For a horrible moment Vasin thought he was the target, and banked away, diving to gain speed before pulling up on the far side of the Godroad.

He was safe.

But he had never been in danger.

He recognized the spat creature as a Murker, one of the lesser perils of the Ruby lands. One legend had it that Murkers were created from the reflections of vain people. That those who looked too long into the Wild’s waters left a piece of themselves behind. Another legend had it that when an unwanted baby was drowned in the swamp, its body would turn into a Murker when it touched the bottom.

This one was typical of its kind. Like a short and rubbery child, with grey-white skin and webs of gauzy flesh lidding nostrils, ears, eyes, and flapping in the spaces between fingers and toes.

It wailed as its arc took it onto the Godroad, circling its arms as if trying to arrest its motion and reverse away. With a wet smack, it landed, and immediately, there was the smell of burning. For nothing of the Wild could endure the Godroad for long. All demons feared it with good reason, and this Murker was no exception.

It flailed and tried to roll itself clear, but Quiverhive had pitched it into the centre of the Godroad, and within seconds it was too blind with pain to think. Each movement only enhanced its suffering, and so it rolled back and forth, disintegrating before Vasin’s eyes.

He wondered if he were witnessing some kind of execution. Though he did not understand the intricacies or the factions, he knew that the powers of the Wild often fought amongst themselves.

Quiverhive stuffed a second Murker into its mouth and spat it after the first. To Vasin’s amazement he saw it follow the exact same arc and land on the other Murker’s still twitching corpse.

Before this one had a chance to die, Quiverhive spat a third Murker, to make a stack on the first two. Vasin watched and Quiverhive watched, the scales flipping open and staying that way, as if it strained to see the details.

The first Murker had been reduced to a few chunks of ash that were already being dispersed by the wind. The second was dying, its struggles enfeebled, its skin aflame. The third was also dying but slower, partially shielded by the bodies of its fellows.

With a full body convulsion, Quiverhive propelled itself forward and up, forcing half of its bulk out of the water. Until its snout came to rest on top of the third Murker.

The creature grunted and squirmed as it was crushed beneath Quiverhive’s weight, but Quiverhive kept still, as if holding its breath.

Vasin found he was holding his. He was witnessing the impossible. Since the end of the Unbroken Age, the Godroads had been a safe haven for humanity and had formed an impassable barrier, hemming the demons within.