Toronto, Ontario – August 21, 2025. 5:58 a.m. EST.
The morning light arrived like an apology it didn't mean.
Pale gray filtered through smoke and haze, turning every surface the color of old bone. The rain from last night had left oily puddles that shimmered violet when the wind moved them. The temperature hovered at 9°C—too cold for late August, too warm for the frost that rimed the edges of leaves that shouldn't have been black and serrated.
The group gathered on the cracked parking lot behind the community center. Six now, counting Zara. Backpacks heavy with what little remained: canned peaches, tuna, water purification tablets, a few knives, one scavenged fire axe, and the metal pipe Jamal refused to let go of.
No one spoke of plans beyond the obvious: head north along Keele Street toward Jane and Finch. Roughly eight kilometers if the roads stayed passable. In the old world, a forty-minute walk. In this one, no one was betting on forty minutes.
Elias stood slightly apart, checking the straps on his own pack. The black vein on his left forearm had extended overnight—now curling around his elbow like a living tattoo. When he clenched his fist, it throbbed once, slow and deliberate, sending a ripple of cold clarity through his nerves. Sharper hearing. Slightly denser bones. The moose-thing's territorial instinct still lingered at the edges of his mind, a low growl he kept leashed.
He hadn't told anyone about the vein. Hadn't explained the hunger that came with every kill. They watched him, yes—watched the way wounds closed on his skin faster than they should, the way he never seemed winded—but no one had asked directly.
Good.
Answers were currency now. He intended to stay rich.
Aisha adjusted her hood. Her eyes flicked toward Zara—once, twice—then away. The new girl stood close to Elias, not touching, but near enough that her shoulder would brush his if either moved. Zara's gaze hadn't left him since the healing last night. Gratitude had already curdled into something hungrier.
Jamal noticed. Snorted under his breath. "We moving or posing for a family photo?"
Elias didn't rise to it. "We move. Stay tight. No noise. No stragglers."
Talia rolled her eyes. "Yes, captain."
He ignored that too.
They stepped onto Keele Street.
The first kilometer was almost quiet.
Then the city remembered it hated them.
Keele & St. Clair – 7:12 a.m.
The first goblin appeared without warning.
It wasn't a metaphor.
The thing crouched on the roof of a burned-out Dollarama, no more than four feet tall, skin the color of wet asphalt, ears long and notched like torn leather. Its eyes glowed dull amber. It carried a crude spear fashioned from rebar and a car antenna. When it saw them, it didn't charge. It chittered—high, wet, excited—and three more climbed up from the alley behind it.
Kwame whispered, "What the actual fuck."
Elias raised a hand. Stop.
The lead goblin tilted its head. Sniffed. Grinned with too many needle teeth.
Then it leapt.
Elias met it mid-air.
He didn't dodge. Didn't block. He simply stepped into the trajectory, grabbed the spear shaft one-handed, and twisted. Wood and metal snapped. The goblin's momentum carried it forward; Elias drove his elbow into its throat on the way past. Cartilage crunched. The creature hit the pavement and didn't get up.
The others froze for half a second—long enough.
Jamal swung his pipe. Connected with a skull. Wet crack.
Talia moved like liquid shadow—darted low, slashed with her scavenged box cutter across hamstrings. One goblin dropped screaming.
Aisha slammed her palm to the ground. Asphalt buckled in a narrow ridge, tripping the last one. Kwame's vines erupted from a sewer grate—black, thorned—and wrapped its throat. Squeezed.
Silence returned. Breathing hard. Blood on the concrete.
Zara stared at Elias. Lips parted. "You didn't even flinch."
He wiped gore from his knuckles on his pants. "No point."
Jamal kicked the lead goblin's corpse. "These things weren't here two days ago."
"They weren't," Elias said. "The storm didn't just change Earth life. It opened doors."
Kwame looked at the vines retracting from the corpse. "Doors to where?"
Elias didn't answer. He crouched beside the leader's body. Pressed his palm to its chest.
The black vein on his arm pulsed brighter for a heartbeat.
He felt it—small, vicious traits flowing in: enhanced low-light vision, sharper olfactory senses, a flicker of pack cunning. Nothing dramatic. Just edges. Useful edges.
He stood. No one asked what he'd done. They'd seen the hand on the corpse. They'd seen the vein glow. They drew their own conclusions—or didn't. Either way, he controlled the narrative by saying nothing.
"Let's keep moving," he said.
No one argued.
Keele & Eglinton – 9:40 a.m.
The second encounter was worse.
They heard it before they saw it: heavy wingbeats, like wet canvas snapping. Then a shadow passed overhead—too large, too deliberate.
They ducked into the shell of a TD Bank branch.
Through the shattered teller windows they watched it land in the intersection.
Dragon.
Not the fairy-tale kind. Smaller—wingspan maybe fifteen feet—body lean and reptilian, scales the color of oil on water. Horns curved backward like scythes. It moved on all fours, tail lashing. When it opened its mouth, heat distortion rippled the air. No fire yet. Just promise.
It sniffed the air. Turned its head toward their hiding place.
Zara whispered, "We can't fight that."
Elias watched. Calculating.
"We don't have to. Yet."
The dragon took a step closer. Claws scored asphalt.
Aisha's hand found Elias's wrist. Squeezed once. Fear? Warning? Something else?
He didn't pull away.
The dragon paused. Sniffed again. Then—impossibly—spoke.
Low. Rasping. Words in no language Elias recognized, but the meaning arrived in his skull like cold water.
"Flesh-bearer. Marked one. You reek of old blood and new hunger."
Elias's eyes narrowed.
The dragon laughed—wet, grinding.
"Run, little king. Or feed me."
It launched skyward in a thunder of wings.
Gone.
The group exhaled as one.
Jamal: "Did that thing just talk?"
Elias: "Yes."
Talia: "And it called you king."
Elias didn't smile. "It was being sarcastic."
But inside, something clicked.
Crownless paragon.
The title fit better every hour.
Jane Street & Finch – 1:22 p.m.
They reached the apartment block Aisha had described—low-rise, red brick, windows mostly intact.
The front doors hung open.
Inside: blood on the stairs. Fresh enough to still glisten.
Aisha moved ahead. Elias didn't stop her. This was her blood calling.
They cleared floor by floor.
Third floor. Apartment 312.
Door ajar.
Aisha pushed it open.
Inside: overturned furniture. Bullet casings on the carpet. A body—male, late teens—slumped against the couch. Basketball jersey torn. Throat ripped out.
Aisha made a small, broken sound.
Elias stepped past her. Checked the body.
Not Malik.
Aisha sank to her knees. Fingers tracing the jersey number. 23. Her brother's number.
"He was here," she whispered.
Elias scanned the room. Signs of struggle. More blood leading to the balcony.
He walked out.
On the fire escape below: footprints. Small. Clawed. Goblin.
And larger prints—humanoid, but wrong. Elongated toes. Too many joints.
Elves? No. Something wearing elf-skin. Or something the storm had birthed and named itself.
He turned back.
Aisha was crying now—quiet, furious tears.
Jamal put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off.
Zara moved to Elias's side. Pressed close. Her hand slid into his—bold, possessive.
Aisha saw it.
Her eyes met Elias's over Zara's shoulder.
Something fractured there. Not love—not yet—but possibility. And jealousy sharp enough to cut.
Elias didn't pull his hand away.
He looked at Aisha. Voice low. Cold. Certain.
"We find him. Alive or dead. But we find him."
She nodded once. Wiped her face.
"Then let's hunt."
Outside, the dragon circled high overhead—watching.
Waiting.
Elias felt the black vein pulse again.
The hunger answered.
He smiled—small, ruthless, private.
The road north had teeth.
And he was growing sharper ones.
(End of Chapter 6)