The rats break.

  Not all at once. Not cleanly.

  It happens in pulses, like a tide pulling back from a shore it suddenly fears. The bodies that had been piling onto me peel away in clumps. Teeth release. Claws scrabble for purchase and find none. I feel the weight lessen, then vanish in jerks and starts as the swarm pours back into holes and cracks and tunnels too small for me to follow.

  I keep eating for a moment longer.

  Then there are no more rats to grab, no more warm bodies pressed against me. Only the wet stone under my feet and the stink of blood and fur and rot thick in the air.

  I stand there, breathing hard.

  My body finishes what it started. Heat moves through me in steady waves, knitting and sealing. The torn flesh around my eyes closes fully, smooth and scarred, sight gone but stability restored. Bites along my arms and chest vanish one by one. My breathing slows as the furnace in my gut settles into a controlled burn.

  I am whole again.

  The warren is quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Something steps out of the dark.

  I hear him before I sense him. Soft footfalls. A scrape of leather. The faint jingle of metal carried on a careful breath. He comes from a tunnel at chest height, ducking out into the open with the confidence of something that believes it owns the space.

  He is smaller than I expected.

  Lean. Wiry. Built for speed, not mass. His body is half man, half rat, fur mottled and thin across narrow shoulders, tail twitching behind him in short, nervous arcs. His eyes gleam yellow even in the dim light, sharp and calculating. His hands never stop moving, fingers flexing as if itching for steel.

  Two daggers slide into his grip with practiced ease. Their edges are nicked and stained dark from long use.

  Skulk, Wererat Scout. Threat: Medium.

  A medium threat level. Not powerful, but he's a Scout, and he commands those rats. He could be useful.

  “Why you come here, big troll?” he asks.

  His voice is rough, but not stupid. There is a sharpness to it, a survivor’s edge honed by a thousand narrow escapes.

  “This dungeon is mine,” I say. “I am going to claim it. You cannot kill me, rat man.”

  Skulk’s lips peel back in a grin that shows small, sharp teeth.

  “Not rat man,” he says. “Wererat. You no can kill. I heal like you.”

  “Maybe I do not want to kill you,” I reply. “Maybe I can use you.”

  His tail lashes once, hard enough to slap the stone.

  “How you use, big troll?” he snaps. “You make die. Always others make Skulk die. But Skulk not die. Skulk thrive.”

  He calls himself Skulk, appropriate.

  “You would not be useful if you died,” I say. “If you die, it will be your own fault.”

  Skulk snorts.

  “I no join you try kill,” he says. “I join you, maybe send out, make die for you. I think I take chances not join.”

  “Then you give me no choice.”

  He moves first.

  Fast.

  The daggers flash, silver arcs slicing through the dim. He darts in, strikes, and is gone again in the space of a breath. One blade kisses my ribs. Another opens a line along my forearm. The pain is sharp, but distant, already fading as my body starts to close the wounds.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Skulk laughs and circles.

  He cuts again. And again.

  Always moving. Always just out of reach. He goes for joints, tendons, soft places. He is good. Better than most things I have faced here.

  It does not matter.

  I advance steadily, ignoring the sting of steel. Each cut closes behind him, blood drying before it can drip. My steps are heavy, deliberate, forcing him to give ground.

  “See?” he says breathlessly, confidence creeping back into his voice. “You no kill Skulk. You swing, I cut. You heal, I heal. We do this forever.”

  I lunge.

  He slips aside, daggers scoring my shoulder and thigh in passing.

  Then my hand closes around his wrist.

  The surprise on his face is brief and absolute.

  I wrench him toward me.

  He snarls and stabs wildly, blades biting into my arm, my chest, my side. I feel the impacts. I ignore them.

  I slam him into the wall.

  Stone cracks.

  He squeals, sharp and high, body jolting hard enough that his daggers clatter to the floor. I drag him back and smash him again.

  And again.

  The lesson is simple.

  I feel his healing at work as I do it. Bones knit. Flesh seals. Bruises fade.

  So I keep going.

  Each impact drains him. I can feel it in the way his body grows heavier in my grip. In the way his breath turns ragged. In the way, his movements lose precision.

  I learned this minutes ago.

  Healing takes energy.

  Energy runs out.

  I lift him and slam him again, harder this time. His back hits stone with a wet crack, and he screams, the sound tearing out of him as air leaves his lungs.

  I hold him there, pressed against the wall, my forearm across his chest.

  He claws at me weakly.

  “No,” he gasps. “No, wait. Skulk heal. Skulk always heal.”

  I do not answer.

  I smash him again.

  The wall fractures. Dust rains down around us. His healing slows, then stutters. A cut on his cheek stays open. Blood trickles from his mouth and does not stop.

  Understanding dawns in his eyes.

  Not fear.

  Calculation.

  Then something worse.

  Realization.

  His body sags in my grip, strength bleeding away with every breath. He stops struggling.

  “You…” he whispers. “You make Skulk use up. No more run.”

  I lean closer.

  “You thrive,” I say quietly, “until you do not.”

  He looks at me, truly looks at me, and the truth settles in.

  This is not a fight he can win.

  Not by cutting.

  Not by healing.

  Not by running.

  Skulk closes his eyes.

  ***

  Skulk breaks.

  Not with a scream. Not with tears. Not with defiance.

  He breaks the way survivors do, suddenly and completely, when the math changes and there is no longer a path that leads away from death.

  “I join,” he gasps, words tumbling out in a rush. “I join. Be good scout. Use rats. Rats get everywhere. I join. Promise. Promise!”

  His body trembles in my grip. The fight has drained him dry. His healing has slowed to a crawl, shallow breaths scraping in and out of his chest. Blood still leaks from wounds that would have sealed earlier.

  I loosen my hold just enough to let him breathe.

  He slumps but does not fall. He knows better than to try.

  I study him for a long moment. The smell of fear and iron and rat musk hangs thick between us. The warren is silent now, every tunnel listening.

  Something blooms across my vision.

  Offer vassalhood to Skulk, Wererat Scout. Accept? Yes / No.

  There is no hesitation.

  Yes.

  The pressure behind my eyes tightens, then settles, the same familiar sensation that came with Kragus. With Sarrah.

  Skulk gasps sharply as the decision takes hold. His spine straightens despite his exhaustion, muscles tensing as if something unseen has latched onto him and pulled him upright. His eyes dart, unfocused for a heartbeat, then lock onto me again.

  Relief floods his face.

  Not joy.

  Relief.

  Another message follows.

  Faction Update.

  Faction Lord: Kron the Ensouled, War Troll.

  Faction Member Added: Skulk, Wererat Scout.

  Assign role?

  The options present themselves, familiar now.

  Minion.

  Soldier.

  Officer.

  Faction Lord.

  I do not linger on them.

  Officer.

  Skulk stiffens again, then exhales in a long, shaky breath. His tail twitches once, then stills. Whatever he expected, it was not that.

  Another message settles into place.

  Skulk has been assigned the role of Officer.

  I release him fully.

  He staggers back a step, then steadies himself, one clawed hand pressed to the wall. His eyes never leave me.

  “Good,” he whispers. “Skulk serve. Skulk see. Skulk warn.”

  “I know,” I say.

  The warren feels different already. The pressure has shifted. The tunnels no longer feel hostile. Curious, maybe. Watchful. But no longer hunting.

  I straighten and look around.

  Three names settle in my mind.

  Kragus, Hobgoblin Warlord.

  Sarrah, Naga Enchantress.

  Skulk, Wererat Scout.

  Leadership.

  Arcane cunning.

  Information and reach.

  The bases are covered.

  Too neatly.

  I can feel the weight of it now, the way pieces have fallen into place with disturbing efficiency. Each of them is strong in a different way. Each of them was positioned exactly where they would be most useful.

  This place gave me an army.

  No.

  It offered me one.

  I do not believe in coincidence.

  I never have.

  As the adrenaline fades, something cold coils in my gut. A quiet suspicion that has nothing to do with the warren or the blood on the floor.

  This dungeon is not random.

  Death Row was not stocked carelessly.

  Someone, or something, arranged this.

  I lift my gaze toward the tunnels leading back to the heart of the prison, toward the unseen presence of the Black Dragon Warden beyond.

  Whatever is setting this up thinks it knows how this ends.

  I bare my teeth in a slow, thoughtful grin.

  We will see.