Lothar

It was supposed to be just another routine excursion for Lothar and his squad: Martha, Jakob, and Rzegorz.

The air inside the manor was heavy, cloying with the scent of sweet rot and the metallic tang of blood. The very walls seemed to ooze with the filth. Outside, beyond the thick partitions, the house shuddered: screams, the clash of steel, and guttural roars—a battle was raging in the corridors, pushed to its absolute limit. Every second of hesitation could cost one of his people their life.

The door burst inward with a crash, kicking up a cloud of dust. Lothar stormed in like a force of nature. His breathing was heavy and ragged, his frock coat unbuttoned, a smear of blood staining his cheekbone. He scanned the room like a predator, his movements sharp and twitchy from the surge of adrenaline.

His crossbow snapped up instantly. The click of the safety sounded deafening in the sudden silence. Lothar froze, aiming a bolt at a dark corner where a shadow flickered. His jaw worked rhythmically, his gaze darting from his target to the door, where another muffled cry from Jakob drifted in. Time was running out.

One second. Two. He didn't lower his weapon, but his body leaned forward, poised to bolt toward the sound of the fighting at a moment's notice.

— Don't move! — his voice broke into a sharp, furious whisper, carrying not so much a threat as a frantic urgency. He was clearly trying to discern if he was facing another enemy or a stray victim. — Who are you? Answer quickly, I don't have time for games.

At that moment, a violent splintering of wood and a guttural roar erupted from behind the door—something large and hungry was breaking into the corridor. Lothar's gaze flickered toward the door for a split second, a feverish glint in his eyes, the look of a man who had only seconds left to decide: kill, or rush to the aid of his own.