Fate of the Marked

They Don't Exist

Roderick, bless him, was hacking at that oversized crab like he could muscle his way through its shell with sheer stubbornness alone. He was strong, sure—the strongest I knew, even on his worst days—but this beast was practically laughing at him, or it would have been if it had any lips. Every swing of his axe landed with a solid thunk, denting the shell but not cracking it, no matter how many times he tried. He looked almost offended when his axe bounced off, like this was some insult to his very existence.

The air was thick with the tang of smoke and the metallic scent of sparks flying off Roderick's shield as it clashed against the beast's relentless pincers. They stood in the middle of a clearing littered with fragments of shattered rock and splintered wood, remnants of the crab's earlier swipes that had gouged out the ground in its fury. Steam rose from a muddy puddle nearby, where one of the crab's acidic sprays had seared the earth, turning soil into foul-smelling sludge. Dark clouds loomed above, casting a gloom over the scene, as if the heavens themselves were watching in ominous silence.

"Keep scratching, Roderick," I called out, just loud enough to break his concentration for a split second. "You might find its ticklish spot yet."

He grunted—a sound somewhere between frustration and defiance—and shifted his weight, charging again, this time with his shield raised. When the crab lunged forward with one of those razor-sharp pincers, he met it head-on, bracing against the impact like he was the one giving lessons here. The pincer clanged against his shield, sparks flying, as he held his ground with that grit of his, feet planted, muscles straining like he could stare the creature into submission.

"Can't say it's helping, but it's certainly a spectacle," I muttered to myself, eyeing his back as he swung the axe again in a wide arc, aiming right for the creature's side. This was classic Roderick: trying to find just the right angle, using brute force as if it could crack the very laws of nature.

The crab's shell held, of course, but Roderick's persistence didn't waver. When the creature reared back, he took the opportunity to sidestep, swinging his axe low, hoping to catch the underbelly. Smart—probably the closest thing it had to a soft spot—but the crab anticipated him, slamming its other pincer toward his legs. Roderick dodged with a fluidity that seemed improbable for someone his size, his shield twisting in just in time to deflect another blow.

"Impressive, brother, very impressive," I muttered under my breath. "Just keep dodging, blocking, swinging, all day if you like. I'll be here...observing."

Of course, it wasn't just for show. I'd watched him enough times to know every move before he even made it. He'd plant his feet to counter the blow, shift to open the creature up, then drive his weight down with the axe—all in one smooth, practiced rhythm. Each strike sent shudders through the beast, even if the shell stayed intact, and I could tell Roderick wasn't about to stop until it was a crumpled heap.

Roderick was still at it, his axe a blur of heavy swings, his movements precise but increasingly desperate as he dodged and struck with a rhythm I knew he couldn't sustain forever. The crab had him backed against a jagged outcrop, one swipe away from pinning him there like a bug on a board. It was time to step in before my brother got himself crushed—or worse, started making speeches about "fighting to the last breath."

I took a step forward, tightening my grip on my staff, eyes locked on the beast's thickly armored legs. They were like iron pillars, dense and almost impenetrable, but they weren't invincible. Yes, that'll do, I thought, a smirk creeping onto my lips.

"All right, big guy, stand back just a hair," I called to Roderick, but I didn't really expect him to listen. "Just long enough for me to show you how it's done."

Ignoring his irritated grunt, I angled my staff and began the incantation, my voice low and steady. This wasn't one of my flashier spells—no torrents of fire or blinding explosions. Those would be useless here, wasted on this stubborn hulk of a creature. No, this one required finesse, a precise touch. Stonebinder's Grip.