Page 102 of Tethered In Blood

My fingers reached for the hilt of my sword as I stepped forward. The stench was the unmistakable odor of decaying flesh rotting beneath the waves—drowned and forgotten, bloated, waterlogged, and left to fester in the deep before washing onto shore. The smell clung to the mist, seeping into my lungs and coating my tongue with its vile density.

The fog was no longer just a veil over the village; it felt alive. It shifted, curled, and pressed in on us. One moment, it was still and silent; the next, the world tilted as if an unseen force had exhaled a deep breath from the Veil.

Stitched together from the darkest recesses of nightmares, a towering figure rose from the mist. Its limbs were too long. Its fingers—ragged claws—twitched in anticipation, as if the air were a meal for its hunger. The mist curled around it, clinging to its form, reluctant to release it. Even the fog feared what had emerged from the depths.

Its head was an animal skull, far too large for its skeletal body, bleached and cracked with age. Broken horns jutted from its crown, jagged and twisted, creating a cruel parody of something long dead. Where its eyes should have been, only dark, swirling voids observed us with intelligence beyond comprehension. The emptiness within those sockets seemed alive, swirling as if it recognized us.

A sickening gurgle rose from deep within its chest. It was a wet, choking sound, as if it were drowning in its own decay. Its jaw cracked wide, unhinging in a monstrous rift, and the noise twisted into a rattling, warbled laugh that chilled me to my core and tore at the fabric of reality.

The stench thickened as a rancid gust swept over us. The thing approached with every breath. In one fluid motion, it stepped forward, its shadow stretching over the pier.

Another step. And another.

Then it was gone.

The mist swallowed it whole, just as silently as it had come.

The dock beneath us groaned in protest, shuddering as it sensed the creature beneath its planks. A deep crack ran through the wood, splitting the pier as what lay below awakened. The air turned damp, thick with the stench of rotting seawater. Quinn gasped behind me, her breaths becoming shallow and jagged.

The fog curled around her. Its tendrils snaked up her legs as it breathed, moved, and desired.

“Sinclaire,” her voice strained with a tremor of fear. I turned toward her, every instinct screaming at me as my body moved toward her.

The dock cracked underfoot as a blur of mist and bone lunged forward. I dove to the side, rolling across the slick planks just before it reached me. A jagged limb tore through the space I had just occupied with a spray of splinters.

Garrick pulled Quinn behind him with one arm, his sword drawn in the other. “Stay behind me, Freckles,” he said over his shoulder, half-grinning. “I would rather not die by Sinclaire’s hands later because I let you get hurt.”

“No!” Quinn fought against him, her voice filled with panic. “Garrick, move!”

“Saints, Freckles, let him handle it!”

I pushed up from the dock and unsheathed my sword just as the creature lunged again. Bone met steel with a force that rattled my arms. The impact echoed across the water as I skidded backward on the damp wood.

It lashed at me faster this time. Clawed limbs struck in whips of movement, each one reforming the moment I cut it. It didn’t bleed.Didn’t wane.It just kept attacking.

Its eyes—or where they should have been—locked on mine with a hollow hunger as though it recognized me. Quinn’s voice cut through the chaos, but I couldn’t make out the words. I shoved my blade into the creature’s side, forcing it back a step. The dock groaned under our weight before it stood still. The surrounding mist screamed with intention.

A sickening, wet gurgle filled the air.

Laughter that sounded as though it was choking on bile, the echoes of a thing that should not have been alive. The surrounding pressure tightened, and the mist constricted until it became tangible, heavier. It scraped down my spine and clung to the back of my mind.

The dock beneath us creaked again as the wood strained, trying to pull away from whatever stirred beneath it. The mist, once drifting and passive, turned solid. Dense and damp, it pressed in from every side, breathing against my throat. It had weight now. Intention.

And it focused on her.

“You are soft, Fae.”The voice coiled around me with malice.“You fear for her.”

My grip tightened on the sword hilt, and the pulse in my jaw became a drumbeat of war. “No.”

Another hollow, rotted, and triumphant laugh spilled from the mist.“She will bleed for you.”

The words provoked. The fog pulsed around us with purpose, feeding off the moment—off me. It saw what I refused to acknowledge: that I thrived in battle. I embraced death. Yet the thought oflosing herwas too much to bear, and I didn't even understand why.

Her breathing was heavy nearby, close enough to feel through my heightened senses. There was a hint of salt in her hair and panic in her demeanor that she tried to conceal. And saints help this thing. If it ever laid a finger on her, I wouldn’t just kill it.

I would fuckingunmake it.

The beast stepped forward again, its sockets swirling with blood lust. “Sinclaire!” Her cry echoed in my chest and reverberated through the air. The surrounding mist shuddered as if it couldn’t bear the sound of her voice. It knew what was coming. It screamed in recognition when a burning wave surged through me, flooding my veins and lighting every nerve on fire. My vision pulsed, and my veins burned with the fire that woke within me in Silverfel.

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