Charles had barely taken two steps down the alley when the voices came—low, mocking, full of venom.
"We told you we'd remember you, little human scum," one snarled. "Now we're going to teach you how to behave properly."
Charles froze.
The alley, which had seemed like a convenient shortcut between two market streets, now felt like a trap snapping shut.
Six beastkin blocked his way. Two were instantly familiar—the bear brothers, smug and brutish. The rest were new: a tiger-striped slab of muscle in a sleeveless vest, a wiry hyena-faced brute whose eyes twitched with every breath, and two lean wolfkin flanking the group like trained enforcers.
Shit.
His pulse spiked. He hadn't told a soul where he was. Yet they still found him. How?
Charles inhaled sharply and forced a thin, humorless smile. "The city guard doesn't look kindly on brawls in this district," he said lightly. "Next time, maybe pick an alley in the slums."
The bear leader tilted his head, chuckling slowly. "Don't worry about the guard. By the time they show up, you'll be a lovely little pile of broken bones and regret."
Charles's hands itched toward his knives. "So what are we waiting for? I've always wanted a bear head hanging in my lavatory."
He lunged.
---
The first seconds were chaos.
The wolfkin attacked simultaneously. Charles slashed, blades cutting through air and flesh alike. The tiger lunged—he twisted aside, landed a heavy elbow to the brute's jaw. The bear brothers swung clubs of bone and wood, connecting with his shoulders. Pain exploded, but he rolled, countered, and kicked.
For a moment, it seemed he might hold them off. Every move was calculated, precise—slashing, ducking, throwing elbows, driving knees into ribs. Sweat and blood stung his eyes. His muscles screamed, yet he forced each strike to count.
But the beastkin were cruel, coordinated, and relentless. One wolfkin feinted, forcing him to overextend, and the tiger drove his shoulder into Charles's chest. He tumbled backward, crushing a pile of trash underfoot. A bear brother grabbed a wrist mid-lunge, twisting painfully. Pain flared through his arm, and his knife clattered to the cobblestones.
The alley seemed to shrink around him. Dust rose, stinging his eyes. His ribs burned with each breath. He landed a solid kick, sending the tiger staggering, and a knife slash tore across a wolfkin's arm—but there was no relief.
"They're not holding back," Charles thought grimly. "They want more than pain. They want to cripple me."
And they made it clear.
The bear leader's club caught him across the back, knocking the air out of his lungs. The tiger landed on his legs, pinning him. The wolfkin grabbed his arms, forcing them behind his back. Charles thrashed, trying to roll free, but boots and claws rained down—sharp, merciless, deliberate.
He could feel the intent: not just victory, but humiliation.
Blood ran from his lip and split eyebrow. His vision blurred with sweat and dust. Pain hammered through every joint. He swung a knife blindly, catching air. Another swipe, too slow, met a boot across his side, doubling him over.
"Little human… you're lucky we're in a city," the bear sneered. "Out there, you'd be scraps by now. Here… we'll make you regret every breath."
Charles's muscles screamed, but he forced his body to keep moving, rolling, elbowing, striking—but it wasn't enough. Step by step, blow by blow, they pressed him into the alley wall.
He gasped, tasting copper from a cut lip. Panic rose. Every instinct screamed survival, yet exhaustion gnawed at his limbs.
Then—shouts. Commands. Footsteps pounding.
"Stop! You there—halt!"
The attackers froze. Ears flicking. Eyes darting. One growled, unsure. Another hesitated, checking the street.
"Shit! Guards!"
And that hesitation was all Charles needed—not that he could move much. The guards' arrival scattered them like startled rats. Growls, curses, and thuds echoed as the beastkin bolted into side alleys, over fences, disappearing.
Charles lay gasping on the ground. Every muscle ached. Bruises painted his torso, arms, and legs in shades of purple and red. A boot to the jaw had split his lip. Ribs screamed with each shallow breath. The alley felt colder than before, indifferent to his struggle.
A shadow fell over him.
"Still breathing," one guard muttered.
"Drag him out of the road. If he stirs up trouble again, we'll toss him in a cell for loitering."
Half-dragged, half-carried, Charles was taken to a public well. Cold water splashed over him, shocking him partially awake.
"Clean yourself up. Go home," the first guard said flatly.
---
The journey back to the inn was torture. Every step pressed into bruises and lacerations. When he pushed through the front door, dozens of eyes turned to see a battered, bloodied hunter staggering in.
"Matilda," he rasped, "bandages? Hot water?"
Her eyes widened. "Gods above—what happened to you? Miranda! Help him upstairs. I'll fetch supplies."
Miranda caught him under one arm and guided him like a half-dead drunk to his room. He collapsed into a chair, every breath a knife in his side.
Matilda returned with steaming water, cloths, and bandages. "Take care of him. I've got the dinner crowd."
Miranda rolled up her sleeves. "Off with the shirt."
Charles hissed as she peeled away the soaked, torn fabric. Every touch flared fire along raw skin. She cleaned his ribs first, wrapping them tightly, then dabbed alcohol on his temple.
"Grrh… Thank you," he muttered. "I'm… grateful. I'll repay you someday."
Miranda smirked. "Buy me something shiny, fool. That's enough repayment."
"Rest. Come down for dinner when you can," she added before leaving.
---
Alone, Charles sat, breathing through clenched teeth. Pain throbbed everywhere. Beneath it simmered a darker heat.
They'll pay. Every last one of them.
Eventually, hunger won. He donned a clean shirt—slowly, carefully—and limped downstairs. The smell of roasted meat and buttered bread drew him in.
Dinner was slow, deliberate. Each bite reminded him that survival required more than pride.
He downed a mug of strong liquor. Then another. Pain dulled. Vision sharpened.
Charles raised a hand to catch Matilda's attention.
"More drinks?" she asked.
"No," he said, jaw tight. "What do you know about those bear fuckers from earlier?"