Damien tore through the crowded streets, clutching the bag of stolen bread tight against his chest as though it were treasure. Shouts echoed behind him — the vendor's furious curses, the slap of boots on wet cobblestones. A few passersby had joined the chase, their voices sharp with outrage, but Damien knew the alleys better. This was his world. He darted left, vaulted a toppled crate, and pressed through a narrow cut between two sagging buildings. Rainwater splashed up his legs, soaking his torn shoes, but he didn't slow. His ribs ached with each breath, his stomach screamed with hunger, yet his body knew this rhythm too well. Run, vanish, survive.
He skidded around a corner and pressed himself into the shadows of a recessed doorway. His breath sawed in and out, misting in the storm-chilled air. The shouting grew fainter, boots scattering, until only the storm's voice remained. Damien stayed still, heart hammering, until the silence swallowed his pursuers. Then and only then did he sink to the ground, shaking with exhaustion.
The bread was stale, its crust rock-hard, but to him it might as well have been a banquet. He tore chunks free with aching teeth, forcing them down his dry throat. Each bite burned, but warmth bloomed in his chest. He leaned against the damp wall, closing his eyes for a moment, until his skin prickled and the hairs on his arms rose. The air had shifted.
Above, the storm swelled unnaturally. Clouds didn't just gather — they boiled, heaving against each other like furious waves. Lightning laced across the horizon, webbing the sky brighter than daylight for a blink. Thunder cracked so loud it rattled the walls around him. The wind howled through the alleyways, carrying with it strange murmurs, as though the storm itself whispered his name. His stomach clenched. He needed shelter before this storm swallowed him whole.
At the end of the street loomed an abandoned building, its windows gaping like broken teeth, its door hanging crooked on a single hinge. Damien slipped inside, brushing cobwebs from his face. The air smelled of mildew, rot, and something sourer — like wet leather left too long in the sun. Water dripped steadily from the sagging ceiling. It was ruined, forgotten — perfect. Or so he thought.
A sound froze him in place — the scrape of something heavy shifting. Damien's eyes adjusted to the dim interior. At first, it looked like a man squatting in the corner, broad-shouldered, head bowed. But when it turned, Damien's breath caught in his throat. One lidless, massive eye gleamed in the darkness, unblinking, set above a mouth filled with jagged teeth. Its grin stretched impossibly wide.
The creature sniffed the air, each breath wet and guttural. The stench hit Damien like a wall — foul, sour, like meat left rotting in the summer sun. "Blood," it growled, the word rolling like thunder through gravel. "Rich blood. Special."
It rose, and Damien's world shrank beneath its monstrous height. Gray, leathery skin, slick with rainwater dripping from its shoulders, stretched over corded muscles. Its skin glistened like worn stone, pocked with pits and scars. Arms so long the knuckles dragged along the ground flexed as it straightened. The floor groaned beneath its weight. Damien staggered back, heart slamming in his chest. Then the giant lunged.
A hand the size of a dinner table crashed down, splintering wood where Damien had stood an instant before. The impact carried a hot, rancid gust of breath that almost made him gag. Shards of timber peppered his legs as he bolted, weaving between rotting furniture. The monster's steps shook plaster from the ceiling. Damien tore through one room, then another, ducking falling beams, his pulse a drum in his ears. A sudden backhand caught his side, hurling him against a broken column. White-hot pain shot through his ribs, his vision swimming. His legs wanted to give way, but he forced himself up, gasping. He couldn't fight this thing. There was but one thought in his mind: RUN.
He staggered through a side door, burst back into the street — and the storm swallowed him whole. Rain lashed his skin like whips, soaking him in seconds. Thunder cracked overhead, so close it rattled his bones. But worse than the storm were the shrieks slicing through it, high and piercing. Damien looked up, squinting through the stormlight, and his stomach dropped.
Shapes wheeled in the sky. Black-winged silhouettes dove and swirled, their wings beating gusts of rancid air. When the lightning flashed, he saw them clearly: creatures half-woman, half-bird, feathers slick with filth, faces stretched and broken with too-wide mouths full of yellow teeth. Their eyes glowed with hunger. Their laughter — shrill, cruel — scraped at his ears. A miasma of rot and feathers filled the air, stinging his nose and throat. One swooped low, claws raking sparks from the stone where Damien had stood an instant before. Another snapped its hooked beak inches from his head, the stink of carrion rolling off it.
He ran harder, feet pounding puddles, lungs burning. The creatures circled overhead, shrieking, driving him through alleys and streets like hunters closing a trap. His chest was on fire, his vision spotted black, but his legs refused to stop. He vaulted a low fence, skidded across mud, ducked beneath a rusted fire escape. Still, they were there — always behind him, always above.
One dived too close. Damien threw up a hand to shield himself — and the next moment a vicious gust of wind ripped the harpy from its place in the air, slamming it against a flagpole with a sickening crack. Damien froze, horrified and awed. Had he done that? Sparks leapt along his fingertips, hissing in the rain, not that he noticed. All he could feel was adrenaline and the acute sensation that he was very warm, despite the storm.
Then reality came crashing back down as the next creature attacked him, tearing into his shirt as he recoiled, trying to defend himself with anything he could find. But there were too many. The winged horrors swooped and screamed, forcing him toward a blind alley. His back hit the wall, his legs gave way. His chest heaved, breaths ragged. He had nothing left to give.
The creatures closed in. Their claws clicked against stone. Their musk clogged the air, feathers brushing damp walls as they advanced. Their laughter thickened the storm around him.
And then the storm ripped wide open.
A bolt of lightning slammed into the earth with a crack that deafened him. For a moment, the whole world turned white. When Damien's vision cleared, a bronze shield had been implanted into the concrete at his feet, glowing faintly, alive with sparks dancing across its rim. Storm light humming through it like a heartbeat.
Every instinct screamed at him to pick it up. His hand closed around the rim — and a thunderous voice echoed within his head, shaking him to the bone; "Rise, my son, and show them who you are."
The nearest creature dove. Damien raised the shield, and light exploded outward. Lightning arced from its face, hurling the monster into the pavement in a flash of fire. Another swooped; a gale surged from the bronze rim, battering it back into the storm. Damien gasped at the force rushing through him, his arms trembling. The shield was too heavy, his body too broken, but still he planted his feet. He stood.
The horrors shrieked and wheeled back. Damien braced himself, knowing he couldn't hold on much longer.
"Hey!"
The shout cut through wind and thunder. A boy, years older than him, sprinted into the alley, a gleaming blade catching the lightning's glow. At his side bounded a Satyr, goat legs kicking up sprays of water, cudgel raised high. The boy lunged, slicing through a winged monster mid-dive, spraying foul feathers across the alley. The Satyr swung his weapon, crushing another into the stones.
Together, they fought like a storm of their own, driving the creatures shrieking back into the sky. Their cries echoed as they vanished into the black clouds above. Every swing of the boy's sword cast rays of sunlight, scorching the creatures beyond healing.
Damien sagged, the shield's glow dimming in his grip until only battered bronze remained. His body trembled with pain, his vision swam. The boy stared at him, then at the Satyr. "That's… that's no ordinary shield."
The satyr hummed. "Must be his gift."
Damien tried to answer, but his throat locked. The Satyr caught him as his knees buckled, murmuring in a voice that calmed like lullabies, "It's alright, kid. You're safe now. We'll take you home."
The last thing Damien saw before darkness claimed him was the shield, glowing faintly as it began to bend and shrink, looping itself around his right pointer finger.