Smoke bled across the treetops like a second dawn. Corren moved through it without sound, his cloak torn, blade dark with old blood. Behind him, the village screamed.
He led the boy and the innkeeper down a slope past the last row of houses, toward the broken shell of an old chapel. Its doors hung loose, roof partially collapsed, but the stone cellar beneath still held strong.
Corren opened the door. "Stay here. Don't open it unless it's me."
The innkeeper hesitated. "What about you?"
Corren met his eyes. "I won't be long."
He was lying.
The song was louder now. Not a melody—an orchestra unraveling. Each cry of pain, each moment of dying, played its note through him. The harmony was chaos, and it dug claws into his skull.
He stumbled once—just once—and caught himself with a snarl. He didn't have time to fall apart.
Halfway up the road he found the guard. Throat torn out. Blood slicked the stones like varnish. Corren knelt, pried the sword from cold fingers. Iron. Heavy. Balanced. Not better than his blade, but longer. He took both.
He heard the clash before he saw it.
Near the village square, the fighting had condensed to a few desperate knots. Villagers with pitchforks and axes. One of the guards screaming. But at the center stood a man—tall, broad-shouldered, grey in the beard, chest rising like a bellows. He fought not like a soldier, but something older.
His blade glowed faintly red. Not magic—enhancement.
Corren had heard of them. Enhancers—like mages and the so-called Gifted—were born with something rare, something the world bent around. Their abilities were categorized by tiers: Emerger, Warden, and Archon. Sub-tiers marked how deeply bonded they were to their power: Flicker, Bearer, and Bound. Most Emergers didn't manifest until their mid-teens. Many never passed beyond Flicker.
Corren was already Warden—Flicker tier. Strong for someone his age. Too strong. His gift had never felt like a gift—more like a curse that whispered through the dying.
The old knight was a Warden too. Bearer tier, if Corren was guessing right. The man radiated experience and power, each strike sharpened by years of violence. He fought not like a soldier, but something older.
His blade glowed faintly red. Not magic—enhancement. This man moved like the world had slowed down to let him act.
Across from him, the creature stood nearly seven feet tall. A chupacabra, but twisted. Bulked. Fangs like daggers, limbs like gnarled branches. The alpha.
Corren paused, and the sound poured in.
The monster's song was a low, rumbling drone—rage made music. Beneath it, sparks of other sounds: the deathnotes of those still fighting. One villager, one guard, the old man—close. Closer.
Too many songs.
Corren's head throbbed. His breath hitched. But then he found it—the rhythm. The alpha's melody beat in a pattern. Six strides. Lunge. Swipe. Roar. Repeat.
Corren moved.
The moment he tapped into it—his gift—the world responded. Not with light or flame, but sound. A shiver of melody, too sharp to be natural, rippled from him in waves. It was faint, but it echoed across the stones like wind through hollow bone. The song was never meant for others. But when he used it like this, sometimes people heard. Sometimes, they noticed.
The knight blocked another blow, sword grinding against claw. His feet slid back. Corren darted in, caught the tail-end of the alpha's swing. The song screamed at him. A kill-stroke, if it landed. Corren dropped flat, rolled beneath the arc, and slashed upward at the creature's hamstring.
The blade bit deep.
The alpha shrieked.
"You!" the knight barked, staring. "You're Gifted?"
Corren didn't answer. Didn't need to. Gifted were rare. Rarer than mages. Rarer than enhancers. Most people went their entire lives without seeing one. And those who did, usually didn't understand what they were witnessing. Corren had never met another. Not one that lived.
There were few enough with Gifts strong enough to matter. And even fewer who survived long after others found out.
The man growled. "Then make it count."
Another swipe. The air hummed a second too long. Premonition—Corren twisted right, and the claw barely grazed his shoulder. He felt the song's flare before it happened. Death. Near-death. Another blow came, and Corren stepped just out of range.
It wasn't dodging. It was timing.
He circled, sword raised, mind fracturing under the weight of too many notes. Behind him, another man died—he felt it like a blade in his ribs. A snap of finality.
He screamed back at the pressure. The alpha surged at him.
Corren held his ground.
At the last moment, the knight intercepted. Their swords clashed against bone and hide. Corren stepped inside, thrust his own blade into the exposed flank just above the hip. The creature buckled, but not down.
Its song changed.
Fear. Just a tremor, but there. In the place where all monsters, no matter how old or twisted, remembered what pain was.
"Now!" the knight shouted.
Corren drew breath and found it—his instinct flaring with sharp precision. This was the moment. This was the note.
He drove the sword into the creature's throat.
The alpha gurgled, choked, and collapsed with a thunderous thud.
The song ended.
The knight bent over, breathing hard. "Never thought I'd live long enough to see a Gift that didn't hide."
Corren cleaned his blade. "It's not a gift."
The knight raised an eyebrow. "You could've let it kill me."
"Maybe I should've."
The old man grunted. "What's your name?"
Corren turned away. "Doesn't matter."
By dawn, the fires had burned down to embers. The dead were being dragged to pyres. The wounded wailed softly. The boy and his father stood near the chapel, staring at what was left of their home.
Corren didn't speak to them.
He didn't say goodbye.
The melodies were quiet now. But not gone.
Too many had died. Too many notes still echoed in the back of his mind.
He walked out of the village without looking back.
And though the wind was clean, the bitter taste of what he'd saved—and what he hadn't—clung to his tongue like ash.