My body froze, my breath caught in my throat, and in that one desperate instant I could already see it—my skull caving in, my bones turning to paste, my ambitions flattened into some grim smear on the factory floor. Death had a way of making itself uncomfortably vivid in my imagination, like a painter drunk on the color red.
And yet, before I even managed the dignity of flinching, the world blurred. A streak of motion split my vision, sharp as lightning, fast enough that my mind struggled to register what I'd just witnessed.
One heartbeat the maul was plummeting toward me, the next it was caught—casually, impossibly—by a single outstretched hand.
The naked knight had moved.
He stood in front of me now, his back gleaming with sweat and dust, his arm outstretched like a pillar of marble, one hand gripping the maul's handle as though it were no more than a child's toy. And all the while, his other hand still held Nara, limp and unconscious, draped over his shoulder as though she were little more than a sack of grain.
My mouth fell open. "You—" I croaked, my brain hopelessly struggling to supply words to fit the absurdity before me. "You just—you're holding that thing with one hand?!"
The knight turned his head slightly, silver helmet gleaming in the half-light, and laughed. "Of course! A gentleman never allows his lady to be harmed."
His lady. Saints preserve me. If I had the energy, I'd have facepalmed myself right then and there. Instead, my survival instincts shoved the reins back into my hands and screamed at me to move. I didn't even wait for him to say more—I bolted past them both, my boots scraping against rusted concrete as I darted toward what I prayed was an exit.
For a glorious five seconds, I thought I'd made the smart choice. Then my conscience—or perhaps my penchant for catastrophically poor decisions—tugged at my collar and forced me to glance back.
And what I saw nearly made me stop breathing.
The naked knight was locked in a grotesque tug-of-war. The stitched man snarled, muscles bulging like knotted cords beneath his patchwork skin, his maul straining against the knight's grip with the force of a landslide. The knight, for all his ridiculousness, was struggling, caught between holding the maul at bay and keeping Nara secure on his shoulder. His stance wavered, the crater dust trembling around his feet.
I swore under my breath.
"Hey!" I shouted, throwing my voice back into the chaos. "Are you coming or not?!"
The knight turned his helmet toward me, tassel swaying, and in that moment his body seemed to lighten, renewed with energy. With a sudden burst of cunning, he twisted his arm, sliding the maul's handle downward just enough that the stitched brute overbalanced, stumbling forward with a guttural growl. In the same heartbeat, the knight released, pivoted, and slammed the front of his helmet directly into the man's chest.
The sound was thunderous. The stitched man toppled, crashing to the ground in a spray of dust and fury.
"Coming!" the knight called, and before my brain could question how, he was already sprinting toward me, still carrying Nara as though she weighed less than air.
We ran together. Me, a frantic mess of adrenaline and half-baked plans, and him, bounding along like some triumphant stallion, his laughter booming off the walls as though this were a festival race instead of a desperate flight from certain death.
"Left here, beauty!" he bellowed, pointing a hand. "No, right! No—ah, I jest! Always trust your instincts. Mine say forward!"
"Stop calling me beauty!" I snarled, ducking under a dangling chain. "And stop laughing! We're being chased by a monster stitched together from nightmares!"
"Ah, but what is life without a little thrill?" he replied, his voice annoyingly light, as though we weren't seconds from being pulverized into artistic smears. "Besides, you look magnificent when you're angry. Truly a rose bristling with thorns."
If I survived this, I promised myself I'd strangle him. Or at least invest in some trousers for him, because running beside a naked man with a crimson tassel bouncing like punctuation at every step was doing terrible things to my mental health.
Behind us, the stitched man roared, the sound rattling the rusted beams between us, a guttural fury that promised he wouldn't stop until my head was pulp beneath his boots.
We burst out of the industrial labyrinth at last, the air shifting from metallic rot to something fresher, though no less damp. Before us stretched the canals—a sprawling network of waterways, bridges, and stone embankments, choked with shadows and the faint glimmer of moonlight against rippling black water.
My heart leapt. Salem. Hopefully I can find him here.
The thought of him settled in my mind before I pushed it away. Survival comes first.
My eyes scanned the district in frantic sweeps until they caught on a rope bridge strung across one of the wider canals, its boards swaying gently with the current below. It was old, weather-worn, the ropes frayed in places, but it was a chance.
"This way!" I shouted, already angling toward it.
The knight followed, still inexplicably cheerful, as if he hadn't a care in the world. "Ah, the bridge! A fine choice, my lady. A test of courage for any who dare!"
I ignored him, my lungs burning as we scrambled onto the boards. The wood groaned beneath us, swaying precariously as we dashed across. The stitched man howled behind us, then launched himself forward in a bounding leap, his grotesque body sailing through the air to land on the bridge with enough force to rattle the entire span.
The boards splintered. The ropes strained.
"Move!" I cried, sawing at my belt until my fingers found the dagger. In a frenzy, I dropped low, hacking at the ropes securing the far side. The fibers screamed as the blade tore through them, strands snapping one by one.
The stitched man barreled forward, his rage making him faster than seemed possible. He was halfway across when the final rope gave.
With a deafening crack, the bridge lurched.
The world slowed. I saw his face contort, teeth bared in fury, his arms flailing as the boards tilted out from under him. Then gravity claimed him, and he plummeted into the canal below. The water swallowed him whole, his roar cutting off into a furious, bubbling scream as the current dragged him away.
I slumped back, my arms trembling, breath ragged. My heart hammered so loudly I thought it might crack my ribs.
Beside me, the naked knight clapped his hands together with giddy excitement, Nara still slung over his shoulder like some obscene accessory. "Bravo! Magnificent! Such cunning, such brilliance! You felled the beast with wit alone—an art more noble than any sword."
I shot him a look that could have flayed any lesser man. "Oldest trick in the book. He was just dumb enough to fall for it."
The knight threw his head back and laughed. "And yet you made it sing like a masterpiece. Truly, you are wasted on subtlety, my dear rose."
I groaned, dragging myself back to my feet, refusing to dignify him with a reply.
Together, we moved deeper into the canal district. My eyes scanned every shadow, every alley, desperate for a sign. Salem. Please, let him be here.
Just then, the air split with sound. Screams. Human screams, sharp and sudden, cut short in the span of a breath.
I stiffened. The knight tilted his helmet.
The noise came from a tavern—a squat, timber-framed building sagging against the water's edge, its windows glowing faintly with lamplight. Without thinking, I lunged toward it, boots pounding across the cobblestones, heart hammering in my throat.
I shoved the door open with a crash.
And there he was.
Salem.
He stood in the middle of the tavern floor, his chest heaving, his clothes drenched in blood. Around him lay bodies—dozens of them, sprawled across the floorboards in grotesque heaps, their faces slack, their throats carved, their blood pooling into rivers that snaked between the tables.
The smell hit me first—iron and salt, thick enough to choke on. The sound followed—the dripping of blood spilling from overturned mugs and torn flesh alike.
My heart dropped into my stomach. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
And then Salem turned toward me. His eyes, sharp and burning, softened at once. His lips curved into a smile—gentle, almost tender.
"Cecil," he said, voice quiet, breath ragged but warm.
Relief broke through me like a storm. My shoulders sagged, my lungs released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, and I let out a long, shuddering sigh. He was alive. Alive, and smiling at me.
But beneath that relief, quiet and insidious, another feeling crept in.
Terror.
Not of him—never of him, not truly—but rather of what he was. Of what he could do. Of the sheer absurdity of his power, standing here calm and smiling in a sea of corpses.
And I wondered, just for a heartbeat, what it might look like if that smile were ever turned against me.