The mop struck the dog's muzzle with a hollow thunk, more broomstick than blade. Yet the creature reeled, its snarls warping into something almost human—a laugh. The fluorescents flickered, staining the café in strobes of sulfur-yellow. Erion's breath came ragged as the beast circled, paws leaving scorch marks on the linoleum.
"Thrice-cursed," he hissed, the old tongue slipping out. The dog's ears twitched. Recognition.
It lunged again, jaws snapping at his throat. Erion pivoted, muscle memory yanking him into a swordsman's stance. The mop handle parried teeth, splintering.
He grappled the creature, their struggle knocking over chairs, sending sugar packets snowing. A carafe shattered, and the smell of stale coffee bloomed sharp as gunpowder.
This isn't happening. Hallucinations. Withdrawal. The rationalizations crumbled as the dog's claws tore his apron. Its breath reeked of burnt hair and myrrh—just like the pyres. Reality was unraveling, and part of me wanted it to. To stop pretending. To stop counting cracks.
He slammed the beast into the counter. The espresso machine shuddered, spewing steam. For a heartbeat, the dog's form blurred, and I saw *him*—the boy I couldn't save at Vel'Sharra, eyes wide, mouth a silent scream.
The vision froze Erion. The dog writhed free, lunging—then jerked backward, yelping. Lila stood in the doorway, phone flashlight blazing. "Eddie? What the hell—?"
The light seared the creature. It dissolved into smoke, threads of shadow snaking toward the floor drains. Silence fell, broken only by the drip of coffee and Erion's trembling hands.
Lila stepped forward, kicking at the remains of a chair. "Was that… a dog? Did it have glowing eyes?"
"Raccoon," Erion rasped. "Big one."
She doesn't believe me. Of course she doesn't. But she plays along, fetching bandaids while I lean against the freezer, legs jelly. *Raccoon.* Pathetic. But lies are lighter than the truth.
Her fingers brush mine as she hands me the antiseptic. "You're shaking."
"Adrenaline," I lie.
"Uh-huh." She eyes the claw marks on the counter. "Funny. Raccoons don't usually melt."
He said nothing. She took a photo of the scorch marks.
By dawn, the café was superficially intact. Mr. Park arrived, cursed in Korean about "vandals," and docked Erion's pay for the broken carafe. Lila lingered, snapping shots of the floor tiles where the shadows had fled.
"You should've seen him, Mr. Park," she said, grinning jaggedly. "Eddie went full John Wick on that trash panda."
Erion scrubbed harder at an espresso stain. John Wick. Another hero. Another lie.
Later at night,
Sleep doesn't come. The ceiling cracks have multiplied—twelve now. I trace them like battle maps. The dog wasn't here for me. It was feeding. On what? Regret? Time?
Lila's text buzzes: "Found something. Meet me at the library?" Attached, a photo of a medieval tapestry—a knight fighting a hound, threads fraying at its paws.
The black dog of Annwn. Devourer of worlds.
My finger hovers over Delete. But the threads are already pulling taut.
At the library, Lila spread out photocopies. "So," she whispered, "either you're cosplaying an RPG 24/7, or…" She tapped a woodcut of a knight, his armor streaked with starlight. Erion of the Shattered Citadel.
He stood abruptly, chair screeching. "Stories. Just stories."
"Stories don't leave scars." She caught his wrist, thumb brushing the old burn encircling it. A slave brand from Kareth's oubliettes. "You know these symbols. You flinched when I showed you the dog."
Outside, thunder growled. The lights flickered.
She's a scholar. She'll dig until she drowns in truths that'll curdle her sanity. Push her away. Now.
But her eyes are alight—not with fear, but hunger. The same hunger I had before the Citadel fell.
"What if," she said slowly, "your world and mine aren't as separate as you think?"
The storm broke. Rain hissed against the windows, and somewhere in the distance, a dog howled.