Outside — The Quiet Streets
Steel clashed in the dark.
Sparks scattered across the cobblestones as Dot's twin daggers met the Hound's axe — once, twice, the impacts running up his arms. His teeth ground together.
"You bastards," Dot said. "I'll make you pay for every stall you burned."
"What are you sprouting, idiot?" The Hound swung again — one axe, full force, connecting with Dot's dagger and sending it spinning away.
Dot stumbled back.
"Run," he said over his shoulder. "Astrid — get out—"
"Don't you dare," Cottage said from somewhere behind him, already clashing with Whisper. "Focus on your own fight. I can protect her myself."
Whisper moved like she found it all amusing.
"It's a shame your other friend isn't here," she said, sickle loose in her hand. "Shame you'll have to watch them die without him."
Then blood pooled from Cottage's left shoulder.
He hadn't seen it coming. Hadn't felt it until the warmth hit his sleeve.
*She cut me.*
He pressed his sword hand to the wound.
"Over my dead body," he said.
"Freak?" Whisper's expression shifted. Just slightly.
In the space between one breath and the next his sword left his hand. Blood sprayed. A headbutt snapped his head back and a kick sent him into the wall, landing hard on his hands.
She stepped over him toward Astrid.
Astrid saw the sickle coming — close, too close —
Then it was gone.
Jeffrey caught Whisper's arm and redirected her hard into the wall, the metal rod in his hand catching her across the side. He stepped between them, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.
"You've gotten me into your mess again," he said to Astrid without looking at her.
"Jeffrey—"
"What a maniac," he muttered.
Astrid was already moving toward Cottage.
"Are you okay—"
Whisper stood.
"Tough one," she said, looking at Jeffrey. "I was sure I'd finished you."
Dot clashed with the Hound again.
Every axe swing came with full intent. No testing, no reading — just force, rhythmic and relentless. People in the background were already running, scattering into doorways.
"Hold — knights!" A voice from the far end of the street.
"Not this time," the Hound said.
He threw an axe.
It hit the nearest knight square in the chest, breaking the armor inward. The man went down. Blood spread across the cobblestones fast.
"No—" Dot ran.
The Hound grabbed him by the throat and headbutted him — one motion — then threw him sideways into the wall of a building. The impact shattered the wood. Dot went through it.
The Hound walked toward the remaining knights.
One charged. He caught him by the neck and broke it without stopping his stride.
"Please—" the downed knight said, hand out, armor caved in around the axe wound.
The rest ran.
The Hound pulled his axe free.
Dot came back to consciousness face-down.
He turned his head. The horse behind him was destroyed — thrown by the impact of being sent through the wall, bones shattered, completely still.
His own back had taken most of it. He felt it. And then he felt it knitting together — the regeneration pulling his body back from where it had gone, slow and grinding, still incomplete.
Astrid. Cottage. Yiva.
He started crawling.
The Hound crouched beside him.
"What is it with you," he said. "Caring about people who don't even know you exist." He tilted his head. "You know death follows you like a plague. I've watched it. This job has taught me things." A pause. "You've taught me things."
"No," Dot said into the floor.
"No."
*It's happening again. Because of me.*
The Hound kicked him through the tavern wall.
Inside the Tavern
People scrambled back from the shape that came through the wall.
Dot landed on his hands and knees among overturned stools and shattered glass.
"Run," he told them. Still on all fours. Still regenerating.
He found his daggers. Got to his feet.
The Hound stepped through the gap in the wall.
"How are you still standing," Dot said.
"I'm from a tribe," the Hound said. "Our strength isn't normal. Some might say that. I just think I'm very good at killing." He raised both axes. "Come on then. Show me what you actually are."
Dot charged.
He ducked the first axe, came up inside the swing, drove both daggers into the Hound's side — felt them connect with something that wasn't quite flesh and not quite stone — and was already moving when the elbow came down on his back.
He hit the floor. Got up.
The Hound looked at his side. At the marks the daggers had left.
He smiled.
"You killed the mages," he said.
Dot went still.
"That's your sin, isn't it. The one you carry." The Hound let it sit for a moment. "You killed them."
"YAGHHHH—"
Dot crossed the distance with everything he had — no technique, no reading, just rage and the full output of whatever his body actually was underneath the restraint he'd been using since Thornhold.
"YES," the Hound yelled back. "THAT'S IT—"
The Alley — Simultaneous
"Take the princess and go," Cottage said. Blood running freely down his face now. "Protect her with your life."
"You have a death wish," Jeffrey said.
"Leave me—" Astrid pulled against his grip.
"You're making my wounds worse," Jeffrey said, still holding her.
"Shut up," Whisper said.
Her voice had changed. The amusement was gone. Something flatter and more serious underneath it.
"It's time to end this."
"That's our cue," Jeffrey said, already turning.
Whisper backflipped — one rotation in the air — and released the sickle mid-spin. It caught Jeffrey across the ear as he turned, dropping him to his knees. Still holding Astrid. Still not letting go.
The second sickle came fast and low at Cottage. He raised his sword to counter and the blade caught him across his forearm, the force putting him flat on the ground. Blood pooled beneath him.
Whisper landed on the rooftop above them and looked down.
"I hate you the most," she said, looking at Astrid. "Your friend put up a real fight. But you — you just depend on everyone around you. How useless can you be."
Astrid stood up.
"You're right," she said.
Whisper blinked.
"I'm weak. I've always been weak. I let others take the cost for me — again and again — and I never stopped it." She reached down and picked up Cottage's sword. He muttered something. She didn't listen. "But I can't watch anyone else bleed for me. Not anymore."
She looked up at Whisper.
"I have to prove you wrong. You, and everyone who's ever hurt me." A pause. Quieter. "Even you, brother."
"Finally," Whisper said. Coming down from the roof, sickle loose, smiling wide. "Let's see what you've got."
Astrid charged.
Whisper rushed to meet her — smiling, certain, the gap closing fast—
Slash.
Astrid opened her eyes.
Blood on her face. Not hers.
She looked up.
Garon stood over Whisper, Skógrimr already sheathed. One motion. She hadn't seen it happen.
Whisper hit the ground and grabbed her throat, gasping.
"Sorry I'm late," Garon said.
Astrid stared at him. The moonlight was bright behind him. She didn't say anything. Couldn't find anything that fit.
"Sorry, " Cottage said from the ground, face down. "I Failed to protect you."
Inside the Tavern
Someone rushed the Hound from behind with a bottle.
The Hound's arm moved without him turning. The person lost the arm. The head followed, bouncing once and hitting Dot directly in the face.
He stumbled back.
The remaining people — eight of them, owner's family included — pressed against the far wall.
"Leave them," Dot said.
The Hound turned toward him slowly.
"What are you afraid of?" he said. "You have the means to end this. You've had it this whole time." He tilted his head. "You don't want them to see what you really are."
Dot looked at the floor.
"I heard about your sin," the Hound said. "The mages. You killed them."
Dot's eyes went wide.
"You killed them," the Hound said again. Completing it.
19 Years Earlier — Year 785 BF
The Hound was seven years old.
He stood in the doorway and watched.
His mother was on her knees. Begging. Looking at him — at her son, standing there, not moving.
I was too weak, he thought, decades later, remembering. And I just watched.
His father raised his hand and she stopped begging.
The same man raised him after that. Named him Hound — first word his father ever said directly to him, hot water from a bowl pouring over his skin while he screamed and nobody came.
By thirteen his size had outpaced everything around him. People ran when they saw him coming. He thought it made him special. Told himself it did.
At thirteen his father hit him for the last time.
The Hound hit back once.
That was enough.
He went through the settlement after that. Every door. Every person who had watched and said nothing and decided his mother's life wasn't worth caring about.
My only regret was her, he thought. That I watched. That some part of me — some small, terrible part — didn't mind.
Back to the present.
Dot's fist connected with the Hound's face.
The impact shattered something. The Hound left the ground — midair, spinning — and came down in the far corner of the tavern. The wall cracked behind him. Blood ran freely from where his face had been rearranged.
He tried to speak. His teeth were wrong.
"Worth it," he managed.
His head dropped.
Dot stood over him. Still breathing hard. Blood from the fight drying on his hands and face.
The people along the wall ran the moment the Hound went down — out through the gap, out into the street, gone before Dot could look up.
He stood alone in the wreckage.
Looking at the pool of blood spreading from the Hound's corner.
We carry the same thing, he thought. And I'm done letting mine hold me back.
To Be Continued…