Kael's POV
The Script beast attack came on a cold autumn evening, two weeks after my victory against Marcus.
I was returning from the training yard alone, my father had been called to repair a merchant's wagon wheel and wouldn't finish until late. The path between Garrick's yard and our boarding house cut through a section of forest that most people avoided after dark, but I'd walked it dozens of times without incident. Foolishly, I'd grown complacent.
The first warning was the silence. Birds that had been chattering moments before went quiet. The usual rustle of small animals in the underbrush ceased completely. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
I stopped walking, hand instinctively moving to the practice sword I always carried now. My heart hammered against my ribs as I scanned the darkening trees.
Then I saw the eyes.
Purple. Glowing. Hungry.
Three Scriptbeasts emerged from the shadows, wolves corrupted by unraveling fate magic, their fur matted with something that looked like congealed darkness. They were larger than normal wolves, with elongated limbs that bent at wrong angles and mouths that opened too wide, revealing far too many teeth.
They'd found me. Just like the one near Thornwick, they were drawn to my Error nature like moths to flame.
The largest beast growled, a sound like metal scraping stone. The other two flanked it, moving with unsettling intelligence. They weren't mindless monsters, they were pack hunters, and I was their prey.
I drew my practice sword with hands that wanted to shake but couldn't afford to. The weapon felt pathetically inadequate against creatures that could shrug off steel, but it was all I had.
"Come on then," I whispered, falling into the defensive stance Garrick had drilled into me ten thousand times.
They attacked in unison.
Training saved my life in those first seconds. I rolled left as the alpha lunged, its jaws snapping closed on empty air where my throat had been. The second beast came from my blind side, but six months of brutal sparring had taught me to sense attacks I couldn't see. I spun and brought my wooden sword down on its snout with every ounce of strength I possessed.
The wood cracked. The beast yelped and recoiled.
But the third one hit me from behind.
Pain exploded across my back as claws raked through my shirt and into flesh. I stumbled forward, barely keeping my feet, hot blood running down my spine. The world tilted dangerously.
I couldn't beat them. I knew that with crystalline clarity. These weren't training partners pulling their strikes or following rules. These were corrupted predators driven mad by the wound my existence represented in reality, and they wouldn't stop until I was dead.
But I could make them work for it.
The alpha charged again. This time, instead of dodging, I waited until the last possible moment and then dropped flat. The beast sailed over me, unable to adjust mid-leap. As it passed, I thrust upward with my broken practice sword, catching it in the soft tissue of its belly.
It shrieked, a sound no natural wolf could make, and crashed into a tree. Black ichor that passed for blood poured from the wound.
Two left.
My back screamed agony with every movement. Blood loss made my vision swim. The remaining beasts circled me, more cautious now, waiting for weakness to show.
I couldn't wait for rescue. Nobody knew where I was. My father wouldn't come looking for hours. By then, there'd be nothing left to find.
So I did the only thing I could, I attacked.
It went against every survival instinct, but Garrick's words echoed in my mind: "When you're outmatched and cornered, aggression is your only weapon. Make them react to you instead of executing their plan."
I charged the wounded alpha with a scream that was half battle cry, half terror. The beast, surprised by prey that fought back, hesitated for a crucial second. My splintered sword found its eye, driving deep. It collapsed, twitching and dissolving into shadow-stuff that evaporated into nothing.
The remaining two beasts howled in fury. They abandoned caution and came at me together.
I managed to block the first attack. The second caught my left arm, teeth sinking deep into muscle. I felt bones grind together and nearly blacked out from the pain.
Through the haze of agony, I did something I'd never done before, I let go of fear entirely.
Fear was what made me hesitate. Fear was what made me doubt. Fear was what the world had used to control me since the day I'd awakened without a Script. But here, in this moment with death's jaws literally on my arm, fear became useless weight.
So I dropped it.
My right hand found the knife my father had given me, tucked in my belt. I drove it into the beast's neck with mechanical precision, twisting, feeling hot ichor spray across my face. The beast released my arm and stumbled backward, choking on its own corrupted blood.
The last Scriptbeast, seeing its pack dying, should have fled. But whatever madness drove these creatures toward Errors wouldn't let it retreat. It gathered itself for a final attack.
I was barely standing. My left arm hung useless. Blood poured from multiple wounds. The knife trembled in my remaining good hand.
The beast lunged.
And then Aldric was there.
He appeared like vengeance personified, his sword, real steel, not practice wood, blazing with golden light. His Script granted him abilities I could only dream of, and he used them now with devastating efficiency. One strike removed the beast's head. It died before its body understood it should fall.
I collapsed. The ground rushed up to meet me, and strong hands caught me before I hit.
"Kael! Stay with me!" Aldric's face swam in my fading vision. "Don't you dare die, you hear me?"
"Wasn't... planning to..." I managed to whisper.
Then darkness claimed me, and I knew nothing more.