The primordial beast of ash

Chapter4

"I did not survive the arena just to let a vermin bleed me out in my own home."

Ethan lunged before the wire could click the internal deadbolt upward. His fingers closed around the cold, heavy iron handle, pulling the door open with a sudden, violent yank. The structural recoil caught the intruder completely off guard. A hooded figure tumbled through the threshold, boots skidding against the wet floorboards as the storm outside unleashed a sudden gust of rain into the workshop.

"What the—" the assassin hissed, rolling backward instinctively to regain his balance.

"Silas, move!" Ethan roared, drawing his hunting dagger from his boot.

Silas did not wait. The old blacksmith dove behind a towering stack of iron gears just as a dark, metallic blade flashed through the space where his head had been. The assassin recovered with frightening speed, his movements fluid and entirely silent.

"The Crest family does not leave loose ends, Vance," a low, muffled voice came from beneath the dark cowl. "You should have died in the mud where we threw you."

"You want my life?" Ethan spat, dropping into a low stance, his eyes tracking the glint of the enemy's twin daggers. "Come and take it yourself. Stop hiding behind a dead man's name."

The assassin let out a cold chuckle. "Bold talk for a tamer with a broken core and a dying maggot."

With a swift flick of his wrist, the cloaked figure did not strike with his blades. Instead, he slammed a small glass vial onto the floorboards between them. A thick, ink-black mist erupted instantly, devouring the pale light of the oil lamp. The room plunged into absolute darkness, save for two glowing, amber eyes that suddenly materialized near the ceiling.

"Ethan, watch out!" Silas screamed from somewhere near the back wall. "It is a shadow lurker! A lower D-Rank beast!"

A heavy, suffocating pressure slammed into Ethan’s chest. The air grew icy cold, and a pair of shadowy, canine jaws snapped shut inches from his throat. He threw his left arm up, his heavy leather sleeve catching the brunt of the beast's ethereal teeth. The force of the strike drove Ethan back against a wooden support beam, the impact rattling the breath right out of his lungs.

"Is this all the great Crest family can afford?" Ethan choked out, his right hand blindly driving his hunting dagger into the darkness where the beast's shoulder should be. "A stray dog from the slums?"

The dagger struck something semi-solid. A high-pitched, unnatural yelp echoed through the dark, and the crushing weight on his chest loosened slightly. Ethan scrambled to his feet, wiping a streak of black fluid from his jaw. He knew this workshop better than anyone alive. He had spent his childhood tracking his father’s footsteps across these exact floorboards.

"You think darkness is your advantage?" Ethan muttered, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he slid his hand along the workbench, feeling for a specific heavy chain. "This is my house."

"You are already a ghost, boy," the assassin’s voice echoed from a completely different corner of the room. "The shadow does not need eyes to find your heart."

A sharp blade sliced through Ethan's jacket, grazing the skin of his ribs. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let out a sound. He could feel the countdown timer in his retinas ticking away violently, the crimson numbers flashing against the dark shroud. *Four hours, thirty minutes.* The parasitic drain from the soul bond was making his limbs feel like lead, but the white-hot rage in his veins kept him moving.

"Now," the assassin whispered from directly behind him.

The shadow beast struck simultaneously from the front, pinning Ethan’s shoulders against the wall. A cold, physical hand wrapped tightly around his throat, cutting off his airway. Ethan’s vision began to blur, the crimson numbers in his eyes swimming in a sea of grey.

"A pathetic end for a pathetic line," the assassin sneered, his breath hot against Ethan’s cheek as he tightened his grip. "Where is your dragon now, Vance? Let us see it save you."

Ethan couldn't speak. His lungs were burning, screaming for oxygen. Through the haze of his suffocating vision, he saw the cloaked figure raise a gleaming dagger, turning his back slightly toward the leather carrying box on the table where Solis lay.

"No..." Ethan managed to gurgle out, his fingers desperately clawing at the iron grip around his neck. "Don't... touch... him..."

"It is a mercy," the assassin said, his eyes glinting with malicious satisfaction under the cowl as he stepped toward the table. "I will slide the blade in quickly. Neither of you will feel the bond snap."

The dagger rose high above the padded leather box, catching the faint reflection of the crimson numbers burning in Ethan’s eyes.

Then, the world stopped.

A sharp, metallic click echoed from inside the leather box. It wasn't the sound of a weak, dying creature. It sounded like an ancient lock finally snapping open after ten thousand years.

The assassin froze mid-strike, his dagger hovering inches above the leather. The ink-black shadow mist that filled the room suddenly began to tremble, drawn toward the box like water down a drain.

"What... what is this pressure?" the assassin gasped, his voice suddenly losing all its confidence. His fingers shook violently, unable to bring the blade down.

The leather box did not just open; the front flap tore apart as a pair of eyes snapped open in the darkness. They were not the milky, blind eyes of a genetic defect. They were two pools of absolute, abyssal black light, so deep and cold they seemed to swallow the very concept of color.

The shadow beast pinning Ethan let out a horrific, garbled shriek, its smoky form instantly locking up as if it had been turned to solid stone. The assassin’s arm remained frozen in the air, his muscles locked in a state of sudden, absolute paralysis while a low, cosmic vibration began to hum from the tiny creature's chest.