The moment Jannet surged through the doorway, the entire structure groaned under his weight. Dust and splinters cascaded from the rafters, shaken loose by the sheer force of his entrance. The building was frail, its supports weakened by time, and each heavy footfall sent deep tremors through the old wood. Had he been any heavier, he might have collapsed it outright. But luck, or perhaps fate, had other plans.

  The illusion of a decrepit old house shattered the moment Jannet forced himself further inside. The narrow, decaying hallways twisted unnaturally around him, their fragile facades giving way to something else entirely—a hidden warehouse. The passage constricted around his bulk, the wooden planks creaking, groaning, and then snapping as he forced his way through. The moment he breached the tightest corridor, he found himself standing in a vast chamber, dimly illuminated by hanging industrial lights that flickered with intermittent bursts of static.

  Near the center, bathed in the weak glow of those spotlights, Gerrin crumpled, his body sagging under the weight of his wounds. His sword clattered from his grasp, bouncing against the floorboards with a dull ring, and then he was falling. Jannet's golden eyes locked onto him, and before the thud of Gerrin’s body against the floor could even register, he moved.

  The party had already converged, their frantic calls echoing in the cavernous space, but Jannet gave no verbal command—he only nodded, a silent order, one they instinctively understood. They had to reach him. They had to get Gerrin out.

  Jannet barreled forward, his enormous frame smashing aside crates, barrels, and anything that dared obstruct his path. Chaos erupted as the impact of his charge sent wooden splinters flying in all directions. The three attackers that had cornered Gerrin whirled in unison, momentarily stunned by the violent entrance, but they recovered swiftly. The moment their eyes landed on Jannet, their stances shifted from victorious confidence to tense calculation.

  They came at him all at once. Three against one. No hesitation.

  Jannet met them head-on, his massive tail whipping around to send a stack of crates crashing down upon the largest of them, forcing him to leap back. A second tiny attacker lunged, twin blades flashing in the dim light, slicing at Jannet’s flanks. He twisted his bulk, absorbing the glancing blow against his armored hide before retaliating with a crushing swipe of his claws. The force sent the man skidding back, boots dragging across the wooden floor. The third was faster—she ducked low, attempting to drive a dagger into the softer scales beneath Jannet’s ribs. Jannet roared, shifting his weight just in time, catching the largest attacker with a brutal shove that sent him sprawling across the ground.

  It was loud, brutal, unrelenting.

  Behind him, the party worked to lift Gerrin, Leth pressing her hands to his wounds, whispering incantations of healing magic, her face twisted with focus and desperation. Fialla and Torren kept their weapons at the ready, covering her while Calis secured the perimeter, bow drawn.

  The warehouse was a battlefield of debris, overturned crates, and shattered cages, their contents panicked and screeching in the mayhem. Some of the creatures imprisoned within let out shrill, terrified wails, others cowered in silence. Among them, Jannet’s gaze flicked toward a single cage—its bars laced with glowing runes, sigils etched into the metal pulsing faintly. Within it, curled in a trembling heap, was something that should not exist.

  The being was small, delicate, humanoid but undeniably otherworldly. Its skin was pale, near luminous under the weak lights, its wings trembling with fear. Wide, expressive eyes stared at Jannet, filled with something beyond terror—pleading, desperate, fragile hope. It looked just like something out of his old human world, from a film he could still remember vividly.

  A Gelfling.

  No. Not a Gelfling. Not exactly. But real, and here, and in danger.

  Jannet did not hesitate.

  The attackers had begun to retreat, the little man—who had ridden on the brute’s back earlier—producing a strange object from his belt. A artifact that Jannet did not recognize instantly, the magic flared to life. A localized storage tool?

  Boxes, cages, and supplies vanished as the artifact absorbed them, pulled into its unseen void. The two men were prioritizing escape now, not victory.

  Jannet snarled, pushing forward even as exhaustion and the weight of battle slowed his movements. He would not let them take the cage.

  He fought like an avalanche, unpredictable and devastating. The remaining brute tried to grapple him, but Jannet’s tail lashed out with brutal force, slamming him into a pile of debris. The smaller man yelped as Jannet lunged for the cage, one massive clawed hand bracing against it protectively.

  The artifact's glow flickered, its magic failing to fully absorb the cage. The little man cursed. "Forget it! Guards will be on us any second!" he snapped, yanking at the brute's arm. "Better on the run for a bit than chains!"

  The larger man, panting and bruised, gritted his teeth before nodding. They fled, vanishing into the depths of the warehouse with unnatural speed, leaving only their remaining companion—the woman.

  She did not flee. She stood her ground, her fury palpable.

  "You do not understand what you are interfering with!" she spat, her blade now drawn, its edge glimmering with unnatural magic. "The package is beyond you, beast. Give it to me, and I may yet let you crawl away from this."

  Jannet bared his teeth, lowering his stance, preparing to meet her challenge. But the moment he did, his vision swayed, his balance wavering as dizziness surged over him. A strange fatigue gnawed at his limbs, his breath coming uneven. Poison? It had to be. He just didn’t know what kind. The sensation crawled under his scales, sluggish and insidious, sapping his strength with every breath. He growled, trying to shake it off, but the haze in his mind thickened. Still, he pushed forward, refusing to yield.

  Still, he pushed forward. He fought her, each strike of his claws clashing against the wicked enchantment of her blade. She was fast, impossibly so, but Jannet had size and power. Each exchange sent tremors through the ruined warehouse, knocking aside what little remained standing. The battle dragged outside, onto the streets, their combat spilling past the shattered doorway.

  And then—the horns.

  Guards.

  They were coming.

  The woman snarled in frustration, her blade spinning in a final, vicious arc. Jannet countered, forcing her back with one last, defiant swipe of his claws. She glared at him, breathing hard, before cursing under her breath and turning to disappear into the alleys beyond.

  Jannet stood there, swaying. His vision darkened at the edges. His breaths came heavier, slower. He turned, one last time, toward the group. He saw their expressions—Fialla’s worry, Michelangelo’s urgency, Torren’s quiet panic. He heard them calling his name.

  But the world tilted.

  The last thing he registered before everything went black was their voices, shouting for him, calling him by the name they knew him as.

  “Magnus!”

  Torren’s breath hitched, his mind racing. The second guard horn sounded, closer this time, reverberating through the collapsing warehouse like a death knell. The woman in the revealing dress sneered, her fury momentarily overshadowed by the sheer weight of her situation. With a final venomous glare, she melted into the darkness, her voice curling around them like a curse.

  “You’ll all die screaming for this.”

  Torren swore under his breath. The guards wouldn’t be friendly, not with this much contraband littering the place. This wasn’t just a fight gone bad—this was a crime scene, and they were standing in the middle of it.

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  They were incriminated just by being here.

  His eyes darted to Gerrin, unmoving but breathing, and then to the massive form of Jannet—no, Magnus—collapsed, his obsidian scales glistening with sweat. They had seconds before armored boots stormed through that door. Seconds before they were surrounded.

  And then, like it could read his thoughts, the sound came.

  A chime. Melodic, delicate. The soft echo of wooden chimes and distant bells, as if carried by a wind that didn’t exist. It resonated through the warehouse, filling the empty spaces between panicked breaths and trembling hands. Torren’s gaze snapped to the faeling, still locked in the runed cage. Its lips didn’t move, but he knew.

  It was speaking. Offering.

  Help me. Free me.

  His nimble fingers were moving before he could think. Lockpicks slid from his belt, his instincts guiding him as he worked the complex runes imprisoning the faeling. The rest of the party stared in stunned disbelief. Gerrin was bleeding out, Jannet was unconscious, and yet here he was, working a lock instead of running or defending.

  He didn’t care.

  Something told him—something deep, ancient, and undeniable—that this was the only way out.

  Torren’s fingers danced over the runes, scratching at them in the correct order, his eyes darting between the symbols and the fading light of the faeling’s glow. The sigils fought against him, pulsing with resistance, but his skill arcane lockpicking and his own precision worked against the magic’s hold. One by one, the bindings unraveled, the magic fraying like delicate threads being unwoven.

  The first rune shattered with a spark, sending a pulse of energy through his fingertips. He barely registered it. The second crumbled, the iron of the cage vibrating as if resisting its fate. The third proved stubborn, requiring a near-invisible shift in pressure to crack its intricate weave. By the time he reached the fourth and final lock, the sound of armored boots striking the warehouse floor echoed through the chamber.

  The guards were here.

  Torren swallowed, forcing himself to keep his hands steady. The others were watching, tense, disbelieving, but he ignored them. If they were caught, they’d all hang Torren knew this better than any of them, Magnus included. His fingers twisted the lockpicks one last time, and with a final click, the magic holding the cage shattered in a quiet explosion of light.

  The faeling’s eyes opened wide, its glow intensifying as the remnants of its prison dissolved. It looked at him, silent but knowing. And then, the world shifted.

  Torren barely had time to process what happened next. The moment the iron fully dissipated from reality, the faeling moved. It was so fast, so sudden, that his mind could only piece it together after the fact. One moment, it had been bound, its magic stifled; the next, it was above them all, wings beating with fae power, shimmering with an otherworldly glow that cast cascading lights across the ruined warehouse.

  A song filled the air—not words, but a melody woven from something deeper, something ancient. The sound of woods and bells intertwined with the chime that had first reached out to him. Magic rippled outward, sweeping over them in a wave of ethereal radiance. Torren felt it rush through him like a cool breeze on a scorching day, his exhaustion melting away, the tension in his muscles unwinding.

  Gerrin gasped—a sound of life reborn. His wounds, still raw and ugly only moments ago, knitted together as the glow bathed him. His breath steadied, color returning to his face as his eyes fluttered open, confusion dawning upon him.

  Then Magnus stirred.

  Torren turned just in time to see the massive form of the Sovereign Komodo begin to rise, his golden eyes burning with renewed strength. The poison, the exhaustion, all of it was washed away beneath the faeling’s magic. Magnus exhaled, slow and deep, his towering frame regaining its imposing presence as his claws dug into the ground. The energy that had left him drained and faltering now surged back, stronger than before.

  And then, as miraculously as the magic had come, the world shimmered—this time, not from weakness, but from something else. A veil of bending light rippled outward, distorting the air around them like heat rising from stone. It wrapped around Magnus, Gerrin, Torren, and the others, blending their forms into the background as if they were never there.

  Torren sucked in a breath, realization dawning. They hadn’t disappeared. They had become invisible.

  The guards burst into the warehouse only seconds later, blades drawn and torches raised. They spread out, shouting, searching. But there was nothing. Only a ruined building, overturned crates, shattered cages, and the echoes of a battle long since ended.

  Michelangelo’s breath came in ragged, heaving gasps as he swung his tail in a wide arc, smashing through the horde of goblins like a scythe through wheat. Blood splattered against the dirt, the broken forms of their enemies piling at his feet. The siege had become a slaughter, but not in the way the goblins had planned.

  Their initial charge had been reckless, driven by Raphael’s unchecked battlelust, and it had cost them dearly. Michelangelo had tried to keep up, to cover him, but the sheer numbers had been overwhelming. Raphael had taken too many hits, his golden green scales now marred with streaks of crimson, his powerful limbs trembling from exertion and pain. His breathing was labored, each rise and fall of his chest more strained than the last.

  Michelangelo’s eyes burned with fury. This was not how they would fall.

  His massive tail swept the ground again, carving a wide, crescent-shaped berth between himself, Raphael, and the remaining goblins that still dared to press forward. The effect was immediate. The creatures hesitated, their eyes wide with terror as they scrambled back from the monstrous lizard that had torn through their ranks like an unstoppable storm. Fear. He could taste it in the air.

  The goblins had learned something new tonight. The lizards of Newscar were not prey.

  But fear alone wouldn’t hold them back for long. Already, some of the larger goblins, the ones that acted as taskmasters among their kind, were barking orders, rallying their scattered forces. Michelangelo knew it was only a matter of moments before the tide turned against them again.

  Then, from above, a sound like the whisper of death cutting through the night.

  Arrows. A hundred of them, slicing through the darkness in a coordinated volley, raining down upon the goblin horde. The creatures shrieked as the arrows found their marks, dropping in clusters, clutching at the crude shafts now protruding from their misshapen bodies. The precision of the attack was unlike anything Michelangelo had seen before, and as he dared a glance back, he saw the source.

  The walls of the catfolk village bristled with defenders. The feline warriors, once desperate and overwhelmed, now stood united, their bows drawn, their eyes burning with renewed hope. Even the young ones, too small for blades, hurled stones from the heights, their defiant cries ringing across the battlefield.

  The tide had shifted.

  Michelangelo let out a roar of triumph, his golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight as he reached down, grabbing Raphael’s limp form and hoisting him over his shoulder. He was heavy, nearly deadweight, but Michelangelo didn’t hesitate. He could feel the warmth of his brother’s blood against his scales, the shallow rise and fall of his breath. He was still alive. That was all that mattered.

  From the walls, another sound—this time, a heavy groan of wood and iron. Michelangelo turned in time to see the great wooden gate of the village begin to rise, sluggish at first, then faster as the catfolk threw their combined strength into lifting the blockade. A section of the goblin horde had already turned to flee, their morale shattered, but others fought on, stubborn and desperate.

  And then, from the gap in the gates, they came.

  A wave of catfolk militia, armed with spears and short blades, rushed forward with a coordinated ferocity. They clashed with the remaining goblins, their swiftness and agility turning the battlefield into a chaotic frenzy of flashing steel and darting forms. Michelangelo saw the opening immediately.

  He surged forward, each step heavy and deliberate as he forced his way through the thinning goblin ranks. The militia closed in around him, forming a protective ring, cutting down anything that tried to pursue. He could hear the shouts, the cries of their feline allies calling for him to move faster, to get inside.

  Michelangelo’s body screamed in protest, every muscle aching, but he didn’t stop.

  Raphael groaned against his shoulder, stirring slightly, his tail twitching weakly. Michelangelo’s grip tightened.

  “You’re not dying here, brother,” he growled under his breath. “Not tonight.”

  The moment they crossed the threshold, the heavy gate behind them slammed shut with a resounding boom. The sudden silence that followed was deafening. The battle still raged outside, but inside the walls, they were safe—for now.

  Michelangelo staggered, his knees nearly buckling as he carried Raphael further inward, past the gathered militia, past the curious, awe-struck stares of the catfolk villagers. Their faces were a mixture of disbelief and gratitude, but Michelangelo barely saw them. His vision swam, his body wracked with exhaustion, but he forced himself to keep moving.

  A healer. He needed a healer.

  A feline woman, older, with streaks of gray through her fur, stepped forward. She bore the markings of a shaman, her robes adorned with charms and woven sigils. Her sharp eyes took in Raphael’s condition in an instant, and she nodded curtly.

  “Bring him,” she said, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. “Quickly.”

  Michelangelo followed without question. He could still hear the fighting outside the walls, the cries of dying goblins, the rallying shouts of warriors, but all of it felt distant now. His world had narrowed to a singular point: Raphael, and making sure he lived.

  The weight of the battle still lingered in Michelangelo’s mind, the scent of blood thick in his nostrils, but for the first time since the fight began, he allowed himself a single, fleeting thought beyond survival.

  They had made it.

  For now.