The room became a roaring maw. Timber shrieked as explosive energy, born from Zyta’s own volatile concoctions, tore through the space. The floor buckled, a guttural groan from the ancient wood that formed the very trunk of The Perch. Plaster dust, splintered laths, and fragmented shards of what had once been Tadek’s meager furniture erupted outwards, propelled by a force that left a ringing silence in its wake. He felt himself flung across the detonation zone, a ragdoll tossed by an unseen hand, before slamming into the far wall. The impact drove the air from his ribs in a harsh gasp, bone jarring against petrified bark. He had done it. A shape stirred in the settling dust, a dark mass that slowly coalesced near what remained of the bunk. Zyta. She staggered, her cloak tattered, hair singed. A thin trickle of blood snaked from a cut above her brow, but her eyes, blazing with a terrible, unholy rage, were fixed on him. In her hand, clutched tight, was a small, ornate medallion—a pale jade disk now cracked in several places, its faint glow sputtering. A defensive ward, he realized. A priceless one, by the look of it. It had absorbed the brunt of the assault, but even it hadn't left her unscathed. Her face was a mask of fury, contorted into something ugly and primal. [WARNING: Personal Reserves Drained. Skill Use Impaired.] The blue text flared in Tadek’s vision, a cold splash of reality. He’d poured everything into that final, devastating Echo, and now his wellspring was dry. His head swam, a dull throb behind his eyes. He pushed himself upright, his movements sluggish, every muscle screaming in protest. Zyta stalked towards him, her steps measured, predatory. The medallion dropped from her hand, useless now, clattering against the rubble. Her right arm hung at an awkward angle, useless, but her left hand went to her hip, drawing a long, slender blade with a wickedly curved tip—a Rending Thorn, designed to bypass most light armor. The polished steel gleamed even in the dim, dust-choked air. “You… pathetic *worm*,” she hissed, her voice raw, scraped thin by rage. “You think you can challenge me with parlor tricks? With copied dust and smoke?” She punctuated her words with a violent sweep of the Thorn, slicing through the air a hand span from his face. “I will flay the skin from your bones, boy. And then I will find your sister and finish what the Decay started.” Tadek coughed, a dry, ragged sound. The cheerful mask was gone, shattered by the explosion and Zyta’s venomous threat. “You won’t touch her,” he rasped, the words tasting like ash. He backed away, his gaze darting, searching for anything, a shard, a loose piece of timber, something he could use. His head spun. The Echoes were quiet now, the room devoid of his power. He was just Tadek again, a former apprentice mortician, bruised and cornered. She lunged, a blur of motion. Tadek threw himself to the side, rolling clumsily over a pile of broken planks. The tempered Thorn bit into the wood where his head had been a heartbeat before, sending splinters flying. He scrambled to his feet, but Zyta was relentless, closing the distance, her good arm strong and swift. She drove the hilt of the blade into his gut, a sickening crunch that emptied his lungs again. He doubled over, gasping, tasting bile. [Physical Trauma Detected. Minor Rib Fracture. Mobility Impaired.] Another System message, a cruel reminder of his fragile mortality. He stumbled back, clutching his side. Zyta laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “You’re nothing without your little light show, aren’t you? Just a weak, trembling lamb.” She raised the curved steel high, preparing a killing blow. As the blade descended, Tadek’s world narrowed to a pinpoint. The glint of steel. The acrid tang of dust and blood. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen death up close. A different scene, muted by time, flared in his mind. Not the Perch, but a quiet, solemn room. The scent of embalming fluid and lilies. The hushed whispers of mourners. The cold, unfeeling slab. His hands, smaller then, but steady, holding the tools of his father’s trade. The lancet, the forceps, the curved needles. His parents. Their funeral. The day the sky had torn open, and the blue screens had descended upon humanity. They had been amongst the first to succumb, their lights extinguished by the arbitrary whims of a new, brutal world. He remembered the feeling of an incision blade in his hand, a precise, balanced weight. The fine edge, polished to a mirror sheen. He’d helped his father, even then, learning the delicate dance of anatomy, the pathways beneath the skin, the vulnerability of flesh. He knew where the major arteries lay, the tendons that connected muscle to bone, the precise points that would cripple without killing, if one chose. Zyta’s blow was a hairsbreadth from striking. But in that instant, a single, potent Echo flared to life within him, drawn from the deepest, most primal part of his being—not from the System, but from the raw, indelible experience of grief and a forgotten calling. He pushed himself forward, not away, an impossible, desperate move. Zyta blinked in startled disbelief as he closed the gap. His hand, shaking from pain and exhaustion, snapped out. It wasn't empty. Gleaming in his grip, impossibly, was a scalpel. Not a crude blade, but a professional’s tool, surgical steel honed to an invisible edge, a direct Echo from the most precise, unyielding instruments of his former life. It hummed with a quiet, lethal grace. He didn’t aim for her chest, nor her throat. He didn't have the strength for a killing blow. Instead, with a final, desperate surge of will, Tadek drove the small blade with practiced precision into the soft underside of Zyta’s left forearm, just above the wrist. A quick, practiced slice. Not a deep cut, but one designed to sever. He knew the anatomy. He knew the tendons. A shriek, sharp and sudden, tore from Zyta’s throat. The Thorn, heavy and suddenly useless in her grip, clattered to the floor, her fingers splaying open, severed tendons refusing to obey. “You… you *bastard*!” she screamed, clutching her gushing arm, her face twisting in agony and disbelief. “What was that?” Tadek pulled back, the scalpel vanishing into thin air, his reserves once again utterly depleted. He swayed, lightheaded, but the cold, satisfying anger that had fueled him remained. He had disarmed her. The predator was wounded. And for the first time, truly, he saw fear in her eyes.

Echoes of a Funeral