Teeth in the Dust

Dion's world was pain and shadow. His forearm hung like a snapped branch, bone grinding beneath the skin with every shuddering breath. The ruin's dust choked his throat, coated his tongue—a gritty reminder he wasn't dead yet. He forced himself upright, good hand clawing at the shattered stone. His ears rang, a high whine drowning out the night, but beneath it, something stirred. A scrape. A hiss.

It wasn't done with him.

"Shit," he spat into the dark, tasting blood with it. His vision swam, but he blinked it clear, scanning the wreckage with quick glances. Whatever had hit him was close—too close. The chill still clung to his spine, deeper than the night's bite. It is definitely not a Harrow. He'd be a corpse if it was. Grimlings, then. Weak enough he did survived the blow, but that was cold comfort with his arm twisted and his blade lost in the crash.

He flexed his good hand, fingers trembling. Hollowborn didn't win by strength—they endured. And he wasn't breaking yet.

A shape flickered in the gloom—low, jagged, too quiet. Dion's gut clenched. Grimlings were usually loud, all skittering claws and mindless shrieks. He'd killed plenty, scavenging RidgeFort's outskirts—their swarms predictable as hunger. But this thing? Silent. A predator, not a pest. The thought hit him like a second blow: Definitely not the usual breed. Mutation sometimes occurred in Dread Spawn. NyxFlow did worse than kill—it twisted.

The shadow lunged.

Dion threw himself sideways, his broken arm slamming the ground. Pain exploded, white-hot and blinding, but he rolled through it, scrambling behind a fallen slab. Claws raked the stone where he'd been, sparks flaring in the dark. He pressed his back to the rock, chest heaving. His good hand fumbled at his thigh instinct developed through countless battle. But the blade was gone, buried somewhere in the debris. Perfect. Who knew the sword he hadn't paid for yet would be so useless?

The thing circled, its eyes glinting—two pinpricks of ember-red. It was a Grimling, sure, but leaner, its limbs too long, its maw a slit of jagged teeth. No swarm. Just one. That was wrong, too. Grimlings didn't hunt solo. But this one did.

Why me? A bitter, useless question. Maybe it had trailed him. Maybe it was just his luck running dry. Didn't matter. It was here, and he was bleeding.

It lunged again, faster. Dion ducked low, rolling under its swipe. His broken arm dragged, useless, screaming pain yet again. Enduring it, he came up on his knees, scanning frantically. There—the stupid sword glinted in the rubble. He lunged for it, fingers closing around the rough grip.

Time to find out how dull it is.

The Grimling wheeled, snarling low. Dion staggered to his feet, sword raised. His legs shook, but he locked them. No running—not with this thing's speed. Fight or die. Same as always.

The Dread Spawn charged, claws outstretched. Dion swung, aiming for the eyes. But with his broken arm, his aim veered off track. The metal grazed the abomination's skull, tearing a shallow gash. Black blood sprayed, and it recoiled, hissing. His last sword would've split the skull open.

Dion didn't know how tough this breed's skin was—his first time fighting it—but if it was anything like the other Grimlings, he might as well use this sword to cook at home. It'd be as useless as crap.

Yet he didn't wait. He darted left, toward the ruin's edge. Open ground was death, but the maze of broken walls might save him. Might.

He stumbled into a narrow gap, shoulder scraping stone. The Grimling's claws scrabbled behind, too big to follow. Dion kept moving, half-crawling, bad arm cradled against his chest. The passage twisted, spilling him into a hollow—a dead-end chamber, roof caved in, stars glaring down. Trapped again.

The Grimling's hiss echoed closer. It was finding a way. Dion slumped against the wall, breath ragged. His hand tightened on the useless sword. He could feel the bones in his broken hand scraping against each other, each shift sending a pang of pain through his body. He was running out—of time, of strength, of everything.

Not yet. The Dreamer Egg flashed in his mind, that fragile promise of power. The Nyxstone, too—part of his ticket to more freedom. Hollowborn didn't get handouts, but they could steal chances. He just had to live long enough.

A clatter above. He looked up—red eyes peering through the broken roof. The Grimling perched there, claws gripping the edge. It's urgly teeth bared into a grin. Smarter than the swarms. Deadlier. It dropped, silent as death.

Bastard.

Dion roared, swinging the sword with all he had. While twisting to escape the deadly claws. It caught the thing mid-air, slicing into its throat. Blood splashed his face, bitter and warm. The Grimling crashed beside him, thrashing, claws flailing. He rolled away and stabbed again—blind, desperate. The metal sank deep into its eye, and the thrashing slowed, then stopped.

Then everything became still and silent. Just his gasps, harsh and wet.

He collapsed, sword clattering free. The Grimling lay still, a black puddle spreading beneath it. Dead. He'd won. Barely.

His head lolled back, stars blurring overhead. Pain pulsed through him, relentless. His arm was a ruin, his supplies a gamble—they might have fallen anywhere when he was attacked—and the night wasn't done. But he was alive. For now.