Givon’s voice, normally a flat monotone of subservience, cracked with genuine terror. “—for the night! They hunt anything that moves within the outer perimeter.”
Zarbek blinked. The gilded tuning-chisel, still clutched in his hand, felt suddenly inconsequential. “The… the *what*?”
“The Shard-fangs, My Lord! The beasts Rostavar uses to ‘cleanse’ the gardens of undesirables. Six-legged monsters bred to scour the dunes. They don’t just hunt; they shatter stone into powder.” Givon’s eyes, usually downcast, darted frantically towards the heavy, reinforced door of the Sun-Glass Vault. “He’s doing it. He’s finally springing the trap. They’re coming for you.”
“For *me*?” Zarbek’s mind reeled. This wasn’t a trap; this was an *execution*. A public, gruesome execution, with the beasts tearing him limb from limb. The sheer theatricality of it was classic Rostavar. And he’d been so focused on Pelag, so convinced his brother was the immediate threat, that he’d missed the real danger entirely. His stomach knotted, acid burning his throat.
“No, no, no, not like this!” he shrieked, his voice echoing off the silent walls of the Vault. “I’m not dying in a garden! Not when I have so much loot still to acquire! Not when I haven’t even finished arranging my escape route!”
He scrambled, dropping Pelag’s chisel with a clatter, his gaze sweeping the disordered pile of scrap glass, salvaged quartz panels, and discarded signal emitters that formed his growing hoard. This wasn’t just a stash; this was his *survival*. He needed a barricade. A final, desperate stand.
“Help me, Givon!” Zarbek barked, already yanking at a massive, dull silicate slab that had once been part of a training dummy. “We need to block the door! Now!”
Givon, surprisingly, didn’t hesitate. He seized the other end of the slab, his lean frame straining, his eyes still wide with dread. “My Lord, it’s useless! These beasts are tuned to ignore physical barriers. They resonate *through* solid objects!”
“Then we build something they *can’t* ignore!” Zarbek snarled, already picturing the droning, discordant lattice of energy he’d accidentally cobbled together. The silica-beast core. It was volatile, unpredictable, but it was *his*. It had absorbed every harsh, sour tone from his hoarded junk. If Rostavar’s pack moved to pure pitch, an unstable, screeching burst might break their focus.
He dragged the heavy slab in front of the Vault’s entrance, then began piling other pieces of junk against it. A broken frequency condenser, a stack of warped glass tiles, a defunct environmental regulator—anything that could add mass and baffle a clean signal. Givon shifted debris with uncanny precision, moving with the fluid poise of an experienced skirmisher.
“The core! Get the core!” Zarbek yelled, pointing to the whirring, oddly beautiful mass of fused glass in the corner. Its low thrum vibrated through the floor, a constant, unsettling presence. “We’ll put it right here, at the epicenter of our glorious, off-key death trap!”
Givon hefted the surprisingly heavy, strangely warm object. “My Lord, if this detonates…”
“It won’t detonate!” Zarbek snapped, though he wasn’t entirely sure. “It’ll confuse them! It’ll deafen them! It’ll make them question their life choices! Just put it there!”
Givon carefully hoisted the pulsing core atop the precarious pile, its discordant thrum echoing off metal brackets and jagged slag. The entire pile rattled under the core's irregular vibrations. Zarbek backed away, wiping sweat from his brow, his eyes fixed on the door. He could already hear it, a low, guttural growl that resonated through the very foundations of the building.
The growl intensified, morphing into a series of sharp, percussive impacts against the outer wall of the Vault. A deep rumble shook the flagstones, followed by an ear-splitting crack. Then another. And another. The thick, adamantine door of the Vault, designed to withstand siege, began to visibly flex inward.
“They’re here!” Givon whispered, drawing a short, gleaming knife from somewhere within his simple robes. His placid expression had vanished completely, replaced by a focused intensity that was almost frightening. He moved in front of Zarbek, shielding him with his body, the knife held in a defensive stance Zarbek instinctively recognized as highly trained, Oskari-level combat. Givon, the snack-fetcher, was a warrior.
Zarbek stared, momentarily distracted from his impending demise. Givon? A bodyguard? What a waste of talent. He should be running errands.
The door groaned, then burst inward with a deafening *CRASH*, splintering into jagged shards of alloyed quartz. The barricade of scrap, along with the whistling beast-core, collapsed beneath three lanky, six-legged shapes. Their bodies shifted beneath translucent mineral plates, claws grating against flagstones like glass scored by diamonds. Their eyes, twin points of emerald fire, locked onto Zarbek.
Givon didn’t hesitate. With a feral cry, he lunged, his knife a blur of silver, aiming for the lead hound’s glowing flank. But before he could connect, the first beast easily bypassed him, obsidian talons gouging white grooves across the polished floor.
The other two ignored Givon completely. They moved with terrifying speed, covering the distance to Zarbek in a single, blurring lunge. Zarbek braced himself, squeezing his eyes shut, ready for the tearing claws, the gnashing fangs, the horrific disintegration he’d been warned about. This was it. The end. His glorious, hoarding life, cut short by Rostavar’s sadistic sense of humor.
Instead, he was tackled. Not torn, not bitten, but *tackled*. A crushing weight slammed into him, knocking the wind from his lungs, sending him sprawling to the cold floor. He opened his eyes, expecting to see a maw of jagged fangs. Instead, he saw a wet, rough tongue. And another. And another.
The beasts, those supposedly lethal sand-scourers, were not attacking. They were… licking him. Vigorously. Enthusiastically. Heavy muzzles butted against his chest, thick tails whacking the pavers with heavy thuds. A low, rumbling sound emanated from their throats, not a growl of aggression, but something akin to a purr. Their emerald eyes shone with slobbery canine affection. The sour vibration rolling off the dislodged core seemed to delight them, driving them to nuzzle Zarbek harder, treating him like an off-pitch chew toy.
Zarbek lay there, stunned, soaked in beast slobber, as the terror slowly bled out of him, replaced by a profound, bewildering confusion. Givon, meanwhile, had frozen mid-lunge, his knife held uselessly in the air, his face a mask of utter disbelief.
A slow, measured clap echoed from the shattered doorway. Lord Rostavar stepped into the ruined Vault, his silken robes unruffled, a faint, indulgent smile playing on his lips. His gaze swept over the demolished door, the scattered scrap, the bewildered Givon, and finally, settled on Zarbek, currently being affectionately groomed by three enormous beasts.
“Ah, there you are, my little shard-spark,” Rostavar chuckled, smooth and grandfatherly. “I wondered where you’d gotten to. The pack seemed quite eager to find their new master. I had them attuned to your frequency, you see. Your tone, while hardly conventional, makes a distinct beacon. They’re simply delighted to meet you.”
He watched as one of the hounds, a hulking brute with sapphire-tinged plates, nudged Zarbek’s cheek with its wet nose, letting out a happy whine. “Consider them your personal escort, nephew. They will keep you safe and keep you company. True family bonding, wouldn't you say?”
Zarbek pushed weakly at the beast currently using his head as a chin rest. His executioners were… guard dogs. Affectionate, slobbering guard dogs. And Rostavar had known this all along. The man was a monster.
Rostavar’s gaze shifted from Zarbek to Givon, who still stood like a statue, his knife glinting. The Lord’s smile widened, a chilling, predatory curve that held no amusement. “And Givon. How very convenient, wouldn’t you say, my dear nephew? To have such a highly-trained individual, so adept at protecting you, to carry your bags to the Prismatic Astrolabe?”