The night air was heavy with the stench of wet earth and iron. The goblins' shrieks mixed with the terrified cries of villagers who had been dragged out of uneasy sleep. Torches swung wildly in shaking hands, throwing jagged shadows across wooden walls. Zeke stood in the center of the chaos, chest heaving, revolver shaking in his grip.
Click. Click.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber. No thunder, no recoil, no salvation. Just silence.
Zeke's eyes widened. He pulled the trigger again out of sheer panic, but the result was the same—dead silence that cut deeper than any blade. His last bullet was gone.
The goblins surged closer, eyes glowing yellow in the dark, claws dripping with filth, knives and crude axes flashing with stolen light. Their breath stank of rot. Zeke's boots scraped backward in the dirt, his heel catching on blood-soaked soil. He almost slipped.
"Goddammit," he spat under his breath.
The first goblin lunged. Zeke swung the revolver like a club, cracking the creature across the jaw with a sickening crunch. The goblin tumbled back with a shriek, but two more took its place instantly, claws outstretched.
Instinct screamed at him—move or die.
He holstered the empty gun in one desperate motion and yanked the hunting knife from his belt. The blade gleamed faintly in the firelight, far shorter and lighter than he wanted, but it was all he had left.
The goblins came at him in a wave. Zeke ducked the first slash, drove the knife upward, and felt the resistance of flesh giving way. Hot blood sprayed his knuckles. He ripped the blade free and shoved the corpse aside, but the next was already on him.
A claw raked across his coat, tearing fabric, grazing skin. Zeke grunted, rammed his shoulder into the goblin's chest, and stabbed again, quick and dirty. The creature screamed in his ear before collapsing.
But there were too many. Dozens, maybe more, their howls echoing off stone and wood.
Zeke's breath came ragged. Sweat and blood stung his eyes. His arms felt heavy, each slash of the knife slower than the last. For every goblin he cut down, two more filled the gap. His muscles burned. His heart hammered.
A memory flashed unbidden—dusty plains under a red Texas sun, the clean snap of his Colt firing straight and true. Back home, the revolver had been his law, his shield, his salvation. Out here? It was just dead weight without bullets.
A claw caught him across the cheek, hot pain slicing fire along his skin. He staggered. Another goblin leapt at him, jaws wide. Zeke roared, drove his fist straight into its snout, then rammed the knife home under its ribs. The goblin spasmed and fell.
Still they came.
His knife slipped in blood. His hands trembled. He could feel the tide turning against him.
Then—a flash of steel cut past his vision. A goblin's head toppled from its shoulders, rolling across the dirt.
"Hold the line, cowboy!" a voice barked.
Zeke blinked through the haze. A figure stepped into the fray beside him, armored in polished steel that gleamed in the firelight. Her long hair, black as a raven's wing, whipped behind her as she swung a longsword with ruthless precision.
Lady Seraphine.
The village's knight commander—he remembered her cold eyes and sharp words when he first arrived. Now she fought like a storm made flesh, blade singing, each stroke carving goblins into ruin.
She didn't wait for thanks. She didn't even look at him. She simply cut, stabbed, and pushed forward, holding the line with sheer ferocity.
Zeke found himself moving at her side, knife flashing in shorter, dirtier strokes while her longsword carved wide arcs of steel. They fought like mismatched partners—one trained, disciplined, graceful; the other raw, desperate, savage.
A goblin tried to circle behind him. Seraphine's blade split it in half before Zeke even realized the danger.
"Eyes open, cowboy!" she snapped. "Don't die on me."
"I ain't plannin' to!" he shot back, slashing a goblin across the throat.
The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder as the wave pressed in. For the first time since the fight began, Zeke felt the tide falter. Goblins shrieked as their front ranks fell. Those behind them hesitated, snarling, but fear crept into their eyes.
Seraphine pressed the advantage, her blade a blur of steel. Zeke followed, knife flashing, fists smashing bone when the blade got stuck. His knuckles split, his arms ached, but he kept moving.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the horde faltered. One goblin shrieked and fled into the treeline. Another followed. Then the whole pack broke, scattering into the night like vermin.
Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of flames and the groans of the wounded. The air reeked of blood, smoke, and fear.
Zeke bent forward, hands on his knees, chest heaving. His knife dripped red. His coat was shredded, his face cut, his fists bruised and raw.
But he was still standing.
He looked up at Seraphine. She hadn't even broken stride. Her blade was red to the hilt, her armor streaked with gore, but her expression was cold, steady. She wiped the blade clean on a fallen goblin's tunic and slid it back into its sheath.
Zeke managed a weak grin. "Guess I owe you one, darlin'."
Seraphine's eyes narrowed. She stepped closer, her voice low, sharp as a blade.
"If you want to survive here, cowboy… you'll need more than a gun."