Tension dominated the space.
A woman overflowed with Song.
A man embodied silence.
Two perceived impossibilities faced each other.
The air around her shimmered faintly, as though reality itself strained to contain the power pulsing beneath her skin. It was not light—not truly—but pressure. A vibration that set teeth on edge and made the ground hum in uneasy sympathy. Runes stitched into her garments flared and dimmed with each measured breath, answering a rhythm only she could hear.
A hooded adventurer with a bow stiffened.
"That light—Defiant Blessing?!"
Another stepped closer, panic edging his voice.
"Priestess Aluna—what's wrong?"
Sawyer ignored them. The light, the weapons, the tension—all of it fell away. His attention fixed solely on the woman whose will shaped the Song, whose body moved in quiet harmony with its flow.
Her stance was tense, yet relaxed.
Not aggressive.
Not defensive.
Prepared.
Every breath she took adjusted the Song around her—tightening here, loosening there—small, precise corrections that told Sawyer she had already decided how this would end if he moved another step closer.
He shifted his weight anyway.
Steel whispered as blades cleared sheaths.
"Don't," the archer warned, bow rising. "Take another step and—"
The warning died mid-sentence.
Something moved behind Sawyer.
Not just sound.
Not just vibration.
A screaming symphony.
The jungle reacted before he did.
Sunlight guttered as shadows bent inward. Leaves bowed as if pulled by unseen gravity. Vines snapped. Roots tore free of the soil. Then the ground itself ruptured—earth and foliage thrown skyward as a hulking form burst from beneath the clearing.
Too many limbs.
Pale, corpse-like hide plated with hardened growths.
Seams split along its body, leaking dull, stagnant ichor that steamed in the humid air.
An Apex.
A Concierge.
Its sensory tendrils flared—not toward the blazing Song—
—but toward Sawyer.
Toward the void.
It charged.
The impact shattered breath and bone. The beast slammed into Sawyer's back, driving him into the earth as cracks spider-webbed through the clearing. Dirt and debris swallowed both figures as the Concierge reared and brought its limbs down again, pulverizing the spot where he had stood.
Shouts broke out.
"He's—!"
"Gods, he's dead—!"
"Form ranks! Protect the priestess!"
Aluna spun, Song surging violently as she raised both hands. Radiant harmonics gathered, her blessing flaring bright enough to cast hard shadows through the trees. The archer loosed an arrow.
It shattered against the Concierge's hide.
The beast roared—a pressure wave that rattled teeth and made blood buzz beneath skin—and turned toward the living Song now flooding the clearing.
Then—
Tap.
The Concierge froze.
Its tendrils twitched, sweeping wildly.
Tap.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Steel against chitin.
Sawyer's voice came from the creature's flank.
"No eyes," he murmured.
The dust shifted.
Sawyer stepped fully into view, unharmed save for a torn coat and cracked plating along his shoulder. He stood so close that one massive limb brushed past him without contact.
The adventurers stared.
Aluna's breath hitched.
"You… survived that?"
Sawyer did not answer.
He placed his palm flat against the beast's side—
and gripped.
Hard.
The discord metal threaded through his gauntlet answered instantly. The Song sustaining the creature collapsed at the point of contact—not outward, not violently, but inward, like a breath stolen from its lungs.
The Concierge screamed.
One entire side of its body went slack, limbs spasming as its internal rhythm tore itself apart. Sawyer stepped away before it fell, already moving.
The beast lashed out blindly, cratering earth and snapping roots. Sawyer stayed tight to its blindside, never retreating—always circling inward, where its senses failed and its mass betrayed it.
He whistled.
A low, hollow note—shaped from absence rather than sound.
The Concierge convulsed. Instincts fractured as its perception split in three directions at once. Sawyer ran up its collapsing forelimb, boots striking flesh that no longer resisted.
At the apex of his ascent, he tightened his grip.
The pommel struck the base of the creature's skull.
The Song ceased.
Silence swallowed the roar mid-vibration.
Steel flashed.
The blade slid through a softened seam—armor, sinew, spine—in one unbroken motion. The Concierge collapsed in segments, its massive body crashing lifelessly into the earth.
Dust settled.
No Song returned.
Sawyer stepped down from the corpse and rolled his shoulder once. Satisfied, he turned back toward the adventurers.
They had not moved.
Weapons hung half-raised. Spells lay uncast. Faces pale.
Aluna slowly lowered her hands, the Defiant Blessing flickering—uncertain.
"That creature only hunts the dead," she said quietly. "Carrion corpses. Things without Song."
Sawyer wiped his blade clean.
"Then it mistook me." his eyes meeting hers. No further words were spoken. They both understood.
Silence stretched between them—thick, uncomfortable, aware.
Only one question lingered in Aluna's mind.
How are you alive?