I drove my knife through a grimeling’s jaw, blade parting flesh and muscle as if it I was tearing through paper.

The second the blade was occupied, two of them—distracted with… someone—immediately wheeled and charged me. I pirouetted, keeping the blade in place without driving it home, pushing the wounded grimeling in front of me like a demented puppeteer.

Then I twisted the knife.

The grimeling screamed, and its fellows flailed, attacking the screaming grimeling instead. I freed my blade just as they tackled it to the floor.

I stared at them, flipping the knife and catching it easily. The weight differed from but it felt right in my hand, like it’d always been there. This was what strength felt like.

”Think carefully, before you deny who you are. Hastur will make you weak. A submissive dog in his sprawling kennel. He’ll smooth out the rough edges, removing everything that makes you unique, significant. He’ll strangle the warrior within you until only the child remains.”

Someone was calling my name. My real name.

They were telling Myrddin to run, insisting that the grimelings were too strong. Someone grabbed at my arm.

I pushed them away.

The lanky grimeling with the loop of tongues advanced on me, two large companions flanking him on either side. One had a scar across his mouth that made it look like he was always smiling, while the other had a slight limp—a broken leg that never healed right.

I cast on all three of them with a simple wave of my hand, feeling the distant throb of a headache as my mana drained to dangerous levels.

The repeated uses of my Ordinator abilities cost me. I was down to my weapons and physical prowess, a situation I was dimly aware would have terrified me in normal circumstances. But for maybe the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid.

worked best if your opponent made the first move. It was tactical—intended to create openings through careful advancement.

Without so much as a second thought, I tossed it away.

Instead, I relied on the pulsing drumbeat in my blood as I sprinted forward, directly at the leader. Lank’s mouth twisted, and he opened his arms wide, bracing. I diverged at the last second, ducking low under his outstretched arms before he could catch me in a bear hug, and drove my dagger into the soft tissue behind Gimp’s knee-cap. Then pried outward.

Gimp fell, gripping his leg. He had to be in an excruciating amount of pain, but unlike the others, I slashed my dagger in controlled horizontal strikes up his arm, tearing veins open, lingering for just a second too long.

Smiley ran in front of Lank and swiped at me with a backhand. I rolled away, but even the grazing impact across the back of my head and neck was enough to send me sprawling across the ground.

A hard anger welled up within me.

”Show them who you are.”

I feigned weakness, staying on my hands and knees until Smiley drew close. Watched as he drew his leg high with every intention of stomping my lights out. I shifted at the last second, whirling to my feet and risking one last use of to staple his foot to the dirt.

Smiley roared, and I smashed the crossbow’s handle into his exposed teeth, feeling an unpleasant crunch as they shattered, and shoved him clear, his foot tearing free of the arrow.

The whole thing had taken seconds. But Lank had no intention of politely waiting his turn.

He gripped the hilt of his crude knife with both hands and drove it downward towards my chest. His movements were undisciplined, sloppy. But I was off-balance from shoving Smiley. Dodging wasn’t an option.

I dropped both my weapons and caught his forearms. The impact nearly crushed me, slamming me to my knees. Every bone in my body creaked and threatened to snap. He tried to rip the knife free at first, then focused his entire weight on pushing it down until the point of the blade scraped against my solar plexus.

If we stayed like this, he’d break me in half.

Instead, I let myself fall, back impacting the dirt. Lank fell on top of me, single-minded in his ruthlessness, and I felt the blade point punch through my armor and an outer layer of skin. But he’d moved too close to my face in the transition.

I leaned forward, into the blade, feeling it sink in another millimeter, tilted my head to the side for a better angle and bit down on the soft flesh of his nose.

It tasted like fungus and bile. I bit down for all I was worth, and iron filtered into my mouth.

Lank reacted immediately, yanking backwards. But all he accomplished was tearing his own nose off his face. I turned and spat it onto the ground, shivering at the taste.

Lank screamed, a bloody opening where his nose used to be.

The reaction was instantaneous. The grimelings still fighting the people I came with—who were they, again?—all stood at attention, utterly still.

As one, the majority turned and retreated deeper into the cave.

I cautiously stooped down and retrieved the blade, never taking my eyes from the grimeling. The flesh around the ruins of his nose bubbled, the hole in his face growing smaller. He was regenerating.

Odd. None of the others did.

I charged forward, stopping dead to avoid a horizontal slash, pivoting in place and catching the side of his head with my heel.

Lank jumped backward, knife held in front of him in a forward grip. He was being more cautious now. It tempted me to push my advantage, but something held me back. The rest of these things couldn’t see for shit—but Lank could, at the very least, sense me.

I tested the theory, making no audible movement but leaning forward, slashing out towards his face. Lank leaned back, avoiding the blow,

I was right. He was more developed than the others.

Which meant this was a knife fight.

I shifted into an unknown stance on instinct, slapping his knife hand away as he probed my defense, looking for an opening, and landed a glancing blow across his shoulder. The exchange felt rhythmic, and the drums in my mind grew louder.

We repeated the movements again and more of the rhythm grew louder, easier to grasp. Another exchange of blows before we parted. Another glancing wound, closer to his vitals. There was obvious frustration in his sloppy movements, and he put more and more effort into his attacks, eroding his balance. I pushed him back, slowly, feeling the drums grow louder as my enemy panicked.

There was no time to breathe, to think. It was all moving so fast now that the slightest hesitation could kill me.

He lashed out again, and I punished the move, flaying a chunk of pale skin from his knife arm and missing his throat by a hair. He stabbed at me repeatedly, using an absurd amount of power. I danced backward, letting the strange music guide my steps. I knew I was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was finishing the dance.

There.

I feigned, stabbing forward with the hilt of the dagger and dropping it into my waiting off hand, driving the blade into Lank’s guts, dragging a red line up his torso.

He fell to his knees, gripping my arm with loose fingers. The loop of tongues swayed on the leather circle looped around his waist.

Finish it.

An image of Nick popped into my mind, tied up, helpless. What the Grimelings intended to do to him. I locked my fingers under Lank’s jaw, prying his mouth open, bringing the dagger forward. His face twisted in realization, revulsion, and fear.

Finish the song, Myrddin.

Someone grabbed at me. I kept a grip on Lank and pressed the dagger against their throat, belatedly turning to look.

A girl stood there, lips parted in a surprised “o”.

I strained to remember the girl’s name.

“Myrddin. The Ceaseless Kni—Nicholas is hurt.” The girl said.

Somewhere, a curtain fell, and the drums receded immediately.

As if a fog had lifted, suddenly I could remember her name perfectly. I lowered the dagger. “Halima?”

“Yes.” Halima swallowed, rubbing her throat. She pointed to where Keith stood over Nick, helping him stay upright in a sitting position. Blood matted the back of his hair. “He protected us. Saw what you were dealing with and tried to help, but a grimeling struck him in the back of the head.”

“Shit.” I slammed the dagger behind the Grimeling’s ear and left in there, in case its regeneration was still in play.

I swiped the notifications away, hurrying towards Nick. “The codex dose him already?”

Up ahead, Keith shook his head. “It’s saying it’s empty.”

“Probably when they caught him earlier.” Halima said.

“Yours?” I asked

“Used it.” Halima’s hands balled into fists. “I wasn’t—they were so strong—”

“Stay focused.” I said, realizing with a flare of anger that I was projecting. Divine interference aside—I’d totally lost my head, fighting the grimelings. And Nick was in a bad way as a result. “The Realms of Flauros fuck with you by design. Tear away your defenses, literally and metaphorically. Stay present. Don’t think about what could have happened. I may need you.”

Halima’s eyes widened, and after a moment, she nodded.

“M’fine,” Nick said. Tried to push Keith’s supporting arms away.

I dropped to one knee and tilted his chin up. One pupil was pinprick small, the other blown to hell. “No, you’re not fucking fine.” If he fell asleep like this, it was a one-way trip to coma town.

Nick tried to stand, and I forced him back down, swiped my codex against his.

I selected “yes” before the text could finish scrolling. The oily black band on my wrist pulsed, then dimmed.

I checked Nick’s pupils again. The change wasn’t huge, but it was there. After a few seconds he stopped swaying. His hand went to his mouth.

“They… they were gonna cut my fucking tongue out, man…” His eyes watered. For a moment, I saw the old Nick, gripping the parallel physical rehab bars.

I gripped his shoulders gently.

“I’ve got you, buddy. I got you.”