Night had fallen, yet a yellow and red glow bathed the street leading towards the settlement’s walls. Rowan's blossom-hued eyes remained fixed on the incoming horde as they marched in disorganized fashion down the cracked asphalt, their movements erratic and uncoordinated. The creatures had yet to spot the survivors standing at the ready.

  Rowan stood alone outside the settlement’s gate, her stance unwavering. Her black hair, streaked with sharp streaks of pink, was tied into a messy half-ponytail, strands slipping loose to frame her sharp, angular face. Her blossom eyes, striking against the grime of battle, gleamed with a resolute intensity behind silver glasses with chains centered with a cherry blossom charm that ended connected to the end of the arms of the frame. Her lean, muscular form was clad in a fitted tank top beneath a reinforced green jacket, its fabric torn and stained from countless fights. Combat shorts, held secure by a thick utility belt that connected to a harness that accentuated the curve of her chest, which defined her otherwise androgynous appearance as female, bore holsters for spare ammunition and tools, the straps tight against her muscle-rounded thighs, while strapped boots covered her legs, scuffed and weathered from miles of brutal survival. But it was her left arm that truly set her apart—a limb transformed, its surface a blackened, obsidian-like material veined with molten crimson. Strange diamond-shaped marks pulsed with an eerie glow, embedded at the top of her hand and along the apex of her well-defined bicep. It radiated heat even in the cool night air, the embers beneath its surface shifting like magma waiting to erupt.

  Above, a younger survivor stood at a console atop the concrete wall, her fingers hovering over a switch, waiting for Rowan’s signal.

  It had all started with a simple mistake, one Rowan took personal blame for. Mere moments ago, she had been exploring the ruins of the fire department, one of the most damaged structures in their enclosed town. In the dispatch room, she had leaned against a console while speaking with one of the civilians accompanying her, only to unknowingly flip a switch that, against all logic, still had power. A piercing tornado siren had shattered the night’s silence. And now, here they were.

  Reacting swiftly, Rowan had ordered the lights at the gate to be extinguished the moment she felt the familiar tingling in her left arm, the warning sign of incoming demons. She had rallied their most trained fighters, positioning them at the gate with only herself outside, standing alone in the eerie darkness. A well-sharpened short sword rested in her right hand, but her left needed no weapon.

  The demons lurched closer, and now, Rowan could see them. The horde moved as a chaotic tide of twisted humanity, shambling toward the settlement. Their bodies, once human, had been grotesquely reshaped—glowing golden veins pulsed beneath their faintly luminescent red skin, casting an eerie radiance over the ruins. Obsidian horns and jagged spikes jutted from their flesh, tearing through the tattered remnants of their old clothes, grotesque echoes of the lives they had once lived. Some dragged broken limbs, their movements jerky and unnatural, while others loped forward with an almost predatory gait, their glowing eyes fixed on the distant walls of the settlement. The wind moaned through the skeletal remains of burned-out buildings, but the demons made no sound beyond the shuffle of feet, the occasional guttural growl, and the sickening scrape of claws against the pavement. Drawn like moths to the phantom wail of the tornado siren, they pressed forward—an unholy congregation converging upon the last refuge of the living.

  Rowan swung her arm down in a sharp, decisive motion.

  The switch flicked, and the settlement’s floodlights burst to life. Blinding white beams cut through the darkness, illuminating the battlefield in harsh contrast. From atop the wall, the young trainee’s breath caught as she watched Rowan in that moment—her figure, bathed in artificial light, standing resolute against the tide of incoming horrors. She looked like something out of legend, her stance unyielding, her corrupted arm glowing like molten iron beneath the floodlights. The trainees had heard the stories, the murmurs of how Rowan had fought, survived, and carved a path for others to do the same. But seeing it—seeing her—was something else entirely.

  Rowan did not flinch as the demons reacted violently to the sudden light, shrieking and recoiling as their glowing veins pulsed erratically. Their hesitation was all the opportunity she needed.

  Rowan bolted into battle as light and sound cracked behind her. The deafening chorus of gunfire filled the air, bullets whizzing just overhead. The settlement’s defenders followed the rules she had set: leave one side to Rowan, thin the horde on the other. No heroics—interference only put her in danger. It was a little hypocritical, considering she was the one launching headfirst into the chaos, but she was the most equipped for it.

  A snarl to her left. Rowan barely turned before a demon lunged, its rotting teeth clamping down on her outstretched arm. The beast’s full weight bore down, its muscles straining as it tried to pierce her skin. Useless. Its jagged fangs met an impenetrable surface, unable to break through the blackened, molten-veined limb. She didn’t even flinch. Instead, her right hand shot forward, driving her blade clean through the creature’s skull. The demon stiffened, then collapsed, its body sliding off her weapon in a limp heap.

  From atop the gate controls, the trainee—still too inexperienced to wield a firearm but trusted to man the defenses—watched Rowan move through the battlefield with terrifying precision. There was something almost inhuman about the way she fought, her body flowing effortlessly between each strike, a trained killer at her peak. But it was her eyes that caught the trainee’s breath. That strange, electric light, sharper than any gleaming blade, filled Rowan’s blossom gaze. It wasn’t just battle focus—it was something more. Here, surrounded by death, she looked alive. More so than the trainee had ever seen before.

  A demon lunged from the side, claws swiping toward her head. Rowan ducked low, spinning on her heel as she brought her corrupted arm up in a sharp arc. The air shimmered as a demonic energy shield burst to life, heat radiating from its edges. The beast's momentum carried it straight into the barrier, its flesh sizzling upon impact. It howled, limbs twitching violently before Rowan dropped the shield and drove her knee into its gut, sending it flying backward.

  Another turned its glowing, hollow eyes toward her, sprinting on all fours like a rabid animal. Rowan snapped her fingers into a gun shape, and in the space of a breath, a searing-hot shot fired from her fingertip. The projectile struck the demon in the chest, exploding outward in a spray of embers. It convulsed, collapsing in a smoking ruin.

  The horde pressed closer, but Rowan did not slow. With each swing of her blade, with every calculated motion of her demonic arm, she tore through them like a force of nature. A demon leapt at her, its claws outstretched, but she met it mid-air with an open palm. Flames erupted from her hand, engulfing the creature in a sudden inferno before she slammed it into the pavement, its body reduced to smoldering ash.

  Every motion was deliberate, every movement deadly. The more she fought, the brighter that fire in her eyes burned. Rowan’s breath came heavy but steady, her body reveling in the violence, in the raw, unfiltered survival of it all. For all the hell she had endured, all the weight she carried for the settlement, this—this was where she was most herself.

  And for those watching from the safety of the walls, she was more than just their protector—she was something unstoppable.

  It was here that the trainee understood why Rowan had become a symbol of hope for the settlement. The demons—once thought unstoppable—fell one after another in Rowan's rampage. The trainee's gaze swept over the thinning mass of creatures before something caught her eye. The pattern of their collapse formed a straight line, one swiftly approaching Rowan. Her breath hitched. "A tunneler," she muttered under her breath, realization striking before she shouted, her voice straining to be heard over the gunfire and chaos. "Tunneler!"

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  Rowan’s eyes locked onto her, the warning registering just as the ground ahead of her split open. A demon erupted from beneath the street, its form similar to the grunts, yet its arms bore massive, horn-like mechanized drills—organic in nature, yet eerily precise in movement. It tackled Rowan with brute force, pinning her to the ground, pain searing through her left arm as her index finger rolled away from the rest of her left hand, its drills whirring as they ground into the pavement, inching closer to her face. Her brows furrowed as the glow of her arm flared, heat rippling off her skin, but her sword arm was trapped beneath its grip.

  Then—a sharp zip cut through the air past her ear. The Tunneler's head jerked violently to the side before going limp, its body collapsing atop her, shot clean through the skull. Rowan's eyes burned with frustration. A risk. An unnecessary risk. She had made it clear—interfering could put her in danger. But now was not the time to dwell on it.

  With a swift movement, she shoved the corpse off her, gripped her blade, and surged forward. The fight was far from over.

  The gates shut with a metallic creak behind Rowan as she entered the Settlement’s walls. A mass of demon corpses lay strewn just beyond, the aftermath of the battle looming in the night air. A clean-up crew would be sent in the morning to dispose of them before their stench attracted more. She held her detached index finger, blood rushing from the stump, before she pressed the ends together. Muscle, bones and veins worked like webs, stitching, attaching, till she could once more wiggle the finger as if it had never been severed.

  Rowan’s brows were furrowed, her gaze sharp as she scanned the five soldiers standing before her. “Who shot the Tunneler?” she demanded, her voice carrying a weight that silenced the exhausted group.

  Garrick, a grizzled man in his fifties with a thick gray beard and deep-set eyes, shook his head. He had been a veteran long before Rowan had risen to prominence and had played a key role in her training during her youth. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, his expression unreadable.

  From the side, the young woman who had manned the gate controls climbed down the ladder. Sylvia, a survivor from outside the Settlement whom Rowan had saved, had entered training as soon as she had recovered from her injuries. She was barely past twenty, with short dark hair tucked beneath her helmet and sharp, watchful eyes. Unlike the others, she carried no firearm, further confirming her innocence in the matter.

  That left three soldiers—two men and a woman, all roughly the same age, standing at attention. Rowan’s gaze swept over them, locking onto the one who hesitated. His eyes darted away before he shook his head. It was a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

  Rowan moved with practiced speed, gripping his collar and slamming him against the nearby wall. The impact sent a dull thud echoing through the courtyard as the others tensed.

  “There are rules for a reason,” Rowan hissed, her voice low and seething. “You took a risk—an insanely stupid risk.”

  The soldier swallowed hard, eyes flickering with both fear and regret. “I didn’t miss,” he muttered.

  Rowan’s grip tightened, the heat radiating from her left arm growing palpable. The scent of scorched fabric filled the air. “But what if you did?” she snapped. “What if I had sat up? What if I had shoved the Tunneler off right as you fired? What if I had gone for a headbutt instead? My head isn’t bulletproof.”

  Her molten-veined arm pressed against his chest, the heat intensifying. “Before I had this arm, before I changed, a horde like that meant death for a lot of soldiers—either from Infernastrand or being torn apart.” Her voice dropped lower, dangerous. “I don’t mean to sound self-important, but I’m a powerful piece in this fight. If I die, things get a lot harder, and a lot more people die.”

  She leaned in slightly, her blossom-colored eyes burning into his. “Could you handle that responsibility? Could you live with that? Could you bear the weight of having to put down those who get infected before they turn? Could you give them that final mercy?”

  The surrounding soldiers stood stiff, some shifting uncomfortably. Garrick remained unmoving, watching with an expression of knowing patience. Sylvia, however, observed with sharp focus, her eyes flickering to Rowan’s arm, taking note of how the air itself seemed to shimmer from the heat radiating off it.

  The soldier’s lips parted, but no words came out. He looked away, exhaling shakily before shaking his head. “No,” he admitted. “I couldn’t.”

  Rowan held him for another second before she released him. He staggered, wincing as he looked down at the fresh burn marks seared into his uniform and skin where her knuckles had pressed against him.

  “Garrick,” Rowan said, turning to the older soldier. “Punish him as you see fit. He’s under your command.” She crossed her arms, glancing back at the soldier. “Or don’t. I don’t think he’ll make that mistake again.”

  As the tension in the courtyard settled, Rowan exhaled slowly, the heat in the air gradually dispersing. Her gaze softened as she turned her attention to Sylvia, stepping toward her with measured strides. The anger she had held just moments before eased, making way for something quieter, something more thoughtful.

  "Thank you, Sylvia," Rowan said as she placed her human hand upon Sylvia's shoulder.

  Sylvia couldn’t help but note the choice. Rowan only ever touched people with her left arm when she meant to intimidate, or when her right hand was otherwise occupied. After all, Rowan was right-handed. The community trusted her, but Sylvia had noticed how many members grew stiff or uneasy whenever the corrupted arm neared them. Some even refused to hand her things unless she used her right hand. Rowan always adjusted, swapping hands even when it was inconvenient, even when it slowed her down.

  "I didn't do anything though," Sylvia replied, looking up into Rowan’s blossom-colored eyes. They were soft, kind, but the fire that had blazed within them during battle was now a flickering spark.

  "I didn't notice the tremors. There were too many demons—too much noise. Their footsteps masked the Tunneler. I had no idea it was coming." Rowan paused before offering a small smile. "You saved me."

  Sylvia’s eyes gleamed with admiration and pride. She couldn’t find the words, so she simply nodded.

  A scoff broke the moment. The guilty soldier stood nearby, arms still clutched to his burns, watching the exchange with an expression bordering on begrudging acceptance. Rowan didn’t acknowledge him, but Garrick did. The older soldier fixed him with a stare, something cold and unreadable lurking behind it.

  The soldier swallowed, then turned to Sylvia. "Good job, Sylvia. If you’d be so kind as to accept, I’d like to offer you some extra training on my behalf. Sharpshooting."

  It half-felt like snark, but his precision earlier had been undeniable—whether by luck or skill.

  Garrick spoke before Sylvia could answer, his voice old, solid, commanding attention. "I will supervise to ensure the training is up to par—if she accepts."

  Sylvia looked at the soldier, at the burns on his skin, at the barely masked desperation in his blue eyes. He wanted her help. No, he needed it.

  "What’s your name?" she asked.

  "Garfield," he answered.

  Sylvia grinned. "Like the cat."

  Rowan snorted and averted her gaze, shaking her head.

  "Sure, I'll take you up on that offer. The sooner I can handle a gun and earn my permit, the sooner I can do more than flick light switches and open big metal doors," Sylvia said, showing him mercy.

  Garfield exhaled, relieved. "Thank you."

  Garrick nodded approvingly. "The training will serve as your punishment, unless it is not up to par. If it isn’t, I think construction duty will do." With that, he turned and walked toward the center of the community, where lights flickered on now that the gunfire had ceased.

  Rowan patted Sylvia’s shoulder one last time before stepping past her. Sylvia watched as she stuffed her hands into her pockets and caught up with Garrick.

  "You know, you’re staring," Garfield muttered.

  Sylvia didn’t flinch. "I know."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

  She kept her gaze on Rowan’s retreating form and smiled softly. "Because my hero is so human. It’s jarring. And humbling."

  Garfield tilted his head, intrigued. "That so?"

  Sylvia turned to meet his eyes, determination settling in. "I want to be a hero too. So I have to learn from the best."