The shadow loomed across the burning village, blotting out stars and moon. Crimson eyes glared from above, and though Zeke knew it wasn't the dragon itself, the fear it brought was real. The villagers cowered, some frozen, others weeping. The palisade burned, and goblins poured through the gaps like a tide of vermin.
Zeke forced himself to breathe. Fear was a poison—he'd learned that long ago in back-alley gunfights and desert standoffs. If you let it into your bones, it killed you quicker than any bullet. He clenched the grip of his revolver, then the hilt of the short blade Seraphine had forced into his hand.
Beside him, Seraphine's eyes locked onto the hobgoblin shaman, who stood framed by green fire, staff raised high. "He's the one weaving this nightmare," she growled. "If he falls, the shadow may break."
"Then you'd better hurry," Zeke muttered, already swinging his blade at a goblin rushing him.
Seraphine didn't answer. She surged forward like a silver comet, her greatsword blazing in the firelight. The shaman laughed, baring jagged teeth, and met her head-on. Their blades and staff clashed with a scream of steel and sorcery. Sparks erupted. The ground trembled.
Zeke barely had time to watch—half a dozen goblins broke off from the main horde, circling him with yellow eyes glowing in the dark. They'd seen the strange weapon at his hip, the thunder-fire pistol that frightened even their kind. And they wanted him dead.
"Well, hell," Zeke muttered, spitting into the dirt. "Guess it's just you and me, boys."
The first rushed in, knife raised. Zeke ducked low, driving his shoulder into its gut. They toppled together, but Zeke was faster. He rammed his blade into the creature's side, then rolled away before the others swarmed.
Another came from the right—Zeke whipped his revolver out, fired once, dropped it. The sharp crack split the chaos, and the goblin fell screaming.
But then two more hit him at once, one clawing at his arm, another biting down on his shoulder. Pain flared white-hot. Zeke snarled, slammed his forehead into one's skull, then jammed his elbow backward into the other's throat.
He remembered dusty bar fights back in Texas—dirty moves, quick and mean. The kind you used when the law wasn't watching and survival meant getting nastier than the next man.
The goblins weren't men, but the rules applied all the same.
He tore his arm free, flipped the knife in his grip, and drove it upward under a goblin's chin. It shrieked and went limp. The other lunged again, but Zeke smashed the butt of his revolver into its temple, then stomped down hard, boot crunching bone.
Three down. Three more circled, hissing, testing him.
"C'mon then," Zeke spat, chest heaving. "Don't keep me waiting."
They rushed.
Zeke sidestepped the first, catching its arm, twisting until bone cracked, then slashing across its throat. Blood sprayed hot against his face. The second slammed into him—Zeke let the momentum carry them both down, then rolled on top and pummeled its face with raw fists, again and again, until green skin gave way beneath his knuckles.
The last goblin shrieked and leapt. Zeke barely rolled in time, pain stabbing through his ribs. He came up with both weapons—gun in one hand, knife in the other. The goblin hesitated a fraction, yellow eyes wide.
Zeke grinned through blood. "Bad move."
He shot once, then buried the knife deep. The goblin twitched, then went still.
Zeke staggered to his feet, chest burning, shoulder bleeding. His fists shook, but he was alive. He glanced toward Seraphine.
She and the shaman dueled like titans. Her blade struck again and again, sparks raining with each blow. But the shaman's staff wove barriers, green fire lashing out, keeping her at bay. Their clash painted the night in steel and sorcery, echoing louder than the screams of battle around them.
Seraphine pressed harder, every strike filled with years of vengeance. "For my fallen brothers!" she cried, swinging in a brutal arc.
The shaman blocked, snarling. His free hand shot out, claws glowing with sickly light, slamming against her chestplate. The force hurled her backward into the dirt.
Zeke's stomach dropped. "Seraphine!"
But she rose again, staggering, sword still in hand.
The shaman laughed, voice carrying across the burning village. "You fight well, knight. But you will fall like the rest. And your pet outsider—" His eyes shifted to Zeke, glowing brighter, hungrier. "—he will be nothing but ash beneath the Dragon's fire."
Zeke raised his revolver, but his hand shook. He'd fought, killed, bled. But the shaman's presence felt heavier than lead, pressing down on his chest.
The staff lifted. The shadow above twisted, eyes blazing brighter. The illusion of wings spread wider, covering the village in night.
And then the shaman's voice dropped low, almost a whisper, yet it slid into Zeke's bones like cold iron.
"The Black Dragon awaits you, cowboy."