Its wings twitched once, and it lunged.
Desan rolled to the side, boots scraping against stone, and snapped up into a guard stance before the thing could turn. Breathing heavy. Focus razor-sharp.
It didn't press. Not yet.
Instead, it rose on its hind legs, bones crackling like dried branches, and spread its wings and arms wide, trying the whole animal intimidation thing. Make itself look big. Scary. Like it hadn't just crawled out of a sack of rotting organs.
Velcrith hissed in his head, disgusted. "Really? They couldn't make it just a bit smarter when they cooked this one up in the Genlad?"
Desan didn't answer, but he could feel it Velcrith's disappointment bleeding through. Like, even he expected more.
"Sorry, I'm not impressed," Desan muttered, lips curling.
Then he moved.
Quick. Low. While the freakshow was still busy posing.
He drove in from the side, sword leading the way, aiming for the soft spot where the ribs met the wing joint.
It closed its wings at the last second, like a shield of bone and stretched, pale flesh.
Desan had to pivot mid-strike, twisting his hips and dragging the blade down toward its lower body instead.
Thud.
The blade connected, but it felt like smashing into a wall of reinforced wood. No give. No slice. Just bone-jarring resistance.
The shock shot up his arms, rattling his elbows. His grip almost slipped.
"Shit—" he hissed, staggering a step back, fingers numb, sword buzzing in his hands like it had hit steel.
The thing didn't even flinch.
It just turned its head slightly, the way a predator does when it finally sees you.
And then it started moving again.
It moved fast.
Too fast.
One moment it was still—next, its arm lashed out in a wide, sweeping arc.
Crack.
Desan caught the blow on his forearm, but it still sent him reeling. He hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, the breath punched clean out of him.
Before he could even curse, it was on him.
The thing dropped low, spider-like, wings folding tight against its frame as it skittered forward. Its limbs clacked on the stone like claws on glass. Fast. Twitchy. Wrong.
Velcrith barked in his head, "MOVE!"
Desan rolled, the creature's strike missing by inches—its arm slammed into the floor, leaving a spiderweb of cracks. Dust exploded up.
Desan coughed, eyes stinging, heart pounding so hard he felt it in his throat.
It turned again. Crouched. Hunched.
Twitching.
That head tilted, slow and deliberate.
It was studying him.
The thing tilted its head again, that too-long neck twitching like it barely knew how to hold itself together.
Desan loosened his grip on the sword—just a little. Let his shoulders drop. Let himself look tired. Weaker than he was.
He took a step back.
Then another.
The creature mirrored him.
"Come on," Desan whispered.
Velcrith, for once, kept his damn mouth shut.
It lunged.
Desan swung his sword in an upward arc—but the thing smiled. Or at least, the corners of its face twisted like it expected it.
It twisted its shoulder mid-charge and let the blow slide off, using the momentum to backhand him.
Snap.
Its claw crashed into his ribs, the force snapping something loose. One rib punched outward through skin, blood painting his side in hot streaks.
Desan flew.
Cracked into the wall with a grunt, the wind knocked from him, sword clattering across the floor, out of reach.
Desan bared his teeth. "Don't you fucking pity me…"
Velcrith growled in his head, "You had one job."
Desan coughed, spit red. Looked up.
Desan grabbed the crossbow. Hands trembling. Blood was running down his side.
He reached for a bolt, jammed it in.
Tried to pull the string back.
It didn't move.
Too much tension. Not enough strength.
His fingers slipped.
"Come on—" he hissed.
Tried again. Failed.
Third time. Fourth. Still no luck.
His hands were slick with blood, and the shaking only made it worse. Each failed pull sent pain lancing through his side, the cracked ribs screaming every time he tensed up.
It was humiliating.
He could feel Velcrith judging in silence. That smug, cold weight in the back of his mind.
Not a word, Desan thought. Don't you fucking say a word.
One more try.
He gritted his teeth. Pulled.
Snap.
Finally, the string locked back.
He slammed in the bolt, raised the crossbow, and that thing was right there, just a few steps away now. Tilting its head like it was enjoying this.
Desan didn't blink. He fired.
It tried to dodge. Twitched to the side like it saw the shot coming. But the thing had misjudged the distance, too close. Too cocky.
Thunk.
The power bolt punched into its shoulder, deep. Flesh cracked. A hiss tore from its throat, high and sharp like steam screaming from a broken pipe.
It staggered back, wings twitching, off-balance now.
Desan didn't smile—but he felt it. That heat in his chest. That flicker of pride under all the blood and fear.
"That's what you get," he muttered, cocking the next bolt into place, "for trying to play with me."
The creature shrieked—a jagged, inhuman sound that vibrated through the walls and down Desan's spine. Black ichor leaked from its wound, but it didn't slow.
It charged.
Desan fired the bolt.
missed.
Too close.
He reached for another—fumbled.
"Shit—"
The thing pounced and tackled him to the floor. The breath ripped out of his lungs.
He struggled underneath it, reaching for his sword, fingertips grazing the hilt.
Then it stopped.
It tilted its head. Studied him.
Its jaw unhinged with a wet crack.
And from its throat came a sound like boiling tar.
Velcrith hissed inside his mind, "Desan."
Too late.
The creature vomited.
A thick stream of acidic bile sprayed from its throat, pale yellow and reeking of sulfur and death. It hit Desan square in the face.
Instant agony.
The acid ate through skin like paper. His lips burned away. Eyelids melted. His scream was short—his throat was already dissolving.
His body thrashed, convulsing under the weight of the monster, as steam hissed off his skull. Bone cracked and bubbled. His nose caved in. Teeth dropped free like rotten fruit.
Desan's body twitched once, then went still, steam rising from the ruin of his face, bubbling skin slipping off like candle wax.
But inside?
Inside, something screamed.
"No—no no NO—!"
Velcrith.
Not smug now. Not composed.
Panicking.
"You idiot! You were supposed to live—I need you to live!"
His voice cracked like glass under pressure.
Desan's brain was already cooking—nerves shredded, mind unspooling into madness and silence—but Velcrith was still trapped in there. Still conscious.
"Let me out! LET ME OUT!"
A pressure built behind what remained of Desan's skull. Like something writhing beneath bone.
Velcrith pushed—a sickening, psychic scraping, as if fingernails clawed from the inside out. His essence pulsed like a parasite trying to escape a dead host.
The creature turned its eyeless face toward Desan's corpse. Its thin head tilted—curious. Watching.
Desan's skull cracked.
Not from impact. From within.
A faint bulge pushed against the temple—wet, unnatural.
Velcrith squirmed, his half-formed body dragging itself from the melted ruin of Desan's head. Wet slaps echoed as he inched forward, pulsing like a parasite soaked in rot and pain.
"Come on—move—MOVE—"
But he was slow. Slower than he thought. The acid had touched more than Desan—it had started burning him, too. His thoughts were fraying, splitting apart like sinew in heat.
Behind him, the creature leaned in.
It didn't roar.
Didn't charge.
It watched.
Patient.
Like it knew he was trying to run.
Then it opened its mouth.
Not fast. Not wide.
Just enough.
And spat.
A second glob of pure acid coated Velcrith's half-formed body. Steam exploded upward. He shrieked, the sound ragged and inhuman. His blackened flesh bubbled instantly, peeling away in strips, nerves screaming.
But the worst part?
Desan felt it.
Somehow, even in death, he was still there. Trapped. Half-conscious. His nerves, his mind—they lit up like firecrackers under glass.
He felt everything Velcrith felt.
The skin boiling.
The muscles liquefying.
And the panic.
"NO—NO! MAKE IT STOP! STOP! STOP!"
Velcrith wailed.
Desan couldn't move.
Couldn't scream.
But he felt every second.
He felt his body die twice.
Once, as Desan.
Now as Velcrith.
And Velcrith wasn't dying fast.
He lingered. Crawling. Wailing.
Until even thought began to melt.
"I don't want to—I don't—I don't want—"
His voice slurred. Warped. Then collapsed into wet gurgling.
The black parasite twitched one last time.
Then stopped moving.