Screams and Memories

I stare at the hulking form of the Threxil, its frame gleaming under fractured moonlight—clockwork limbs flexing, pistons hissing, eyes burning with a cold, deliberate intelligence I’ve come to dread. Every muscle in my body coils tight. This won’t be a fight of attrition. Either I end it fast, or it ends me. Drawing in a breath, I grip the hilt of my weapon, the knotted leather biting into my palms. My mind narrows to a single point: the exposed venting along its left flank. The only weakness I’ve seen. If I can just strike there… I rush forward, swinging with all the fury I can muster. My blade arcs down—only for the Threxil to turn with impossible speed. One swipe of its massive arm slams into my chest. The air leaves my lungs before I even hit the ground. The impact rattles through my ribs, and I feel the wet warmth of blood blooming under my shirt. The world blurs. My ears ring. And then— You fight like a child. The voice is not the Threxil’s. It’s deeper. Older. It hu...