The castle corridors were quiet in the late afternoon, most of the staff occupied with their duties elsewhere. Edric made his way toward the infant king's chambers, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor. He’d kept finding reasons to postpone the visit; not unwilling, simply… hesitant, and reluctant to ask himself why.

  *Just checking on a baby. Simple enough,* he told himself.

  The carved sunburst door stood slightly ajar, warm lamplight spilling into the hallway. He knocked softly, and one of the caretakers—the older woman with kind eyes he’d seen at dinner—appeared with a welcoming smile.

  “Sir Edric! Come in, come in. His Majesty is just finishing his evening meal.”

  The room was as warm and cosy as he remembered, perhaps more so in the gentler light of late day. King Browen sat in his caretaker’s lap, a wooden spoon clutched in one chubby fist while the other waved enthusiastically at nothing in particular. The infant’s face lit up when he spotted Edric, letting out a delighted squeal that seemed far too large for such a small body.

  “Would you like to hold him?” the caretaker offered, already rising. “He’s been fed and changed—quite content at the moment.”

  Before Edric could formulate a polite refusal, she’d placed the warm weight of the baby king in his arms. Browen immediately grabbed a fistful of Edric’s shirt, gurgling happily as he tried to pull the fabric toward his mouth.

  Edric couldn’t help but smile. “No, no, that’s not food,” he found himself saying fondly. He gently redirected the tiny hand. The baby looked up at him with wide, curious eyes—impossibly blue, impossibly trusting.

  Edric felt a warm affection grow in his chest as he held this small, royal child.

  Browen babbled an attempt at words, his free hand now reaching for Edric’s pointed ear. The small fingers closed around the unfamiliar tip, tugging with surprising strength.

  “Ow—gentle,” Edric said, exaggerating his reaction to tease the young king. He carefully extracted his ear from the infant’s grip, only for Browen to laugh—a pure, bubbling sound of delight at this new game. Edric lifted him up and bounced him lightly as he’d seen Zylenaia do.

  Two opposing emotions pierced his soul, toiling in conflict. The first was wholesome bliss. He loved this—the warmth he felt in his heart for this young, innocent, playful child, a welcome paradise. The second was a gnawing anguish.

  The words Sarah had said that last morning echoed through his mind. *Maybe we should start thinking about names.* She’d been making coffee, her back to him, but he’d heard the smile in her voice.

  That flicker of affection he felt for young Browen was also a bitter reminder of the child he would never have with Sarah.

  A fleeting frown crossed Edric’s face as a grievous thought surfaced. He quickly hid the pain for Browen’s sake.

  A worry boiled in his chest. *I’d been focused on the Winchester restoration, on getting the finish just right. I’d planned to bring it up properly that evening over dinner. I’d planned to tell her, “Yes, I’m ready, let’s start trying.”* But that evening had never come. *Instead, I was swept away to another world.*

  King Browen made a happy sound, patting Edric’s chest with both hands now, completely oblivious to the turmoil in the man holding him. The baby’s warmth seeped through his shirt—solid and real and *here*. Every smile, every gurgle of joy felt like both a small miracle and a piercing wound.

  *Was she already...?* The question he’d been avoiding crystallized with brutal clarity. *Was Sarah already pregnant? Was that why she brought it up? Was she trying to tell me?* Shame rose in him for not realizing sooner. *God, had I been that dense?* His lips trembled for a moment despite his best effort to control them.

  *I’ll never be certain. I’ll never know for sure,* he told himself, his thoughts growing more distraught. *I’ll never have the chance to ask.*

  Browen’s little face scrunched up, and for a moment Edric thought he might cry. But instead, the infant yawned hugely, his toothless mouth opening wide before he nestled his head against Edric’s chest with complete trust.

  The weight of that trust was unbearable.

  “He likes you,” the caretaker observed warmly. “Babies can sense good hearts, you know.”

  Edric’s throat tightened. His vision blurred at the edges. The baby was fine—more than fine; he was perfect, safe, and loved. But standing here, holding this tiny life, feeling the warm weight of what might have been…

  “I should—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, carefully passing the now?drowsy infant back to the caretaker. “I should let him rest. He seems tired.”

  “Are you alright, sir?” Concern flickered across her weathered face.

  “Fine,” Edric lied, already moving toward the door. “Just tired myself. Long day.”

  He was out in the corridor before she could respond, walking quickly—then faster. The ache in his chest erupted, demanding to be faced. *Not here.* The castle walls pressed in around him, too close, too confining. Too many people. He needed solitude. He needed privacy.

  Edric barely remembered grabbing his new axe from his quarters or passing through the castle gates. The guard on duty called something after him, but the words didn’t register. His feet carried him down familiar streets now darkening with dusk, past the last scattered houses on Larkenshire’s outskirts, away from lamplight and voices and the weight of other people’s expectations.

  The moon was rising, nearly full, casting everything in silver and shadow—enough light to see by. His boots found a narrow path leading away from the town, winding through scrubland and patches of marsh grass.

  He walked until the sounds of Larkenshire faded behind him—until there was nothing but the whisper of wind through reeds and the distant call of night birds. Until he was certain no one could hear.

  Then Edric stopped, threw his head back, and screamed at the sky.

  “WHY?!” The word tore from his throat, raw and ragged. “WHY!!” He repeated the cry, long and drawn out. “*Why…*”

  His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms. The axe hung forgotten at his belt.

  “She never did anything to deserve this! We were—we were finally—” His voice broke. “We were going to…” He couldn’t bear to say the word *family.*

  The stars stared down, cold and indifferent. Wrong stars. Wrong sky. Wrong *world.*

  “Was she pregnant?” The question came out as a whisper, barely audible even to himself. Then louder, angrier: “Was she trying to tell me, and I was too stupid to understand? Wrapped up in my work…*”

  The possibility had been tearing at him since he’d held Browen. Maybe Sarah hadn’t been suggesting they *start trying*—maybe she’d been telling him it had already happened. That their lives were about to change in the most beautiful way possible.

  *And I’d missed it!* His last chance to know, to understand, to tell her how happy that made him.

  “I’ll never know!” The words ripped out of him. “I’ll *never know* if I left her alone and pregnant and wondering why I abandoned her!”

  Fury crashed over him in waves, followed by grief that buckled his knees. He found himself at the edge of a slow?moving river, its surface reflecting moonlight like shattered glass. The water moved with patient inevitability, uncaring about the man falling apart on its bank.

  Edric grabbed a stone and hurled it into the river with all his strength. Then another. And another.

  “It’s not *fair*!” he shouted at the uncaring water, at the indifferent moon, at whatever god or force had ripped him away. “She deserved better! She deserved better—”

  His voice failed, as his knees sank deeper into the damp gravel, shoulders shaking with sobs he couldn’t control anymore. All the grief he’d been pushing down, ignoring, trying to function through—it all came flooding out at once.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “God, why have you done this to me?!” he pleaded, tears and grief rolling freely. “Why make me abandon my family in a world I can never return to?!”

  Edric knelt there for an uncertain amount of time, breath ragged, anguish letting up only for moments long enough to wipe some tears from his eyes.

  “Quite the performance.”

  Edric’s head snapped up, caught in his vulnerability, tears still wet on his face. The voice was deep, gravelly—definitely not human, elf, or halfling. It didn’t even sound like the beastkin he’d encountered. This was something else entirely.

  His hand moved instinctively to the axe at his belt as he scrambled to his feet, trying to locate the source. He forced his grief to evaporate, replaced by cold alertness.

  *Idiot!!!* he cursed himself. *Letting your guard down—wandering alone out here.*

  “You don’t smell like a halfling.” The voice came from the darkness to his left—or was it right? It seemed to move, circling. “Interesting.”

  Edric’s eyes strained against the shadows, searching for movement. There—a large shape shifting between the trees, always just at the edge of visibility. Moonlight caught something reflective. A single glassy eye, watching him.

  His blood turned to ice. *No. Please, no.*

  The creature circled slowly, maintaining distance but clearly positioning itself strategically. Edric heard a deep inhalation—the sound of something *sniffing* him.

  “An elf,” the voice rumbled with satisfaction. “Don’t see many of your kind around here.” Another slow breath. “But there’s something else…”

  The beast moved downwind from him, and Edric heard another long, analytical sniff.

  “Couple days old—faint—traces of those half?breed mutts,” the voice growled, hatred dripping from every syllable. “Part beast, part man. Abominations, all of them.”

  *Kornic and his crew,* Edric concluded, heart hammering. *Which means—*

  “I didn’t know demon beasts could talk,” Edric said, keeping his voice as steady as possible while his mind raced through his options. None of them were good.

  A sound that might have been laughter rumbled from the darkness. “Oh, so you’ve heard of me. No doubt from the half?breed mutts themselves.” The single eye gleamed again as it caught the moonlight. “The more cunning of us learn mankind’s languages. Useful for… negotiations.”

  *It’s Snargrin. I’m talking to Snargrin.* The wirehide grizzly that had torn through Kornic’s band and killed two of them. The creature whose fur was supposedly tough as chainmail.

  Edric kept himself from making any sudden movements as he evaluated the situation.

  *Supposedly a grizzly?like monster. Wire?like fur acts as armor. Partially blind. I have an axe but no ranged weapon. Can’t outrun even a normal bear, much less a demon beast. No armor. One?on?one, I don’t stand a chance.*

  The axioms Rennard had drilled into him echoed in his mind: *Never fight fair. Ensure retreat is always an option. Fear is a command—listen and move.*

  While his heart pounded, he slowly, carefully, began channelling mana into his fingertips, building compressed air. The pressure grew gradually. He was careful to keep it subtle, his hand positioned naturally at his side.

  “Do you know,” Snargrin asked lazily, still circling, “where that band of half?breed mutts has gone?”

  “They’re on an airship,” Edric replied slowly, buying time, his voice steady despite his racing pulse. “Heading to Merovia.”

  “Is that so?” The beast’s interest sharpened. “And when will they return? I have a favour yet to repay.”

  That single eye caught the moonlight again—malevolent, patient.

  “Four weeks. Maybe less.”

  Edric felt the air pressure at his fingertips reach its limit. No matter how much mana he pushed, it refused to increase further. *That’s all I’ve got, then.*

  “Four weeks…” Snargrin’s voice carried clear displeasure. “Too long. I’m not a patient creature.”

  Then, with a chilling curiosity, “Perhaps I can persuade him to return sooner.”

  Another deep sniff.

  “You also smell of a young, spoiled halfling child,” the beast observed, something cunning slithering into its tone. “I wonder… how important is this boy?”

  Edric’s blood ran cold. *Browen.* The creature was threatening the infant king.

  His fear solidified, hardened into something colder—focused. Terror still coursed through him, but now it was bound by purpose. It wasn’t just his life on the line anymore.

  *I need him to make the first move,* Edric calculated. *One distraction. That’s all I’ve got.*

  Slowly, deliberately, he raised his axe with his free hand.

  “That eye has been bothering me,” Edric said, his voice trembling—despite everything.

  Snargrin stopped circling.

  It was a stupid line. Childish, even. But he needed to provoke an attack, needed the beast to commit to a charge rather than stalk and plan. His one trick wouldn’t work otherwise.

  “I thought I might make your other eye match,” Edric stated.

  Silence stretched between them. Then the beast lunged.

  Edric felt the jolt of fear hammer through his body and used it as a signal—a *command*—to move.

  He flicked his wrist, releasing the compressed capsule of air.

  It went off with a sharp *CRACK!* that hammered against his sensitive elven ears. A rush of air pressure followed. Birds exploded from nearby trees, shrieking in alarm. The sound was shockingly similar to a gunshot—a sound Edric knew intimately despite the ringing now filling his ears.

  The ploy worked.

  Snargrin had never heard such a sound. The massive beast skidded to a halt mid?charge, predator instincts warring with confusion. What was that noise? Was it a threat? Its single eye darted wildly, trying to locate the danger.

  A few seconds. That’s all Edric would get.

  He ran.

  Not toward town—too far, and Snargrin would catch him easily. Instead, Edric sprinted toward the river, feet pounding, heart hammering. He heard the moment Snargrin realised the trick—a roar of fury that shook the air.

  The sound of massive paws thundered behind him, pushing him faster. His boots hit the reeds along the riverbank, water splashing. He didn’t slow, didn’t look back.

  He dove.

  Cold shock seized his entire body as the water closed over him. For an instant, every muscle locked in protest, but he forced himself to move.

  He pulled himself downward toward the riverbed and desperately activated the underwater breathing spell.

  Above him, the surface erupted into chaos. Massive shapes thrashed and roared, distorted by the murky current—Snargrin’s furious searching.

  Edric pressed himself against the river bottom, fingers digging into silt and smooth stones. His lungs worked the conjured air, that faint metallic taste coating his throat. The fridged water soaked through his clothes—the cold soaked through skin, through bone.

  He waited.

  And waited.

  His heart gradually slowed from its frantic pace. The cold became almost bearable as his body numbed. Above, the thrashing eventually ceased. But Edric didn’t surface. Couldn’t risk it. *Not yet.*

  *Be where you’re not expected,* Rennard had said.

  Instead of surfacing nearby, Edric began moving slowly upstream along the riverbed, pulling himself forward using rocks and submerged roots. His muscles screamed in protest. The cold had moved past discomfort into something more dangerous, but still he waited, forcing himself to stay under even as exhaustion dragged at him.

  The metallic taste of conjured air grew stronger, more unpleasant. Something was *off* about it, though he couldn’t identify what. His lungs felt strange—his chest tight. Not from lack of air exactly. *Mana fatigue perhaps?* It was the first time he's sustained a spell for longer than a few seconds.

  *Another hour,* he estimated grimly. *Maybe. If I’m lucky.*

  The first hints of dawn were lighting the sky when Edric finally risked surfacing. He emerged slowly, carefully, in an open stretch of river far from where he’d entered. His head broke the surface with barely a ripple.

  No sign of Snargrin.

  But the beast hadn’t vanished. Edric knew that with bone?deep certainty. The creature was out there somewhere—waiting, watching.

  Exhaustion and relief struck him at once as he swallowed normal air. The difference was immediately profound—no metallic taste, no subtle wrongness. Just clean, cold morning air filling his lungs the way it should.

  He felt sore everywhere. The cold had burrowed deep into his muscles. His chest ached from the constant, conscious effort of breathing underwater. And beneath all that lay a hollow, bone?deep weariness that could only be mana exhaustion.

  *Not infinite after all,* he noted grimly.

  Edric pulled himself onto the bank, noticing with faint surprise that he still clutched his axe. His fingers had gone so stiff and white from the cold that he had to consciously force them to relax before his grip loosened. He decided to keep it in hand anyway—just in case.

  Avoiding the wooded areas where Snargrin’s sense of smell would give him the advantage, Edric made his way across the open fields toward Larkenshire. He’d rather spot an approaching bear than be ambushed by one.

  The sun climbed higher as he walked, warming his back. His clothes began to dry, though the morning breeze made the damp fabric cling uncomfortably. His boots squelched with every step.

  Ahead, a figure sprinted frantically toward the town gates—a young halfling man, moving with the desperate speed of someone fleeing danger or bearing terrible news.

  “Wait!” Edric called, his voice rough from cold and strain.

  The shepherd boy skidded to a halt, eyes wide and wild. He took in Edric’s mud-soaked appearance with confusion but was too shaken to question it.

  “My flock,” the boy gasped. “They’re dead. All of them—just slaughtered. None of them eaten, just… killed.”

  Edric felt guilt twist like a knife in his gut. *Snargrin, Taking out his frustration.* he thought.

  “And there was this sound,” the boy continued breathlessly, words spilling out in panic. “Like the sky cracking open. I’ve never heard anything like it. Maybe a new kind of demon beast? Something that makes thunder?”

  *My compressed?air blast,* Edric realized. *He heard it from his pasture.*

  He was too tired to explain—too tired for anything but a solemn nod.

  “You should report it to General Rennard,” Edric managed. “At the castle.”

  The boy nodded frantically and resumed his run toward town, leaving Edric standing alone in the morning light.

  Warmth was finally returning to his fingers. He secured the axe properly at his belt.

  Snargrin had found the boy’s flock and massacred them out of rage. The shepherd had been in danger—might have died—if Snargrin had caught him instead of his animals.

  *But it was the best I could do,* Edric told himself, resuming his slow walk toward Larkenshire’s gates. *Given the circumstances—the best I could do.*

  The guards at the gate stared openly at his bedraggled appearance but said nothing. Edric ignored their looks, his mind already turning to the next problem.

  He needed to warn Zylenaia. Needed to ensure the infant king was protected. Needed to figure out how to deal with a damned demon beast that could talk, think, plan, and hold grudges.

  *And I need that crossbow,* he thought grimly. *Or at least a bow… and I need it finished and working before Snargrin makes his next move.*

  Because there would be a next move. The beast had made that abundantly clear.

  Edric walked through Larkenshire’s waking streets, leaving wet footprints in his wake. The morning market was beginning to stir: vendors setting up their stalls, the smell of fresh bread wafting from nearby bakeries.

  Normal life, continuing as it always did—unaware of the threat lurking beyond their walls.