We stood in the middle of what looked like a desert city: cracked sandstone walls, bleached banners fluttering limply from leaning posts, and sun-scorched cobbles that shimmered under the dry heat. It had the same texture as the entrance, however it was clearly the oasis. This time, however, the sky above was utterly clear, offering neither shade nor the familiar quiet gloom.

  Except for the tree.

  One crooked tree stood smack in the center of the plaza. It shouldn’t have been there. Its bark was pale, peeled in ribbons, and a few brittle leaves clung stubbornly to the ends of its limbs. What got me wasn’t just its presence; the shadow it cast didn’t match the angle of the sun.

  “Uh,” Jessel said softly behind me, “Is it… supposed to be like this?”

  “No,” I muttered. “Not unless Penance decided to redecorate.”

  The tree creaked gently. It wasn't in the wind, for there was none. It was that uncomfortable way that furniture sometimes groans when no one’s touched it. I eyed it a moment longer, then swept my gaze to the surroundings; something was off.

  A pair of robed figures sat on stone benches beneath the tree, heads bowed. Perhaps they were NPCs. They hadn’t moved since we arrived. Across the plaza, a small pottery vendor’s stall had collapsed in on itself. Clay shards were scattered everywhere. One piece looked suspiciously round.

  “Weapons ready,” I said, voice low. “This place is wrong.”

  Tovin frowned. “You think it’s a mimic room?”

  “I think the room’s pretending to be normal,” I replied. “That is worse.”

  Halver stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “You want me to check the NPCs?”

  “No,” I said, holding out a hand. “Let them make the first move.”

  That’s when the closest robed figure jerked, so fast it blurred. Its head snapped upward to reveal a grinning, green-skinned face with too many teeth. The other slumped body twisted, limbs dislocating with a sickening crunch, revealing clawed feet beneath its robes. Ambush. I growled.

  And then everything moved at once. Except me. Because I had forgotten to turn off turn-based mode. So I stood there frozen, waiting for my ‘turn’ to come around.

  “Spread out!” I shouted with pure instinct. Strategy and planning played no part; the command was born solely from the reflex to buy us breathing room, but it didn’t work.

  The Tricksters surged like they’d been waiting for that exact command. These weren't the usual scattered goblins or shrieking fodder. These moved like a hunting pack with tight formations, perfect spacing, weapons already drawn. Their robes fell away mid-sprint, revealing glinting eyes and rows of serrated teeth. They came in from every angle: rooftops, alleyways, the cracked earth itself.

  Halver immediately charged left, intercepting a trio before they could flank us. His shoulder hit one so hard it folded backward with a crunch. Another leapt at his back.

  Syla dashed right, vanishing into a thin cloud of dust, daggers flashing as she ducked behind a half-collapsed vendor stall.

  Tovin backpedaled. "Too many!" he shouted, scrambling to cast. His hands lit with crackling energy, but the spell misfired, arcing harmlessly into the sand.

  Hessa tried to keep low, reaching for her prayer stone, her lips already moving. But two Tricksters closed on her from either side, moving in jagged, mirrored patterns. I turned, looking for Jessel, but she was already gone from my side, running toward the tree.

  “Hold positions!” I yelled, but it was a lie. There were no positions to hold. We weren’t in formation, not even close.

  One of the goblins let out a high, clicking signal. At once, they shifted, rotating targets, breaking our line. A Trickster ducked beneath Halver’s swing and drove a jagged blade toward Syla’s blind spot. Another leapt from a crumbled rooftop straight at Tovin’s throat. A third yanked the robes from a fake merchant stand, revealing a small cluster of twitching attackers beneath. This wasn’t a brawl; it was a trap, and we’d walked right into it.

  I saw it happen in real time. The team trying to respond on instinct, each one pulling in a different direction. Syla flanking too hard. Tovin retreating. Halver pressing forward alone. Hessa moving to cover, but no one near enough to guard her. The entire group split like water around a stone. Our line broke, not with a shout or command; it just… unraveled. The formation collapsed, and the Tricksters surged into the gaps.

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  Halver broke left like a battering ram let off its chain. He didn’t wait for orders; he never did. One moment he was at my side. The next, he was plowing headfirst into a cluster of Tricksters swarming from a collapsed archway. The first goblin he hit didn’t stand a chance. Halver’s shoulder caught it dead center and folded it with a crunch, launching it into a sandstone pillar hard enough to leave a crack. He didn’t even slow down. He just twisted mid-step and collided with the second Trickster, pinning it between his bulk and the same pillar with a sickening, muffled thud. A third climbed him, literally scrambling up his back like a rat. Its blade came up fast, aimed for the neck.

  Halver didn’t flinch. He just reached back, grabbed it by the throat like someone swatting a fly, and ripped it loose. Then, in one fluid motion, he turned and slammed it into another Trickster trying to flank him from the right. The impact knocked both of them flat, one writhing, the other motionless. He moved like a siege engine: slow, deliberate, impossible to stop.

  Another goblin shrieked and lunged low, aiming a dagger for Halver’s gut. I saw the blade connect, then shatter against his chestplate like brittle glass. The Trickster froze, stunned. Halver stared down at it, expression unreadable, then stomped. Hard. The sound it made was final.

  Then something caught his attention: a flash of movement behind a broken market stand. A Trickster fleeing, not fighting. I watched Halver glance down, grab a rusted old shield from the ground, and hurl it like it weighed nothing. It spun once, then twice, and clanged off the edge of a wall before catching the goblin square in the skull mid-sprint. The body dropped like a sack of meat. I caught my breath. He wasn’t flashy or loud; he simply ended things.

  For all the chaos, Halver moved like this was just another rep, just another set in some grim routine of violence. Blood streaked his knuckles, dust clung to his jaw, but his eyes never changed. Cold. Focused. Forward. I’d never seen a man fight like that and not scream. And for a moment, I was damn glad he wasn’t on the other side.

  Syla didn’t charge; she disappeared. One heartbeat she was next to me, daggers drawn, jaw clenched tight. The next, she was gone, swallowed by a ripple of sand and shadow. I caught only flickers of movement, the glint of steel, and the sound, wet and final, of a blade parting flesh.

  A Trickster shrieked and staggered out from behind a shattered crate, clutching its belly. Its feet slipped on something: Syla’s work. She’d dumped a vial of oil across the ground like it was instinct, not preparation. The goblin hit the stone hard, flailing, and then she was on it. There was no wasted movement. One hand pinned its head. The other drove her dagger in and up. It didn’t even get a final scream.

  Another Trickster roared and lunged at her with a chipped saber. Syla didn’t dodge. She stepped in. The blade came down. She caught it between her twin daggers, locked tight. Her arms trembled with the strain, but she twisted, forced it downward, and turned the saber into dead weight. Then she kicked the goblin’s leg out, slammed it to the ground, and buried both knives in its chest. The third one hesitated—that was its mistake.

  Syla grinned. “Come get it, swamp rat.”

  It did.

  She met it head-on with a knee to the chin, snapping its head back, then a quick pivot as she dragged one blade clean across its throat. Blood sprayed across her shoulder. She didn’t flinch. Then the fourth came from above. I didn’t even have time to shout. It had launched from a rooftop beam, a jagged blade raised overhead. But Syla looked up like she knew.

  And she jumped.

  They met in midair, a blur of motion and teeth and steel. Her dagger punched into its gut just before they hit the ground together. She rolled free. It didn’t. She came up low, breathing hard, blood spattered across her face and arms. Her hair clung to her cheeks in sweat-slick strands. Her eyes locked with mine just for a second, sharp, wild, alive, and then she turned and vanished into the dust again. She didn’t fight like a hero; she fought like someone who knew exactly how fragile a second was and how to carve survival out of it. She was here to make sure it didn’t clear her.

  I caught sight of Hessa just beyond the broken fountain, hem of her robe dragging through the blood-slick dust as she stepped forward into the fray. She didn’t run. She never did. Her mace, plain iron wrapped in old linen, flared gold as she whispered a prayer into the shaft. A Trickster lunged at her, teeth bared and screeching. She met it with a clean, downward strike. The moment her weapon connected, the goblin ignited. Holy fire surged across its body like it had been soaked in sunlight. It didn’t scream for long. The smell of scorched flesh rose over the battlefield.

  Another Trickster darted toward her right flank, too fast to intercept.

  But her satchel opened.

  I don’t know how it worked, if the spirit inside was summoned, stored, or simply followed her, but the moment the flap lifted, a piercing wail tore out from within. A translucent figure, half-smoke, half-anguish, rushed the goblin, shrieking as it hurled the Trickster into a wall hard enough to crack stone. Hessa didn’t look; she was already facing the third. It sprinted at her full force, blade raised, no hesitation.

  She didn’t move.

  “I forgive you,” she said.

  Light lanced from the sky. Unheralded by thunder and with no perceptible delay, a clean, radiant beam struck the Trickster square in the chest. It stopped mid-step, eyes wide, then collapsed backward in silence. Hessa stepped forward and smashed the corpse with her mace for good measure. She wasn’t a fighter. Not like the others. But in that moment, there was something stronger than technique at play, something unshakable. I felt it from across the plaza like a pulse of steadiness in the chaos.

  Then I saw Jessel.

  She was ahead of Hessa, too far, too fast, chasing something. And too exposed. A Trickster burst from cover, blade catching the sun just before it plunged into Jessel’s back.

  “Jessel!” Hessa screamed.