A cockerel’s crow split the morning stillness, dragging Del from the thin edge of sleep. Pale light filtered through the shutters, tracing soft gold across the floorboards. He let out a low groan and slung an arm over his eyes.

  His head throbbed—not painfully, but with that dense, murky weight that dreams left behind. He couldn’t remember the details, but the sense of being hunted still lingered like a bruise in the back of his mind.

  ‘Damn dreams.’

  Beside him, Elara stirred with a vague murmur. Her hand searched blindly for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. Her eyes blinked open—bleary and unfocused—then closed again just as quickly. She gave a contented sigh, buried her face into his chest, and muttered, “Not yet.”

  He smiled faintly, too tired to argue. ‘Fair enough.’

  A soft thump interrupted the peace. Then a familiar weight landed squarely across his hip, damp and self-satisfied.

  Del cracked one eye open.

  Misty, fur glistening with morning dew, leaned in and pressed her cold nose to his cheek.

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ he thought sourly. ‘Exactly what I wanted first thing—wet cat to the face.’

  ‘Some of us,’ she replied, curling neatly against his ribs, ‘have spent the night working, not snoring.’

  ‘And did your tireless efforts bear fruit?’

  She began grooming, slow and deliberate, flicking her tongue over one forepaw with all the poise of a cat who’d just saved the world and couldn’t be bothered to mention it.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

  She paused mid-lick, gave him a slow, superior look, and resumed her task without answering.

  A few seconds later, she added: ‘I found a skep. I killed the skep. I know where it came from. I’ll show you after breakfast.’

  Del gave her a few gentle scritches behind the ears, rewarded by a low, rolling purr. “Good girl,” he murmured.

  An hour later, Del, Elara, and Misty descended the stairs to the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen. The scent of porridge and woodsmoke wrapped around them like a blanket, and the faint clatter of spoons echoed from the long wooden table.

  Naomi was already seated, animatedly chatting to a now considerably less silent Finn. The boy clutched his bowl with both hands, blinking at Naomi as though trying to keep pace with her cheer. His shoulders weren’t hunched today. That alone felt like a small miracle.

  “I’m telling you,” Naomi insisted, “she’s not just a cat. I once saw her balance on a fence post for, like, ten minutes. On one paw.”

  Finn stared at her, awed. “Like a chicken?”

  “No,” she said, offended. “Like a warrior. With fur.”

  Del raised an eyebrow at Elara. “Is she telling Misty stories again?”

  “She never stopped.”

  Del spotted Mara at the counter, her sleeves rolled and her hair tied up beneath a faded scarf. She looked over, smiling at the sight of them.

  “Misty, my cat,” Del said to Joel, who was halfway through a spoonful, “was out roaming last night. I think she may have caught one of your skeps.”

  Joel blinked, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Really? How do you know?”

  “They’ve got a bit of a weird bond,” Elara said, sliding into a seat and pouring herself a mug from the pot on the stove.

  “Yeah,” Naomi added, mouth half-full. “She talks to him all the time.”

  Joel paused, looking from Del to Misty, who had settled herself beneath the bench with her tail curled neatly around her paws.

  “Talks to him?” he asked.

  “She’s very articulate,” Naomi said solemnly.

  Joel looked baffled, but Mara chuckled, already reaching for the bread tin. “Oh, you,” she said fondly to Naomi. “Fanciful stories are the mark of too much energy.”

  Naomi opened her mouth, likely to launch into a full defence of feline intelligence, but Elara caught her eye with a quiet warning look.

  Naomi huffed, then shoved another spoonful of porridge into her mouth, muttering around it, “It’s not fanciful, it’s true.”

  Joel turned back to Del, more curious now. “So you didn’t see it? The skep?”

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  “No, but Misty’s strut was particularly murderous this morning. Tail high, that smug look on her face. She does that thing when she wants me to notice something. Like I’m the slow one in the relationship.”

  Joel frowned slightly, clearly not sure if he was being mocked. “Right.”

  “She’s brought us heads before,” Elara added casually. “One time, an entire spine.”

  “She left it on my pillow,” Del said flatly.

  “That one was definitely a message.”

  Finn giggled into his porridge. Naomi looked both scandalised and impressed.

  “If you and Finn are done,” Mara said, “you might want to help him tidy his bed—you slept there too—and then go fetch the eggs. And stay clear of the barn.”

  Naomi stood, already elbowing Finn. “Come on. We have breakfast number two to collect.”

  “Eggs,” Finn corrected, but his smile was wide.

  With giggles and a bump of shoulders, the two children scampered off, Naomi already spinning some tale about the Great Egg Hunt of Doom as they vanished through the door.

  The kitchen door clattered shut behind them, and for a brief moment, the farmhouse fell quiet.

  Out in the morning air, Naomi took the lead, skipping across the yard with her arms outstretched like wings. “Right, Finn,” she declared, “today we face the Feathered Gauntlet.”

  Finn trailed behind, a little bemused. “Is that... a real thing?”

  She turned to him, eyes wide. “Of course it is. The chickens guard their treasure fiercely. Last time, Mara almost lost a finger.”

  He frowned. “I thought she just dropped the basket.”

  Naomi waved that off. “Details. You’ll need to be quick. And quiet. And possibly brave enough to face a rogue cockerel with murder in his heart.”

  Finn actually grinned at that, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “What if we get ambushed? Do we run or fight?”

  “Neither” Naomi said, crouching low. “We distract them with decoy grain and sneak in while they’re eating. But first—stealth mode.”

  Finn mirrored her crouch, the two of them creeping through the grass with exaggerated care. One of the hens spotted them and clucked disapprovingly, fluttering its wings.

  “She knows,” Naomi whispered. “We’ve been made. Quick, to the coop!”

  They broke cover and dashed for the henhouse, feet thudding across the soft earth. Finn reached it first, breathless but laughing, as Naomi skidded in behind him and flung open the hatch with a dramatic flourish.

  “Welcome,” she said, “to the Nest of Peril.”

  Breakfast wound down, and Del sipped the last of his hot drink—earthy, herbal, and not remotely coffee.

  ‘That wasn’t coffee, I so need coffee.’

  ‘It was hot and tasted better than boiled leaves in cloudy water. I’m counting it.’

  ‘Doesn’t make it coffee.’

  ‘Still better than that swamp brew at the river camp.’

  He set the mug down.

  Del leaned back in his chair and set his mug down with a soft clink. “So, Joel,” he said, stretching slightly, “want to show us what we’re up against?”

  Joel stood with a grunt, brushing crumbs from his tunic. “Most of the time they come after dark. What they don’t eat, they ruin—foul it, piss in it, scatter the rest. Makes it useless.” He shook his head. “Seed stock’s gone ropey. Half of it won’t even sprout now. Not enough to keep us going if it keeps up.”

  He led them outside, boots crunching on gravel, Misty strutting ahead with her tail held high, each step full of feline superiority. The sun had crested the trees now, casting long slats of golden light across the dirt path. The last of the dew clung to the grass, glinting like pale fire in the morning hush.

  Somewhere off to the side, the dog gave a lazy bark and then went quiet again.

  Misty stopped just short of the barn and sat beside something slumped in the grass. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t need to. Her posture said enough: I did this. You’re welcome.

  Del slowed. Elara came up beside him, her gaze sharp. Joel’s boots scuffed behind them, the man’s breath suddenly heavier.

  At first glance, it could have been a rat—albeit one on the wrong side of monstrous.

  But as they closed the gap, that illusion began to unravel.

  Its fur was patchy and coarse, dark and matted like cinders caught in damp ash. Its limbs were too long—angular, almost skeletal. The claws were hooked, yellowed at the tips, better suited to tearing than digging. Its body was bloated, the ribs pushing up beneath the skin in uneven ridges, like the thing had grown wrong from the inside out.

  And then—its head.

  Heads.

  Two of them, side by side, joined at the neck like some grotesque afterthought. Each had its own snout, narrow and twitching even in death. Rows of small, mismatched teeth jutted from both mouths, frozen mid-snarl. One eye was ruptured. The other three stared blankly upward, lifeless—except the upper-left, which shivered faintly as it caught the sunlight, as though the creature’s body didn’t know it was dead.

  Del crouched slowly, heart beating a touch harder.

  ‘Identify’

  Skep – Beast, male

  Level – 8

  Scavenger

  Strengths: Strong olfaction

  Weaknesses: Light

  Skill: Unknown

  Lore: Skeps are pack animals, often living in large colonies underground or in cave systems. They have poor eyesight and can be easily disorientated by bright lights. They have a very strong sense of smell and use this to hunt out food to scavenge and return to the home nest.

  He exhaled, a low whistle escaping through his teeth. “No wonder Wren couldn’t handle one.”

  Elara leaned in behind him. “That thing’s the size of a bloody spaniel,” she said, voice tinged with disgust. “And its skin—” she knelt briefly, touching the matted fur with the back of her fingers “—it’s oily. Like lamp grease.”

  Del nodded. “Look closer. Two heads.”

  Joel scratched at the back of his neck, expression tight. “Well... shit,” he muttered. “That’s... definitely a new one.”

  “To recap,” Del said, standing and brushing his palms off on his trousers, “you have a problem with big, ugly, two-headed bastards eating your food and scaring your kids.”

  Joel nodded slowly. His face had gone a little pale now that the thing was laid out properly in the sun. “Aye. That sounds about the size of it.”

  “And my little ginger lunatic killed it in the night.”

  Joel looked at Misty, really looked. She blinked slowly, unbothered.

  “How in all the hells did your cat manage that?”

  Del shrugged, grinning. “She’s got hidden depths.”

  “She’s got murder in her heart,” Elara added, still watching the corpse with narrowed eyes.

  Del crouched again and looked Misty dead in the eye. “Good job. Can you show us where you think they’re coming from?”

  Misty stood with fluid elegance, arched her back in a stretch that looked theatrical even for her, and began winding around their legs. Then she padded off across the yard toward the far paddock without so much as a backward glance.

  “Follow me,” she might as well have said.

  Joel opened his mouth—perhaps to ask if they needed help—but Del shook his head. “We’ll let you know what we find.”

  They stepped after Misty, boots soft on the dew-heavy grass.

  From an upstairs window, two small faces peered through the glass—Naomi and Finn, wide-eyed and whispering. Naomi tapped the glass once, as if to wish them luck, then ducked out of sight.

  Del didn’t wave. He just kept walking, the warmth of the farmhouse fading behind him, and the first shadow of the paddock’s rough terrain falling ahead.