Chapter 7

Corrin barely had time to register the shift in Galrin’s expression before the older man lunged. There was no slow unravelling, no hesitation—just the cold, ruthless clarity of sudden, decisive violence. Time stretched out unnaturally in those precious seconds. Corrin saw the blade gleam wickedly under the flickering glow of the tower’s lamps, catching the eerie reflection of the shifting, unnatural stars.

He tried to twist away, muscles seizing in shocked resistance, but Galrin moved too swiftly. The blade pierced Corrin’s side, sharp and burning, sliding through muscle and sinew effortlessly. Pain exploded outward, raw and white-hot, filling his vision with bright sparks. A gasp tore from his throat, ragged and weak, blending into the mechanical shrieking of the strained machinery around them.

His attacker ripped the knife free, the sickening sound lost beneath the tower’s groans. Corrin staggered backward, clutching desperately at the warm flood of blood soaking his shirt. Galrin’s eyes were wild, fever-bright, fixed on Corrin’s with unblinking intensity. His chest heaved with excitement, lips quivering in a mixture of rage and dark triumph.

Then he came at him again, eyes wild with frenzy and a furiosity that paralysed Corrin’s legs as the blade sunk into his side a second time.

Corrin stumbled backward, senses overwhelmed by the wet warmth seeping between his fingers, slick and relentless. His balance faltered; the world tilted beneath his feet, unsteady and cruel. He fought to understand, to comprehend the impossible betrayal even as his body refused to respond.

Galrin surged forward again, the blade glinting cruelly beneath the erratic lamplight. Corrin tried to dodge, instincts screaming at him to move faster, but his body betrayed him, sluggish and unresponsive. The third thrust caught him higher, sliding viciously beneath his ribs. Corrin’s breath was torn from him in a choking gasp. Crimson blossomed darkly across his shirt, spreading swiftly like spilled ink. His knees folded beneath him as his vision wavered, the edges blurring and dimming.

The old man stood over him, breathing heavily, sweat beading his forehead, his expression strangely distant—as if something else, something otherworldly, had overtaken his consciousness. He stared down at Corrin, eyes glazed yet burning with zealotry.

Corrin’s hands shook violently, pressing futilely against his wounds, desperately trying to stem the flow. His heartbeat thudded erratically, fear spiking coldly through the overwhelming pain. Too much blood, he realized dimly, panic clawing at the edges of his mind like icy fingers.

Galrin turned away abruptly, dismissing Corrin’s broken form as though he were already dead. He approached the control panel, his fingers slippery and red, smearing Corrin’s blood across the metal levers and dials. His breathing grew frantic, ecstatic even, his whispers frantic prayers to the void as he manipulated the machinery.

Corrin’s vision narrowed, consciousness threatening to slip away. Yet deep within, an instinct, raw and primal, screamed at him to move. To live. To survive. With a final surge of willpower, he forced his battered body toward the door, crawling agonizingly across the cold, blood-slicked floor.

Every inch was torment, every breath agony. The air scraped through his lungs, harsh and insufficient. But Galrin was oblivious, wholly consumed by the unseen force he sought to summon. Corrin dragged himself forward, fingers clawing desperately, until he crossed the threshold into the chill night air.

Outside, the world was spinning erratically, stars streaking overhead in twisted patterns. He collapsed onto wet grass, cool earth pressing against his fevered cheek. A terrible wrongness filled the sky above, stars dancing with a disquieting rhythm, unnatural, malicious.

Corrin pushed himself onward, gritting his teeth through waves of nausea and agony. The hill sloped steeply beneath him, grass slick with evening dew, each inch gained a victory won by sheer, stubborn desperation. Thoughts fragmented in his mind, but one truth held fast—he had to warn someone. He had to tell someone what Galrin was doing. The image of his maddened eyes haunted him, the memory driving him onward despite the darkness clawing at his vision.

He dragged himself downward, dirt and grass mingling with his bloodied fingers, staining the earth darkly in his wake. The town lights flickered dimly far below, deceptively peaceful, indifferent to his desperate struggle. Each breath tore through his chest like razor blades, but still, he crawled forward, inch by agonizing inch.

A faint glow caught his eye, and hope surged weakly within him—a lantern, gentle and warm, beside an unfinished painting. His heart stuttered painfully with recognition.

Summoning every last ounce of strength, Corrin dragged himself forward, desperate to be seen, desperate to warn him before his strength gave way entirely. His voice rasped, barely audible, the last desperate effort of a man fighting oblivion.

He collapsed onto his side, his blood soaking the cold earth beneath him as consciousness slipped inexorably away. Above, the stars twisted cruelly, the night sky warped and unnatural. Corrin lay still, fragile breaths barely stirring his chest, unaware of the immense presence looming a long way away.

A low bark pierced the air, sharp and urgent. Corrin forced his head upward, the faint shape of a dog silhouetted against lantern-light. The huge dog’s barking echoed through the night, a deep, insistent sound that soon brought movement from below. Corrin’s heart surged painfully with hope.

Hiraeth appeared suddenly, illuminated by the lantern’s gentle glow. The artist froze, eyes wide in shock as he took in the bloody, broken figure crawling toward him.

“Corrin?” Hiraeth whispered, rushing forward and kneeling swiftly at his side. “By the gods, what’s happened?”

Corrin struggled to speak, his voice cracked and faint. “Galrin… he’s lost himself…” he choked out, trembling violently. “He’s pulling something… terrible… from the stars…”

Hiraeth dropped to his knees beside Corrin, gently cradling him, worry etched deeply into his face. “What do you mean? What’s happened up there?”

“What? Slow down, please—tell me clearly,” Hiraeth pleaded urgently, pressing gently against Corrin’s wounds, desperately trying to slow the bleeding.

Corrin clutched at Hiraeth’s sleeve, eyes wide and desperate. “Galrin hooked something… a beast, massive and powerful. It’s coming, Hiraeth. It’ll reach us… in five days… He thinks it will bring glory, but it will destroy everything.”

“Five days?” Hiraeth echoed. His breath caught in his throat as memories surged forward, unbidden, merciless. Vision blurred, images of another night—years past, yet hauntingly vivid—rushed to claim him.

Corrin nodded weakly. “You must warn the chief. Tell him Galrin needs to be stopped. He can’t land that monster… You must hurry—please, Hiraeth.”

The young mans eyes glazed over, his hand slipped limply from Hiraeth’s, his strength drained, his body finally surrendering to death. Hiraeth stared upward, dread filling him as he saw the twisted, unnatural skies looming darkly above, realizing the enormity of the danger being reeled towards them.