The flames still crackled in the distance, licking what remained of the broken bridge in hellish orange. Bits of scorched stone and bone rained into the abyss below. Smoke twisted in unnatural patterns, choking the narrow path that led toward the City of Silence.
Riven stumbled. His chest burned with every breath. The cuts on his arms stung, the ache in his bones deepening with every step forward.
The Phantom didn't slow.
She moved like a shadow made flesh—silent, poised, graceful even with the ash falling around her. Her eyes were focused ahead, unreadable.
But the threat didn't come from ahead.
It came from behind.
A sound—no, a presence—stirred the silence behind them. A weight. A breath. Something vast and wrong moved in the darkness that lingered beyond the remains of the bridge.
Riven turned, heart sinking.
It stepped out of the smoke like a walking nightmare. The Dreadspawn.
Taller than a man. Limbs too long. Bones cracked outward from its back like broken wings. Its face—a twisted skull with hollow sockets, wide and gaping, split by a grin that looked stitched into place. Black veins pulsed across its chest. Its tongue dangled like a wet rope. Ichor dripped from its claws and hissed when it hit the stone.
And then—
It sounded like it was laughing.
Not a sound of joy.
A broken, wheezing, choking mockery of a laugh. Not real. Not human. But close enough to unsettle the soul. A sound that burrowed under the skin and made Riven's fingers twitch around his blade.
The Phantom didn't look back.
Only her voice cut the tension. Cold. Controlled.
"Dreadspawn."
Riven barely choked the word. "It crossed the bridge…?"
"It jumped."
"What do we do?"
"I can't kill it," she said. "Not unless I want more."
Riven blinked. "What?"
"They're ranked. Bound to the Net. The Scorch System still claims them. If I kill it wrong—brutally, loudly, messily—others will feel it. And they'll come. Stronger."
Riven swallowed, staring at the thing that now stalked toward them, arms dragging like a beast, tongue twitching in anticipation.
"You're saying we can't kill it?"
"I'm saying I can't."
Then the Dreadspawn moved.
It didn't charge like a brute.
It flowed. Fast. Silent. One moment standing still, the next already halfway down the path. Black claws glinting.
The Phantom moved to intercept.
Their clash sent sparks screaming through the dark. Her blade bit into its wrist—but only shallowly. The Dreadspawn retaliated in a blur, its claws slamming against the stone where she'd been an instant ago.
She didn't strike again.
She only danced.
Every move measured. Every blow deflected.
She was holding back.
And Riven understood why. Every drop of blood spilled from the Dreadspawn, every screech it made, could ripple through the Net like a scream through water.
She couldn't kill it.
But it could kill him.
And it tried.
The Dreadspawn pivoted, its empty eyes locking onto Riven like it had smelled weakness. Then it pounced—fast enough to blur.
He raised his blade, barely in time.
The impact sent him flying.
Pain exploded in his shoulder as he crashed into the wall of the path. A sharp stab lit up his thigh as a jagged stone split skin and muscle. He rolled, tried to rise—and collapsed.
The Dreadspawn was above him before he could even scream.
Its claws found his leg, and it dug in.
Riven screamed. Blood gushed. The claws scraped bone.
And it made that sound again.
That choking, sick, almost-laugh—like something trying to imitate joy but failing. A sound not meant for the world of men.
"Move," the Phantom's voice ordered.
But Riven didn't hear her.
He felt the Mask burn against his skin.
Not with heat. With rage.
Something inside him surged. Old. Deep. A fury too long buried.
And Riven moved.
Not because he was fast.
Not because he was strong.
Because he had to.
He drove his blade into the creature's ribs—shallow. Not enough.
The Dreadspawn roared, lifting him by the leg.
Riven twisted.
Another stab. This one deeper.
He screamed as he did it—half in pain, half in rage.
The Dreadspawn flailed.
Riven didn't stop.
He slammed the blade upward into its chest—missed the core.
And that not-laughter came again.
Blood poured down Riven's arm. He couldn't feel his leg anymore. But the fire didn't stop.
He let the blade drop.
Grabbed the broken edge of his own chain.
And drove it through the creature's eye.
A spray of black ichor erupted.
The Dreadspawn shrieked.
And then it collapsed, twitching violently, jaw hanging open.
Riven fell with it, panting, arms trembling, the weight of the kill dragging him down.
The Phantom approached slowly, eyes cold.
"You killed it."
Riven barely nodded.
She looked beyond them—into the smoke.
The shadows trembled.
"They felt that."