Chapter 17 | Part 3

“I’ll go.”

Elion said it simply, as if he were offering to fetch water rather than volunteering for something that might kill him.

Drusniel had explained the situation carefully—knowledge of a goblin settlement, direction and distance, terrain that would take days to cross on foot. He’d left out how he’d acquired the information. Neither Elion nor Srietz had asked.

“You’re not recovered.” Drusniel studied the shapeshifter’s face, noting the pallor, the slight tremor in his hands. “The shifts during our escape—”

“Were minor. This would be… different.” Elion looked toward the cave entrance, toward the wilderness beyond. “But I’m the only one who can cover that distance in time. I’m the fastest. And I know how to move through Wyrmreach without being seen.”

“You know through memories that aren’t yours.”

“Still knowledge. Still useful.” A pause. “I’ve done this before, Drusniel. I know what it costs. I’m choosing to pay it.”

Srietz had been silent through the discussion, curled in his corner with an expression that was impossible to read. Now he spoke.

“Srietz has a question. What happens if the transformation… doesn’t work?”

“It always works.” Elion’s voice was flat. “The question is what shape I’m in afterward.”

“And what shape is that?”

“Usually? Barely functional. Sometimes worse.” He met Drusniel’s eyes. “I won’t lie to you. There’s a chance I don’t come back. Not because I won’t try, but because the transformation takes everything I have, and traveling after uses what’s left. If there’s not enough left…”

“Then why risk it?”

“Because if I don’t, we all die slowly in this cave.” Elion’s expression shifted—His mouth twitched, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve survived worse odds. Probably.”

Drusniel wanted to argue. Wanted to find another option, another solution that didn’t require gambling with someone’s life. But every path he traced led to the same place.

Elion tries and maybe dies. Or they all wait and definitely die. He hated both options. He hated that those were the only options.

“What do you need from us?”

“Space. You won’t want to be close when I change.” Elion moved to the center of the cave, away from the walls, away from them. “And Drusniel—don’t use magic. Whatever you see, whatever sounds you hear. The transformation is… visible. Magical sight would make it worse.”

“I understand.”

“You don’t. But you will.”

Elion closed his eyes. For a moment, nothing happened. He stood in the faint phosphorescent glow, breathing slowly, and Drusniel wondered if the shapeshifter had changed his mind.

Then it began.

The first sound was a crack—bone, unmistakably. Elion’s spine bent in a direction spines weren’t meant to bend, vertebrae sliding and reforming under skin that rippled like water over stone.

Drusniel forced himself to watch.

Srietz scrambled backward, hands pressed against his ears. “Srietz did not know. Srietz takes back what Srietz said about wanting to understand—”

More cracking. Elion’s arms stretched, elongating, joints multiplying. His legs folded backward at angles that made Drusniel’s stomach lurch. The sound of flesh tearing—not external, but internal, muscles reorganizing, tendons reattaching to new anchoring points.

Drusniel made himself watch. Made himself remember every detail, because someone should remember what Elion was willing to become for them.

But understanding felt impossible. This was watching something unmake itself and become something else—not a transition but a destruction and reconstruction, simultaneous and agonizing.

Elion’s face was the worst. The bones shifted beneath skin that stretched too thin, revealing shapes that had no business existing. His jaw elongated. His skull narrowed. His eyes migrated, just slightly, to positions better suited for what he was becoming.

He didn’t scream. Drusniel didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

The smell hit next—copper and sweat and something burning, like flesh being cauterized from the inside. The phosphorescent glow seemed to pulse in response, or maybe that was just Drusniel’s vision blurring from trying not to look away.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Time lost meaning in the face of what was happening.

When it ended, Elion wasn’t Elion anymore.

The creature in the center of the cave was built for speed—long, low, angles designed for running rather than fighting. Nothing Drusniel recognized. Nothing from any bestiary he’d ever studied. Just… efficient. Brutally, horrifyingly efficient.

It looked at him with eyes that still held something familiar. Then it turned and was gone, moving into the darkness faster than anything that size should move.

The silence that followed was absolute.

“Srietz will not sleep tonight,” the goblin said eventually, voice shaking. “Srietz will not sleep for many nights.”

Drusniel sat down heavily. His legs had stopped working somewhere during the transformation, and he hadn’t noticed until now.

“Neither will I.”

The cave felt emptier without Elion. Colder. The phosphorescent glow seemed dimmer, or maybe that was just the contrast with what they’d seen.

And now we wait. And hope he comes back.

Hope. He’d nearly forgotten what that felt like. Watching Elion destroy himself to save them had reminded him—reminded him that hope and horror could occupy the same moment, the same decision.

He settled in against the obsidian wall and began counting.

One hour. Two. The phosphorescent glow pulsed overhead, marking time in light instead of sound. Srietz didn’t move from his corner. Neither did Drusniel.

They waited. It was the only thing left to do.

End of Chapter 17.3 —> 17.4: The Second Choice: The Wait