I kept moving, circling the edge of the chamber, the throne between us like it might hold back death. My brain raced. Kingsley’s defense was thick—arrows alone weren’t going to carry this. I needed precision. Weak spots. Joints. Places where flesh gave under pressure.

  He wasn’t quick, but he had weight, and once he moved, he didn’t stop. His turning radius was awful, but the axe—there was no coming back from that thing. One clean hit and I’d be paste on stone.

  Thumbs clung to my back, shaking so hard I felt it in my teeth. “Rod go, go now! Leave place, leave place! Kinglesley mad! Too big!” His voice was high and breaking, like something was already dying in his throat.

  Above us, the chandelier groaned, swinging with every quake. Light twisted across the floor, flashing in and out of the cracks. What little cover I had left was going fast. He’d smashed through half the statues already.

  The throne was solid. Elevated. If I could bait him in close enough, maybe I could use it.

  He dragged his axe behind him, blade grinding, runes glowing like they were feeding off the fight. He didn’t even look winded.

  I shifted left, pulled wide. He turned to track me, just a little too slow. Then he lunged—axe raised, coming in full-force. I threw myself to the side as the blade came down, splitting the floor open. The impact sent stone chunks flying. I rolled behind a shattered column and came up firing.

  The first arrow hit high—upper arm, just under the shoulder.

  {You have dealt 42 damage.}

  He barely noticed. Pulled it out, snapped it in half, and sneered like he’d expected more.

  “Still scratching.”

  Thumbs let out a pitiful whine, burying his face against my back. “Bad bad! Sound bad… run bad run!”

  I didn’t have time to answer. I was already moving again. Second shot—thigh, low and tight. It burned as it struck.

  {You have dealt 68 damage.}

  He staggered forward, a grunt tearing from his throat. I followed up—third shot to the side of the neck. Light hit. Still counted.

  {You have dealt 34 damage.}

  The grin disappeared. His jaw clenched. His stance dropped. He wasn’t toying anymore.

  Thumbs whimpered, fingers twisting in my gear. “He break Rod! Break Thumbs! No more Thumbs!”

  I locked onto the chain. That chandelier was hanging by threads—one rusted link left. No mana left for explosive shots. Just bow, arrows, and whatever I could still use in this room.

  I fired at a statue to his left. The stone cracked loud as the torso shattered. Kingsley turned by instinct, just a little too fast. I took the shot—arrow to the back of the knee.

  {You have dealt 85 damage.}

  His leg buckled forward, and his head whipped around. He saw me lining up the next shot and let out a roar. The charge came fast and ugly.

  Thumbs screamed. “HE COME! HE COME! ROD DO THING! DO THING NOW NOW!”

  The chandelier shifted overhead. Right where I wanted it. "Aim!"

  I fired. The arrow magically snapped through the chain. Metal screamed. Weight shifted. The chandelier groaned above us—then it fell.

  The chandelier snapped free from its rusted chain, crashing down like dead weight from the ceiling.

  Kingsley saw it too late. His eyes widened—first time I’d seen anything close to surprise on his face—but he didn’t move fast enough. The fixture slammed into the floor with a sound like the world splitting open, crystal and metal exploding across the throne room.

  A blast of hot air slammed into us, dust and grit catching in my mouth, stinging my eyes. Shards of glass rattled off my gear. The torches gave out in seconds, some crushed, some smothered, and the room went black like someone had yanked the world inside out.

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  Thumbs let out a sharp, high squeal and buried his face in the back of my neck. "No light! No light! Rod light gone! Light broke!" He clung harder, his little claws digging into the straps of my armor.

  I dropped low into the dust, bow already drawn. Couldn’t see much—just outlines, silhouettes when I blinked hard enough. Sound took over.

  Kingsley was still moving, still breathing loud enough to shake the walls. I heard the scrape of boots across broken stone, the crunch of glass under his weight. Metal dragged as he shifted the axe. He sniffed the air twice, maybe three times.

  "You little—"

  His voice cut off as something heavy shifted—maybe the chandelier debris, maybe him trying to step through it. I loosed an arrow toward the sound. No aiming, just gut and timing.

  It landed with a dull crack and a deep grunt.

  {You have dealt 62 damage.}

  Thumbs jumped, scrabbling at my collar. "Rod hit! Rod hit! But he move! Still move! Still stompin’!"

  I didn’t respond. Already sliding sideways across broken marble, eyes scanning shapes in the dark. I ducked behind a cracked column, not much cover left, and pulled back another shot.

  This time I aimed for the shoulder joint. Released.

  The arrow hit with a sick crunch. I heard him tear it free, snapping the shaft like dry twigs.

  {You have dealt 54 damage.}

  Thumbs whimpered, voice tight, getting smaller. "Mad mad! Big mad! Rod hide? Hide? Under rock! Under rock!!"

  I moved again before Kingsley could zero in. His footfalls were heavier now, less steady. His rhythm was off—rage in the mix. I heard the axe scrape again, then lift. The air shifted fast.

  I dropped flat, sliding through grit and broken stone as the blade tore past, close enough to shake my teeth. The statue beside me exploded, chunks scattering, one slamming into my side hard enough to bruise.

  He didn’t slow. Just kept swinging. Wide, wild arcs, hitting whatever was in front of him.

  He wasn’t aiming anymore. Just trying to crush the dark. He was getting reckless. And reckless—I could work with.

  If I couldn’t kill him, I could slow him down.

  Kingsley swung again, a full-body arc that missed as I rolled under it. The axe smashed into the floor, blade stuck for half a second—just long enough. I drew fast, aimed low, and fired into the meat of his ankle. Hard angle. Thick muscle. But I caught the inside joint, right where the tendons stretched as he turned. The arrow sank deep.

  {You have dealt 72 damage.}

  Kingsley snarled, foot jerking forward. His weight shifted, right leg buckling just long enough to throw off his stance. He didn’t fall. Just slammed a hand into the ground to catch himself, breathing heavy, eyes locked forward like the pain hadn’t even registered yet. Still up. Still adapting. Too damn smart.

  Thumbs whimpered behind me, nails twisting into my gear. “Rod hurt him! You see? Rod got him! But he still stand! Still up still up still—”

  “Quiet.”

  Didn’t get time to follow up. Kingsley let out another roar, louder this time, and clenched his fists tight enough I heard the joints crack. Then he lifted his foot, and I saw it too late—the stance, the weight shift, the bracing. He stomped down.

  The shockwave tore across the chamber, ripping cracks through the floor and blasting debris in all directions. The chandelier finally gave way, snapping the rest of the way loose and crashing into the rubble. I dove, landing hard against a broken pillar as the wave ripped past where I’d been standing.

  Thumbs screamed behind me, his arms locked tight around my shoulders. “Rod almost dead! Floor gone! No floor no floor no floor!”

  I didn’t answer. Just grit my teeth and kept moving.

  Kingsley was still breathing hard, not slowing, but not clean either. His steps were uneven now, not quite limping, but placing more carefully. The leg was hurt, maybe worse than he realized. And beneath it, the floor was already cracked from earlier damage—barely holding.

  I didn’t aim for him. I aimed under him.

  I sprinted left, keeping low behind the broken curve of the throne, bow half-drawn, waiting for the timing. The marble was slick under my boots, dust and glass dragging at my steps, but I kept my aim steady.

  Kingsley followed, slower now, dragging his axe in a heavy scrape that sent sparks bouncing across the floor. His steps were louder than before, off-balance and angrier, the injured leg throwing off his rhythm.

  I waited until he passed the midpoint, then fired low, right into the joint again. The arrow punched into the muscle just above the knee, and this time, he screamed. His leg gave out and his body pitched forward, weight shifting hard as his foot slammed down on the fractured marble edge from earlier.

  Thumbs shrieked behind me, half-coiled into my pack. “Rod break him! Break him! He fall-fall-fall!”

  I turned fast, sighted in on the ground beneath his foot, and loosed the next arrow.

  The shot hit just right—dead center on the weakened crack. For half a breath, nothing moved. Then the stone gave with a sharp crack, the tiles shattering beneath his full weight. Kingsley let out a raw, guttural roar as the floor collapsed under him, and then he dropped.

  Marble and dust caved in around him, the noise sharp and deep all at once, and for a second there was nothing—just settling rubble and a hole punched through the world.

  Then the sound came up. A low, vibrating growl that didn’t belong to anything with lungs.

  Thumbs froze against me, shaking harder now. “Rod... Rod what down there? Down there?”

  I didn’t have to answer, as the rest of the floor collapsed underneath us.