dylan is human, and three broken ribs in the wilderness probably would've killed him, so one it is! You're welcome again.
And a little FYI: I had a full five-minute crisis over the plural of Pegacampus. First I thought "Pegacampuses." Nope. That sounds like something you'd find in a Merriam-Webster dictionary. Then I tried Pegacampus' and it still didn't feel right. After a quick Google search told me Pegasus (Pegasi) and Hippocampus (Hippocampi) and I just said. Pegacampi. Done. HASHASHASH 😭
Alos, Yve's line, "And don't let him die" that was definitely not my first attempt. I tried "Save him." "Keep him alive." "Bring him back to me." "Report back to me." None of it clicked. Then that line surfaced from somewhere deep in my subconscious, probably from a movie I watched that for the love of Yve I cannot remember right now. I just sat there thinking...Yep. That's Yve.
Anyway. I hope this chapter hit the way I intended it to. 🖤