Ren was dreaming.
Fog rolled beneath his feet, pale and endless, swallowing the ground until there was no horizon left. Someone stood before him—a figure blurred by the mist. Tall. Feminine.
Her movements were careful, gentle—protective in a way Ren didn't understand. She spoke. Her lips moved, but the sound came muffled and distant, like it was trapped underwater.
Ren leaned forward.
"I can't hear you," he said.
He'd said that before. He'd stood in this fog before, with that same shape just out of reach—waking every time he tried to push closer, waking with the taste of a word he never got to hear.
But this time, his feet moved easier. This time, the fog parted when he forced it. He took a step. Then another.
Close enough now to see the way her hands trembled, like she was holding something back. Ren's heart kicked, sudden and hopeful.
Maybe this time—
The fog thickened.
Her posture changed. Urgency crept into the way she held herself. Her mouth opened—not to speak—but to tear something open.
Ren felt the wrongness before sound arrived, like the dream itself flinched. He expected a word. A name. Anything he could finally understand. Something he could answer.
The sound sharpened.
It wasn't a word.
It was a scream.
A horrifying, tearing scream that didn't belong in a dream—a woman's voice ripping itself raw.
Ren jolted awake.
For a heartbeat, he didn't know where he was—the bunk above him, the low ceiling, darkness pressing close, his skin slick with sweat. His mind was still fogged. His chest seized, like the scream had followed him out.
Then it came again.
Real.
The scream tore through the night outside the orphanage—raw and terrified, close enough to make his stomach drop.
Ren sat upright too fast, dizzy and disoriented, the dream clinging to his eyes like film.
"What was that?" someone murmured, thick with sleep.
Another scream followed—closer now—a woman's voice breaking as she ran down the road. Footsteps pounded past the building.
Ren dropped from the top bunk, landing hard and nearly tangling with the boy below him.
"Ow—what's happening?" someone groaned.
The dorm stirred. Older kids sat up, blankets dragged half off beds, heads turning in the dark as everyone tried to decide if they were awake or still dreaming.
"Was that outside?" a boy whispered, voice thin.
"Tarin," Mack said, sharper now. "Tarin."
Tarin was already on his feet. Two years older than Ren, broader in the shoulders, he moved with a sudden, quiet urgency—the kind that pretended it wasn't afraid.
"Everyone up," he said, voice carrying without being loud. "Get your shoes. Stay together."
He crossed the room and yanked the curtains aside.
Night lit up.
Not inside the dorm—not yet—but beyond the windows, the village was burning in pieces, pockets of orange chewing through rooftops farther down the road. Thatched roofs collapsed in showers of sparks. Smoke smeared the sky black. Villagers ran through the streets, screaming—some dragging children, others swinging pitchforks at shapes that moved too fast to see clearly.
Ren squinted. At first, all he caught were shadows—low, fast, too many.
They swarmed through the street.
A wave of water arced across the road, crashing down onto a burning house. The ground shuddered violently—not the tremble of footsteps, but something deeper, like the earth itself had been struck. Farther away, stone ripped upward as someone forced the road to rise in jagged slabs.
Joss stared, slack-jawed. "What… what is that?" he muttered. "Water—? And the ground—?"
Tarin swallowed, eyes hard on the chaos.
"Mages," he said, like naming it made it make sense. "They're fighting."
"That doesn't mean we're safe," he added immediately, voice rougher now. "Everyone move. Now."
The orphanage shook again. To the kids, it might as well have been an earthquake—the whole building groaning, dust sifting down from the rafters—but outside, that rising stone told the truth.
The dorm door slammed open.
Eldric burst inside, breath ragged, one sleeve dark with blood that wasn't his.
Ren saw it, and his stomach went cold.
Blood meant someone was hurt. Badly.
For the briefest instant, something flickered behind his eyes—his hands wet up to the wrists, someone screaming his name like it was the last thing they'd ever say.
Gone.
The orphanage groaned again, and the thought shattered under noise and motion.
Eldric lifted both hands, forcing calm into his voice.
"Listen to me," he said, steady and loud enough to cut through the panic. "Everyone stays together. Everyone breathes."
A few heads turned toward him. A few kids froze, clinging to blankets like they could protect them.
Eldric's eyes swept the room fast, counting. Then urgency snapped into place.
"Shoes on. Now," he barked. "Tarin—lead them. Move!"
Relief hit Ren anyway, sharp and unwanted.
Eldric was here.
Then the window exploded.
Glass and wood burst inward as something slammed through, landing hard on a bed and tearing straight through the mattress like it was paper.
A child screamed one word that made the world tilt.
"RAT!"
Ren's eyes locked onto it.
It wasn't a shadow. It was real—huge, mangy, muscle moving under filth, teeth too long for its skull.
The rat shrieked back and lunged.
It hit a boy at the edge of the bed—caught skin, not just cloth—and the boy's scream turned wet and high as blood splattered the sheets.
Tarin moved without thinking, grabbing the boy under the arms and yanking him backward so hard the kid bounced off his chest.
"RUN!" Tarin shouted.
Everything broke apart.
Eldric shoved kids toward the door, hands on shoulders, forcing them the right way.
"Follow Tarin!" he roared. "Follow Tarin—don't stop!"
As kids surged into the hall, Eldric stayed back for a heartbeat, slamming the dorm door half-closed and bracing it with his shoulder.
A rat slammed into it from inside. The wood buckled.
Eldric held it anyway—two seconds, maybe three—long enough for the first wave of children to get moving. Then he let go and lunged after them.
Beds overturned. Kids scattered. The injured boy sobbed through clenched teeth as Tarin dragged him.
Ren ducked as a rat streaked past, its tail whipping his leg. Another forced itself through the shattered frame behind him.
"Stay with Tarin!" Eldric shouted.
Ren ran.
At first, he didn't see the smoke. He smelled it—sharp, bitter. It crawled into his throat and made his eyes sting.
The corridor began to swallow light, turning bodies into moving smears. Someone slammed into Ren from behind. Another stumbled past, choking.
The air thickened, and his head started to float—wrong and light, like the dream fog had followed him into the hall.
"Tarin!" Ren shouted, voice cracking. "Tarin!"
"Keep moving!" came the muffled answer ahead.
Ren pushed forward, but the smoke made distance feel like a lie. The hall ahead was darker. Quieter.
The air felt different there—cooler, clearer.
An exit.
Ren staggered toward it, half-blind, desperate for air. He grabbed the handle and yanked the door open, heart surging with sudden, stupid hope—
—and stepped into the night.
Cool air hit his face like water.
There was a shape just around the corner of the orphanage, half-hidden in shadow. A person.
Ren's mind latched onto the first safe thing it could find. A caregiver. Someone helping.
"Hey!" Ren choked, rushing toward them. "Are you—"
The body shifted. Then slumped.
It collapsed sideways, like its strings had been cut.
A rat was on it.
Not behind it.
On it.
It leapt down with frantic hunger and tore in like the man was already meat.
Ren saw the arm—gone at the shoulder—and the torso split open, ribs exposed beneath blackened cloth.
The smell hit him—iron, smoke, something sickly sweet.
Ren froze.
The rat looked up. Its eyes caught the firelight—round, reflective, far too aware.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then panic shattered it.
Ren spun and sprinted back, slamming through the doorway and throwing his weight against it. The impact rattled his bones.
A brief, stupid flash of relief—
until claws scraped.
A rat hurled itself at the door.
Ren ducked by instinct. Claws shredded the wood behind him. The panel buckled inward.
Ren staggered back as the rat smashed through—and another shape squeezed in behind it.
Two rats. Inside.
"Eldric!" Ren screamed. "Eldric—Tarin!"
No answer.
He ran again, pain flaring as he scraped the wall, blood slicking his arm. Smoke swallowed the sound of his footsteps.
Then he heard it.
A scream.
Not outside.
Inside. Close.
Ren turned toward the storage corridor—
—and saw Eldric.
Braced in the narrow hall. Arms spread wide.
Three younger kids behind him, pressed into the wall, faces white, mouths open in silent terror.
A rat clung to Eldric's leg. Another lunged for his throat.
Eldric swung a broken chair leg, cracking bone. One rat flew into the wall with a wet smack.
"GO!" Eldric roared. "DON'T LOOK BACK!"
"Eld—" Ren tried, and his breath locked.
A child behind Eldric made a thin, strangled sound.
Ren couldn't move.
Eldric didn't look heroic.
He looked tired. Determined. Human.
The second rat didn't stop.
Its teeth sank into Eldric's neck.
The sound was wrong.
Wet. Final.
Eldric collapsed, still reaching for the children, fingers scraping the floor like he could pull them to safety even now.
Ren didn't hear his own breathing anymore.
The corridor felt too small for the amount of death inside it.
His body tried to become stone—because stone didn't have to choose.
His stomach twisted violently.
He should have moved. Should have grabbed the kids. Should have done anything—
Fingers yanked his collar.
Ren flinched, terror spiking—teeth, his mind screamed—
"Tarin—"
"This way!" Tarin shouted, dragging him bodily around the corner.
The three kids followed—not because Ren led them.
Because Tarin did.
Smoke rolled low along the floor. The air rasped in Ren's lungs.
Three steps. Maybe four.
The wall beside them detonated.
Stone and timber exploded inward.
Ren hit the ground hard—and his arm hooked around a smaller body.
A child.
They crashed together.
More rats poured through the breach.
"MOVE!" Tarin roared, shoving Ren backward as the corridor split apart.
Tarin dragged the other kids forward and vanished into smoke.
The one Ren had pulled down stayed with him.
The child reached for him.
Ren froze.
Again.
Just a blink.
Too late.
A rat streaked past, silent and fast. It snapped the child up and vanished into smoke.
No scream.
Ren hadn't hesitated because he didn't care.
He hesitated because fear erased him.
Ren ran.
A claw tore his arm. He slammed into the wall and slid down.
Four rats boxed him in—low bodies, glinting teeth, breathing fast, teeth clicking.
This was it.
If I hadn't frozen—
If I'd moved—
His throat burned.
This was what he was. A kid who watched people die and never moved fast enough.
The rats tightened their circle.
Then the ceiling burst apart.
Blue light ripped through wood and smoke like a blade.
A figure dropped between Ren and the rats.
Lightning crawled over the man's arms like living wire. A sword hovered near his shoulder, held aloft by a force Ren couldn't name.
The mage didn't move at first.
He turned his head, taking in the corridor—blood on the floor, torn wood, a slumped body half-hidden in smoke.
Eldric.
The mage's gaze lingered that way a heartbeat too long.
"Too late."
Then his eyes snapped back to the rats.
He inhaled. Once. Twice.
The lightning drew inward, tightening around his forearms like it was waiting.
"Well," he said dryly, "let's clean this up."
The rats leapt.
The mage didn't flinch.
He exhaled—focused, absolute.
The lightning didn't just spark.
It listened.
"Lightning Cage."
Blue lines snapped into existence, forming a crackling sphere around the swarm mid-air.
The rats screamed.
The mage held the shape, jaw clenched as the lightning itself screamed in protest.
Then the sound stopped.
The rats burned.
The cage collapsed.
Silence followed—harsh and sudden.
The mage turned instantly and hauled Ren upright like he weighed nothing.
"Can you move?"
Ren nodded, eyes flicking back into the smoke—where he'd frozen.
"Good."
The mage moved through the orphanage like he could see through smoke. He stopped at a half-collapsed doorway, tilted his head, listening.
Then he reached in and yanked two children out from a gap between overturned furniture.
Dust-covered. Eyes huge.
The hide-and-seek kids—the ones no one could ever find.
He hadn't seen them.
He'd listened for breath.
"Eyes down," he ordered, voice firm, not cruel. "Stay close. Move when I move."
He guided them forward, one hand steady on Ren's shoulder.
They burst into the courtyard.
Firelight washed over them—and stopped.
A translucent barrier shimmered across the square, warping flames and smoke.
Someone stood at its center, feet planted wide, hands raised like they were holding up the sky. Their mouth moved—chanting, maybe, or breathing in rhythm.
Ren didn't know.
He only knew the barrier felt like a wall between worlds.
Rats hit it and skittered away, hissing.
The mage moved fast—too fast for Ren to follow—lightning snapping from his fingers in short, controlled bursts.
Two rats died mid-leap.
A third lunged toward the smallest child.
The mage caught the child by the collar and yanked them back without looking.
"Stay close," he said calmly. "That's how you live."
They passed through the shimmer.
Villagers clustered near the well, pressed together in terrified silence. Bodies lay under cloth. Children cried. Names were shouted that didn't get answered.
Caretakers clutched any child they could reach, faces grey with ash.
Tarin was there.
He turned as the mage arrived, and for a moment his face broke—relief and terror colliding.
Ren barely had time to breathe before Tarin grabbed him, pulling him into a rough embrace.
"I thought you were gone," Tarin whispered, and his voice finally broke.
The two hide-and-seek kids ran straight into Elda's arms, sobbing.
The mage paused just inside the barrier.
He didn't linger.
But he stepped close to Ren, lowering his voice like Ren was the only thing that mattered.
"You're safe now," he said firmly. "Stay here. Don't wander."
Ren nodded, throat too tight to speak.
Lightning gathered around the mage like a cloak.
He wrapped himself in blue light—
—and vanished into the firelit night.
Ren stared after him, breath locked in his chest.
He didn't sleep again that night.