The Minotaur was already moving.
Its massive shadow swallowed the broken ground as it lunged forward, horn lowered, intent simple and absolute.
Veyor barely had time to react. His legs screamed in protest as he stumbled backward, boots slipping against churned soil, rifle clutched tight but shaking in his hands.
The world narrowed to distance and inevitability.
Then something hit the Minotaur from the side.
Not a blast. Not a strike from above. A collision—violent, desperate, alive.
The impact knocked the Minotaur off balance mid-charge. Its horn tore through empty air as its massive frame staggered sideways, hooves carving trenches into the ground.
A low, furious roar ripped from its chest as it twisted to face the new threat.
It was a dog.
A huge one.
Its body was thick with muscle and scars, fur matted dark with blood and dust.
One eye was swollen shut. Its breathing was uneven, wet, each inhale sounding like it scraped against something broken inside its chest. But it did not hesitate.
It had thrown itself at the Minotaur without calculation.
Without fear.
Veyor didn’t understand why it was helping them.
He didn’t stop to question it either.
As long as it wasn’t his enemy, that was enough.
The dog slammed into the Minotaur’s side again, jaws snapping at exposed muscle as it tried to force the larger creature off balance.
The Minotaur roared and swung a massive arm, striking the dog squarely in the ribs. The sound was sickening—bone against bone, force against flesh.
The dog was hurled several meters away, crashing hard into the dirt.
It did not stay down.
Snarling through blood, it pushed itself back up, legs trembling but locked in place.
It was barely half the Minotaur’s size, but it moved with a purpose the larger beast lacked. It wasn’t trying to overpower.
It was trying to hold.
Veyor raised his rifle.
The distance was bad. His breathing was worse. His hands shook as he forced himself to slow down, to aim properly.
The Minotaur turned its attention fully to the dog now, enraged by resistance it hadn’t expected.
That was Veyor’s opening.
He fired.
The shot cracked through the air, striking the Minotaur high on the shoulder where old damage from Luken’s blade had never fully closed.
The creature roared, twisting violently as dark blood sprayed from the reopened wound.
The dog lunged at the same moment, clamping its jaws into the Minotaur’s forearm and dragging its weight downward. The coordination wasn’t planned.
It was instinct.
The Minotaur backhanded the dog again, sending it skidding across the ground. Before it could follow through, another shot rang out.
This one struck the side of its head, just beneath the ear.
The Minotaur screamed.
It staggered, clutching at its skull, rage mixing with disorientation.
Veyor didn’t waste the moment. He fired again—into the eye, into the torn flesh, into any weakness he could see.
The Minotaur charged blindly.
Too blindly.
Its horn caught Veyor in the side as it rushed past, not piercing but slamming into him with enough force to lift him off his feet. Pain exploded through his ribs as he hit the ground hard, air tearing from his lungs in a helpless gasp.
The rifle flew from his hands.
The Minotaur turned, lifting its foot to crush him.
The dog was there again.
It tackled the Minotaur’s leg, teeth sinking into tendon, dragging its weight sideways. The Minotaur lost balance and slammed into the ground, shaking the field with its fall.
Veyor rolled, coughing violently as he clawed for his weapon. His vision blurred. Every breath burned. He forced himself upright just as the Minotaur rose again, slower now, blood streaming freely down its back and face.
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The dog stood between them.
Its legs shook uncontrollably. Blood dripped steadily from its mouth. One front leg dragged uselessly behind it. But it did not retreat.
The Minotaur roared and charged again.
This time, the dog met it head-on.
They collided like colliding storms. The dog locked its jaws around the Minotaur’s throat, using its entire body weight to pull downward. The Minotaur slammed fists into its side again and again, each blow heavy enough to shatter stone.
The dog did not let go.
Veyor steadied himself.
He aimed carefully now, ignoring the pain screaming through his body. He fired into open wounds, into the base of the skull, into the back of the knee where Luken’s blade had once torn deep.
The Minotaur faltered.
Its movements slowed. Each step grew heavier, uncoordinated. The dog was barely holding on now, body sagging, teeth slipping from blood-slick flesh.
Veyor knew this wouldn’t last.
He ejected the magazine with shaking hands.
Only one remained.
The heavy-caliber round.
He loaded it carefully, deliberately, as if rushing would curse the shot. He forced himself to breathe. Forced his shaking hands to still.
The Minotaur threw the dog aside one last time.
The dog hit the ground and didn’t rise.
The Minotaur turned toward Veyor.
Below his chin—on his neck—was the open wound Luken had created earlier. Ragged. Deep. Still bleeding.
Veyor aimed.
He didn’t think about mercy.
He didn’t think about justice.
He thought about stopping it.
He pulled the trigger.
The shot tore through the air and into the Minotaur’s throat.
The impact snapped its body forward violently. The creature froze mid-step, then collapsed face-first into the dirt. Its massive frame hit the ground with a final, heavy thud.
The world went quiet.
No movement.
No breath.
The Minotaur was dead.
The dog stirred weakly, lifting its head just enough to confirm the threat was gone before letting it fall back to the ground. Its chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.
Veyor lowered the rifle.
His arms trembled uncontrollably now. The adrenaline drained, leaving behind exhaustion so deep it felt like gravity itself had doubled.
He looked at the fallen Minotaur, then at the broken dog.
He thought the battle was over.
He turned toward Luken.
And that was when he felt it.
Something breaking behind him.
It was Clarabelle.
Clarabelle did not scream at first.
She stood where she was, frozen, eyes locked on the fallen body in the dirt.
For a moment—just a moment—she seemed not to understand what she was seeing, as if the world had slipped out of alignment and left her behind.
Then her head snapped toward the Minotaur.
“No.”
The word came out sharp, fractured, torn from her chest rather than spoken.
She dragged herself forward, one hand clawing at the ground, the other clutching her side where blood still seeped slowly from the wound near her head.
Her movements were clumsy, uncoordinated. Control had left her body long before the fight had ended.
“No, no, no—this can’t be,” she whispered, voice breaking as she reached him. “You can’t be dead. Not now.”
She pressed her hands against his massive chest, as if willing it to rise again. Her breathing hitched, shallow and erratic. The parasite within her responded weakly, flickering like a dying signal.
Nothing happened.
Her gaze lifted slowly.
It landed on the dog.
Her eyes hardened instantly, grief twisting into something sharp and furious.
“You wild beast!” she screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of emotion. “Who kills their own master’s son?”
The dog tried to rise at the sound of her voice. Its legs buckled. It collapsed again with a low, broken whine, eyes never leaving the body of the Minotaur.
The sound did something to Clarabelle.
Her anger wavered.
For a second, grief returned—raw, unfiltered. Then rage surged again, violent and unfocused.
“You will pay for this,” she hissed. “All of you.”
She raised her trembling hands.
The air pulsed outward in a dull wave.
A healing burst—weak, unfocused, desperate.
It washed over the Minotaur’s body and faded without effect.
Clarabelle froze.
Her hands shook as she tried again, forcing more into the release. Another pulse rippled outward, thinner this time, unstable.
Still nothing.
Her breath caught in her throat.
“No…” she whispered.
Her control was gone.
The system that had once answered her every thought—her environment, her creations, her order—was silent.
She changed tactics.
The air thickened subtly as sleeping hormones dispersed, invisible and heavy. The world blurred at the edges. Veyor felt it wash over him, a familiar pressure pressing against his thoughts.
Bodies dropped.
The dog collapsed fully this time, breathing slowing into shallow rhythm. Luken lay unmoving. Even Clarabelle swayed, barely keeping herself upright.
But Veyor remained standing.
His head throbbed. His vision swam. But he did not fall.
He didn’t understand why—not fully.
Resistance had grown slowly over time, built through repeated exposure, survival, necessity. Whatever Clarabelle once held absolute control over no longer worked on him the way it should have.
Clarabelle noticed.
Her eyes widened slightly.
“You humans…” she rasped, voice hollow now. “Why did you have to come and ruin everything?”
She gestured weakly around her.
“Everything was fine until you arrived. Everything worked..”
Her voice rose, unsteady.
“It’s all your fault.”
Veyor laughed once.
It came out harsh, humorless, edged with exhaustion and pain.
“Oh, now we’re the bad guys?” he said bitterly.
He shifted his weight, nearly collapsing as pain lanced through his side. He was out of ammunition. His rifle hung uselessly in his hands. Closing the distance between them was impossible—his legs barely obeyed him now.
So he did the only thing left.
He spoke.
“You act like you weren’t slaughtering the people who raised you,” he said.
Clarabelle flinched.
“Raised me?” she screamed suddenly, voice raw and unrestrained. “Raised me to what—to die?”
Her breathing became erratic.
“They butchered my kind the moment we stopped being useful,” she continued, eyes burning. “Milk. Meat. Skin. Bone. When we slowed down, when we aged, when we couldn’t serve anymore—they killed us.”
Her hands clenched into fists.
“They got exactly what they deserved.”
Veyor didn’t look away.
“That nine-year-old didn’t do anything to you,” he said quietly. “You ruined his life too.”
“No!” Clarabelle shouted.
The word tore through her throat like a wound reopening.
“I would never hurt him,” she said, voice shaking violently now. “Never.”
Her posture collapsed as the weight of it all crashed down on her.
“I loved him,” she whispered. “I cared for him… like a mother.”
Veyor felt something tighten in his chest.
“He was the only human who treated me like more than an animal,” she continued, tears streaking down her face. “He spoke to me. Fed me himself. Sat with me when I was afraid.”
She laughed weakly, broken.
“You think I made him a monster?”
Veyor’s voice rose, sharp with anger.
“You turned him into one. He died because of you.”
She shook her head violently.
“He was sick,” she said.
“What?” Veyor blurted.
“When the parasite spread,” she continued, forcing the words out, “he couldn’t adapt. His body was failing. He was dying.”
Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her chest.
“No one helped him. Everyone else was asleep. Afraid. Helpless.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“So I did.”
“This was the only way,” she said. “To let him live.”
