The first demon reached him before he'd even finished his cry. Its claws flashed in the rain, and Thomrik met it with a swing that shattered bone and flung the twisted creature sideways into the mud. The warhammer of Aegis howled through the storm like a living thing, its runes flaring dimly with every impact.

Another came—a beast of sinew and bone, long arms ending in curved, jagged hooks. Thomrik ducked low beneath its swipe and drove his shoulder into its chest, knocking it off balance. He surged upward, the hammer arcing in a brutal uppercut that connected with its chin and snapped its head back with a wet crack. It collapsed in a twitching heap.

Already, others rushed in.

Thomrik turned with a snarl, spinning through the rain. The hammer crashed into the side of a charging brute, splintering its ribs and lifting it off the ground. The runes flickered with pale light, dimmer now, but still burning. His arms ached with every strike. His legs were heavy. But he kept swinging.

"That all you got?!" he roared.

A horned demon rushed past him—Thomrik twisted too late. It slipped through, vanishing into the mist behind him. He cursed aloud. Another flanked him from the side, claws slashing across his back. He let out a ragged grunt, knees buckling, pain blooming like fire across his spine. He spun and crushed its skull with a downward blow. Blood sprayed across the runes of the warhammer, mixing with rain.

"Come on, you ugly bastards!" he spat through clenched teeth. "You don't want a piece of me?!"

Another demon lunged at his flank—Thomrik turned into it and brought the hammer down low, not to end it, but to shatter its kneecap. The thing screamed as it crumpled to the side. A second strike followed, smashing the elbow of a clawed brute that had almost slipped past him. Bone jutted through pale flesh. The demon screeched and tumbled backwards, its arm now useless.

He wasn't fighting to kill anymore. Killing took time. No—his aim now was to break them, ruin them. If they crawled, they couldn't pursue. If they bled, they might die before they reach her.

Another beast swung a talon that caught him across the shoulder. Leather tore, and blood spilled. Thomrik grunted, teeth clenched. His free hand trembled violently, the weight of the hammer biting into torn muscles. But he didn't slow.

Twisting low, he drove the hammer into a demon's shin with a crunch that sent it cartwheeling through the muck. As it wailed in agony, he pivoted, caught a third by the wrist and slammed the weapon across its elbow, snapping the joint in half with brutal precision. The limb hung limp as the creature shrieked and fell into the mud.

A large balled fist caught him across the ribs. He snarled, spat blood, and smashed the warhammer backward into the attacker's sternum. The creature flew.

Another beast dove at his back—he rolled his shoulder just in time, the claws grazing his side, shredding into his flank. Pain lanced through him, hot and sharp. He bit down on it, staggered forward, swung again—this time at the creature's foot. Bone shattered. It dropped in a heap, howling.

Thomrik didn't let up.

His warhammer danced—ugly, heavy, wild. Every blow he landed was devastating. Deliberate. He struck joints, spines, knees. He crushed ankles, drove hammerblows into hips and throats.

The path forward was littered with the maimed, the howling, the crippled.

Claws tore at him. Fangs scraped against his armor. Blood flowed down his legs, warm and constant. His skin split beneath fresh gashes. A rib cracked. His muscles were screaming—but Thomrik roared louder.

"You don't get past me!" he bellowed, turning another swing into the ribs of a leaping beast and hurling it back like a sack of stone. "I'll drag as many of you bastards to the grave with me as I can!"

He struck again—another leg broken, another throat crushed beneath a single, punishing swing.

A massive demon lunged straight at him, hunched and snarling, its skin like scaled iron. Thomrik roared and met it head-on, swinging with everything he had. The hammer struck the beast's chest and cracked its breastbone—but it didn't fall. It roared back and grabbed him by the arm.

Before he could react its jaws clamped down.

Pain exploded in his body as the demon's fangs tore into his left arm just below the elbow. Bone snapped. Flesh tore. Blood poured hot and fast. Thomrik howled and drove his forehead into the demon's face, stunning it just long enough to wrench himself free. His arm tore from the demon's jaws like a ripped root. He fell back, gasping, cradling the spurting stump.

His hammer clattered into the mud. Blood gushed through his fingers, but there was no time to stop.

The demon came for him again.

Thomrik rolled, pain shrieking through him, and kicked out with all his strength. The demon stumbled—Thomrik caught the hammer's handle with his one good hand and rose, swaying violently, cold sweat dripping from his forehead.

The edges of his vision darkened. The sky swam above him. Blood streamed down his side. The world spun.

He looked at his ruined arm, torn above the elbow. Then back at the demon.

"You'll pay for that one, you sack of bile!" he growled.

With a grunt of effort, he lifted the warhammer one-handed. The demon charged.

Thomrik spun into it with all his remaining strength, the hammer whistling through the air. The impact was like thunder. The beast crumpled without a sound, its head caved in, blood spraying across Thomrik's boots.

But more still came.

Some managed to disappear into the mist behind him, others were unable to ignore the one-armed dwarf. Claws raked his side. Teeth tore his thigh. He staggered, bleeding, the hammer growing heavier, each swing slower than the last. But still he fought. Adrenaline and rage masked the pain—his body burned, but his heart refused to yield.

"You'll not have her!" he shouted, voice raw. "You'll not have any of 'em!"

The hammer crushed a spine. Another demon leapt—he caught it mid-air and slammed it down with the haft, bones snapping like kindling beneath him. With each injury he suffered his movements grew more sluggish. His breaths came shallow now. Every step felt like dragging boulders.

"Come on then!" he roared, blood dripping from his lips. "Can't take one dwarf down? Pathetic!"

He spun again, caught a blade of bone against his ribs. He gasped—but turned it into another swing, taking the head from the attacker's shoulders.

But they were too many.

One clawed his shoulder. Another stabbed into his side. A third tore a strip from his back. His body buckled. His knees trembled like brittle stone.

Thomrik's legs finally gave out beneath him.

The dwarf collapsed, knees striking the churned earth before he toppled sideways into the muck. His hammer slipped from his grip and landed beside him with a muted thud, half-submerged in rain-slicked mud. The runes along its haft still glimmered, but they pulsed faintly now, like a heartbeat fading with each breath.

His chest rose in shallow jolts, every inhale a battle of its own. Blood seeped from a dozen wounds, running down his armor, his side, his stumped arm. His face had gone pale, streaked with grime and smeared with his own lifeblood. He lay surrounded by the broken bodies of demons—heaps of snarling, twisted things that would never rise again. But more were coming. They no longer lunged for him. No longer saw him as the obstacle he had once been. They passed him by, howling toward the hill beyond.

Thomrik could no longer stop them.

He turned his face toward the sky, the cold rain spilling into his eyes. The clouds hung thick and low, bruised black and roiling with stormlight. He was dying alone, surrounded by the sound of claws on mud, of screaming wind and shrieking demons pressing past.

His hand reached feebly for the Warhammer of Aegis, fingers curling around the haft with fading strength. The runes barely glowed now, like dying embers. His body was cold.

Footsteps approached through the wet earth.

Thomrik turned his head, just enough to see the tall figure step into view.

His dark cloak flowed behind him like spilled ink, the black stone of his staff still glowing faintly from the assault he never had to cast. Baragor looked down at Thomrik with something almost like curiosity.

"You fought well," Baragor said, his tone infuriatingly calm. "I'll grant you that."

Thomrik let out a weak groan. "Shut up and let me die in peace..."

"This... is a remarkable weapon." He nudged the hammer with the tip of his boot. "Aegis, yes?It'll serve me well during Unevia's cleansing."

Thomrik coughed, blood flecking his lips. He tried to raise his head, managed only an inch. His voice was hoarse, but still defiant.

"Don't you dare lay a finger on it!" he rasped. "You're not worthy of it. Any of you."

Baragor tilted his head. "You bought your friends minutes, no more. The mist won't hide them forever. We'll find the girl. Take the weapon and destroy it."

His pale lips curled slightly. "And when we do, no one will stand in the way of our divine mission."

Thomrik gave a rattling laugh—wet, sharp, and short-lived. Blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth. He turned his head to spit—thick and red—onto the hem of Baragor's cloak.

Baragor looked down at the smear, then back at Thomrik, unimpressed.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen," Thomrik said, struggling to speak. "You're gonna keep underestimatin' her. Raelyn—she's not just some helpless girl with a pretty trinket. She's the future of Unevia."

Baragor's expression tightened, the first crack in his composure.

"As for her friends," Thomrik wheezed, coughing again. "You should fear them as much as her. They will ensure Raelyn will reach her full potential."

Baragor's gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.

Thomrik's breath grew slower. Shallow. His fingers slipped from the hammer, and he turned his eyes back to the clouds, where the rain still poured. "You'll fail," he whispered. "Raelyn will beat you."

Baragor stepped closer, raising the staff. "Then I suppose it's time for you to meet your maker."

Thomrik smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite the blood that now lined his teeth. His eyes, though clouded with pain, still gleamed defiantly.

"I'll meet Azazel at the Eternal Forge," he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. "And I'll be able to stand proud."

His grip on the Warhammer of Aegis loosened at last, the sacred weapon sinking further into the mud beside him. The runes faded into stillness.

Thomrik's gaze rose toward the clouds, unfocused. His chest heaved, and his thoughts drifted far from the battlefield.

He saw Danio beside him, boots up on a tavern table, mug in hand, laughter echoing through a smoky hall. He saw Raelyn's arms thrown around him after the trial beneath the mountains. Hovan's heartfelt tale across a campfire.And the moment he had shared with Benji, bonding over their fathers legacies.

He had left Khazrundar alone, with nothing but his father's hammer and the shame of exile. Now, he would leave this world alone as well—but not unloved. This time, he had found a place to belong.

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye—lost in the rain. His breath came slow now. Cold creeping up from the ground into his bones. He could no longer feel the rain against his face.

Baragor said nothing more. With a flick of his wrist, the black stone at the head of his staff pulsed, and a ray of shadow lanced downward.

It struck clean through Thomrik's chest.

The dwarf did not cry out. His body jerked once, then stilled.

His head tilted back in the mud, eyes wide and unseeing, lips parted in the final ghost of a grin. The expression of a soul who had fought with purpose, who had given everything for something greater than himself.

The storm howled overhead. And Thomrik Shieldthane, son of Thalgrim, wielder of the Warhammer of Aegis, was no more.