Darius and Catherine rode as one toward Jeremy’s house. Though Catherine was meant to lead— she knew the turns and narrow lanes far better —Darius’ mount kept surging ahead, driven by his rider’s urgency. More than once he had to rein in sharply, jaw tight with frustration, allowing Catherine to overtake him again and point the way.

  Each time he slowed, his nerves screamed at him to go faster.

  At last, the outline of Jeremy’s home rose ahead of them. As they approached, Darius’ eyes went first to the small yard, then to the tethering post. Jeremy’s horse stood there, calm and untroubled.

  The sight did nothing to ease Darius.

  Their horses came to a halt. Darius was out of the saddle before Catherine had fully dismounted. He turned back to her with a quick breath, and she gave a tight nod.

  “They’re inside,” she said quietly.

  Darius didn’t wait. He strode towards the door, calling out as he went. “Nathan!”

  The door opened before he could knock. Anthon stepped out, his face drawn and pale, eyes rimmed red as though he had not slept.

  Darius stopped short in front of him. His voice came out hoarse, stripped of all courtesy.

  “Where is Oliver?”

  Anthon swallowed. “He’s… he’s inside,” he stammered. “With father and uncle. He hasn’t been well.”

  Darius didn’t answer. He moved past Anthon without another word, brushing his shoulder as he went. Catherine hurried after him, struggling to keep up.

  Inside, the house was dim. Darius followed the sound of breathing into the back room, the one where Oliver had been laid since his return.

  The boy lay on the narrow bed, eyes closed with a damp cloth pressed to his forehead. His skin glistened with fever, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

  Nathan sat on one side of the bed, elbows on his knees and his gaze fixed on the child with open worry. On the other side, Jeremy slumped in a chair, head tilted back, already asleep from exhaustion.

  For a brief moment, the sight almost undid Darius.

  He looked like a sick boy. Nothing more. But Darius knew better.

  His jaw tightened as he stepped closer, eyes never leaving Oliver’s face

  Nathan raised his head the instant Darius stepped fully into the room. Their eyes met, and whatever Nathan saw on Darius’ face made him frown in confusion.

  Steel sang softly as Darius drew his sword from beneath his tunic.

  “Step away from the boy,” Darius ordered, with a grim, unyielding voice.

  Nathan sprang to his feet in shock, instinctively moving closer to the bed instead of away from it. “Kriger?” he said sharply. “What in the world is wrong with you?” He spread his arms slightly, as if shielding Oliver with his own body. “Why are you pointing a sword at a child?”

  The raised voices stirred Jeremy from his exhausted slumber. He jerked awake, blinking, his chair scraping softly against the floor as he stood.

  “Nathan,” Darius snapped, his patience fraying, “please, step away from that demon.”

  Jeremy stared at Darius, stunned. “What madness is this?” he demanded. “Put that thing down!”

  Darius forced a breath through clenched teeth, willing his hands to steady. “The boy lying on that bed,” he said slowly, “is no boy. That is a Rageler, wearing a child’s skin.”

  Anthon and Catherine rushed into the room at the sound of the commotion, both freezing at the sight of the drawn blade.

  Nathan and Jeremy both turned to look at Oliver. The boy lay still, chest rising faintly. He looked small and Harmless.

  Then they turned back to Darius.

  Nathan’s voice shook, more with hurt than anger. “How could you even say that? How did you come to such a conclusion?”

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  “I can’t explain,” Darius replied, eyes never leaving the boy. “Not now. But I know what I saw. And I know that thing on the bed is not Oliver.”

  Jeremy swallowed hard. He looked at his son again, his jaw trembling, then back at Darius. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled.

  “Can we take this outside?”

  Darius hesitated. His gaze lingered on the sleeping figure.

  Then he nodded once. “Fine.”

  Darius turned… only for the world to explode into motion.

  An arm slammed around his neck from behind, fast and merciless, cutting off his breath. Darius gasped as pressure tightened, his feet staggering forward. At the same time, a brutal fist smashed into his wrist.

  Pain flared white.

  The sword flew from his grip, skidding across the floor with a sharp clatter.

  Choking, Darius twisted his head just enough to see who had struck him.

  Nathan.

  Shock flared through him even as his lungs burned.

  Anthon lunged forward, quicker than Darius had expected, snatching the fallen sword from the floor and gripping it tightly.

  Darius’ mind raced despite the crushing hold around his throat.

  If Anthon had the sword and Nathan had struck his wrist. That meant only one thing...

  Jeremy was the one holding him in the headlock— stronger than he looked and arms locked with desperate force. His breath blew hot against the back of Darius’ neck.

  Jeremy strained to keep his grip on Darius, but the Truther did not submit easily. With a sharp growl of effort, Darius drove himself backward, forcing Jeremy to stagger with him. They crashed into a table, its legs screeching against the floor as it slammed hard into Jeremy’s spine— but still, the man did not loosen his hold.

  Anthon circled them with the sword raised, the blade shaking in his hands as he tried to find an opening without striking Darius outright. Nathan, pale and frantic, lunged low, reaching for Darius’ legs.

  Darius reacted on instinct.

  He kicked out hard.

  His heel struck Nathan square in the chest, knocking the breath from him. Nathan flew backward and slammed into the side of the bed, collapsing against it in a groan.

  Darius kept moving, ramming Jeremy into anything he could— chairs, the edge of the table, the wall— each impact driven by desperation and the burning need for air.

  Jeremy’s grip faltered for a heartbeat and his fingers slipping against Darius’ throat.

  Hope flared, but Jeremy snarled through clenched teeth and immediately tightened his hold again, forearm crushing down with renewed force.

  Anthon followed them in a frantic half-circle, the sword tracking Darius’ movements, his breath coming fast. “Stop!” he shouted, though he didn’t know who he was shouting at anymore.

  The struggle carried them closer to the bed.

  A bowl of steaming water sat on the small table beside Oliver— meant to cool his fever. Darius slammed Jeremy sideways again.

  The table tipped, and the bowl flew.

  Hot water splashed across the bed, soaking the sheets, and the boy lying there.

  Oliver woke instantly.

  Not with a cry. But with a loud, guttural growl.

  The sound froze the room.

  Jeremy’s grip loosened as shock tore through him. “Oliver!” he cried, shoving Darius away and rushing to his son.

  Darius hit the floor hard, gasping as air finally rushed back into his lungs. He coughed, dragging in breath after breath, and tried to push himself up…

  But steel flashed.

  Anthon was suddenly there, the sword pressed against Darius’ throat, close enough that he could feel the cold of it. “Don’t move,” Anthon said with breaking voice. “I swear I’ll do it.”

  Darius stayed where he was, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the bed.

  Oliver thrashed violently now, his growls growing louder and harsher, but nothing like a child in pain. Jeremy tried to hold him down, panic etched deep into his face.

  “Easy son, please…” Jeremy begged.

  Oliver’s eyes snapped open, but they were not a child’s eyes. It was blood red.

  With impossible strength, Oliver seized Jeremy by the neck and flung him across the room as if he weighed nothing. Jeremy struck the wall and crumpled to the floor in a heap.

  Anthon gasped, his sword dropping away from Darius as horror seized him.

  The thing on the bed arched violently.

  Bones shifted with sickening cracks. Skin split and tore, peeling back as something darker and larger forced its way out from beneath it.

  The boy’s shape twisted, his limbs stretched, and his joints bent the wrong way as the illusion of flesh began to unravel.

  Darius, still on the floor, could only watch; breathless and proven right, as the creature shed its stolen skin.

  Darius’ wrist burned as if pressed to a forge. He tore his sleeve back and the violet gem beneath pulsed violently, its light flashing in frantic warning. His breath caught.

  He knew what this was.

  Oliver’s borrowed skin split completely now, ripping apart as though it had never truly belonged to him. Beneath it, scaled flesh surged outward. It was dark, ridged and alive.

  The room filled with the wet sound of tearing sinew and cracking bone as the creature finished claiming its true form.

  “Anthon! My sword!” Darius shouted.

  Anthon did not move.

  His gaze was fixed on Jeremy, who lay groaning against the far wall, and on the thing that had once been his brother. His face had gone slack with shock, and his lips trembled, with the sword forgotten in his hands.

  Nathan and Jeremy staggered backward together, colliding with the wall, their eyes wide with terror as the last remnants of the boy vanished.

  Darius did not wait.

  He surged forward, grabbed the sword hilt, and ripped it from Anthon’s loose grip. The metal felt solid and familiar in his hand, grounding him. He spun on his heel and faced the creature fully.

  The Rageler rose from the bed in a single, fluid motion, flipping upright with unnatural grace. It straightened to its full height, scales bristling, shoulders rolling as if testing its new freedom. Then it roared.

  The sound was deafening.

  Nathan clamped his hands over his ears and cried out, while Catherine shrank back against the doorway, frozen in place.

  Darius planted his feet as the Rageler’s eyes locked onto him, glowing red with ancient fury. There was no confusion in its gaze, only recognition and hatred.

  It had found its enemy.

  Darius lifted his blade, settling into a stance Favian had drilled into him time and again, prepared to fulfil the duty he had been dragged into this world to perform.

  “There you are,” Darius muttered under his breath.

  The Rageler snarled, claws scraping against the sheet as it lowered itself…. ready to strike.