Adventure of Zathuric Star 3

The Wounded Survivor drags themself toward the altar, one shaking elbow at a time, bloodless lips set with effort.

Their knee catches a crate. Supplies spill across the stone floor, clattering loud under the baby's cries.

Outside, the pounding at the stained glass sharpens. The bowed window frame groans harder, and dust sifts down in a thin veil.

Zathuric Survivor keeps the altar rail wedged tight with both hands as the iron barricade shudders, then buys a breath of space before it gives again.

Zathuric Survivor digs in harder and levers the altar rail into the bowing frame. The iron bites stone, the shuddering at the window changes pitch, and the pressure spreads through the barricade instead of through one weak point.

The rail holds. Dust rains off the cracked glass, but the frame stops lurching inward and settles into a tense, grinding tremor.

The spilled supplies lie within reach on the stone floor, skidding in a slow arc from the earlier stumble. The newborn's cries cut through the room, sharp and alive.

Outside, the pounding does not fade, but the breach does not widen either. The church holds for the moment, and everyone inside feels it.

Zathuric Survivor shifts off the rail long enough to stoop for the scattered kit. He hooks a strap, drags a pouch free, then sweeps the rest into both hands before they can slide under the altar.

Bandages, folded cloth, and a metal tin clatter together in his grip. One small bottle rolls, but he pins it with his thumb and keeps moving.

The Wounded Survivor hears the renewed pounding at the window and turns their head toward the sound, then toward the narrow path beside the altar.

Outside, the frame gives one hard shiver. Dust spills in a thin gray curtain, and the newborn's crying sharpens into the only clean sound in the room.

The Nurse reaches out for the supplies, eyes flicking once to the window, once to the wounded body on the floor. The barricade still holds, but the next blow is coming.