Chapter One
The Price of Steel
The caravan moved slow under the heat.
Two oxen dragged the lead wagon. Iron plates clanged inside the crates, strapped down with hemp rope and rusted chains. A handful of guards walked alongside — some fresh, some worn down to the bone.
Silas was near the front. Always. His saber hung low at his side, the blade worn to a dull gray from endless sharpening. His left hand — steel, not flesh — flexed without a sound. The joint had been repaired last week. It moved smoother now, but not perfect. It never would be.
He watched the horizon. Same way he always did. Not because he was expecting trouble. Because he knew it would come.
"How far to the next well?" a guard behind him asked. Kid named Mara. Seventeen maybe. Too clean.
Silas didn't look back.
"Two days," he said. "If the wheels hold."
Mara swore under her breath. She wasn’t built for this kind of heat. None of them were, really. Only difference was, Silas had stopped caring about comfort a long time ago.
Another gust of wind rolled over the flats. Sand rasped against armor. The oxen groaned and pulled harder.
Silas caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Small shapes. Low to the ground. Fast.
"Bandits," he said. No panic. Just fact.
The caravan master — a fat man named Rusk — waddled up from the back, wheezing.
"You sure?"
Silas nodded once.
"They'll hit from the south. Thirty seconds."
Rusk went pale.
"How many?"
Silas watched the dust rise. Counted the shadows.
"Enough."
The guards scrambled. Mara fumbled with her crossbow, almost dropped it. Another man — Klen — yanked his cleaver free and started muttering prayers.
Silas drew his saber. The blade felt light in his hand. Natural. Like breathing.
His steel fingers clamped tight around the grip.
The first bolt whistled past his head.
Then the bandits were on them — a flood of ragged men with wild eyes and rusted weapons.
Silas stepped forward, into the storm.
***
The first raider came in screaming, a jagged machete raised high.
Silas caught the strike on the flat of his saber, twisting his wrist just enough to deflect the blow past his side. His robot hand absorbed the force like stone. No wasted motion. No wasted breath.
He stepped in. One quick slash — knee to hip. The bandit folded without a sound.
Another two were right behind him. One thrust low, aiming for the gut. The other swung wide, trying to catch him in the ribs.
Silas pivoted. The thrust scraped across his robot forearm with a shriek of metal on metal. His saber snapped up, knocking the wide swing off balance. Before the attacker could recover, Silas drove his blade straight through the man's chest.
Three down.
The fourth swung a crude axe. Silas ducked, letting the blade whistle over his head, then snapped a backhanded strike across the raider’s legs. The man screamed, toppled. Silas finished him with a single stab to the throat.
Four.
The others hesitated. Good. That meant they were thinking. Thinking got you killed.
"Come on," Silas growled under his breath.
The next two charged together, hoping to overwhelm him. One high, one low.
Silas blocked high first — the saber meeting a battered longsword with a heavy clang. His metal arm came up underneath, catching the second man's short spear on the reinforced plating. Sparks flew as the spear glanced off.
Silas shoved forward with his robot arm, knocking the spearman off balance. At the same time, he twisted his saber in a tight arc, the edge catching the swordsman under the arm where the armor was thin.
He didn’t wait for them to fall. He moved.
Seven.
The last three tried to circle him. Smarter than the others.
Silas stepped sideways, keeping them in front of him. His boots slid across the dirt. His saber tip never wavered.
One feinted left. Another jabbed low.
Silas kicked the jabbing one square in the gut, sending him sprawling. Then he blocked the feint — one handed — and countered with a brutal slash across the chest.
The wounded man on the ground tried to crawl away. Silas put his saber through the back of his neck without looking.
Nine.
The last one ran.
Silas let him.
No point chasing a man who was already dead inside.
The battlefield went still. The only sounds were the oxen snorting and the slow drip of blood onto the sand.
Silas turned, scanning for more threats. His metal hand was smoking slightly from the strain of blocking so many blows. He flexed it once. Still good enough for now.
Behind him, the other guards stared. Some with awe. Some with fear.
Silas sheathed his saber.
"Get the wagons moving," he said.
"Next time, they’ll send more."
***
Silas caught the movement half a second before it happened.
A glint of metal in the rocks. A shimmer where the heat bent the air wrong.
He didn't think.
He moved.
A sharp crack split the sky — crossbow fire.
The bolt whistled toward his chest, fast as a viper strike.
Silas raised his left arm instinctively. The metal forearm caught the bolt dead center with a metallic clang, the force slamming up his shoulder and rocking him back a step. Sparks danced in the air.
The impact dented the plating. The servo whined under the strain.
But the arm held.
Silas grinned, teeth flashing in the sun.
"Sniper!" he barked, pointing toward the rocks.
The caravan guards ducked low behind the wagons. Some scrambled for cover. Mara loosed a wild bolt in the general direction of the shooter, missing by a mile.
Silas didn’t bother firing back. Crossbow fights were a losing game at this range.
You had to close distance.
You had to kill fast.
He tightened the strap around his saber hilt, set his shoulders, and sprinted.
Across the flats, dodging between wagons, weaving through the bodies of the dead. The sniper reloaded — slow, deliberate — aiming for another shot.
Another crack — another bolt — this one lower, aiming for Silas’s legs.
He slid across the dirt, metal hand dragging a furrow in the sand, and felt the bolt zip past inches over his back.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Silas reached the base of the rocks, kicked off the ground, and climbed — boots slipping, metal fingers digging into cracks for purchase. The sniper tried to backpedal, fumbling for a sidearm.
Too late.
Silas cleared the ridge in a single, brutal motion. His saber flashed in the sun once — clean, sharp — and the sniper's head left his shoulders, tumbling down the rocks.
Silas stood over the body, breathing slow, steady. His arm buzzed low under the skin, warning of strain. He ignored it.
Below him, the caravan guards slowly rose from cover, staring up at him like he'd grown wings.
Silas wiped the blade clean on the dead man's cloak and turned back toward the caravan.
"Safe now," he said.
"For now."
***
Silas sat on the edge of the ridge, legs dangling over the side. The desert stretched out below him — endless and empty, save for the caravan clustered like frightened animals around the wagons.
He flexed his left hand. Metal fingers scraped against the joints, rough and uneven.
The crossbow bolt had dented the outer casing near the wrist. Worse, he could feel the servos grinding, a hesitation every time he moved.
He pulled a small kit from his belt — battered, grease-stained, half-empty. Opened it with a practiced flick.
Inside: a rusted wrench, a bent screwdriver, a half-used tube of sealant. Tools barely good enough for field repairs.
Silas sighed through his nose. Set the saber down beside him. Started working.
He popped the wrist plate loose, revealing the mess underneath — frayed wires, burnt shielding, a servo motor sputtering with every twitch. He muttered under his breath.
The good arms, the real ones, cost more than a man like him could make in a year.
He’d bought his from a junker who swore it was a military grade model.
Maybe once.
Now it was just another piece of scrap, holding together by habit.
He tightened what he could. Stripped the burnt wires. Smeared sealant over the worst cracks. It wasn’t a real fix. Just enough to keep it moving another day. Maybe two.
Below him, Mara approached — cautious, like a kid spooked by a half-broken animal.
"You alright?" she asked, voice tight.
Silas didn’t look up.
"Arm’s fine," he said. Lie.
"Rest of me’s better."
Mara hovered a few steps back, hands fidgeting with the strap of her crossbow. She glanced at the dead sniper, then at Silas’s arm, then away again.
"How do you... keep fighting like that?" she said finally.
"You ain't scared?"
Silas tightened the last bolt. Flexed the fingers again. Still rough, still grinding.
Good enough.
He picked up his saber, stood, and looked down at her.
"Scared," he said.
"Just faster than it."
He slung the saber over his back, boots crunching as he walked past her down toward the caravan.
The sun was dipping low.
Another night coming.
Another fight waiting.
And the arm...
The arm wasn’t going to last forever.
***
The caravan rolled out an hour before sunset.
No one said much.
The wounded were patched up. The dead were left behind, faces covered with torn cloth. No prayers. No stones on the eyes. Out here, you didn’t waste what you couldn’t afford.
Silas walked beside the lead wagon, same as always. His metal arm hung a little heavier now, but he kept the pace.
The wheels creaked. The beasts groaned. The desert stretched out in front of them, endless and empty.
Somewhere ahead, past the broken hills and salt flats, was the next outpost. A place called Shiggar’s Rest — a fortified trading post run by old mercs and crooked merchants.
It wasn’t safety. There was no safety.
It was just the next place you could buy water and sharpen a blade.
Mara walked a few paces behind him, silent for once.
The other guards watched the horizon, eyes hard, hands tight on weapons.
The attack had shaken them.
Silas could feel it in the way they moved — the stiffness, the sideways glances.
Like maybe they were starting to understand what kind of world they were really walking through.
A thin line of smoke curled in the distance, barely visible against the blood-red sky.
Another caravan, maybe. Or maybe something worse.
Silas said nothing. Just adjusted his grip on the saber and kept walking.
The desert didn't care.
But he did.
And he wasn’t ready to die yet.
***
The sun was nothing but a red smear on the horizon by the time they saw the walls of Shiggar’s Rest.
It rose out of the dust like a mirage — cracked stone, rusted iron gates, flags hanging limp in the dead air.
A fortress. A place built by men who knew the value of thick walls and thicker steel.
The caravan picked up speed.
Hope made fools of them.
Silas slowed his pace. His gut twisted — not fear exactly. Instinct.
The place was too quiet.
No merchants shouting from the ramparts.
No guards waving from the towers.
No smoke from cooking fires.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Dead quiet.
He signaled the caravan master without a word. Just a closed fist.
Stop.
Rusk wheezed his way to the front, eyes wide and sweating.
"What's the holdup?"
Silas pointed at the walls.
"Tell me what you don't hear."
Rusk listened. Frowned. Swore under his breath.
"Maybe... maybe they're inside," he said, but his voice was thin.
Silas didn’t answer.
He shifted his saber on his back. His metal hand creaked as he flexed it.
He hated walking into unknowns.
But sitting still was worse.
He started forward, boots crunching the brittle sand, one hand resting lightly on the saber’s hilt.
The gates of Shiggar’s Rest loomed larger with every step.
Splinters of wood hung from the iron, like something had smashed it inward. Not outward. Inward.
The walls bore deep scorch marks. Black smears. Old blood dried to brown crusts.
Mara caught up to him, face pale, crossbow trembling in her hands.
"Something bad happened here," she whispered.
"Smart girl," Silas said.
They passed through the broken gate.
Inside, the outpost was a graveyard.
Wagons overturned. Crates smashed. Walls crumbling.
Bodies half-buried under rubble, picked clean by crows and worse.
No survivors.
No mercy.
Silas knelt by a corpse near the well. Turned it over with his metal hand.
The chest was torn open.
Not by blades.
By something bigger. Stronger.
He stared at the marks for a long moment.
Not bandits.
Not slavers.
Something else.
Behind him, Rusk cursed. Mara gagged. The other guards fanned out in a loose, scared circle.
"This was supposed to be safe," Rusk muttered.
Silas stood slowly, brushing dirt from his armor.
"There’s no such thing," he said.
Overhead, the wind picked up.
Somewhere beyond the walls, something howled — a low, hollow sound that made the oxen scream and buck against their harnesses.
Silas gripped his saber tighter.
Whatever had torn through Shiggar’s Rest might still be close.
And they were standing right in its graveyard.
***
Silas didn’t waste time.
Standing around got you killed.
"Form up!" he barked. His voice cracked across the courtyard like a whip. "Circle the wagons inside the walls. Strip anything that’ll burn. Anything that’ll block an opening. Move!"
The guards jumped, startled out of their fear. Mara ran to cut the oxen free, Klen and the others heaving the first wagon around with grunts and curses.
Rusk stumbled after him, face red and sweating.
"We’re just gonna— gonna camp here?"
Silas turned on him, slow and steady.
"You want to run back across open desert at night? Be my guest."
He jerked his chin toward the gates, where the sun was dying and the wind was rising.
"Otherwise, get your hands dirty."
Rusk shut up.
Silas moved through the ruins with purpose. His boots crunched over shattered pottery, bones, rusted iron. He scavenged everything he could: splintered doors, broken wagon wheels, cracked shields.
Anything to patch the holes in the wall. Anything to slow down whatever was still out there.
Mara found a small stash near the old blacksmith’s shop — nails, a hammer, two half-full barrels of pitch. She hauled them over with a determined look.
Smart girl. Quick hands. Might survive longer than the others.
By the time the last of the light bled from the sky, they had a rough barricade thrown up across the main breach.
Not pretty. Not strong. But better than nothing.
Silas stood on the ramparts, scanning the dead sands.
The wind carried whispers. Scraping noises. Things moving just beyond the reach of sight.
He adjusted the leather straps on his metal arm. The repairs were holding — barely.
He needed it functional tonight.
No mistakes. No second chances.
Below him, the guards lit small, controlled fires inside broken braziers. The light barely pushed back the darkness.
Silas drew his saber, resting it lightly across his knees.
He wouldn’t sleep.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever again.
Out there, beyond the broken walls, something was watching.
Waiting.
Hunting.
And sooner or later, it would come knocking.
***
Night fell like a hammer.
The fires in the braziers guttered low, casting long, twitching shadows across the courtyard.
Every plank of wood, every scrap of cloth, every overturned wagon creaked and shifted under the weight of the cooling air.
Silas sat on the rampart, saber across his knees, metal hand resting against the stone.
He watched the darkness.
It watched back.
The guards were quiet now. No jokes, no songs, no stupid arguments about whose turn it was to stand watch.
They knew better.
Somewhere out in the dunes, a low sound rose — not a howl. Not human.
Something thicker. Deeper. Like the earth itself grinding its teeth.
Mara sat a few paces away, crossbow clutched tight, trying to hide the way her hands shook.
She wasn’t winning.
Silas didn't speak.
Words didn’t fix fear.
Only survival did.
Hours dragged by.
The fires burned lower. The stars wheeled overhead, cold and distant.
Then — just past midnight — the oxen tied in the center of the courtyard screamed.
One high, panicked cry — cut off fast.
Silas was on his feet before the sound finished dying.
Saber in hand. Metal fingers tightening until the servos whined.
The other guards scrambled, weapons drawn, eyes wild.
Mara loaded a bolt, hands fumbling.
Silas held up his hand.
Stillness.
Wait.
The courtyard was silent again.
No footsteps. No breathing.
But Silas could feel it.
Something was inside the walls.
Something moved with a patience that spoke of hunger.
And intelligence.
He stepped down from the rampart, slow and steady, scanning the broken shadows between the wagons.
The fires flickered.
The shadows twitched.
There — a shape.
Low. Broad. Crawling close to the ground.
Silas narrowed his eyes.
Not a man.
Not a beast either.
Something worse.
He raised his saber.
Steel whispering against steel.
The night was about to break.
And survival — as always — would be paid for in blood.
***
The thing moved fast.
A blur of pale muscle and clawed limbs, low to the ground, teeth flashing in the firelight.
It launched from the shadows with a guttural hiss — a sound too thick to be human.
Silas stepped into it.
No hesitation. No fear.
His saber came up, met the creature’s charge at the perfect angle — a hard, brutal block with the flat of the blade.
The impact shook through his body, rattling his metal arm. Sparks flew where claw met steel.
The thing shrieked, lashing again.
Silas pivoted, sidestepping with practiced ease.
One step, tight and sharp.
One strike, cleaner than a butcher’s cut.
The saber bit deep across the creature’s shoulder.
It stumbled, twisting in rage. Black blood spilled onto the sand.
Another lunge — jaws snapping for Silas’s throat.
He ducked under it, brought the saber up hard under the chin.
The blade punched through the skull with a wet crack.
The creature spasmed once.
Then dropped.
Twitched.
Died.
Silas stood over it, breathing slow, steady.
Mara and the other guards stared, frozen.
He didn’t waste time.
Didn’t celebrate.
Because over the broken walls, out in the dunes, the night was moving.
Twenty. Maybe more.
Shapes — low, fast, swarming toward the outpost like ants to a carcass.
Silas sheathed his bloody saber. Raised his metal hand high.
"Formation!" he barked. "Now!"
The guards scrambled, fear thick on their faces. But they obeyed.
They pulled into a tight circle around the wagons, shields out, crossbows loaded, weapons trembling in white-knuckled hands.
"Keep your lines tight!" Silas roared.
"First man breaks, you all die!"
The first of the creatures slammed against the makeshift barricades. Wood splintered. Metal creaked.
Silas moved to the front — because that’s where the real fighters stood.
Saber raised.
Metal arm braced.
No fear. Only survival.
The night howled around them.
The beasts came.
And Silas met them with steel.
***
The first creature vaulted the barricade.
Silas moved.
One step forward. One clean arc of the saber.
The blade severed its spine at the neck — smooth, effortless.
The body crumpled without a sound.
Another two slammed into the wall, clawing over the broken wood.
Silas pivoted, left foot sliding over the dirt, robot arm raised.
One creature lunged for his chest — teeth bared.
He caught it full force with the steel plating of his forearm.
The impact jarred his shoulder, but he absorbed it, twisted his body, and used the thing’s momentum to hurl it sideways into the second attacker.
Both hit the ground hard.
Silas stepped in — one, two — saber cutting low and fast.
Throats opened under the blade.
Black blood sprayed across his boots.
He didn’t pause.
Didn’t think.
Another — from the left — fast, faster than the others.
He ducked low, saber flashing in a tight defensive arc. The edge caught the creature's claw mid-swing — sheared it off clean.
The beast shrieked.
Silas finished it with a brutal thrust through the chest.
Twisted the blade free.
Turned.
Every move was economic. Sharp. Cold.
No wild swings. No wasted energy.
Just survival made into an art form.
The guards behind him fought like cornered animals — panicked, desperate. Blades clanging against bone. Crossbows misfiring.
But where Silas stood, there was control.
A monster barreled straight toward him, low and snarling.
Silas shifted his stance.
Weight on the back foot.
Timing perfect.
He let it come — just enough.
Then drove his metal fist forward, knuckles first, straight into its open mouth.
Bone shattered. Teeth cracked.
The thing crumpled mid-lunge, twitching.
He finished it with a downward stab, clean and efficient.
Still they came.
Ten. Twelve. Fifteen.
Silas’s arm buzzed and whined under the strain, servos beginning to heat.
Didn’t matter.
He pushed it harder.
Each strike of his saber was precise: tendons cut, joints severed, critical points shattered.
He didn’t need power.
He needed precision.
Another claw caught his shoulder, scraping armor.
He spun, blade carving a brutal slash across the attacker’s midsection.
Spilled it onto the sand.
Breathing slow.
Steps measured.
Mind clear.
Death was a language Silas spoke better than any man alive.
And tonight, he was speaking it fluently.
***
The kills piled up.
Bodies twitched in the dust, blood soaking into the cracked earth.
Silas kept moving.
Blade high. Feet light. Mind cold.
But the cracks were forming.
His metal arm — the one that had caught bolts and broken jaws — was heating up fast.
He could feel it under the steel: a low, steady burn, like a forge pressed against his bones.
The servos inside the elbow joint whined louder with every parry.
The wrist motor stuttered once — a tiny, almost invisible hesitation.
Silas adjusted his grip, hiding it.
If the arm locked up now...
He drove the thought out.
Focused on the next kill.
A creature lunged high.
Silas blocked with the flat of the saber — but the shock traveled down his shoulder wrong.
The metal hand clenched without his command. A spasm.
The blade wavered for the first time.
Only for a heartbeat.
But it was enough.
A second beast rushed in, sensing weakness.
Silas twisted, pure instinct.
The robot arm caught the creature's head — not clean, not perfect — and slammed it down into the ground with brutal, jarring force.
The impact rattled the entire limb.
Warning lights blinked deep inside the forearm.
Power drain. Torque misalignment. System fault.
He swore under his breath.
No time.
No options.
The other guards were still holding, barely — a messy knot of men and women swinging wildly, bleeding, screaming.
Silas steadied himself.
Shifted his stance again.
Relied more on his saber. Less on the failing metal.
But every block, every strike cost him double now.
The weight of the arm.
The pain radiating down into what was left of his shoulder.
Another beast lunged low — aiming for his legs.
Silas sidestepped, slower than before. His blade carved down, splitting the creature’s spine, but he felt the tremor in his metal fingers afterward — a delayed twitch that nearly made him drop the sword.
He gritted his teeth.
No breaks.
No second chances.
The wave of monsters kept coming.
And he was running out of blood, steel, and time.
***
The next strike did it.
A heavy one — a massive beast slamming down with both claws.
Silas met it head-on, metal forearm raised to block.
The impact hit like a hammer.
The servos inside screamed — a shrill mechanical whine — and then seized.
His robot arm locked at the elbow, frozen solid.
Dead weight.
Silas staggered half a step back, saber flickering low to ward off the follow-up strike.
The creature lunged, sensing weakness.
Silas moved — adapted — fast.
He shifted his stance, dropped his center of gravity, and let the locked arm hang dead across his body like a shield.
Another beast rushed in from the right.
No time to think.
Silas twisted his torso, used the frozen arm like a battering ram — smashing the limb into the creature’s face with brutal force.
Bone cracked. Blood sprayed. The thing fell, twitching.
Not pretty.
Not clean.
But it worked.
Another claw raked across his shoulder — tore into his armor, ripped leather and flesh.
Silas grunted, planted his feet, and brought the saber around in a tight, vicious arc.
The blade bit through ribs.
Another down.
The locked arm dragged at him, pulling on his spine with every step.
His breathing grew heavier, ragged at the edges.
Sweat stung his eyes.
But he didn’t stop.
Couldn’t.
The guards behind him fought like drowning men — swinging wildly, desperate and clumsy.
He was the wall holding them up.
He was the line between them and the grave.
A big one — bigger than the rest — barreled toward him.
Thick hide. Crude armor plates. Brutish speed.
Silas met it head-on, saber gripped in his living hand, dead weight hanging off his left side.
He dipped under the first charge, blade flashing upward — carving a deep line along the beast's flank.
It roared, spinning, blood spraying from the wound.
It came again.
Silas waited — patient, cold — timing it perfectly.
At the last second, he twisted his torso and rammed his locked metal elbow into the creature’s jaw.
The force jolted through the limb, wrenching his shoulder savagely.
But the beast’s head snapped back.
Exposed throat.
Silas drove his saber home, two-handed, blade sinking to the hilt.
The thing dropped like a sack of stone.
Silas ripped the blade free, staggering.
His body ached. His arm was dead. His blood was slick under his armor.
But he was still standing.
Still killing.
And the night wasn’t over yet.
***
Silas backed toward the wagons, metal arm hanging useless, saber gripped tight in his living hand.
Blood dripped from a gash across his ribs, warm against the cold air.
The creatures were regrouping, circling for another charge.
They could smell weakness.
Silas bared his teeth in a grim smile.
He wasn’t dead yet.
Not even close.
"Mara!" he shouted over the chaos.
"Cover me!"
She jerked at the sound of her name, turned, saw him retreating.
Eyes wide.
Frightened.
But she nodded, snapping her crossbow up with shaking hands.
"Klen! Jora! Tighten the line!" Silas barked.
"Nothing gets through!"
The guards snapped into motion — instinct, training, or pure terror.
They pulled tighter around the wagons, raising shields, lowering spears.
A loose wall.
A desperate one.
But a wall all the same.
Silas dropped behind the line, breathing hard, brain working fast.
He ripped the leather straps free on his left shoulder, exposing the locking bolts on the arm's connection plate.
He needed a quick fix — something — or he’d be dead the next time they broke through.
The servos were overheated, jammed solid.
Too risky to force them open.
Too slow to do a full reset.
Silas pulled the last trick he knew: a hardline override.
He drove the hilt of his dagger into a small manual release port just under the bicep joint.
Hard.
A sharp hiss of steam.
A brutal clunk.
The arm went slack — dead weight again, but free-moving at the shoulder.
He could swing it now — not with finesse, not with strength — but at least it wouldn’t freeze him solid.
And sometimes, a heavy piece of metal was all the weapon you needed.
He shoved the dagger back into his belt, rolled his shoulders, and picked up his saber.
Pain lanced through his side. His vision swam for a second.
He ignored it.
Outside the line, the creatures howled — and charged again.
Silas stepped forward, into the breach.
Back into the fight.
Because there was no one else who could.
***
The creatures slammed against the wall of shields, teeth snapping, claws scraping.
The guards grunted, shoved back, barely holding.
It wouldn’t last.
They were losing ground with every heartbeat.
Silas saw it — the fear, the collapse starting in their eyes.
And he knew what had to be done.
He stepped forward, voice like a gunshot in the night.
"Push out!" he barked.
"With me! NOW!"
No time to argue.
No time to think.
Silas launched himself past the barricade — saber flashing, metal arm swinging heavy like a hammer.
He crashed into the nearest beast, blade punching through the soft meat under its jaw, out the back of its skull.
Ripped the saber free with a savage twist.
Behind him, the guards hesitated — a frozen breath in time.
Then Mara screamed something wordless and charged after him, crossbow clutched like a club.
The others followed.
Fear forgotten in the blood-red pull of survival.
Silas didn’t slow.
Didn’t hesitate.
He drove forward like a wedge, carving a path through the swarm.
Every strike was brutal, merciless — severing legs, crushing skulls, stabbing deep into soft bellies.
The dead arm swung wide, catching a snarling creature across the temple with a sickening crack.
It dropped.
Didn’t get up.
The guards slammed into the creatures from behind, swords hacking, spears punching forward with desperate strength.
Silas fought like a machine — relentless, tireless, cold.
Blade rising, falling, rising again.
Each move tight, efficient, born from a hundred battles survived by nothing but skill and hate.
He kicked a wounded beast aside, stomped its throat flat under his boot, and kept moving.
Another lunged — jaws snapping.
He sidestepped, hamstringed it with a flick of his saber, left it screaming in the dirt.
Blood soaked the sand.
The fires guttered in the wind.
The night howled with rage.
But for the first time, the creatures faltered.
Pulled back.
Afraid.
Because they weren’t facing scared guards anymore.
They were facing Silas.
And Silas wasn’t afraid of anything that bled.
"Drive them!" he roared, voice ragged and raw.
"Don't stop till they break!"
The guards screamed and surged forward, weapons flashing in the firelight.
Fear turned to fury.
Weakness to strength.
Under the weight of the counterattack, the creatures broke.
One by one, they turned and fled into the darkness.
Wounded.
Dying.
Afraid.
The last one limped away, bleeding heavily, dragging one useless leg behind it.
Silas stood in the center of the courtyard, blood dripping from his saber, smoke rising from his broken arm.
Breathing hard.
Alive.
Around him, the guards sagged, some falling to their knees, some laughing in ragged, hysterical relief.
Mara leaned against a wagon, gasping, crossbow hanging loose in her hand.
Silas turned his face to the stars.
The fight was over.
For now.
But something in the back of his mind whispered that this was only the beginning.
And whatever came next...
He'd be ready for it.
***
The courtyard stank of blood and burnt iron.
The fires had burned low, casting everything in long, broken shadows.
Silas wiped the blood from his saber on a dead creature’s hide, slow and deliberate.
His arm hung useless at his side, the metal blackened, steaming from the heat of battle.
He didn’t feel the pain anymore.
Just the weight.
The guards staggered among the wreckage, dragging wounded comrades into the center, propping them against broken wagons.
No cheering.
No victory songs.
Only the low, broken sounds of men and women who had survived something they shouldn't have.
Mara crouched beside Klen, binding a deep gash across his thigh with strips of torn cloth.
Her hands trembled.
Her face was streaked with blood — not all of it her own.
Silas watched her for a moment, then turned his gaze outward.
Past the wrecked barricades.
Past the broken gates.
Into the black desert where the creatures had fled.
The night was still.
But it wouldn't stay that way.
He knelt beside the corpse of one of the beasts.
Pushed it over with his boot.
Up close, it was worse than he thought.
The skin was wrong — grayish, stretched tight over bones that didn’t match any desert predator he knew.
And the eyes...
Milky.
Unfocused.
Dead long before they fell.
Silas felt the cold gnawing at the base of his skull.
This wasn’t natural.
Not a simple raid.
Something had twisted these things into weapons.
And sent them here.
He stood slowly, the sand whispering under his boots.
Flexed his metal hand once, feeling the sluggish grind of broken servos.
The arm was wrecked.
He was wrecked.
But they were still breathing.
And that counted for something.
Rusk, the caravan master, limped up to him, one arm in a sling.
His face was pale, his lips bloodless.
"You saved us," he croaked.
"You... you saved all of us."
Silas looked past him, at the wreckage.
The dead oxen.
The shattered walls.
The broken, bleeding guards.
"Saved enough," he said flatly.
Rusk hesitated, then glanced at the stars overhead.
"You think they'll come back?"
Silas sheathed his saber.
"Not tonight."
He paused.
"But soon."
Because out in the desert, in the ruins and the shadows, something was watching.
Waiting.
Planning.
And next time, it wouldn’t just send animals.
It would send something worse.
Silas turned back to the survivors.
Time to rebuild the barricades.
Time to count the wounded.
Time to prepare.
Because survival wasn’t a victory.
It was just the next step toward the next fight.
***
Silas didn’t let them rest long.
An hour after the last beast fell, he had the guards moving again.
He picked the strongest men and women — Klen, Mara, two others — and sent them to repair the barricades.
He ordered double watches.
No one alone.
No fires beyond what was needed.
The dead were dragged outside the walls, burned on a pyre of splintered wood and broken wagons.
No words.
No prayers.
Silas watched the flames die before he allowed himself to sit.
Sleep came hard and cold.
The kind of sleep that didn’t heal.
At first light, they moved.
No banners.
No songs.
Just the grim shuffle of boots against the sand.
The broken caravan — lighter now, slower — turned east toward safer ground.
Toward a town the maps called Vain Hollow — a border trading post nestled between two dead rivers.
Stone walls, strong gates, neutral mercenaries.
As close to safety as you ever got in this world.
They traveled for five days under hard sun and colder nights.
No attacks.
No more monsters.
Only the wind, the endless dust, and the heavy silence that followed survivors.
When the crumbling walls of Vain Hollow finally appeared on the horizon, no one cheered.
No one had the strength left for it.
Inside the gates, the merchants paid out what they owed.
Heavy sacks of coin.
Blood money.
Silas took his cut without ceremony.
A little heavier than agreed — Rusk’s way of saying thank you without having to say the words.
Silas didn’t stay for the drinking, the whores, or the songs.
Didn’t even count the coins.
He headed straight for the lower markets — past the food stalls, past the armor smiths — until he found what he was looking for:
A battered tin sign hanging over a crooked doorway.
A red handprint stenciled next to it.
Old tech.
Robot parts.
Repairs and replacements, no questions asked.
Silas pushed the door open.
The smell of hot oil and ozone rolled out into the street.
He stepped inside without hesitation.
He needed a new arm.
He needed to be ready.
Because out there, past the walls and the lights, the real fight was just beginning.
And he planned to meet it with steel in his hand —
and survival in his blood.
