Ilya swept the corner of the tavern for the third time that morning, even though the floor was already clean.
It wasn't out of habit. It was something closer to silence.
The tavern had emptied at dawn. Only the scent of burnt barley and woodsmoke remained, lingering in the rafters. Pots clinked behind the bar. Dima was humming tunelessly in the kitchen. It should've been loud.
It was that rare hour where Crystalis hadn't fully woken yet.
Ilya preferred it this way.
He straightened up and leaned the broom against the wall, stretching his back. His coat still smelled like smoke from last night's stove fire. Outside, the frost hadn't melted from the windows yet.
Then came a soft voice behind him.
"Ilya?"
Anna rubbed her eyes, bundled in her winter cloak and scarf, hair still a little tangled. She blinked up at him.
"Where's Lilya?"
"I don't know," he said quietly. "She was gone before I woke up."
Nadia emerged from behind the bar, drying her hands on a cloth.
"She got summoned," she said. "Military patrol. Said she'd be gone a day. Maybe two."
Anna frowned. "Without saying goodbye?"
"She left you a biscuit in the pantry," Nadia added. "That's close enough."
Anna grumbled something under her breath and slumped into a chair. Ilya sat across from her, wordless.
Then the sound hit.
Gonnnnnnnng.
A heavy metallic bell echoed from the east. Not the cheerful chime of street vendors. Not the chapel bell.
This one was thicker. Heavier. Like steel scraping down the spine of the city.
The second strike followed.
GONNNG.
Nadia froze mid-step. Dima dropped a ladle in the kitchen.
Anna looked up, confused. "What's that?"
Ilya had already moved to the window, lifting the frost-coated edge with his fingers.
Smoke.
Rising in the distance. Southward. Not chimney smoke.
The bad kind.
"Dima!" Nadia's voice cracked through the tavern.
She was already pulling the bolts on the cellar hatch, eyes wild but focused. Dima appeared behind her with a bundle of blankets and a rusted keyring in hand.
"Take the kids downstairs!" Nadia barked.
Anna looked between them, frowning. "What's going on?"
"Basement," Dima said quickly. "Now."
Anna hesitated, confused, until he grabbed her hand.
"Let's go."
Something in his voice made her follow without another word.
Yula, however, stood frozen in the middle of the room, her fists clenched at her sides.
"Yula!" Dima snapped again. "You too!"
But she didn't move toward the cellar.
Instead, her eyes flicked toward the tavern's eastern wall. There, hanging just above the fireplace, was an old iron longsword, not polished, not ceremonial. It had chips along the edge, and the hilt was wrapped in worn leather.
She stepped toward it without a word.
"Yula—" Nadia started.
But Yula grabbed the hilt, pulled it from its wooden pegs, and turned toward the door.
"I'm not hiding," she said quietly.
"That's not your job—!"
"I don't care."
She disappeared outside.
Anna watched the door swing shut. "What is she doing…?"
Ilya had disappeared as well. He didn't wait for an explanation. He sprinted up the stairwell, two steps at a time. Second floor. Third.
The cold hit him like a wall.
He burst into their small room and went straight for the pack under his bedroll. His rifle rested exactly where he left it, wrapped in black cloth and leather.
He grabbed it, slung it over his shoulder, and climbed to the rooftop window.
The air outside was colder now. Sharper.
Ilya adjusted the scopeless sights of the rifle.
His breath steadied.
He heard a sound.
Not like the bell. Not like footsteps.
Like a furnace exhaling air.
Then a crash.
Stone breaking. Metal warping. A scream from the street below.
It appeared.
It came from the far edge of the city square, pushing through the rising smoke like a living engine torn loose from its casing. Its body was massive, hunched and armored, its black skin cracked like baked earth, pulsing with dull red veins. Steam hissed from its joints with every step, escaping in bursts like it was trying to cool down but couldn't.
Its front limbs were too long, meant for tearing through buildings. The claws were uneven, fused with plates of metal, its flesh seemingly fused with industrial remnants.
But its face, if it had one, was worse.
A broad, flattened jaw split from ear to ear, low-slung and mechanical, like something welded to its skull. Pipes curved out from the base of its throat like arteries, pulsing with glowing heat.
Its mouth was sealed shut at first.
But then it stopped.
Lifted its head.
And roared.
The sound was mechanical and bestial all at once. Like a blast furnace screaming down a chimney.
Ilya saw it.
The glowing coil. The orange curve of exposed inner light, connecting its lower jaw to something buried deeper. Like a fire vein. A power core.
It roared again.
And the rooftops shook.
It turned the corner like a landslide.
The Hollow Maul's shoulder smashed through a stone lamppost, splintering it like firewood. Its claws gouged deep ruts through the cobbled street. Steam hissed around its feet with every movement, turning snow into rising fog. Sparks showered from its joints like grinding gears.
People were screaming now. Some ran. Some simply froze.
And then Yula stepped into the street.
Moving fast, sure, the sword in her hands.
Ilya saw her from the roof, mouth set in a hard line. His hand gripped the rifle tighter.
She ducked past a fleeing merchant, skidded on the frost, then regained her footing as the Maul's head swiveled toward her.
It saw the heat.
It saw the steel.
And it charged.
Yula braced with a yell, bringing the iron blade up in both hands. She dodged the first slam, a downward strike that cratered the flagstones beside her, and drove forward, landing a shallow cut across the beast's front leg.
Sparks flew.
But the Maul didn't even slow.
It swung again, this time a shoulder swipe.
She couldn't dodge it fully.
The blow caught her side and launched her off her feet. She hit the ground hard, rolled twice, and came up gasping, arm pressed to her ribs.
She didn't run.
She stood again.
Sword trembling in her grip.
From the rooftop, Ilya's eyes narrowed. The breath in his chest felt shallow, cold.
He adjusted the rifle's angle, tracking the Maul's movement. It had turned slightly, roaring again, steam blasting upward.
Its jaw opened wide.
There.
He inhaled.
The orange coil glowed, just for a second.
He didn't think.
CRACK.
The shot rang out like wet thunder.
Like the rifle itself had exhaled a curse.
From the rooftop, Ilya barely felt the recoil, just the vibration through his shoulder, and the way the world seemed to hold its breath.
The bullet twisted in flight. Not like it was spinning.
Like it was steering.
It bent, sharply, unnaturally, toward the Maul's open jaw.
And struck.
Right through the pulsing orange vein below its throat.
The Maul's head snapped backward.
A moment of silence followed.
Then something inside the beast snapped.
Its roar cut short, replaced by a low groan, like a furnace choking on its own flame. The glowing coil beneath its jaw shuddered, then caved inward as if vacuumed by its own collapsing heat.
A sudden implosion.
Steam burst from its throat. Its legs buckled.
The Hollow Maul collapsed like a dying forge, folding in on itself, venting black vapor from every joint as it hit the cobblestones in a final, smoldering heap.
The sound it made wasn't explosive.
It was defeated.
A long, groaning exhale that sent warmth rushing into the frozen street and made the snow melt in a slow circle around its corpse.
Ilya kept the rifle raised for another second. Then lowered it.
His hands trembled, but not from fear. The rifle pulsed once in his grip, then cooled. The black gloss along the barrel faded back into wood.
He exhaled. Finally.
Down in the street, people were beginning to emerge again. Cautious. Disbelieving.
Yula had dropped to one knee, sword resting against the ground.
She turned slowly toward the direction of the shot.
Looked up.
Found him.
She didn't wave.
Didn't smile.
Just locked eyes with him, and gave a single, short nod.
For a breathless moment, no one moved.
Not the civilians behind the barricades. Not the guards frozen at the edge of the square. Not even the injured, still crouched behind broken carts.
They were all staring at it.
The creature was dead.
But the silence wasn't peace.
Some eyes widened in awe. Some were filled with terror. Some just blinked, like their minds couldn't keep up with what they'd seen.
But one person was already moving.
Ilya's eyes caught him near the far edge of the square, beside a shattered vendor stall, a boy, his age or close to it, scarf half-draped around his neck, fox-like eyes calm despite the chaos.
He looked directly at Ilya.
And smiled.
One hand lifted, and with two fingers, he made a small sign, a signal, quick and deliberate.
Then he turned, and ran toward something.
Ilya didn't even have time to think about why he trusted him.
Because from behind the Forge Hall, the second Hollow Maul stepped into view.
It was smaller. Faster.
And it hadn't been seen yet by anyone else.
Except the boy.
Ilya's fingers tightened around the rifle.
He should've called out. He should've yelled for the guards. But instead, he slung the rifle back over his shoulder. And ran after the stranger.