The man’s blade was swift like a scorpion’s sting. It darted across Grae’s chest, opening a bleeding wound in one swift blur of steel. His hardened skin did little to protect him. The blade was simply too sharp.

Grae stumbled back, preparing a water bullet in his palm.

The sight of a monster working magic was enough to make the swordsman halt for a moment, flinching into a guarded stance.

But the mage behind him had no such reaction.

Before, the mage had conjured a sphere of light in his hand. By that light, Grae saw that the man wore a complicated gauntlet of metal, made from plates and bands of brass connected by glowing wires. Within each tube lightning crackled and danced, feeding back to a set of three vials that rode in an armored plate strapped to the shoulder.

Now, the man moved his fingers in a strange, boneless position. The ball of light floating above his hand turned to a dancing flame.

Grae saw what was coming. As the man thrust his hand forward and sent the flame shooting across the clearing in a blinding-bright lance of fire, Grae responded with his own magic, sending the water bullet crashing forward to meet the assault head-on.

Fire struck water with an explosive hiss. Despite everything, fire triumphed. It dissolved the water to steam and crushed through, less concentrated now, a roaring plume rather than a deadly, tightly-controlled beam.

Grae could only lift his hand to shield his face and go stumbling back, screaming out as his fur singed and the flame clawed down to the flesh below. He could smell himself burning, a bitter, acrid stench to the air.

They gave him no chance to recover. Already, the mage had conjured up another light. Already, the swordsman was diving in, his long blade ripping across Grae’s belly and flank as he circled around.

One of the mushroom-folk plunged out of the woods, coming for the swordsman's back with its staff raised high. That staff splintered over the man's impenetrable skin.

With a simple turn and a flicking blow, the warrior cut the mushroom-folk open across the belly. Strange, yellow-drenched organs hung in the wound. With a savage grin, the swordsman shifted stances and ran the injured beast through, plunging his blade deep.

Grae’s eyes flickered. One moment he saw the man…

But the next, he saw the light creeping through the cracks in a hidden doorway. He scented blood, the blood of his companions. He heard screaming, squealing, dying sounds, all punctuated by the ring and clash of human steel.

It stole his body from him. It made him shake and tremble, made him feel small.

“No…” Grae said. His voice was small, trapped in the bottom of his throat.

The man pulled his blade free, letting the mushroom-folk fall.

A second later and Grae hit him with all the force he could bring down. Grae's arm blurred and his clawed fingers broke as he struck the metal-skinned man hard enough to knock him off balance.

The human barely held to his feet as he was spun around, boots skidding into an awkward stance, blade interposing itself between him and Grae.

But Grae didn't care.

Grae didn't fear.

The blade sank into his shoulder as he bore down, grasping the man's face, his arm, lifting him up. They both screamed- Grae's massive cry blotting out the man's wail of terror.

With all his strength, Grae flung him at the mage.

The man had been trying to turn his second light into a new attack, fingers stumbling to twist and shape the spell. Instead he was struck by three hundred pounds of metal in motion, and sent sprawling down into the dirt. The light flickered out.

As for the swordsman…

Tough as his skin was, he was still breathless, dizzy, overmatched and overwhelmed. His sword had tumbled from his grip. He stood and pulled a knife from his boot, gripping it with his left hand flat and bracing the pommel.

Grae recognized something in him then.

A refusal to give in to his own terror. A bravery.

But it did not matter.

Grae slammed into him and let the dagger bite across his face, aiming for his eye but smashing against his tusk instead. Grae's hands gripped the man and pushed him down, using weight, not strength…

Grae had precious little strength left.

Humans, in all the world, were blessed with the ability to fight for days. A beast could only manage a minute or so of true exertion before they started to crumble. More than his wounds, the pure exhaustion was turning Grae's body against him. His limbs felt heavy, and in his belly hid a mass of iron, weighing him down.

But he had the power to end this.

He pushed his palm against the man’s face, conjuring a final water bullet. Flecks of shining water flooded through the air in a spiral, gathering under his open hand, gathering around the man’s skin. He envisioned the water pouring over and forming a drowning seal across the man’s face. The spell obeyed.

Water covered his eyes, his mouth, his nose. And with a twitch of a finger, Grae unleashed the bullet. Pressure and force pounded into every one of those soft places; water flooded down into the man’s lungs and drowned him on solid land.

There was not much left of him after that. What remained flopped about like a fish, dying in the air. It fell over and puked up water, but much of its lungs came with the water.

It was over.

Grae pointed a clawed finger towards the mage. “Stand up, or move without my permission, and I will kill you.”

The last of the humans was lying on the ground, cradling his broken arm. He made no attempt to cast another spell. “You… you…” His mouth worked, but his mind did not. He mouthed empty words.

“I.” Grae said. “Have won. And you should know well what happens to the conquered. But take heart in this- I need you alive.”

The man’s eyes strayed towards the forest where his three companions had ran after the horses.

Grae shook his head. “They won’t be coming back.” He could smell the human blood from here.

The mage’s eyes closed. His face was pale, and his sweat smelled of terror.

Grae closed his eyes too. As he sat back, his head lifted to the sky, and he felt the starlight run over his wounds. Ruby blood ran down his fur, dripping across the graying hairs. His wounds were scars of red on his silver frame. He shook with exhaustion, with lingering bloodlust, with relief…

He had won.

Not over the humans, but over the fear.