Ancient Dungeon

Ronan shook him awake.

Nathan came to with a grunt, half tangled in his blanket. For a second he forgot where he was—a common occurrence these days—then the smell of horse shit and woodfire hit him.

“Up,” Ronan said. No preamble, just the word.

“Morning to you too,” Nathan muttered, rubbing at his face.

Ronan didn’t answer. He crossed to the stag with a wooden bowl of water and a handful of green fodder. The creature accepted without complaint, lowering its head to drink first. Ronan gave its neck a brief pat.

“That’s kind of you,” Nathan said, voice still rough. “Taken a liking to our stag?”

Ronan grunted.

Nathan finally sat up. Bob tumbled off his chest with a wet plop. “Should I be worried about your clinginess, Bob?”

Bob clicked his teeth.

“It was rhetorical.”

The tent canvas flapped once in the cold wind. Outside came the clank of armor, the creak of wagon wheels, the low murmur of people who’d been up an hour already. Someone cursed about rations. Someone else laughed—far too loud for this early in the morning.

His head throbbed. I’d kill for an energy drink. Literally. I have the sword for it.

He’d actually managed to sleep—a minor miracle considering last night’s disaster of a run-in with Kieran. He’d fully expected to lie awake replaying every humiliating second of it, but apparently mortification was exhausting.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to scrub out the memory—

Ronan dropped a folded vest into his lap—dark leather, silver stitching. “Yours.”

Nathan blinked at it. “This is… plain. What happened to dramatic collars and evil-overlord chic?”

“It’s treated,” Ronan said.

“Treated?” He tugged it on. It was heavier than it looked.

“With mana. Wear it under your armor.”

“Ah, mana that I don’t have.” Nathan traced a finger over the stitching. “Feels expensive.”

Ronan turned to look at him. “Did you forget we’re going into a dungeon today?”

It clicked. Duh. Dungeon meant mana.

“O-of course not.” I really miss caffeine.

Nyx slipped through the tent flap just in time to hear that. “You forgot the mission already?” she asked—voice bright with far too much morning energy.

“Morning to you too. No, I did not forget the scary mission with a huge group of people under the watch of Commander Death Glare while playing the part of Crime Boss Evil Overlord.”

Ronan nodded at Nyx and ducked out of the tent.

“That was certainly a mouthful!” She nearly pranced over to the stag, eyes alight.

“Nyx,” Nathan said, dragging a hand down his face, “how can you be this awake? You got some magic coffee beans or something?”

The stag nuzzled her palm. “…Coffee beans?” she asked, not looking at him.

“Never mind. You’re here to take the stag, right?”

“I guess I’ll be polite and let it finish breakfast first,” Nyx said, watching the stag chew with the serene patience of a saint.

Nathan squinted. “Polite? From you?”

“Don’t ruin the moment,” she said lightly.

“So, you said you were going to do an illusion?”

“I became aware of a more convenient option,” Nyx said, tone almost academic. “I was reading some of the limited historical data on moonveil stags.”

Nathan raised a brow. “And?”

“I need its permission first.”

“Permission?”

“Just watch.”

The stag lifted its head, licked the last drops from the bowl, then stepped toward her with unhurried grace. Nyx knelt, meeting its gaze for a long moment. When the stag tilted its head and blinked, she smiled faintly—as if that were the signal—and drew her stylus with a flick of her wrist. The tip traced a sigil in the air.

“Small.”

Light shimmered and coiled around the stag, folding in on itself—soft, seamless. The glow rippled once, and the creature shrank, dwindling from shoulder height to the size of a housecat before settling neatly on its hooves again.

Nathan blinked. “You just… carry-on sized it.”

Nyx smiled, pleased. “Easier to sneak through the morning assembly and march up the mountain without attracting attention to a rare beast. He’ll fit in a pack now.”

The tiny stag snorted.

“Don’t worry, it isn’t forever,” she said gently. “You’ll grow into a magnificent, full-sized stag one day.”

Nathan frowned. “But… you didn’t say anything. How was that permission?”

“I made my good intent known,” she said matter-of-factly. “Moonveils are aura readers—soul readers.”

Nathan sighed. “Right. Sure. Perfectly normal morning. So can’t you just use that kind of spell on anyone—like an enemy?”

Nyx tilted her head, thoughtful. “I can reshape nonliving matter without consequence—and mind tampering’s possible if you know what you’re doing.”

She tapped her stylus against her palm. “But physical transformation? That’s different. Living matter doesn’t always react the way you want it to. Most beings are born with mana—their own energy resists being rewritten.”

She smirked faintly. “And in battle, why bother? Easier to just kill what’s trying to kill you.”

Nathan tilted his head, frowning in mock thought. “Okay…”

Bob burbled, a tendril poking insistently at his sleeve.

“Jealous much?” Nathan asked.

Nyx laughed under her breath. “He’s protective. I’d take it as a compliment.”

“Yeah, that’s what all the clingy ones say,” Nathan muttered.

He reached down and ran his hand over the tiny stag’s head. Its silver coat felt faintly cool—like moonlight given shape. The creature leaned into his touch, eyes half-lidding, then turned toward Nyx as if to say ready when you are.

“Didn’t even hesitate,” Nathan said.

“He’s intelligent. Understands the plan.” Nyx opened a pack she’d brought, gingerly lifted the stag inside, and tucked the flap loosely over the opening. “Or he just likes me more.” She smirked.

“Before I forget—” She reached into a side pocket on the pack and pulled out a familiar object. “You should keep this on you.”

He took it from her without thinking. “The relic piece from the dungeon? Why?”

“I think you should have it. It carries the same glyphwork as the book Draegor used for the ritual.”

Nathan’s head snapped up. “Really?”

“Yes. And since you can recharge in a dungeon, maybe… something will happen?”

“Right…”

Nyx slung the pack over her shoulder and straightened. “All right, I’d better get back before Sera starts counting heads.”

Nathan gave a half-salute. “Try not to terrify anyone before breakfast.”

“No promises.” She grinned, then slipped through the tent flap and into the dawn. Silver eyes peeped out from the top of the pack as she walked away.

As Nathan watched them go, a shadow filled the entrance. Ronan’s frame blocked the light entirely. “Still not dressed?”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

He pulled on the vest and armor—getting faster at it now, muscle memory kicking in. Not bad for someone who’d started this adventure barely knowing how to buckle half the straps.

Ronan returned just as he was finishing, giving him a brief once-over and an approving grunt. Nathan was getting better at interpreting those. Then came a cup and a bowl of stew, passed wordlessly into his hands.

He sat and, right on cue, Bob appeared. “Yes, yes, you little garbage disposal—I’ll share.”

A short while later, the first horns sounded—low, steady, calling all companies to assembly.

Ronan ducked back in with a pack and handed it over.

“Thanks,” Nathan said, tightening the straps. He tucked the relic piece into a side pocket of the pack.

“Showtime, then?”

***

Ronan didn’t answer. He lifted the tent flap. Cold air rushed in.

Outside, the camp was already a storm of motion. Armor dulled under half-light, boots thudded against damp ground, banners snapped in the wind. The mountain loomed gray in the distance, its upper ridges smudged by low fog.

Nathan tucked Bob securely into the small leather pouch he’d rigged for him. The little blob burbled once and settled.

“Stay quiet,” Nathan murmured. “You’re technically contraband.”

Four stayed behind to watch the tents and supplies. The rest—thirty-six in all, counting him—were already forming up along the main path that wound through the heart of the camp. Ronan moved through them with the easy rhythm of someone built for command, cloak cutting a sharp line in the dawn.

Nathan walked beside him, adjusting his gloves. The air was thin and metallic, every breath visible. The steady rhythm of armor, the muted ring of blades being checked, the murmur of orders—it all hummed through the valley like the prelude to a storm.

By the time they reached the staging field, it was already alive with quiet activity—clusters of soldiers gathering in loose lines, half-ready and half-talking, the air thick with the scent of oil and frost. It reminded Nathan absurdly of a schoolyard before morning drill: pockets of conversation, gear checks, the familiar hierarchy of who stood where. If not for the mountain looming behind them, it might almost have felt ordinary.

His crew stood near the middle-right stretch of the field, not yet called into full formation. To their right, Calvesset’s crimson banners rippled through the mist—Sera’s division assembling with mechanical precision. Nyx stood near their line, her pack slung across her chest—as if she were letting the stag see. When Nathan glanced over, she caught his eye and lifted two fingers in acknowledgment. He returned it—brief, but genuine.

A flicker of movement drew his attention back to her. Nyx shifted the pack slightly forward—instinctive, protective. Through the morning mist, a faint shimmer of silver light pulsed once beneath the half-closed flap before fading. Her gaze snapped past him, fixed on something ahead.

Nathan followed it.

An Eryndral Guild command entourage advanced toward the front—six figures in blue and silver, their steps perfectly aligned. The woman leading them—

Envoy Doss.

The group kept moving, blue and silver cutting through the mist. When Doss passed closer to Nyx, that light flickered again—like breath catching on glass.

Nathan’s pulse jumped. He caught Nyx’s gaze across the distance and made a small downward motion. Close it.

One smooth movement—flap sealed, glow gone, stillness returned.

Crisis contained, for now.

Ahead, near the forward track, two carriages waited. The Eryndral entourage made straight for them—doors opened, aides climbed aboard. Doss paused to confer with an assistant, then stepped up into the first carriage, silver trim catching the light before the door thudded shut.

The noise across the field began to thin. Conversations trailed off; movement slowed. People straightened almost in unison, shifting from rest to readiness without being told.

At the edge of the field, movement caught Nathan’s eye—Kieran on horseback, dark-blue cloak edged in silver, his mount moving with the same precise economy he did. A few riders followed in his wake—Taron among them, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

As the group advanced, people stepped aside automatically. The air itself seemed to rearrange, lines tightening, the earlier chatter swallowed whole.

Kieran didn’t need to speak; authority moved with him like a second shadow.

He really did look like a prince. A terrifying, regulation-obsessed, horse-owning prince.

Kieran’s gaze swept the gathered soldiers—and stopped on Nathan. He reined in, the horse’s breath steaming in short bursts. “Draegor,” he said, voice carrying easily over the low hum. “You’re not taking one of the carriages?”

Nathan blinked, then glanced at Ronan. Stone-faced Ronan looked back, unhelpful as ever. “No,” Nathan said finally. “I’m walking.”

Kieran studied him for a moment that felt much longer than it should have. Then, curtly: “Your men will hold rear guard until the First Chamber. You’ll rejoin me and the envoy once we’re inside.”

Nathan’s mouth opened. “I will—?”

The look Kieran gave him ended that question.

“—yes, Field Marshal.”

Kieran gave a short nod, turned his horse, and continued toward the front. The sound of tack and hoofbeats faded into the gathering order of the field.

Nathan exhaled, shoulders tight. I’d honestly rather stay rear guard.

He glanced at Ronan. “You heard?”

Ronan’s mouth twitched. “I’ll take charge of the men when the time comes.”

Of course he will.

At the front, lines corrected, postures sharpened. Even the wind quieted. Kieran turned his horse to face the assembled ranks.

“You should already know who you answer to. If not, you’ll find this expedition very confusing—and very short.”

The silence that followed was absolute—broken only by a few stray coughs.

Was that an attempt at humor?

Kieran turned his horse, voice cutting through the still air. “Let’s move out.”

The response rolled through the field in a single voice. “Yes, Field Marshal!”

“Fall in!” someone barked.

The horns sounded—three long notes rolling across the open field and echoing off the slopes beyond. The ranks shifted at once; banners dipped, boots scuffed over damp grass as the column began its slow advance.

“Form up!” Nathan called, slipping into his best Mason voice—louder and steadier than he felt. Around them, the last clusters of soldiers began slotting into lines.

He tried to act more competent than he felt. “Here we go again,” he muttered. “Still no caffeine.”

Bob burbled faintly from his pouch—the closest thing to an amen he was going to get.

***

The ascent was quiet, practiced, precise. Gravel crunched under boots; now and then, quiet conversation drifted through the line.

Kieran rode ahead on horseback, the envoy’s carriage following behind the riders. From where Nathan trudged in the rear ranks, the two of them looked like pieces on a different board entirely—command and diplomacy, polished and untouchable—while everyone else followed on foot through churned dust.

Ronan grunted beside him, shifting the weight of his pack.
Nathan adjusted his own and muttered, “Love being part of the morale section.”

For a moment, the thought crossed his mind — maybe he should’ve opted for the carriage.
But when he looked back, the men behind him met his gaze.
Mason’s men.
They weren’t bound by orders anymore, but they still marched — for him, or maybe for Ronan.

Yeah. It felt right to stay in the column.

At the base of the rise, the column began to slow. Commands passed down the line—halt, make way. Riders dismounted; reins changed hands. The envoy’s carriage pulled to the side, wheels settling against the stone with a final creak. A few of the packhorses snorted, restless, sensing what lay ahead. The rest of the formation drew in close, boots crunching to a stop.

Only then did the gatehouse come fully into view. It wasn’t ancient or ornate like Nathan had imagined—it was unmistakably human-built: clean stone lines, reinforced corners, a fortress grafted to the mountainside. It sat squarely over the old dungeon mouth, sealing what had once been a raw, jagged fissure in the slope.

Like someone had wrapped order around chaos—built a checkpoint over something that still wanted to swallow the world.

The archway shimmered, a thin film of pale light stretched across the stone frame, faintly humming where it met the rock.

Past that membrane, he knew, the slope angled down into shadow—the Outer Chamber, the first stable zone before the descent truly began.

Nathan watched as people crossed the threshold. His turn was coming. This would be his third dungeon. He still felt anxious—it was surreal, like a game he couldn’t log out of.

He drew in a breath and stepped through the thin barrier.

The only difference on the other side was that it felt a little cooler, and the air tasted stale.

He followed the column downward. The tunnel was narrow, carved in deliberate symmetry. The walls were smooth—too smooth—human labor again.

Mostly he thought about home. Absurd thoughts like rent. He shook his head.

At least there weren’t monsters waiting this time. Or the slugs. Those had been new depths of ick factor.

Someone up ahead called for spacing adjustments, and the line rippled with movement.

Then, gradually, the passage widened.

The floor leveled into a vast, circular hall with six passages radiating out—the First Chamber. The roof disappeared into shadow, supported by ribs of stone so tall they seemed to lean inward. Torchlight threw dull gold across them.

Everyone piled in until the rear ranks were fully inside.

He turned to Ronan. “I’m going to find Kie—Field Marshal, as ordered.”

“Yes, Boss. I’ve got it from here.”

Nathan blinked. It had been so long since Ronan had called him Boss.

“Good.” He puffed his chest out. “We’ll regroup later.”

Ronan turned without another word.

Nathan cleared his throat. Okay, then.

He started making his way toward where he figured Kieran would be.

A ripple of uneasiness was spreading through the ranks—quiet voices sharpening into confusion.

He caught pieces of it as he passed:
“Do you see any?”
“No, not one.”
“That’s not possible…”

The noise built quickly, bouncing off the walls. Officers barked for formation, their echoes doubling until it sounded like the chamber itself was repeating the orders back at them.

He pushed through a knot of soldiers and nearly collided with Nyx. She turned at the last second, one eyebrow raised.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

She waved a hand through the air. “No motes,” she said quietly.

Nathan blinked. “No—what?”

He looked around properly. “Oh. Yeah, you’re right.”

It took another heartbeat for it to land. Then—
No motes.

His stomach dropped. “Wait—so what do I do then?”

Nyx drew a breath, hand half-lifting to explain—but her eyes caught on something past his shoulder. The words died. Her posture snapped sharp.

Nathan turned.
Taron was cutting through the ranks toward them, expression grim enough to chill the air.

He stopped in front of them. “Field Marshal Halcyos requests your presence,” he said flatly. “Immediately.”

Nyx’s expression flattened.

“Now,” Taron added.

Nathan sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “That’s where I was headed.”

He glanced at Nyx, who only mouthed good luck.

“Yeah, thanks,” he muttered, falling in behind Taron.

The murmurs faded the deeper they went. Even without motes, the air seemed to hum from tension alone.

Officers had gathered near the first descent arch, where the torches burned low and the stone looked darker, almost wet. Kieran stood beside Envoy Doss, hands clasped behind his back; Commander Kell lingered nearby, jaw tight.

Nathan stopped a few paces away.

Kieran turned slightly. “There were reports of other dungeon sites showing a lack of motes. I assumed they were rumors. Not a systemic failure. Do you know anything about this?”

Nathan blinked. Me?
“The dungeon I was in was manaborn—plenty of motes. I don’t… understand what’s happening.”

Kieran studied him. “Do you have any suggestions?”

Nathan scratched the back of his neck. “Suggestions? Uh… maybe they’re deeper down?”

Kieran stared. “That’s your expert analysis?”

Nathan hesitated. “…Yes.”

Doss clicked her tongue. Kell looked away.

I really don’t know!

Someone called Kieran aside—and then Nathan felt something tap his wrist.

Tap. Tap.

He looked down. Bob’s little tendril poked through the pouch, wiggling like an impatient finger.

“Shh,” Nathan hissed. “You’re the last thing I need making noise.”

The tendril popped free again—pointing. A wet glorp.

Nathan turned slightly. The direction Bob indicated led to one of the six unused passages.

He sighed. “No. Absolutely not. We are not going toward the haunted tunnel alone.”

Bob poked him again. Unblinking. Unrelenting.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But we’re not going in.”

He waited until everyone was distracted, then edged toward the archway. The air shimmered faintly, like heat over asphalt.

He squinted. Then he saw it clearly—a flicker of light, a thin distortion like a broken hologram from a sci-fi rerun. Pretty, almost.

Nathan’s fingers brushed the flicker.

For half a breath, nothing. Then the shimmer dissipated—just gone—like a projection shutting off. The section of wall he’d touched melted out of existence, revealing smooth stone beneath it.

A quiet click followed.
Then another.
Then a dozen more, echoing in perfect sequence—like tumblers falling in a massive unseen lock.

“Draegor!” Kieran’s voice cut through the chamber. “Step back—now!”

“I didn’t—!”

Then the dungeon moved.

A grinding hum rolled through the chamber—metal inside stone. The walls shifted, plates sliding and rotating with mechanical precision. The six passages splintered and multiplied, new openings tearing themselves into being. Arches widened; ceilings cracked open; corridors spiraled upward and down in impossible geometry.

Symmetry shattered. Every surface folded inward, dividing into dozens of shifting configurations.

The next tremor didn’t feel like an earthquake. It felt like weight leaving.

Nathan’s boots lifted clean off the floor.

Sound dulled. Dust hung suspended. A dropped stylus floated between two soldiers, turning lazily—and didn’t fall.

Neither did Nathan.

All around him, soldiers drifted—shouting, reaching, spinning through air that no longer obeyed gravity.

Weapons tumbled. A banner rolled past in slow motion.

One by one, people vanished—snatched by sudden tilts and openings that blinked into existence.
A soldier to Nathan’s left twisted once and was swallowed whole by a corridor that hadn’t existed moments earlier. Another was flung upward into a gap that unfolded out of the ceiling.

Nathan flailed, fingers catching the edge of a broken archway as the chamber kept folding around him—grinding, rearranging, reassembling like some enormous machine.

He clung to the stone, panting. “Okay—okay, it’s fine—it’s—”

The air shifted again.
Weight slammed sideways.

His stomach dropped. He reached instinctively—
—and saw another drifting figure: Kieran.

For one impossible moment, they hung weightless, faces inches apart, the world spinning around them.

Kieran’s eyes widened. A shocked, oh shit expression.

Then gravity snapped sideways.

“Oh, fuck—” Nathan managed.

Kieran slammed into him mid-air, the impact driving the breath from his lungs as they hurtled through an archway.

The last thing Nathan saw was the chamber still turning—
and people still being collected.

****

He woke to the sound of… waves?

For a second, Nathan thought he was dreaming. Then the smell hit him—salt and something metallic, sharp enough to sting the back of his throat.

The ground beneath him wasn’t stone but fine sand. His head throbbed like it had been used as a drum, and his ears rang—a high, steady hum, like someone had left a tuning fork lodged behind his eyes.

He groaned. Every joint complained. “Okay,” he muttered, voice gravelly. “Still alive. That’s… probably good.”

A weight pressed across his chest.

He looked down—and froze.

Kieran’s arm.

Nathan’s brain did a full system crash, then the world’s fastest reboot. Every neuron screamed nope.

He very carefully lifted Kieran’s wrist and slid free like a thief escaping a trap.

He came up coughing, sand sticking to his skin, armor clattering as he dragged in air that tasted of salt and sunlight. Everything hurt—like he’d been taken apart and put back together slightly wrong.

And then—he saw where they’d landed.

A beach.

Not ruins. Not stone. Not the claustrophobic dark of the dungeon.

Just… a beach.

The sand was pale and impossibly fine, glimmering like crushed pearls beneath soft, gold-tinted light. The air was warm and salt-sweet—the kind that clung to skin in lazy summer waves. The ocean stretched out in sweeping calm, its surface so clear it mirrored the sky—except the sky wasn’t quite right. It shimmered with faint streaks of color, like dawn caught in a dream, a watercolor horizon that refused to stay still.

The water glittered as it moved, catching hints of silver and turquoise, as if sunlight had been poured directly into the tide. Further out, coral spires rose from the sea like sculpture—curved and graceful, their edges glowing faintly, more art than nature.

It looked too perfect. Too idyllic.

If this were Earth, Nathan thought, there’d be a resort here already. Umbrellas, overpriced drinks, a sign warning tourists not to touch the coral.

Instead, there was silence—clean, glittering, surreal—and the faint hiss of waves lapping at a shore that looked entirely untouched.

It looked like one of the biomes from the manaborn dungeon—except more… normal.

He exhaled a stunned laugh. “Right. Beach episode it is.”

He turned in a slow circle, taking in the stretch of sand—and the people scattered across it, half-buried, sprawled like shipwreck survivors.

Minus the part where everyone’s face-down in the sand.

He counted automatically. One, two… sixteen. Including himself.

And of course, he recognized too many.

Doss—out cold, her pristine cloak smeared with grit. Two of her aides. Taron, slumped face-down nearby, breathing shallowly. Several Eryndral soldiers. A few from Calvesset, their colors torn and muddied.

And then—red hair catching the light like a warning flare.

Dane.

“Well, one friendly,” he whispered. “Though this certainly qualifies as the beach party from hell.”

He looked around again—and did a double take. A mote hovered over the water all by itself.

“That’s probably good news, right?”

The sight steadied him for half a heartbeat before another thought hit.

He checked the pouch. “Bob? You still with us?”

A faint burble answered—alive, if not enthusiastic. The blob’s unblinking black eyes met his.

“You know that’s still terrifying.”

Bob clicked his teeth.

“What were you thinking, huh?” he muttered. “You and your shiny wall obsession.”

Bob chirped once, unapologetic.

Around him, others began to stir—groans, coughing, armor shifting. Nathan’s pulse spiked. Too many variables, too little control. He backed up a few steps as Kieran began to move.

He quickly tucked Bob deeper into the pouch.

Kieran’s eyes opened—storm-gray, sharp even through the grit of sand. He blinked once, twice, and locked on Nathan.

Nathan froze. Then forced a smile. “Ocean.”

He immediately regretted it. Smooth, Nathan. Brilliant.

Kieran’s expression tightened—not quite murderous, but close.

There’s Commander Death Glare.

Nathan cleared his throat and gestured toward the waterline, where the single mote hovered—faint, perfect, glowing. “That’s good, right? Oh—and a few more!”

A quick, self-satisfied grin slipped out before he could stop it.

He felt the slip too late—already out of character again. Around Kieran, it never lasted.

He straightened, slipping back into the Mason tone. “See? Just as I said. Concentration will increase at greater depths.”

That sounds smart, right?

Kieran’s brow furrowed. He studied Nathan for a long moment, unreadable. Then, quietly: “You just can’t stop behaving suspiciously, can you?”

Nathan’s mouth opened—no good answer in sight.

The surf hissed between them. A few stray motes drifted in the air, catching the light.

Kieran exhaled, shook his head, and rose to his feet. “Get the others up. We need a headcount.”

***

As the group fully awakened, they started planning. Nathan checked over his things—everything accounted for. Could’ve been worse.

Then he remembered who he was stranded with. Doss was already contradicting Kieran on something; too many chefs for one kitchen. The Calvesset soldiers looked around, awkward and unsure.

Dane made his way over. “This environment seems mostly intact—interesting, since we’ve only spotted a few motes.”

Nathan nodded. “Doesn’t seem like enough to keep it happy, does it?”

Without warning, the perfect beach weather began to shift.

The breeze stilled first.

Then the water went quiet—too quiet. Waves hung mid-crest, like someone had hit pause.

“Oh, what is it now?” Nathan muttered. I only have my sword.

The reflection of the sky warped in the shallows, colors bleeding out until it looked like liquid glass. The few motes above the tide flickered, warbling in distress.

Shadows moved beneath the surface.

“Well, that’s not a good sign.”

Something twitched against his chest.

Bob.

The blob writhed in the pouch, then popped free before Nathan could grab him—rolling straight toward the surf.

“Bob—no! Bad idea!”

Too late.

Bob barreled toward the surf, his small body catching the light as he rolled like a determined meatball tendril of doom.

“Unbelievable,” Nathan hissed—and sprinted after him. He wasn’t letting the little idiot get himself killed.

The surf exploded. People shouted—scrambling back from the waterline.

Something broke the surface—tall, slick, and wrong. Its body rippled like it couldn’t decide on a shape, part squid, part electric eel, cords of muscle gleaming under translucent skin. Long tentacles unfurled from its shoulders and back, arcs of light crawling along them like trapped lightning.

Bob didn’t hesitate. His mouth split wide—rows of needle teeth flashing—as he bit straight into a tentacle.

The creature froze. Looked down. Then shrieked, whipping the limb furiously.

Nathan almost laughed as he sprinted.

Behind him, voices overlapped:

“Boss!” Dane shouted—
“Draegor!” Kieran roared.

Nathan hit the shoreline first, sword already drawn.
Behind him, Dane and Kieran closed the distance fast.

He raised the blade, ready to strike—

And then Bob started to glow.

The sea monster convulsed, its form buckling inward. Arcs of light sputtered and died as it stumbled back into the surf, deflating with a wet hiss.

Nathan blinked, lowering his blade. “What the hell… why does this seem familiar?”

Bob detached, rolling free and giving a small, smug burble. And a burp.

Kieran came up beside him, voice low and cold. “Why does that disgusting little creature look familiar?”

Nathan’s pulse spiked. Oh crap. His memories.

He forced a grin, backing away a step. “No idea.”

The waves stilled again.

For a heartbeat, it seemed over.

Then—movement.

Farther down the beach, the water began to churn.
Another shadow rose.

Then another.

Kieran shot Nathan a sharp look. “We’ll talk about this later.” He turned toward the others. “Form up! Pull back from the waterline!”

And another.

Each one rising taller, broader, darker than the last.

“Ah, hell,” Nathan whispered. Of course there’s more.

The surf exploded again, spraying sand and foam—three shapes breaking through at once.

Behind him, Dane was already cursing. He fell in beside Nathan, sword drawn, eyes on the water.

“I’m ready, Boss.”

Nathan gave a short nod, never taking his eyes off the surf.

Bob burbled beside him, bright and eager. And still glowing.

Nathan tightened his grip on the sword. “Yeah, buddy. I was afraid you’d say that.”