The cottage hunched in the clearing like a wounded beast. Its timber walls sagged, blackened, and warped by years of rot. The smell of damp wood and decay stung their nostrils. Emma stepped hesitantly onto the creaking porch.
"Should we knock?" she asked.
Milla stepped ahead of her. She slammed her fist against the door. The wood groaned, shedding off flakes of mold. "Anyone home?" she barked.
Inside, a pot clattered to the floor. The shadow faltered, then vanished. Silence.
"Hello?" Milla called again, hitting the door harder.
"Step aside," Gerral said, shuffling forward with his usual frown. He placed a reassuring hand on Milla's shoulder. "I'll—"
SHWICK-TCHUK!
A dagger shot through the door, aimed at Milla's left eye just as Gerral touched her. Fwooom! Alan's gust of wind broke through, scattering everyone just in time.
The door exploded. Connor charged out, a second dagger arcing toward Alan's throat. Alan flew backward, narrowly avoiding the attack. The dagger gouged the earth where he'd stood.
"Rats!" Connor spat, rising. His face twisted in anger and disbelief. "How did you find this place?"
Gerral scrambled to his feet and grew a trident from his makeshift covering. The scar on his neck popped out. "What have you done to Nora?" he demanded.
"Hrah-hrah-hrrhhh!" Connor laughed. He flicked dirt from his dagger—Nora's blood, Gerral thought—onto the moss. "What every lost lamb needs—salvation."
Gerral exploded into motion, his trident hurtling ahead as he closed the distance between him and Connor.
"GO TO HELL!" The weapon struck through, piercing empty air as Connor's shadow dissolved, leaving only tendrils of smoke behind. Then, in a blink, he reappeared behind his foe.
Alan's blade hissed behind Gerral's exposed back—CLANG!—intercepting Connor's dagger a hairbreadth from his spine. The trident swirled backward in a lethal arc. But, Connor had already phased away—once again, the weapon grazed only whispers of smoke.
"Ts—" Connor's tongue-click died mid-sound as he caught Sylas' axes spinning through the air, two crescents of death aimed for his throat.
He twisted, forcing his torso into an impossible bend. His eyes darted upward—there was Milla with her fist plunging down like a hammer where his stomach lay defenseless.
Panic surged. He willed his legs to move, to flee, but they remained paralyzed, bound by an invisible chain. A familiar, suffocating grip. His gaze snapped to Emma. Her fingers danced like serpents—he had stumbled right into her web.
"SHADOW STEPS!"
Sylas' axes wedged into the shattered door frame. Milla's fist reached the ground. But there was no Connor beneath her blow—only an empty crater and whispers of his dark magic.
Dark tendrils whipped toward Emma, daggers slicing through the air, aimed for her throat.
Mistakes? Connor thought, but it was too late to stop. His dagger hovered just shy of Emma's skin. Then, a blinding light erupted from behind him, searing through the air. The blast struck. It tore through his shadow, shredding the dark tendrils. Pain burned. He flew—hurled through mold-ridden walls. The kitchen exploded. "ALAN!" Connor's roar warped inside the inferno.
Alan's fire seared Connor's ribs—it surely burned. The explosion should've shattered his bones. But—"Heh-hehhh-hrk!"—he laughed?
"Feast," Connor hissed. Dark smoke surged from his wounds, devouring the flames like ink drowning the fire.
His boot slammed into the debris—shattered timbers and kitchenware vomited toward the children. But the debris was the least of their worries. Connor's shadow outpaced the chaos he unleashed, and his blade was even faster.
Bang! Ding-ding-ding!
The children scattered in a desperate fever—Milla cartwheeling over a flying skillet, Sylas ducking a splintered beam. But it wasn't fast enough. Connor's shadow flickered behind them, solidifying for a heartbeat—Thwick. Shwick! Shwick!
Blood sprayed. Sylas gasped, clutching his shredded thigh. Milla's arm dangled, half-severed, the bone gleaming white through torn flesh. Emma's thread lashed out blindly, but Connor was already gone; only his laughter echoed. "Look at you—leaking red just like rats."
"Emma!" Alan screamed as he leaped for her. "Don't be distracted!" Connor barked from behind—Ssshhhrrrp!
Blood splattered across the porch. Gerral collapsed, his knees buckling under him—THUD!
"Distraction makes you a cripple," Connor sneered, shadows pooling at his feet like hungry serpents.
Alan exhaled slowly. "Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Whisper to the stars," he murmured, repeating his mother's mantra to calm himself. He pushed Emma behind him and gave her a firm nod.
Alan turned to face Connor, raising his sword. "Just you and me."
Connor's grin stretched wide. Perfect. Fighting the whole pack would've bled him dry—Jareth's trained pups attacking like a pack of wolves. But one-on-one? Alan is just a flickering candle in a storm.
"Just you and me," Connor echoed. He slammed his boot into Gerral's ribs, sending the boy's limp body crashing into the stream. Shadows coiled up his legs. "Let's see what heat you've got left!"
Alan's body ignited with mana—flames scorching the earth as he surged forward, his sword blazing like a falling star.
Connor's smirk sharpened. Pathetic speed. His shadow twitched, and he vanished.
"Die!" A dagger materialized beside Alan's charging form, arcing toward his heart.
CRACK.
Alan's leg snapped sideways, ankle bending at a nauseating angle—not a dodge. A sacrifice. Connor's blade grazed Alan's shoulder instead of piercing his heart. What—?
"LIGHTNING BLAST!"
Connor's eyes widened. He tried to leap aside, but something pulled tight around his leg. His eyes darted to Emma; her fingers trembled, clawing—not at him, but at Alan. Then what is it?
His gaze snapped downward—thorny vines sprouted from his boot, dragging him into soil far softer than he remembered. From the corner of his eye, he caught Milla's shadow, her palm pressed firmly to the ground.
NO.
He was too fixated on the kill—too arrogant to sense the earth shifting beneath Alan, and the seed planted by Gerral's makeshift armor. Too distracted to notice Emma's touch before Alan surged.
Worst of all, Shadow Steps were already consumed.
"YOU FUCKING PESTS!" he roared, his body twisting violently. Just one heartbeat. All he needs is just one heartbeat of time.
But Sylas's lightning tore through the air before the heartbeat came.
BOOM!
The blast struck. Lightning snaked up Connor's torso, splitting his ribs like dry wood. His skin scorched to a crispy bloom. His sneer twisted into a guttural snarl as the energy ruptured his left arm—bone and muscle vaporizing below the elbow.
"YOU… ROACHES—!"
The bolt spent itself. Connor collapsed, body smoldering. His remaining eye rolled wildly, pupil blown wide with pain and rage. Blood foamed at his lips, but his chest still heaved, stubbornly clinging to life.