The meat fought back the whole way down.

  I tore another strip off Beakly’s kill and chewed until my jaw ached. It had the texture of half-thawed steak and the flavour of pennies and pond water. My stomach roiled.

  Beakly watched, head cocked, pupils thin gold slits, feathers puffed in smug approval. A wet ribbon of blood hung from his beak. Carnivore fine dining.

  “Yeah, yeah. Emily eats her meat. Emily grateful.” I forced the last chunk down and wiped my mouth with the back of my gauntlet, then immediately regretted that choice. “God, that’s… textured.”

  Beakly rumbled low in his chest, a pleased thunder. One talon nudged the carcass a little closer, in case I forgot the all?you?can?eat special.

  “Tap out,” I pushed it back with my boot. “Any more and I’m going to spew it out my nose.”

  I exhaled and brought up the UI with the now-familiar flick of intent.

  The transparent panes blinked into place. HP bar: 40. The red bar ticked up, one agonizing point at a time, helped along by a faint little meat icon pulsing in the corner. Okay, so HP regen and food buffs are a thing. A line of red text flashed across my vision.

  FRACTURED RIBS (MODERATE). MAX STAMINA. -25% HP REGEN. -25%. MOVEMENT PENALTY.

  My fingertips skimmed along my side through the dented breastplate until they found the exact spots that lit up white?hot when I pressed. Two, maybe three ribs.

  Beakly leaned in and nosed my shoulder, then bumped harder when I didn’t move fast enough.

  “Hold your feathers, Count Chocobo.” I braced a hand on his knee?joint and pushed myself upright. Pain flared like someone stuck knives between each rib and twisted. “Ow. Okay. Moving is cancelled forever.”

  Beakly shifted closer, lowering his body until the saddle dipped to a manageable height.

  “Right. Work with what you’ve got.” I caught the saddle horn, slid my boot into the stirrup and hauled myself up. My vision narrowed to a grainy tunnel, but I stayed conscious and that counted as a win. Note to self: avoid gravity from now on.

  Once I settled into the leather, Beakly's head came up an inch. The feathers along his neck lay smoother. I rested my forearm across the saddle to keep pressure off my ribs and leaned to speak near the curve of his neck.

  “New plan. We need a town. Village. Any collection of people with alcohol and bandages.”

  He clicked his beak, once. The sound carried the same energy as an offended snort.

  “Yes, I realise you consider me perfectly portable in this state. I, however, would like to not die of a treatable injury in the tutorial zone.”

  He stretched his neck, tasting the air. The big body under me shifted; muscles bunched, then flowed as he turned in a slow arc, testing wind and scent. His wings opened halfway, rustling, then folded tight again. Decision made.

  “Nearest town, Beakly.” My hand found the warm spot where neck met body, fingers sinking into thick plumage. “Find me civilization.”

  He launched into a ground?eating lope, talons biting into leaf mold and roots. Each stride jarred my side, a steady drumbeat of pain, but the HP bar kept ticking upward in tiny, stubborn increments.

  I focused on that thin line of red and the rhythm of his movement, and let the forest blur around us.

  Beakly carried us out of the trees and the world changed.

  The forest fell away into scrub and half?cleared fields. In the distance a cluster of roofs hunched around a single huge tree, its crown ragged against the sky. A thin thread of smoke rose from somewhere in the middle, warped by heat shimmer.

  My minimap pinged.

  OAKHAVEN. LEVEL RANGE: 1–5. SAFE ZONE: LIMITED.

  “Starting village,” I breathed into Beakly’s neck. “Huh. Didn’t think we were this close.”

  The road under his talons changed from leaf?rot to packed dirt. Weeds clawed over old wheel ruts. Ahead, a fence line came into view—except “fence” felt generous. Someone had torn apart half their furniture and nailed it into a jagged barricade. Chair legs, warped doors, sharpened planks, all hammered into an anxious wall.

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  The wall shuddered.

  Screaming drifted across the field. Human, high and raw. Under it, something else: a thick, wet roar and the crunch of wood snapping.

  Beakly’s stride hitched. His head went up. Feathers along his neck flared like a storm about to break.

  “Go,” I tightened my knees. “Take us in.”

  He didn’t need encouragement. He surged forward, claws digging furrows.

  We crested a low rise and the whole scene opened.

  Oakhaven sat clustered around the giant oak from the game art, though the tree looked hacked at, lower branches stump?scarred. The little square lay choked with bodies—villagers with pitchforks and kitchen knives, more holding nothing at all. They backed toward the central buildings: an inn with smoke pouring from the chimney, a squat stone forge spitting orange, a listing chapel glinting faintly at its sunstone window.

  The wall along the fields bulged inward. Five grumbleboars hammered at it.

  They were bigger than the early?zone models in my head. Each one came up nearly to Beakly’s chest, bristling with coarse hair thick as wire, tusks hooked and yellow. Mud and old blood clotted along their flanks. Their eyes had that flat, starved shine.

  One rammed a section of barricade made of a table and what looked like someone’s wardrobe. Planks exploded. People shrieked and scattered.

  At the gap, a man planted himself.

  Broad shoulders. Leather apron black with soot. Hammer gripped in both hands like it weighed as much as he did. He swung as a boar lunged, metal ringing off the bony plate above its snout.

  “Back, damn you!”

  His voice carried over everything. Another boar slammed from the side. The makeshift shield he used—a door with iron bands—jerked and split. He staggered. Blood smeared his temple.

  Beakly made a low, thrilled sound in his chest. His whole frame coiled. He eyed the grumbleboars like a noble in front of a groaning banquet table.

  “Not yet.” My hand dug into his feathers. “Wait.”

  One of the boars found a weak point further down. It shoved through a section that was more wicker than wood. Stakes snapped. A gap yawned.

  The boar didn’t go for the man. It swung wide, snorting, scanning for softer targets.

  Beyond the breach, inside the wall, a small figure froze.

  Little boy. Maybe eight. Smudge on one cheek, dark hair sticking up, wooden sword gripped so hard his knuckles went white.

  He stood alone between two cottages, eyes huge.

  The boar locked onto him.

  It lowered its head. Hooves churned mud. It pawed once, twice, like it played at being a warhorse.

  My chest clenched. “Nope.”

  I leaned forward, voice sharp in Beakly’s ear.

  “The ones at the fence. All but that one. Tear them down.”

  He twisted his head just enough to fix one golden eye on me. The look carried skepticism.

  “I'll be fine.” I snapped. "I can still handle one boar. You get the other four."

  He flared his wings once, a crack of sound, and started streaking toward the wall.

  I didn’t wait. I pulled myself upright in the saddle. Every muscle screamed. My ribs felt like cracked glass grinding. The kid inside the wall didn’t move.

  “Eyes on me, kid,” I muttered.

  Then I jumped.

  The ground rushed up. I hit harder than planned. My boots punched into the dirt, knees buckled, armor jerked down on my shoulders like someone yanked a lead vest.

  Pain detonated along my side.

  RED DAMAGE: FALL. -12 HP.

  “I hate physics,” hissed through my teeth.

  The impact knocked the air out of me. For a breath and a half I couldn’t pull anything back in. My vision spotted. I hunched over, one hand on my knee, the other clamped to my ribs.

  HP: 28/62. Fractured Ribs debuff pulsed nastily.

  The kid’s thin voice cut through the fog.

  “Mam!”

  My head snapped up.

  The boy had taken a stumbling step backward. The boar inside the wall snorted and began its charge.

  Distance between us: thirty yards, give or take. Between him and the boar: ten. My stamina bar crawled at half with that cheerful -25% penalty.

  “Move, Emily.”

  I shoved forward into a run.

  The Stonewall Regalia turned every stride into work. Plate bit into my hips and knees, tassets thumped against my thighs. Each breath scratched along broken bone. I dug past all of it.

  Focus narrowed the way it did in a code blue. Noise dropped away. Checklist.

  Assess threat. Close distance. Interpose.

  Ahead, the little boy tripped on a rut. His wooden sword flew from his hand and bounced off a cottage wall. He went down on his backside. He didn’t get back up.

  The boar thundered toward him, hooves flinging clots of dirt.

  My left hand closed on my shield grip and I scanned the action bar on my UI.

  SHIELD RUSH – AVAILABLE.

  Of course it was. No deity needed to run.

  I didn’t think. I leaned into the skill.

  Power surged from somewhere low in my spine, through my legs. The world lurched. My body snapped forward, faster than flesh should move in that much steel. The ground blurred in a sprint I didn’t earn.

  Wind tore at my hair. The UI spat a blue icon.

  MOMENTUM +40%.

  The boar loomed, bigger and uglier up close. Foam streamed from its mouth. Its tusks were thick as my wrist. Its focus stayed locked on Finn.

  “Over here, bacon.”

  Not my best line, but it worked.

  At the last possible heartbeat I planted my boots and twisted my whole body in front of the kid. I drove the lower rim of my shield into the earth, braced my forearm along the back, shoulder locked.

  The boar’s eyes flicked to the fresh obstacle. Me. Its ears pinned back. It committed.

  Hooves hammered. Mud sprayed. The world shrank to a wedge of tusks and bristled hide.

  “Hold,” I told my own bones.

  The boar slammed into my shield.

  Impact hit like a building dropping onto my arm. Metal shrieked. The shock tore up through my wrist, elbow, shoulder, into my spine. My boots skidded back, carving twin trenches. The bottom rim of the shield gouged deeper into the soil, throwing up a ridge of dirt.

  Light burst at the edge of my vision. For a split second I tasted copper high in my sinuses and felt nothing below my collarbones.

  Then sensation roared back.

  My ribs flared, expecting the worst. I waited for that familiar tearing burn of damage actually landing.

  My HP bar didn’t move.

  A huge floating number pulsed over the boar’s head.

  BLOCKED. 0.

  Stonewall Regalia set bonus: LIVING RAMPART – ACTIVE.

  The armor drank the hit and left me standing.