“Move, boy!” Gregor shouted as he shoved his son away from the burning inn. It had been a nice place. Gregor could never remember the name of it, but the old man who ran it was friendly enough. The gods had given him a bit of minor magic—nothing grand—just enough to conjure water that tasted like wine but never made anyone drunk.

  Gregor had no time to think about that now. Two more streaks of black flame slammed into nearby buildings. People scattered through the streets, some searching desperately for water or shelter, others shouting to find family, and a few trying to discover who was attacking.

  “Wha da we do, Pa?” his son asked as they reached the wagon.

  “We gotta find somewhere safe—DOWN!”

  Gregor shoved the boy beneath the wagon just as a bolt of black fire struck the archway above them. Stone shattered overhead, sending fragments and burning debris crashing down around them. One of the stones clipped Gregor and knocked him hard to the ground. For a moment, his mind drifted and his vision blurred.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The air smelled wrong.

  It wasn’t smoke or ash or burning wood like Gregor expected. The scent reminded him of festivals mixed with a butcher’s shop—blood, sweat, and burnt grain—but twisted into something sharper, something dangerous. As he lay there, half-conscious, he saw the black flames crawling along the broken archway.

  They were eating the stone. The darkness spread like a rising tide, the fire expanding as though the world itself were fuel.

  “Wake up, Pa! Wake up!”

  His son dragged him away from the creeping flames, pulling him down the street as the sounds of battle echoed somewhere beyond the smoke. metal clashed against metal, leather snapped, wood splintered, and somewhere in the chaos, something heavy struck bone.

  Gregor’s injury wasn’t fatal, but the blow had rattled him badly. It took several blocks of dragging through the streets before his thoughts finally cleared. Years spent as a sailor helped him push through the fog. Panic killed men faster than blades. Gregor forced himself upright, leaning against the wagon for a moment to steady his breath.

  “We need somewhere out of the way,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Hide until the raid passes… or find a moment to run for home.”