Butch and his Demi-god family

The dark line beyond the ford answers at last, not as a stain, but as a rift. It shivers open in the stone seam, jagged and bright with wrongness, and the knot of shadow before Butch throbs in time with his own magic.

Brin stiffens at Butch's side, their healed wrist held close to their chest. Sable shifts one step forward, sword low, eyes fixed on the opening like she expects something to crawl through it.

The air snaps with ozone. The shadow at Butch's feet peels loose, stretching up in his shape, a mirror of tusks, bulk, and hunched power.

The double stands where Butch stands, but not quite. Its edges ripple, its face is all grin and void, and it lifts one clawed hand as if testing the lock between worlds.

The chamber groans around them. Stone dust rains from the ceiling as the mirror-shadow leans toward Butch, and the rift widens another finger's breadth.

Butch drives straight into the double, shoulder first, and his massive grip clamps around its ribless shape. The mirror-shadow jolts, hissing as if cold iron has found its skin.

He wrenches downward and away from the seam. For one hard breath, his own shadow stretches thin between them like a snapped tether.

Brin flinches back, hand tight at their wrist, while Sable steps in with her blade angled to cut off any lunge toward Butch.

With a brutal twist, Butch tears the thing clear. Black threads whip free from his shadow and snap back into his feet, leaving the mirror form shuddering apart.

The rift gives a shriek of cracking stone, then gutters weaker, its light paling as dust pours heavier from the ceiling. The path behind them remains choked and narrowing.