Gripping stone scraped my ear. Silas's immense hand slammed where my head had been a breath before. I tasted dust and fear. My torn cassock snagged on a loose plank as I dove, rolling into the narrow kitchen corridor. Blood pulsed in my left hand, a dull throb already turning to a searing ache from the earlier bite. "Caleb! Now!" My voice was a raw croak, barely audible over the growing roar behind me. A thunderous bellow echoed through the passage. Silas burst into the space, filling it entirely. His grey stone skin gleamed wetly under the dim gaslight, thick with monstrous strength. Black-gold veins pulsed beneath the surface, a terrifying network of life and wrong vitality. Metal sang, a high-pitched, lethal hum. Barbed harpoons, each as thick as my thumb, shot from hidden anchors in the floor, ceiling, and stone walls. One slammed into Silas's left bicep, another gouged his right shoulder. A third tore into his thigh, biting deep. High-tension wires, already taut, snapped even tighter, binding him across the chest and legs, crisscrossing his massive form. He staggered, a shuddering mountain of rock and rage. A guttural growl ripped from his throat, a sound of pure, trapped fury. The wires hummed, stretched to their breaking point, groaning under the immense strain but holding fast. For a moment, the unstoppable monster was snared. Silas did not fall. He stood, roaring, trying to wrench himself free, his muscles bulging under the stone hide. His eyes, still human and filled with a horrifying grief and betrayal, met mine across the confined space. Then, they glazed over with pure, unthinking, predatory rage. Genesis was already in my hand, heavy and cold. Two rounds remained in the cylinder. I had to make them count, one hundred percent. This was all I had left in the chamber. Sighting down the barrel, my vision sharp despite the pain, I fired. The shot cracked, deafening in the confined space. Silver-jacketed lead slammed into the black-gold vein just below his left eye, a vulnerable point. Stone skin cracked and shattered, a spray of grey shrapnel exploding into the air. Silas reeled, his head snapping back with a sickening lurch. A low, wounded moan, more animal than human, escaped him, brief and quickly swallowed by another roar. My second shot followed immediately, a desperate prayer. It struck his right knee, tearing another gouge in the grey stone. He swayed, the Matrimony wires groaning and shrieking under the renewed strain. He was a colossal pendulum, swinging towards us. "Edmund! Catch!" Caleb's voice cut through the din, sharp with urgency. A blur of brass and silver arced through the air. Caleb, a pale ghost against the cluttered kitchen, had thrown the speedloader. My good hand, the right one, snatched it out of the air instinctively. Caleb was already tearing at his satchel, his movements frantic but precise. Retreating further, I backed against the cold, damp wall of the corridor. My left hand throbbed, a dull ache that threatened to blossom into white-hot agony. The bite wound was deep, slick with my own blood, painting the black fabric of my cassock a dark, wet crimson. Silas roared again, a sound of pure, frustrated power. Already, the cracks around his eye and knee were visibly knitting. The grey stone flowed, mending itself with terrifying speed, the black-gold veins reforming. His regeneration was relentless, a nightmare made flesh. One of the wires binding his chest gave a high-pitched shriek, vibrating violently. It snapped, a sound like a pistol shot, whipping back against the stone wall. Silas took a lumbering, heavy step forward, now less encumbered. My fingers fumbled with Genesis, my hands slick with sweat and blood. Empty casings spun free, clattering on the flagstones. The speedloader clicked into place, six fresh silver-jacketed rounds settling into the cylinder with a satisfying thud. A practiced flick of the wrist, and the cylinder locked shut. Six more rounds. Maybe enough. Not enough to kill a Troll. Maybe enough to delay it, to buy precious seconds. Silas lunged, a slow-motion catastrophe. His massive fist punched through the air where I’d just stood. Splinters of ancient wood exploded from a nearby cupboard, scattering across the floor. He was gaining, his movements growing less hampered. "Caleb! The Last Rite!" I shouted, my voice strained, pushed past its limits. Caleb’s head snapped up from the open satchel at his feet. His face was pale, streaked with grime and sweat, a visible sheen of terror in his gray eyes. He held a collection of metal parts in his hands: a threaded silver spike, a few cylindrical weighted shaft sections, and a heavy cap. Not a single, ready weapon. "It's not set!" he yelled back, his voice tight with panic, his fingers fumbling with the components. "It’s unassembled!" My jaw clenched so hard I felt my teeth grind. Of course it was. A portable field kit. Not a ready weapon for a creature of this scale, of this power. Not a quick solution. "Then set it!" I barked, desperation sharpening my tone, overriding the pain. "Now!" Caleb nodded, a sharp jerk of his head. His movements quickened, his fingers, though trembling, began to twist the threaded spike into the first shaft section with a mechanic's precision. He was good, but this was too fast. Silas was almost free. Another wire snapped, then another, the metallic twang echoing loudly. He ripped his right arm from the remaining bindings, a furious grunt escaping him as the last of Matrimony's grip broke. The harpoon still embedded in his shoulder twisted, then pulled free with a sickening rip of stone and flesh. He was fully unbound, a grey titan of fury. I lunged forward, not at Silas, but at the open satchel beside Caleb. My good hand plunged inside, retrieving the Confessor's Lash. The multi-tailed chain whip, heavy with serrated silver shards, felt cold and solid, a familiar weight in my palm. Whipping it out, I swung. The Lash sang through the air, a metallic hiss, a whisper of death. It wrapped around Silas's right leg just below the knee, the serrated silver biting deep into the black-gold veins. He stumbled, the silver shards digging into his softened hide. A roar of pain, more guttural than before, tore from him, a raw sound of agony. It was a weakness, a chink in his armor, but only momentary. He ripped the Lash free, a piece of his grey skin tearing with it. The wound began to close even as I pulled the whip back, the metal segments rattling. "Faster, Caleb!" I urged, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Again, I lashed out. This time, I aimed for his throat, the vulnerable juncture where the stone plates met, hoping to exploit the gap. The whip bit, a shower of fine, grey dust erupting. He clawed at it, his immense fingers clumsy, trying to dislodge the biting metal. It bought me precious seconds, seconds Caleb desperately needed. I fired Genesis. The bullet struck the same spot I'd just lashed, a fresh gouge opening. Silas grunted, pushed back a half-step, but his regeneration was already working. This was a brutal, desperate dance. Hit, retreat, wait for regeneration, hit again, pray for a miracle. The cold red stone in my pocket felt strangely warm, a small, irrational comfort I did not understand. My breath hitched, raw and burning in my lungs. The kitchen corridor was a chaos of broken crockery, overturned stools, and the damp smell of old stone and fear. Silas was a living wrecking ball, slow but relentless, an unstoppable force. He charged again, a ponderous tremor through the floorboards announcing his advance. I parried a sweeping blow with a raised arm, the impact jarring my shoulder to the bone, sending a fresh wave of agony through my already wounded left hand. My bones vibrated with the force. The Lash sung again, snaking around his legs, pulling tight. I pulled, hard, leaning into the leverage. He stumbled, but did not fall. His regeneration was too fast, Matrimony too broken to truly hold him. "Almost!" Caleb shouted, his voice strained, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. He had two sections of the needle assembled now, the spike glinting ominously, but it wasn't enough. Not yet. Silas roared, a sound that shook the very dust from the ceiling beams. One arm, now completely free of any wires, tore through the remaining bindings with a final, explosive rending sound. The tension wires snapped like guitar strings, whipping back against the walls, embedding themselves in the stone with lethal force. He was utterly free, a stone giant unleashed. His head snapped toward Caleb. The boy was the nearer target, the one still moving. A primal, predatory instinct overrode whatever grief still lived in those grey eyes. "No!" I yelled, lunging forward, trying to interpose myself, to be a barrier between them. I was too slow. Too late. His wild swing, a backhanded swipe, caught me full in the chest. A sickening crunch echoed through my ribs. I flew backward, a rag doll, slamming into the opposite wall. The breath exploded from my lungs, leaving me gasping. Pain flared, blinding and all-consuming, a white-hot agony that consumed everything. My vision swam, a kaleidoscope of grey stone and blood. My head connected with the wall, a dull thud. For a moment, stars swam before my eyes. The world tilted, spun on its axis. Silas was a towering, grey blur, closing in, his focus now solely on Caleb and the half-built weapon. Blood ran hot from my nose, a thick stream, stinging my upper lip. My ribs screamed with every shallow breath, a sharp, stabbing pain. The bite on my hand burned with renewed intensity. I pushed against the wall, my muscles trembling, trying to force myself upright, to move, to do anything. Silas lumbered toward Caleb. He was going to crush him. There was no more time for tactics, no more time for delay. My fingers found the Confessor's Lash where it had fallen. I flung the tails low and dragged them back. The shards caught in the split hide behind Silas's knee. He stumbled, turned, and those grey eyes found me. Good. Better me than Caleb. Panic surged, cold and sharp, a desperate chill amidst the burning pain. I had no more time. Genesis felt like a feather, useless against the sheer bulk and terrifying regeneration of this Troll. I could not let Caleb die. I could not fail. My jaw tightened, a grimace of pain twisting my face. I ignored the throbbing in my head, the agony in my chest, the screams of my body. My right hand, still clenching Genesis, went to my collar, seeking the last resort. The Eucharist injector, small and cold, rested against my skin, a promise and a threat. This was it. The forbidden last resort. The thing I swore I would never use unless there was truly no other option, unless all hope was lost. We were beyond hope. "Caleb, finish the needle. Whatever you hear, do not turn around." My thumb found the injector. It hissed against my skin. Heat hit my heart, then my eyes. I heard myself breathe as if from far away.

Chapter 14: Viaticum