The last talisman hanging from his chain ignited in a violent flare.
The glow ruptured, and from its core erupted a torrent of liquid that looked disturbingly like blood. It surged outward in a sudden flood, splashing across his body and enveloping him entirely.
The arrow ant for his skull struck the crimson veil mid-flight, the impact ringing with a sharp clang as though it had struck steel rather than flesh or air.
The substance clung to him, wrapping tighter and tighter, pressing inward with suffocating force. Amon’s scream tore through the clearing, raw and ragged, echoing off the cavern walls as though sothing inside him was being ripped apart. His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward, clawing at his own chest while the red mass constricted around him, veins of it threading into his skin.
The goblins faltered, their expressions tightening with a mix of fear and unease.
Amon’s roar deepened, turning guttural, animal, as if the sound itself was being dragged out of him against his will.
Narg narrowed his eyes, the lines of his weathered face creasing with caution.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t a power he recognized, and hesitation was a risk he could not afford. With a sharp thrust of his staff, he drew in mana until the wood humd beneath his grip, the gathered energy burning bright at its tip. Then he released it.
The fireball streaked forward, splitting the smoke and light, before slamming into the writhing mass around Amon.
BOOOOM!
The explosion cracked the ground and sent a wave of heat washing over the goblins, the sll of scorched dirt and ozone filling the air. For a heartbeat, silence followed, broken only by the ringing in their ears and the hiss of settling dust.
When the smoke finally thinned, the truth revealed itself.
Amon was no longer visible.
The red substance had pulled in upon itself, hardening, condensing, until it ford a perfect sphere that hovered a few inches above the ground. Its surface glead wetly, like a globe of freshly spilled blood, faintly pulsing with light from within.
"What is happening?" Zarah’s voice cut through the haze, sharp but edged with unease. Her bow remained drawn, yet even she could not keep the tremor from her tone.
"I don’t know..." Narg admitted, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. He exhaled heavily, lowering his staff at last, the glow fading from its tip. That last barrage had drained nearly everything he had left; his reserves of mana were unable to handle another round of battle.
His gaze fixed on the do before them.
The sphere pulsed with a steady rhythm, its surface slick and glistening, a grotesque mimicry of a heartbeat. Shades of red mist swirled across it like storm clouds trapped inside glass, thickening and thinning with each pulse. Narg’s jaw tightened.
In all his years studying shamanic rites and forbidden rituals as an acolyte, never had he seen—or even heard—of anything like this. It wasn’t power drawn from the earth, nor spirit, nor mana. It was sothing else entirely.
Sothing that felt wrong, as if it should not exist.
A chill crept along his spine.
The air itself seed to hum with unease.
Then Thok’s voice split the silence.
"Look!"
The wiry goblin’s cry turned every head. Narg whipped his gaze toward the direction Thok pointed—and froze.
The corpses.
The fallen goblins that littered the battlefield, their lifeless bodies sprawled and broken, were no longer still. A faint shimr rose from them, threads of the sa red haze seeping through their torn flesh.
The glow brightened, curling like smoke before coalescing into mist.
And then it began to move.
The blood.
It leaked from the wounds of the dead, at first sluggish, then faster, pooling unnaturally across the dirt. Yet it did not spread aimlessly—it crept with purpose, slithering like living serpents, dragging itself in rivulets across stone and ash, all converging toward the pulsing crimson do where Amon was trapped.
The sight was grotesque, impossible, and yet undeniable.
The dead were bleeding for him.
And the do drank greedily.
Narg took an involuntary step back, his instincts screaming at him even as his eyes refused to look away.
The crimson haze had thickened, streams of blood from the corpses dragging themselves across the ground until they vanished into the do. Each ti the liquid rged with its surface, the sphere pulsed, swelling and contracting as though it were alive, as though it were feeding.
The mist grew denser, swirling faster, a storm contained within the orb. Its rhythm quickened, the beats irregular, frantic, like the heart of sothing that should not exist.
Around him, the goblins shifted uneasily, their weapons still raised, but their bodies tense with hesitation. Fear rippled across their faces, even in the hardened ones who had killed without pause.
None of them understood what they were looking at, but instinct alone told them that this was no ordinary spell.
The corpses continued to wither.
Skin shriveled, muscles collapsed, and veins turned black before splitting open, spilling out the last drops of blood they had to give. One by one, the bodies shrank into brittle husks before cracking apart, leaving nothing but bones stripped bare upon the dirt.
Narg’s eyes narrowed, the firelight from his staff dimly reflecting in them. He didn’t know what this was—not the origin, not the chanics, not even the na—but every fiber of his being recognized the pattern. The pull, the sacrifice, the exchange.
A ritual.
Not just any ritual, but one older and darker than anything he had studied, a rite ant to transform. To consu the flesh of the dead and pour it all into the vessel at its center.
A rebirth.
His stomach turned cold as the truth clawed its way into his thoughts.
Whoever—or whatever—erged from that do would not be the Amon they had cornered. It would be sothing else. Sothing remade by blood and death, sothing born of power so foul it gnawed at the air around it.
Sothing monstrous.
And, Narg knew with terrifying certainty that they would not be able to handle it.
"We have to leave."
Narg’s warning never...
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