Sylfir rides Bob toward the main road in a mad chase with the fearsome beast behind her. Ivan is powerless to do little else but watch as she turns from the waist, firing an arrow at the creature. It barely hits the thing, and she only seems to earn more of its ire.

He could almost believe it doesn't matter. She has never been so far away from her mortal form, a coalescence of the night sky locked away in the shape of a woman, her hair woven of pure starlight. Even from here, behind the safety of the kitchen window, he can see her bright eyes like stars unto themselves. They are so brilliant that they could dim the stars from the heavens. It seems the beast's claws would pass through her, should it choose to strike, but he knows that's not true. She is still flesh and blood like anyone else.

Bob turns abruptly despite his blistering speed, taking to the main road and kicking up dust as he goes. The beast is ungainly as it tries to follow, almost tangled up in its own limbs when it turns to continue the chase, possessing a singular focus. By now it's lost a lot of ground, and Ivan's heart calms to know that Sylfir is even just an inch further from danger than she was a moment ago.

"Go on, girl!" Ivan's father is transfixed by the sight of the battle. Erik and Artur are there, too, the latter cradling Tom in his arms, who somehow manages to purr through the ordeal. Dana paces back and forth despite her old bones, deathly anxious as she seeks reassurance from anyone who will give it.

Ivan spares the time to ruffle the fur on the top of her head for a second, but his eyes never leave the scene. He watches Sylfir barrel down the main road, but soon the sight of roiling storm clouds blocks out a patch of the night sky, and his attention diverts to Torgrim. The shaman calls out to the heavens with his maul in hand; the tablet tied to its haft glows bright with teal-coloured light.

His timing is perfect. Just as the beast runs underneath those swirling, grey-black clouds, a sheet of hail rains down upon it. It wails in terror—or rage, Ivan can't really tell—and its stride falters, slowed by the ice that now forms around it.

Sylfir slows to watch it, too. He thinks she might take another shot at the beast. Sonja has already nocked an arrow, and Arfin is already charging toward the beast with a war cry and a vice-like grip on his greataxe.

But the beast howls, an ear-splitting sound that makes Ivan wince. It feels like his head is about to explode, and he has to press a palm into the wall to keep himself standing. His father and brothers groan, too, struggling to hold themselves up. Artur drops Tom, who yowls and hisses, and despite his age, he scatters like an energetic kitten, fleeing the kitchen. Dana seems to take it the hardest, though, immediately paralysed by the beast's howling. She drops to the floor, writhing and whining.

"What the bleeding hells?" Ivan's father shakes his head to rid himself of the ringing, or at least, that's why Ivan does it. That howl almost leaves him breathless, and he can feel tears sting his eyes.

Erik groans. "That was no natural sound."

A frantic neigh rings through the air, and a jolt of fear pierces Ivan's heart. He looks up to see Bob on his hind legs, and Sylfir is trying her best to control him, but she's too slow. She must be dazed like everyone else—Khaliss, Arfin, and Sonja are all on their knees. Torgrim is barely standing, holding onto his maul like an old man desperate not to fall.

As Bob descends, his hooves strike the ground, and Sylfir jolts. Everything happens in slow motion after that.

She reaches forward for the reins but misses. It's the worst thing she could have done. Bob bucks, and she's thrown even farther forward, losing all control and flipping over the warhorse's lowered head like a rag-doll. She smacks into the ground with a jarring thud.

She lies still.

"No!" Artur says, "Get up."

As if she can hear his protests, she moves, but every motion is laboured. She can barely look around, and she's not quick enough to notice Bob stumbling toward her. If he falls...

"Sylf!" Ivan says, but she doesn't respond. He still holds onto his bow, never having let it go even after she ordered him home. His grip on it tightens, and the tension within him grows. He feels as though he'll snap at any moment. That feeling feeds the desperation that grows within him.

The beast roars again, and Torgrim finally falls to his knees. Sonja falls forward, lying prone, while Arfin curls into a ball, almost reminiscent of the foetal position, clutching his ears. Khaliss is the only one who doesn't get worse, but she doesn't get any better either.

But worst of all, Bob finally loses his balance. Sylfir can barely crawl out of the way—she's too weak, too slow—and he falls on top of her legs with crushing force. She howls in agony.

Ivan tears himself from the window running to the kitchen door, but as soon as he opens it, he catches sight of the beast and his blood runs cold.

He's back in the forest again, his shaky hand clutching his bow, but this time he has no drow poison, and Khaliss isn't there to encourage him. Indeed, she is among those incapacitated by the beast. If he were to thrust himself into the fray, he would be doing it alone.

But he doesn't care. The beast is closing in on Sylfir. If he doesn't do anything, it will kill her.

He steps forward.

And a hand clamps around his shoulder, yanking him back.

"You must have maggots for brains if you think I'm letting you go out there, boy."

Ivan whips his head toward his father, his anger rising to the surface as he wrenches himself free of the old man's grasp.

"I—"

"What are you going to do, eh? Whack the thing with that bow of yours? That's a ranged weapon—you don't need to step outside these walls to use it, or did I not raise you to have any sense?"

Ivan might protest his father's scolding under any other circumstances, but his pride evaporates with every inch the beast gains on Sylfir. It's practically on top of her now.

He moves away from the door, and whatever anger is left to him is directed toward Erik. He's never been so enraged to see someone idle. "Don't just stand there! Take up your bow and get upstairs!"

He doesn't wait for his brother to follow as he dashes through the kitchen and the living room, reaching the stairs. He bounds two steps at a time until he's on the landing, and he pushes his father's door open with such force that he swears it will fall off its hinges.

He can't get to the bedroom window fast enough. His hands shake so much that he can't open it, his fingers fumbling with the lock. He growls and curses under his breath, and then breathes. With a tenuous sense of calm, he tries again, succeeding this time, and the windows swing open, just as the beast raises its paw over Sylfir. She lies deathly still, now back in her natural form.

Ivan takes an arrow from his quiver and nocks it at lightning speed. He aims at the beast's head, pulling the bowstring back until it presses against his lips. Then he focuses his eyes using the dim light of the moon and stars, wishing he could have the gift of dark vision from Sylfir like he did when they practised together. He will have to do without it. 

A single inhale precedes a long exhale as he releases the arrow.

It whistles as it flies, and it flies true, striking the beast in its empty eye socket. It wails as it rears its head back, and its paw goes to its face.

Ivan hears footsteps rise to a crescendo, then thunder behind him. Erik. He knows his brother will go to Artur's room next door, and take his position by another window. He focuses on the beast again, taking another arrow and nocking it, pulling back once more until he can feel the sinew of the bowstring against his lips again. On the next exhale, he fires.

Again, the arrow flies true. It strikes the beast in the chest this time, embedding itself deeply into the muscle, and the beast howls. Now its rancour is directed toward the farmhouse instead of Sylfir. As the beast's single, acid-green eye locks onto him, a wave of crushing fear washes over him, yet it is not enough to stay his hand; he takes another arrow from his quiver.

But another one already pierces the air. Erik's arrow strikes the beast in the paw, a difficult shot to make, even during the daytime, and a display of consummate skill. The beast howls, but then growls, low and deep, and it takes the arrow in its broken maw and rips it from its limb, taking flesh and sinew with it. Its ichor sprays across the earth beneath it, corrupting and killing any grass it touches.

A sonorous cry fills the air; it is more like a song, rousing and soothing in equal measure. There is only one person Ivan knows who is capable of such a feat.

Khaliss rises with her hands raised high, calling to her goddess, who bestows her with the power to bless. Torgrim is the first to rise after her, then Arfin and Sonja—even Bob seems to recover—but Sylfir remains still. Bob still writhes atop her, but Ivan can see the destrier is trying to get up.

But his thrashing attracts the attention of the beast again, and it turns its slavering jaws toward him.

Ivan raises his bow once more, nocking his arrow and firing. The arrowhead pierces the hide of the creature's neck. No more than a split second later, another one of Erik's arrows pierces its chest, and it growls, looking up at him with a vicious eye. Ivan's never seen a creature take so many arrows and live.

Together, he and his brother distract the beast enough for Khaliss to skirt around it and head toward Sylfir. The beast, busy growling at the farmhouse, doesn't even notice Torgrim and Arfin coming for it during its slow advance. At least, not until the halfling roars with a ferocity to rival its own.

"C'mere beastie! Let Big Bertha have a taste!" The halfling raises his greataxe, and it slices through the air until its blade cuts through the flesh and sinew of the beast's hindquarters, spilling black ichor in all directions. Arfin cares little that he bathes in the blood of his enemy, even as blisters break out on his skin. He cries out in ecstasy as he swings again, cutting deeper.

The beast roars as its body curls, snapping its jaws at the halfling, but as it tries to wrap its teeth around him, Torgrim swings his maul in a wide arc. As its iron hammerhead connects with the beast's jaw, the bone tears from its hinges completely. It screams as it thrashes wildly, backing away in what looks like fear for the first time.

It gives Khaliss enough time to reach Bob and Sylfir. First, she helps the warhorse up, and he neighs, galloping in a wide arc around the battlefield. Then she focuses her power on Sylfir, rousing the wood elf to consciousness again, restoring her health with lilting voice and healing touch. Ivan feels like he can breathe for the first time since watching her get thrown from her horse. Khaliss helps Sylfir to her feet, her footing unsure for a moment, but Ivan can see she gets her bearings quickly. He expects her to attack the beast, but she turns her gaze skyward instead.

Soon, the call of a bird of prey peals through the air. Ivan pokes his head through the window and looks up at the night sky to behold a great white eagle descending like a shooting star. It seems to follow Sonja's signal as she gestures for it to strike the beast, and it begins its attack, harassing it from the skies, slashing it with its talons and spilling more ichor across the grass.

As her animal companion wreaks havoc, Sonja roots herself into the ground, and with her formidable strength she draws back the bowstring of her longbow and fires. The arrow travels farther and faster than any arrow Ivan's ever loosed from his hunter's bow, and digs deep as it strikes the beast in its already ruined hindquarters. It falters as it turns toward her, its lolling tongue flicking foul saliva on the ground beneath it. Now when it roars, it seems pitiful, and for the first time, Ivan doesn't feel fear when he beholds it.

No, now he feels a rush of pure excitement, a thrill that spurs him to raise his bow once more and take a shot. He sends an arrow hurtling through the air, and with the beast now turned away from him, it strikes it in the back. Sylfir seems to feel that same rush and takes to the battlefield with purpose again, raising her hands as a ball of pure light coalesces between them. She hurls it at the creature and it singes the feathers and skin of its torso.

Arfin seeks to join the fun with reckless abandon as he rushes toward the beast. He swings again and again, hacking at the beast's flesh, but—in the ecstasy of his bloodlust—he seems blind to the growing fury of his victim. 

The next time he swings, Arfin misses. He drives forward with his momentum, and the beast lashes out, punishing him for his reckless attack with a slash across his chest.

Sylfir gasps. "Arfin!"

The beast comes for the halfling again, who staggers, dropping his weapon and clutching the gash across his chest, but Torgrim brings his maul down on its paw, heaving the weapon overhead with a great fluid motion and a gargantuan war cry. He crushes the beast's paw between metal and packed earth until it is naught but pulpy flesh, and the beast withers from the pain, whimpering where it once roared. It's getting weaker, but it's not weak enough. Torgrim goes to attack once more, but it has strength and speed enough to evade.

Sylfir's voice is resounding as she casts her next spell with a great, almost theatrical flourish of her hands. Suddenly, the beast stops mid motion, held in place as though frozen in ice, and it is powerless to do anything but growl.

Torgrim's maul strikes the beast's face in a devastating blow. Khaliss rushes forward and drags the sharpened edge of her sword along its side, splitting its thick hide and spilling rivers of pitch-black, ichorous blood. She dashes toward Arfin, who now lies on his back, senseless and groaning.

the cleric reaches him just as her healing light encompasses her, and as she speaks the words of her spell, her voice echoes as though reflected off the walls of a cathedral. Ivan feels the sound more than he hears it, both gentle and firm at once, and equally soothing to him despite its energy being wholly focused on the halfling.

Just as Khaliss casts her spell, Sonja's eagle swoops down once more to strike the beast on the crown of its head, and it breaks free of the magic holding its monstrous form.

Ivan can tell it's on its last legs. With the last of its strength, it hones in on Khaliss, who is too busy tending to Arfin to defend herself.

He raises his bow once more, nocking an arrow and firing in seconds. Erik and Sonja follow suit, releasing their arrows in quick succession. The beast doesn't even cry out when each arrow buries itself in its flesh—it has grown too feeble.

It is just as much an easy target now as it was when it was paralysed. Torgrim swings his maul in a sweeping semi-circle, connecting with its shoulder with bone-crushing force. It falters as it groans, its forearm too injured to hold its weight, and it falls prone in a messy heap of limbs as its lifeblood pools around it.

Sylfir takes her spear for the first and last time in the battle, climbing atop the creature's arrow-ridden body. It jolts as she travels from its hindquarters to its neck where she thrusts the tip of her spear into it with a vicious growl. The wretched thing groans, then chokes as Sylfir pushes deeper and deeper until the metal of her spearhead is lost in its flesh. She holds it there until it makes no more noise, lying still, and for the first time since the sun dipped below the horizon, there is quiet.

But Ivan finds it unsettling. From his father's room, he has a clear view of the forest's edge, and as he turns his gaze that way, he sees a hooded figure obscured between the trees, barely illuminated by the moonlight. They're staring at the broken beast.

"There!" Ivan says, pointing out the window in the figure's direction.

Sonja turns her head to him first, her eyes following his pointed finger. She raises her bow as everyone looks on, nocking her arrow and firing in the blink of an eye. The arrow pierces the figure... but they evaporate, and the arrow goes on to strike the fissured bark of a jagged tree stump, wobbling with the force of its impact. They were no more than an illusion.

Ivan shakes his head—He should have predicted as much. That was too easy—humans don't have good night vision. If he saw the hooded figure, it was because they wanted to be found.

"Hey."

Ivan turns to see Erik in the doorway, beckoning him with a flick of his head. He follows his younger brother, leaving his father's bedroom and heading downstairs. They cross the living room together and enter the kitchen where Tom has returned to Artur, purring in his arms, and Dana, seeking comfort, curls up by their father's feet.

"Beast's finally dead, wretched thing," he mutters, "Well done for doing your part, lads."

Erik shrugs, almost nonchalantly, but Ivan knows he's probably the most relieved of them. He, on the other hand, isn't so interested in praise. He turns his gaze to the meadow where the beast lies dead. Sylfir has already dismounted the creature, now kneeling beside Arfin who still lies in the dirt as Khaliss attends him.