Chapter 24: What Lies Beneath
A blur of motion—erratic, unnatural.
Vyn barely registered the movement before instinct took over. His body twisted, feet skidding across damp earth, his lungs seized as the twin daggers carved through the space where his throat had been a heartbeat ago. The displaced air cut sharp against his skin.
Too fast.
Joran reacted next. His spear lashed out, intercepting the next strike with practiced precision. Steel met steel, the impact sending a metallic screech through the clearing, a flash of sparks in the dark.
Melo didn’t stop.
Didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t move like a man.
His body stuttered through reality—a smear of existence one moment, solid the next. He pressed forward, then materialized at the edge of vision without crossing the space between. His limbs contorted at impossible angles, joints bending backward, muscles rippling beneath skin that couldn't contain what he was becoming—like something else wore his flesh as an ill-fitting disguise.
Not human.
Not anymore.
Joran barely twisted away from the next strike, his lungs tightened. “He’s—not fighting right.”
There was no rhythm. No pattern. Just relentless, unpredictable violence.
Melo’s form shimmered. His camouflage rippled like a mirage, fragments of his body bending, blending into the background. One moment visible, the next a smear of color against the forest.
Vyn’s breath hitched. His eyes darted—tracking. A brief flicker. A shift in the light.
There.
Melo snapped back into view—already mid-strike.
Joran barely had time to react. His spear came up, but the angle was wrong.
A shock ran through his arm as Vyn deflected Melo’s dagger an inch from Joran’s ribs. The force sent Melo skidding back, his feet digging into the dirt. He shuddered—twitched—like his body hadn’t fully registered what happened.
The spearman adjusted his stance, chest rising and falling with a sharp breath. Frustration burned in his voice.
"He’s too nimble…"
Vyn knew. They both did.
Melo’s movement—it was more than speed. More than skill. It was something wrong. He flickered like a mirage, like a shadow severed from reality. They were barely tracking him, let alone countering.
Then—
A sound.
A boom that rolled through the earth like a heartbeat beneath their feet.
Vyn’s stomach dropped. That was not thunder.
Joran stiffened beside him. His eyes—wild, sharp—snapped to Vyn. His voice was a whisper of rising panic.
"That was—"
Ny’Kelos.
The village.
The enemy gave them no room to react.
Melo moved.
Not stepped, not lunged—moved. His form blurred, distorted, snapping between existence like a flame guttering in and out. No telegraph. No warning.
Joran caught the flicker—too late.
The dagger lashed out.
Joran saw it coming. He had time. A fraction of a second—but he hesitated.
His mind faltered. His body lagged behind.
Vyn didn’t hesitate.
A sharp breath. A shift of weight.
His foot planted.
Then—he kicked.
Joran barely had time to process before the impact slammed into his chest, knocking the air from his lungs. His balance broke—stumbling, falling, tumbling—backward, toward the village.
Melo’s strike missed.
But only
Vyn felt the whisper of air as the dagger’s edge kissed his arm—just enough for his skin to feel it, to burn with the thought of what could’ve been.
Joran hit the dirt hard, skidding, coughing. "Vyn—!"
Vyn’s voice snapped like a whip. "Go."
Joran hesitated. A second. Half a second.
Then he saw it.
The fire in Vyn’s eyes.
Unyielding. Absolute.
A look that left no room for doubt. No room for argument.
Joran’s throat bobbed, dry as scorched earch. His fingers curled into fists.
Then he ran.
Melo’s head jerked. His body twitched—an unnatural motion, like something inside him was puppeteering his limbs on impulse. His gaze tracked Joran, muscles tightening.
Predator instinct.
Vyn didn’t let him follow.
He stepped forward. Blade raised. A wall between Melo and the retreating shadow of his friend.
Melo flickered.
Then he pounced.
The first strike came at an impossible angle—twisting mid-motion, logic-defying, a fractured movement that should not have been.
Vyn barely managed to react.
The second came before he could reset his stance.
Too fast.
The dagger bit deep.
Pain.
Sharp. White-hot. A tear through his side.
Vyn hissed, staggering back.
Melo pressed in.
. A broken marionette of blurred limbs and glitched motions. His body snapped, convulsed, twisted—unnatural, not human
A war drum beat inside his skull. Melo’s camouflage flickered—unstable. His Catalyst was interfering with his motor control.
We can use that.
Another strike.
Vyn twisted, just barely—a breath away from the blade finding his ribs. It scraped against his armor instead, the impact vibrating through his bones.
Too wild. Too fast.
Vyn swung wide—a desperate counter. His sword cut air.
Gone.
Melo vanished.
A whisper. A shimmer in the dark.
Then—a sound.
Faint. Unnatural.
The briefest flicker—a delay.
His free hand snapped to his belt.
Vyn’s fingers tightened.
One motion. Precise. Clean.
A flick of his wrist—a whisper of steel shifting against itself.
The hidden mechanism in his sword stirred, like a beast unfolding from sleep.
A trigger locked into place with a quiet, final click.
A bowstring coiled tight—a breath held before release.
A whisper of wind.
Then—the arrow flew.
Not straight.
Not direct.
It curved.
A subtle arc—imperceptible, a whisper in the dark.
Melo flickered into sight, mid-motion—shifting, attacking, lunging for Vyn’s throat.
But the arrow was already there.
It struck.
Deep.
Right under the ribs.
Melo jerked.
Not a scream. Not a gasp.
Just a violent, shuddering twitch—like something inside him was unraveling.
His mouth opened—too wide. Too wrong.
Then—a violent shudder ran through him.
His body folded in on itself, spine arching at an impossible angle. The Catalyst pulsed beneath his skin like lightning trapped in a bottle. Reality frayed around the edges of his silhouette.
With a sound like glass shattering in reverse, he simply.
Gone.
Silence.
Vyn stood there.
Bleeding.
Panting.
His mind still racing, still clawing to process. His fingers still gripped his short sword—shaking.
Because he had felt it.
That moment.
Where the world had aligned.
It wasn’t just instinct.
It wasn’t just reaction.
It was something else.
Something deeper.
Something his.
Then—
WHHUUMPH.
The ground shuddered.
Screams split the sky.
Ny’Kelos.
No time to think.
No time to rest.
Vyn ran.
Ny’Kelos
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Figures breaking from the dark.
And then—
Chaos.
Havrin lunged—a blur of motion, his Catalyst-warped body surging forward with unnatural force. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Orinai, his breath ragged, his movements driven by something beyond rage. Beyond reason.
A single, merciless strike.
Orinai barely had time to register it—barely even moved. His mind locked up, his body rooted in place. The world around him slowed—Havrin’s axe descended upon him—
Somewhere, beneath it all—Nyri’s scream split the night, thin and fragile, like glass breaking underwater.
And then—
A blur of motion.
Steel against steel.
Ren.
He had appeared out of nowhere. No hesitation, no thought. His daggers were already up, crossed in a desperate block. Havrin’s strength crashed down like a hammer, the sheer force behind it nearly folding him in half.
Ren’s feet slid back. The impact jarred through his bones. His injured arm screamed in protest. Blood splattered against the dirt—his wound had reopened, fresh red soaking his sleeve.
Havrin grinned. Wild. Bloodthirsty.
Ren clenched his teeth.
“Fuck”
The next strike came down.
Faster. Harder.
Ren barely twisted his blades to block—
The force launched him backward.
He hit the ground hard, skidding across the dirt before—
BTHOOM
His back slammed into a tree. His vision snapped white. Blood spurted from his lips as the impact rattled his ribs. His daggers slipped from his fingers, falling uselessly at his sides.
A scream. Raw. Desperate.
“REEEEEENNNN!”
Taren and Elda screamed.
They ran towards him. With Daelin and some other warriors in tow.
Orinai.
The boy stood frozen. Wide-eyed. Staring into the madness, but not seeing it.
The dead guard in front of him. His hands trembled. His lips parted in silent horror.
The battle. The screams.
He didn’t want this to happen.
He forced the air from his chest, steadying himself against the weight of what came next.
His boots crunched against the dirt as he stepped forward, movements precise, deliberate.
This was unfinished business.
“Orinai.”
No response.
Korvan’s fingers flexed.
A quiet pulse of Catalyst flickered beneath his skin.
“You tricked us.” His voice was calm. Too calm. Measured.
The kind of calm that preceded violence.
Orinai still didn’t react.
Korvan moved forward.
One step.
Two.
“I should kill you for that.”
Orinai flinched.
But before Korvan could take another step—
The air shook.
A roar split the battlefield. Manic. Unhinged.
Korvan gritted his teeth. Catalyst energy hissed across his skin, his muscles straining as he pushed back against the sheer force behind the strike.
His gaze snapped upward.
Havrin.
The man’s face twisted in pure madness. His bloodshot eyes were wide, his grin stretched too far. His entire body convulsed—veins bulging, muscles distorting.
A walking nightmare of Catalyst-induced fury.
His voice came out in a guttural snarl, teeth bared.
“The little worm played us! More than half of us are dead!
HE—DOESN’T—DESERVE—TO—LIVE!
Havrin wrenched the axe back and swung again—straight at Korvan.
Korvan's voice dropped to a temperature that could freeze blood. "The kids are off limits."
His arm blurred upward—
The axe stopped mid-swing.
The collision reverberated through the earth like a buried explosion, fracturing the soil in jagged lines that sprawled outward from his feet.
Havrin’s eyes widened.
Korvan’s grip tightened around the axehead—not just holding it. Crushing it.
Something in his arm was changing.
Not human. Not anymore.
Havrin snarled and wrenched back, breaking the grip. His Catalyst screamed inside him—more. More. MORE
He swung again.
Korvan dodged. Barely. The edge of the axehead tore through the air just inches from his throat.
Again.
Korvan leaned back—a single precise movement, just enough to evade the wild arc.
Again.
Korvan ducked. Havrin wasn’t stopping.
It was a storm—a relentless flurry of brutal, sweeping arcs, every strike fueled by monstrous, unnatural strength. Each missed blow sent shockwaves through the battlefield, the sheer force splintering the dirt beneath them.
Korvan's face remained an emotionless mask.
But his movements betrayed him.
A slight delay in his reactions. The whisper of fabric where blades should have missed by inches. Sweat beading at his temples—the first sign that his control was slipping.
Havrin’s Catalyst was ripping him apart. But it was working.
Korvan wasn’t faring any better.
Outside the Hall of Talking Fire
The mercenaries broke through.
They surged past Havrin and Korvan, bodies warping mid-charge. Flesh twisted, bones cracked and reset. Their Catalyst energy pulsed, distorting them into something no longer human.
The front lines buckled.
A warrior let out a strangled gasp as a mercenary’s arm pierced straight through his chest—a grotesque limb that had fused into a jagged, spear-like extension. His blood sprayed in the air as he was hurled aside like a broken doll.
Another warrior screamed, his body convulsing as a clawed hand tore through his throat.
The battlefield was unraveling.
Then—a sound cut through the chaos.
A chime pierced the chaos.
The sound burrowed past hearing into sensation—a vibration that traveled through soil into bone marrow, resonating inside the hollow spaces of their skulls. It began as a whisper beneath the percussion of battle, barely there yet impossible to ignore.
Then—
A high-pitched shriek exploded across the battlefield.
Agony.
Taren roared in pain, hands flying to his ears. The world tilted beneath him. It felt like something was stabbing into his brain.
“FUCK—!!” he bellowed, stumbling. Blood leaked between his fingers, trickling down his face.
Elda clenched her teeth, her entire body trembling. “Shit—what the FUCK is that?!”
All around them, warriors collapsed, writhing on the ground. Some bled from their noses and eyes, Catalyst energy flickering in violent instability.
Kai staggered back, vision blurring. The air felt wrong. Off-balance. Warped.
He barely registered the shadow lunging for him.
Clawed fingers reached for his throat—
A blur of silver.
A glass vial arced through the air.
It shattered against the dirt.
Smoke erupted outward.
Varis’ voice cut through the ringing, sharp and commanding. “NOW!”
The thick, acrid fog consumed them. The shriek of the bell muffled—just slightly, just enough.
Kai’s mind crystallized into focus. He twisted, his dagger driving up into the mercenary’s gut, twisting deep before ripping it free. The creature screeched, Catalyst energy spluttering from its wound.
Taren stumbled forward, breathing hard. His skull still felt like it was splitting apart, but he forced himself to move.
Then—
Through the haze of battle, they saw him.
A towering figure, arms raised.
The Bell Mercenary.
A massive, grotesque man, flesh warped and stretched, a chiming bell embedded into his chest, vibrating with unstable Catalyst energy.
His mouth curled into a twisted grin. He was enjoying this.
“Fucking die already,” Taren spat, staggering forward.
The Bell Mercenary grinned wider.
Then—he brought his arms down.
The sound hit like a tidal wave.
A second chime. Louder. More violent.
Elda screamed, nearly collapsing. Her eyes blurred with pain, her balance nearly gone.
"DAMN—"
Darkness gnawed at the corners of Taren's sight like hungry shadows. Each heartbeat hammered against his skull, each step a negotiation with limbs threatening mutiny—
But he claimed every inch of ground through sheer defiance.
The Bell Mercenary’s grin flickered. He hadn’t expected them to still be standing.
Elda gritted her teeth. Blood dripped down her face, but her grip coiled tighter,a snake constricting its prey.
“Launch me,” she growled.
Taren blinked, still disoriented. “What?”
She shoved him. “FUCKING THROW ME!”
Taren’s mind barely processed before he moved.
He planted his shield down, bending low. Elda sprinted.
Then—she leapt.
Taren threw his full weight up, his shield catapulting her into the air.
The Bell Mercenary’s eyes widened. As did the others around them.
Elda crashed into him.
She landed on his shoulders, daggers plunging into his eyes.
The Bell Mercenary screamed.
A raw, mangled shriek. His hands thrashed wildly, trying to rip her off.
Elda clung on, twisting the daggers deeper.
“TAREN!” she roared.
The warriors from Ny’Kelos didn’t miss a beat.
He was already moving.
He bull-rushed forward, slamming through the remaining warriors in his way.
The warriors from Ny’Kelos didn’t miss a beat.
Two more warriors—barely holding on through the bell’s effect—charged with him.
The Bell Mercenary staggered.
Taren slammed into him.
The force sent them both crashing to the ground.
Elda twisted away at the last second, rolling free.
“Taren didn’t hesitate.
His shield came down like the closing of a casket. Once—the crunch of bone caving inward. Twice—a sharp, wet rupture, flesh giving way. The third—final. A death knell in the dirt.”
He panted, his vision still spinning. His arms shook.
The battlefield snapped into clarity.
For a single, fleeting second—there was silence.
Then—battle resumed.
Taren wiped the blood from his mouth, glancing over his shoulder.
The mercenaries were still standing.
The bell’s death had stopped the disorienting waves, but the remaining Catalyst-warped enemies were still tearing through the warriors.
Four of them left. Still strong. Still dangerous.
He glanced to his left.
Daelin wasn’t looking at the battlefield.
His gaze was locked on something else.
Orinai.
Daelin’s expression flickered with something—concern.
But then—his eyes landed on something that made his stomach drop.
Nyri.
She was running toward Orinai.
Straight toward the chaos.
His grip turned white-knuckled skin stretched taut over bone. His breathing quickened.
But he couldn’t go after her.
Not yet.
Because the fight wasn’t over.
Screams rang in the village.
He shifted his attention back to the battlefield.
And charged.
Amidst the Chaos
Nyri ran.
Her vision warped, the battlefield a storm of movement and blood-soaked earth.
The ringing wouldn’t stop. A high-pitched shriek, burrowing into her skull like shattered glass scraping against bone.
The taste of iron coated her tongue, copper-thick.
Blood trickled from her ears, hot trails cutting through the dirt smudging her face. Every step sent fresh pain rattling through her skull, but she gritted her teeth and pushed forward.
She had to reach him.
Orinai.
She spotted him through the chaos—a statue in a world on fire.
He wasn’t moving. Not even blinking.
He stood like a man turned to stone from the inside out. His arms dangled uselessly, fingers gnarled into half-fists that shook without purpose. Each shallow breath barely disturbed his chest.
His eyes—vacant windows to a house no longer inhabited.
Nyri’s breath hitched.
No. No, no—
She reached him. Grabbed his shoulders. Shook him, her grip tight, desperate.
“Orinai!”
Nothing. Not even a flinch.
His skin was cold.
His hands—shaking.
His lips parted, a breath catching in his throat, but no words came out. No sound. Just emptiness.
Nyri gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay steady.
“Orinai, LOOK at me! We have to move!”
His head tilted slightly, his gaze drifting. But not toward her.
Beyond her.
Nyri felt it. The shift. The way his body coiled, tensed like a thread pulled too tight.
She turned.
Her stomach plummeted.
Across the battlefield—Korvan and Havrin.
The world around them blurred, as if they were the only ones left in it.
Korvan was staggering, his body unraveling at the seams, his skin shifting—no, breaking.
Havrin stood over him. Grinning.
His Catalyst-warped form loomed, pulsing, his presence suffocating.
Orinai’s breath hitched.
His pupils dilated.
Something inside him snapped.
Not broke.
Snapped.
Like a dam crumbling beneath pressure too long contained, like fine crystal shattering under the resonance of a note it was never designed to withstand.
His breath left him in a choked, ragged gasp. His fingers clenched, his entire body locking up, his shoulders curling inward.
His eyes—wild.
Panic. Terror. Rage.
THUD.
A shadow shifted behind them.
Nyri’s stomach twisted.
Something was there.
Lurking. Watching.
Waiting.
Too close.
A long, distorted limb crept into view—curling, stretching unnaturally toward them.
Nyri sucked in a sharp breath.
“MOVE!”
Her body reacted before her mind did—she slapped Orinai, hard enough to snap his head to the side. His breath hitched, eyes flying wide.
Good.
Because they were out of time.
Whatever was behind them was gaining.
Nyri grabbed Orinai and ran.
And as they moved, she heard it—
The sound of something breathing just behind her ear.
Korvan & Havrin
Korvan blocked low.
Havrin’s fist slammed against his forearm like a hammer.
Pain rang through his bones, reverberating.
Korvan pivoted—fluid, efficient. He stepped inside Havrin’s reach, trying to jam his elbow into the man’s gut—
The crazed man didn’t flinch.
Instead, he bore a deranged grin.
The counter had done nothing.
Korvan barely had time to react before Havrin’s knee drove into his ribs. A brutal, sickening CRACK.
Pain exploded through him. His feet skidded back, boots dragging against the dirt as he fought to stay upright.
He drew in a ragged breath before releasing it, bracing his stance. Keep moving. Stay on defense. Wait for an opening.
Havrin laughed.
“Agh—hahah! That’s all you got?” His voice twisted into a snarl.
He lunged again.
Korvan ducked. The wild fist cut inches above his skull. He rolled to the side, pivoting into a low stance, his body protesting with every motion. His ribs screamed.
His body was failing him.
Havrin wasn’t slowing down.
The man was a storm—wild, relentless, Catalyst energy pulsing off his skin like a furnace ready to burst. His limbs twitched, muscles bulging unnaturally.
And Korvan could feel it.
He’s burning through everything.
This wasn’t just a surge. It was a meltdown.
But Havrin didn’t care.
Another punch. Too fast.
Korvan twisted—his body barely responding in time. He caught the blow on his forearm, but the force drove him back again. His feet slid through the dirt.
Another.
Korvan swayed, letting the fist brush past his cheek by a hair’s width.
Air caught in his throat, shallow and uneven.
His limbs felt wrong.
Havrin’s Catalyst was devouring his body. Korvan’s was twisting his.
He could feel it coiling beneath his ribs, behind his skin. Something pulsing—something trying to push outward.
He forced it down.
Havrin snarled. “You always—” Another punch. “Always looked down on us.”
Korvan barely dodged.
Havrin’s grin widened.
“You thought you were better.”
Korvan tried to move—too slow.
Havrin’s fist caught his side.
Blinding pain.
Korvan gasped, body folding. His vision snapped white.
Havrin’s voice was a growl.
“Always acting like you had it all figured out.”
Another impact.
Korvan twisted, forcing his body to comply. He lashed out with a counterstrike—an elbow to Havrin’s ribs. A clean hit.
It did nothing.
Havrin’s laughter broke through the battlefield.
“I HATED THAT.”
His hand clamped around Korvan’s throat.
Air stalled in his throat.
His fingers snapped up, gripping Havrin’s wrist, trying to break free—
Havrin lifted him off the ground.
Korvan choked. His boots left the dirt.
The sky tilted.
No.
His body spasmed.
Something inside him tore open.
Havrin’s grin stretched wide.
His Catalyst surged wild and rabid—a torrent of raw energy corroding his body from within.
Korvan's, by contrast, wasn't simply activating.
It was fracturing the very vessel meant to contain it.
A deep, wet CRACK.
Havrin froze.
A violent shutter wracked him, his form rippling like fractured glass.
His limbs contorted.
His fingers weren’t fingers anymore.
Havrin’s grip trembled.
Korvan hissed a breath through clenched teeth.
A snarl.
His skin ruptured.
Not from wounds.
From something underneath.
And Havrin saw it.
For the first time—he hesitated.
“What the fuck—”
Korvan's posture shifted.
The defensive stance of prey dissolved.
In its place—the coiled patience of a predator.
The hunt had begun.
Korvan’s last human thought flickered, then vanished. The rest was instinct.
His clawed hand shot up—gripping Havrin’s arm.
A squeeze.
CRACK.
Havrin howled.
His Catalyst flared wildly, his entire body thrashing, muscles bulging unnaturally—
But Korvan wasn’t letting go.
Havrin’s snarl twisted into something else.
Korvan’s golden eyes burned through him.
And then—he squeezed.
A sickening
Havrin’s Catalyst ruptured.
His body convulsed.
His grasp turned to steel, rigid and unbreakable.
Tighter.
Tighter.
He pulled and something gave.
Flesh.
Bone.
The wet, sinewy snap of a body that shouldn't have been forced apart.
Havrin’s body split.
Catalyst energy sputtered violently from his torn flesh—his final snarl choking into silence.
Then—nothing.
Korvan staggered.
His form cracked, rippled.
The change wasn’t stopping.
Couldn’t stop.
Each inhale was a growl, primal and raw.
His hands weren’t hands.
Not anymore.
They curled, claws glinting in the firelight, shaking with something barely restrained.
Korvan’s head jerked, his pulse pounding through his skull.
The battlefield blurred.
He could feel every heartbeat. Every breath.
Every movement.
A voice—far away.
A scream.
His head snapped toward it.
Something lurking beyond the fire.
A creature.
Its elongated limbs stretched toward something small.
Someone.
Korvan moved.
Faster than thought.
Faster than instinct.
A blur of shadow and golden fire, his monstrous form disappearing into the battlefield.
Outside Hall of Talking Fire
Taren’s breaths came in a ragged burst, each inhale burned, labored, a battle itself. His shield arm was numb. His entire body ached.
Elda wiped a streak of blood from her cheek—someone else’s. Probably. She wasn’t sure.
Daelin spat onto the dirt. His blade dripped crimson, the weight of the fight settling into his muscles.
They weren’t winning.
Not yet.
The Catalyst-warped mercenaries still stood. Still moved. Four of them. More monster than man, their bodies twisted into grotesque shapes. Too fast. Too strong.
The Bell Mercenary was dead, but they were still losing warriors. Every second that passed, the tide pressed harder against them.
A sharp clang.
Taren barely lifted his shield in time to block an overhead strike, the impact rattling through his bones. A jagged, misshapen arm bore down on him—longer than a normal limb, pulsing with warped muscle, its fingers ending in black, jagged claws.
It wasn’t human anymore.
Taren pushed. A brutal, raw shove. The mutated warrior reeled back, but not far. Not enough. It was adapting.
A scream.
Taren’s head snapped to the side.
One of their warriors jerked to a sudden stop—a grotesque limb bursting through his chest, splitting ribs apart like snapping twigs. He gasped, blood bubbling at his lips, his body shuddering once before crumpling like discarded cloth.”
Elda gritted her teeth.
“I’m tired of this,” she growled, ducking under a wide swing and slicing deep into the creature’s side. The blade bit flesh—no, something harder, like stone—but didn’t sink deep enough.
It lurched toward her.
Taren barreled forward, shield-first. The force of the impact drove it back, crushing it into the splintered remains of a nearby structure. Wood cracked. Bones cracked. But it still moved.
“These things don’t go down easy!” Daelin snapped, twisting as another came for him. He barely dodged a grotesque swipe, the air shuddering from the sheer force. He countered with a precise thrust, his sword burying deep into its ribs.
It staggered—then lunged.
Daelin cursed, barely rolling away in time. It wasn’t dead. Not even close.
“Focus!” Taren roared. His pulse thundered in his skull. His vision narrowed. They needed to finish this.
Then—everything stopped.
A breath.
A twitch.
And the battlefield fell into silence.
The kind that comes before something much, much worse.
