The loud cries and screams from the players rose like a siren—the signal that the battle had begun. The air shivered with tension. Shadows slithered from the edges of the torchlight, slick and silent, moving like snakes across the dirt before lifting, swelling, and stretching into mockeries of human form.
As they drew near, each shadow twisted again, its surface rippling like oil. One by one, they wore the faces and shapes of the players they approached—distorted mirrors of flesh and darkness. Every one of them grinned with hollow mouths.
"Here we go," Ragnar muttered, setting his feet. He raised his blade, jaw tight.
The Night Crawlers came fast—first a dozen, then dozens more—sliding through the flickering light like a tide of smoke. Their claws scraped against stone like broken glass, and their steps were as light as whispers.
Ragnar's gut tightened. He didn't know if they could last until morning. No one did.
