Silas let out a slow breath as he took stock of his surroundings, his eyes drifting over the neatly arranged weapon racks and armor stands. A strange sense of stillness lingered in the armory, as though time had frozen the moment before disaster struck.


    He moved toward a set of armor, fingers trailing across the cool metal. It was too large. Even the smallest sets would swallow his frame whole. He tried nonetheless, struggling to fasten a cuirass over his small body, but the weight pulled uncomfortably at his shoulders, limiting his mobility.


    Frustration gnawed at him, but he had to be practical. Strength alone wouldn’t save him—speed and precision would. He abandoned the armor, turning instead to the weapon racks. He reached for a longsword, lifting it with both hands, only for his arms to tremble under its weight. Too heavy. A war axe? Even worse.


    Finally, his eyes settled on something more suited to him—a light wooden spear, its tip honed to a wicked edge. He gave it a few practice thrusts, feeling its balance. It would do. To accompany it, he selected a short sword, something easy to maneuver, sheathing it at his side.


    As he turned, another glint of metal caught his eye. A buckler shield, small and lightweight, rested against a fallen set of armor. He picked it up, slipping his forearm through the leather straps, testing its weight. It felt natural.


    Armed, he took another look around, the reality of the situation sinking in.


    The militia must have been caught completely off guard. There were no signs of a prolonged struggle, no piles of discarded weapons from frantic defense efforts. The armory remained mostly intact, weapons untouched. Whatever had led to the destruction of this once-thriving village had happened quickly—too quickly for its defenders to react.


    His gaze settled on the large chest at the far end of the room. His heart pounded as he approached, prying at the lid. It wouldn’t budge. He adjusted his grip, trying again. Nothing. Frustration mounting, he planted his foot against it, pulling harder.


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    A sound—


    Low rustling. Footsteps.


    Silas froze, his breath catching in his throat. The noise came from the previous room. Slowly, he released his grip on the chest, reasoning that he could always return later. His immediate concern lay beyond that door.


    Hand tightening around his spear, he crept toward the entrance, swallowing the fear creeping up his spine.


    The moment he stepped back into the foyer, he saw it.


    The creature was there, sniffing the air, its grotesque, leech-like maw gaping. It must have sensed him—his sweat, his breath, something that betrayed his presence. Its bulbous, faceless head turned in his direction, and a deep, rattling rasp filled the air.


    Then it lunged.


    Silas barely had time to react before it closed the distance between them. He dove to the side, narrowly avoiding the creature’s claws as they raked against the stone floor with a sickening screech. He scrambled backward, bringing his spear up just in time to deflect another swipe. The force of the impact sent him staggering, but he kept his footing.


    It was fast. Too fast.


    The beast lunged again, snapping its rows of needle-like teeth inches from his face. Silas ducked low, jamming his spear into its side. The creature howled but did not slow. With unnatural agility, it twisted, striking out with a powerful limb.


    The blow was meant to pierce his chest.


    His buckler intercepted the attack, saving his life—but the force of the strike shattered the wood, and the creature’s claws slashed clean through his left arm, severing it just below the elbow.


    Agony exploded through him. A raw, primal scream tore from his throat as he stumbled back, clutching the bleeding stump. The world blurred, pain turning everything into chaos. His vision swam, but through the agony, he saw the creature rear up for the final strike.


    He had only one chance.


    He braced himself, angling his spear toward the corner of the room. The creature lunged—


    And impaled itself upon the weapon.


    A shrill, agonizing cry filled the barracks as the beast thrashed violently, its lifeblood spilling across the stone floor. It staggered forward, trying to reach him even in its death throes, but the damage was fatal. With a final, shuddering twitch, it collapsed.


    Silas gasped, the pain nearly unbearable. He pressed his remaining hand against his wound, but the blood poured freely. His heartbeat pounded against his skull, his breaths ragged and shallow.


    Then—


    A sound.


    A low, answering rasping cry. Then another. And another.


    The village was waking up.


    The creature’s death had not gone unheard.


    Silas staggered toward the entrance, his legs weak, his vision darkening at the edges. He couldn’t stay. He had to get out.


    Bleeding, his mind groggy from pain and blood loss, he stumbled through the barracks'' entrance. The harsh sunlight momentarily blinded him. The world spun.


    His legs gave out.


    He collapsed against the decayed and rotting oak just outside the barracks, his fingers weakly clutching the ruined remains of his shield. The rasping cries of approaching creatures echoed around him, but they faded into nothingness as darkness swallowed him whole.


    He lost consciousness.