The morning sun over the High-Wall Fort was bright, sharp, and entirely too cheerful for a group of people who had just crawled out of a hole in the earth.

  We stood in the muddy courtyard, our breath steaming in the chill air. The fort was a hive of activity—civilians repairing walls, soldiers drilling, and children chasing chickens. But for us, the war wasn't over. It was just moving north.

  Captain Vane walked toward us, leading four massive warhorses. They were Destriers, bred for the northern mountains—thick coats, heavy muscle, and intelligent eyes. They looked like they could carry a house.

  "Speed is your only advantage now," Vane said, patting the nose of a particularly large gray stallion. "Malacor is days ahead of you. These are the last mounts we have. They are battle-hardened. Treat them with respect."

  "Respect?" Faelar scoffed, adjusting his new, magically refilling bandolier. "I shall treat him like a brother! We shall share the road and the mead!"

  The horse snorted and took a nervous step back.

  I walked up to the gray stallion. I moved with the quiet confidence of a Commander inspecting a new asset. I checked the cinches on the saddle, tugging them firmly. The leather creaked.

  "Solid frame," I muttered, running a hand down the horse's flank. "Good temperament."

  I grabbed the saddle horn and swung myself up.

  Or, I tried to.

  Usually, mounting a horse is a fluid motion. You pull, you swing, you sit.

  But as I pulled, I felt that strange snap of power in my arm again—the same power that had thrown the boulder in the cave. I didn't just pull myself up; I launched myself.

  I flew over the horse’s back, cleared the saddle entirely, and landed on my feet on the other side with a heavy thud.

  "Easy, Commander," Liam drawled from the fence, suppressing a grin. "The horse isn't a vaulting horse."

  "I... slipped," I lied, dusting off my greaves. "Grip strength is... calibrated wrong."

  I tried again, moving with agonizing slowness, treating my own body like a loaded weapon. I managed to get into the saddle. The horse groaned. Its knees buckled slightly, as if I weighed three times what I should.

  "He's a bit saggy," Faelar noted. "Watch and learn, lads. The dwarf knows how to ride."

  Faelar waddled up to a sturdy brown mare. "I claim this one! She has kind eyes and broad hips! Like my aunt Helga!"

  Faelar didn't use the stirrups. He jumped.

  He landed in the saddle with the grace of a falling anvil.

  CRUNCH.

  It wasn't a bone breaking, thankfully. It was the sound of the horse’s will to live snapping. The poor mare’s legs splayed out instantly. Her belly hit the mud with a wet squelch. She let out a wheeze that sounded like a deflating bellows.

  "Up!" Faelar shouted, kicking his heels. "Mush! Charge! Onward!"

  The horse didn't move. She just lay there, pinned to the earth by the dwarf's inexplicable density, looking at Vane with pleading eyes.

  "Get off her!" Vane yelled, rushing forward. "You're pressing her into the mud!"

  Faelar rolled off. The horse instantly scrambled up, shook herself off, and trotted behind Vane, glaring at the dwarf with pure betrayal.

  "She’s defective," Faelar declared, crossing his arms. "Not enough torque."

  "I shall handle this," Elmsworth announced. "One must bond with the beast. A mental connection!"

  The wizard approached a black gelding. He adjusted his robe—which rippled from blue to plaid—and leaned in close, staring into the horse's eyes.

  "Greetings, noble steed," Elmsworth whispered. "I am Elmsworth. Do you like oats? I enjoy a good oat. Sometimes with raisins."

  The horse blinked. Then, its eyes widened. It looked at Elmsworth. Then it looked at the chicken on Elmsworth's shoulder.

  Nugget stared back. The bird’s eyes flashed with a faint, violet light.

  Bawk.

  The horse screamed. It wasn't a neigh; it was a shriek of existential terror. It reared up, nearly kicking Elmsworth in the head, broke its reins, and galloped out of the main gate, heading south at full speed.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Fascinating," Elmsworth noted, adjusting his glasses. "It appears Nugget has a high Intimidation modifier."

  "Right," Liam sighed, pushing off the fence. "Amateurs. Watch the professional."

  The elf looked at the last horse, a spirited chestnut.

  "I don't need to climb," Liam said smoothly. "I am the shadow."

  He focused. He aimed for the saddle.

  He dissolved into ink. He zipped through the air, intending to materialize perfectly seated on the horse's back.

  He succeeded in the teleport. But he failed the landing.

  He materialized on the horse's back, but the moment he appeared, the temperature around him dropped twenty degrees. The shadows clung to him like a shroud.

  The horse felt the unnatural chill of the Grave-Stalker aura. It didn't buck. It simply froze, locked its legs, and fell over sideways in a dead faint.

  Liam rolled away before he was crushed, standing up and brushing straw off his tunic.

  "It... fainted," Liam said, looking offended. "I haven't even threatened it yet."

  Silence fell over the courtyard.

  I sat on my gray stallion—the only one successfully mounted—and looked at my team.

  Faelar was arguing with Vane about "horse durability." Elmsworth was taking notes on equine psychology. Liam was poking the fainting horse with his boot.

  I sighed. I looked at the stallion beneath me. It was trembling, sweat lathering on its neck just from holding my weight.

  "Sorry, buddy," I whispered. "I guess I'm walking too."

  I swung my leg over and dismounted. I handed the reins to a relieved-looking Captain Vane.

  "Keep them," I said. "They deserve better than us."

  "Probably for the best," Vane agreed, stroking the gray’s nose. "You’d probably accidentally teach them to drink or teleport into walls within an hour."

  "We walk," I announced, turning to the Misfits. "Faelar, you're carrying the heavy supplies."

  "I am a warrior, not a pack mule!" Faelar protested.

  "You're a warrior with a magic bandolier and infinite strength," I corrected. "Load up. We have a long road ahead."

  The road north was dusty, winding its way through the foothills toward the vast, gray expanse of the Void Wastes.

  Walking was slower, but it felt right. We fell into a rhythm—the heavy crunch of Faelar’s boots, the silent glide of Liam’s stride, the tapping of Elmsworth’s staff.

  By midday, the sun was high and hot. Usually, by this point in a march, we would be dragging. Faelar would be complaining about his knees. Elmsworth would be wheezing. Willow would need a break.

  But today... nothing.

  I checked my own breathing. Steady. Slow. My legs didn't burn. The heavy pack on my back felt like it was filled with feathers.

  "Is anyone else..." I hesitated, looking at the others. "Not tired?"

  Faelar stopped. He looked down at his legs. "Aye. It’s strange. I feel like I could run to the mountain and back. I haven't even broken a sweat. Is this the stew? Or the flask?"

  He took a swig from the Brewer's Bandolier. "Tastes like spiced rum today. Excellent."

  "It’s the Weaver," Willow said softly. She was walking without her usual limp, her staff swinging easily in her hand. "He... changed us. In the cave."

  "Upgraded us," Liam corrected. He was walking on top of a roadside stone wall, balancing perfectly. "My eyes... I can see the sap moving inside the trees, Kaelen. I can see a hawk circling three miles out. It’s overwhelming."

  "It’s geometry!" Elmsworth chirped. "The world is just shapes! And I can fold them!"

  "Let's not fold anything yet," I said. "We need to test this. Carefully."

  As if on cue, a howl cut through the air.

  It wasn't a wolf. It was deeper, wetter—a gurgling roar that sounded like rocks grinding in a blender.

  We stopped. The road ahead dipped into a small ravine filled with dead, blackened trees.

  From the shadows of the ravine, shapes emerged.

  "Void Stalkers," Liam announced calmly, his eyes narrowing. "Six of them. Alpha male in the rear."

  They were massive wolves, corrupted by the Void. Their fur was matted and oily, their eyes burned with green fire, and their jaws were wide enough to crush a man’s skull.

  Usually, this would be a "Form Shield Wall" moment. A desperate fight for survival.

  But as I looked at them, I didn't feel the familiar spike of adrenaline. I felt... calm.

  They looked small. Slow.

  "Lunch!" Faelar cheered, unhooking Bessie.

  "Wait," I ordered. "Let's see what we can do. Faelar, hold back. Liam, cover fire. Willow, keep an eye on Elmsworth. I’ll take the point."

  I stepped forward, leveling the Sun-Piercer. The white metal hummed in my hand, a low vibration that made my teeth itch.

  The Alpha Stalker roared and charged. It moved fast—a blur of black fur and teeth.

  In my old life, at the Citadel, I would have braced. I would have planted my back foot, angled my shield, and prayed the impact didn't dislocate my shoulder.

  But time seemed to slow down. I saw the muscles in the Stalker's hind legs bunch up. I saw the trajectory of its leap. It looked like it was moving underwater.

  Too slow, I thought.

  I didn't brace. I didn't block.

  I thrust.

  It was a simple, basic spear form. Thrust, extend, retract.

  But the Sun-Piercer moved faster than I intended. It didn't just stab; it flashed.

  THWIP.

  The spear tip struck the Alpha in mid-air.

  I expected resistance. Meat, bone, gravity.

  There was none.

  The spear punched through the massive beast’s chest plate like it was wet paper. But it didn't stop there. The force of the thrust—my new, terrifying strength amplified by the weapon—lifted the five-hundred-pound monster off the ground.

  It flew.

  The Alpha was launched backward, sailing twenty feet through the air. It slammed into a dead tree with such force that the tree snapped in half. The wolf crumpled, dead before it hit the ground.

  Silence fell over the ravine.

  The other five Stalkers skidded to a halt. They looked at their leader, currently wrapped around a stump. They looked at me.

  They whimpered.

  "Did I..." I looked at my spear. "Did I do that?"

  "You hit it very hard," Willow noted, sounding impressed.

  "You poked it into next week," Faelar laughed. "My turn!"

  The dwarf ran forward. He didn't swing his axe. He just shoulder-checked the nearest wolf.

  CRACK.

  The wolf went flying into the ravine wall, bouncing off the stone.

  "Oops," Faelar said. "Accidental contact."

  The remaining Stalkers didn't wait to see what the elf or the wizard could do. They turned tail and fled, yelping like puppies.

  I stood in the middle of the road, staring at the dead Alpha.

  "We aren't just stronger," I whispered. "We're... heavy. We hit like siege engines."

  "We are the raid boss," Liam said, dropping from the wall. He picked up a stone and crushed it into dust with one hand, looking bored.

  "This is going to be fun," Faelar grinned, patting his axe.

  "Let's keep moving," I said, slinging the spear onto my back. "But... maybe be careful. I don't want us to accidentally break the world before we save it."

  We marched on, north toward the Spire. The road was long, but for the first time, it didn't feel daunting.

  It felt like a victory lap.