The beavers moved quickly once the order had been given. Word spread like wildfire across the region, carried in wooden canoes and along narrow forest trails. Within the hour, boats paddled downstream, bringing workers and elders from neighboring towns. I allowed them to gather—under the condition that the dismantling of the dam was done in a controlled, orderly manner. It was a calculated risk, but one I was more than willing to take. If they deviated from the plan, they would all drown in fire or water. Their choice.

  Naturally, I remained hidden from the newer arrivals. There was no reason to expose myself more than necessary. The village chief, to his credit, did his best to convince his peers. I watched from the shadows, listening in. Their suspicion ran deep, but desperation was deeper still.

  When I finally stepped into their tense meeting, I made no sound. Their argument died mid-sentence. One glance was all it took—just one. I removed the contact lens from my right eye and showed them the colour beneath.

  Silence.

  Vampires. The word was never spoken, but it echoed through their collective mind. I didn’t even know what my kind had done to earn such a visceral legacy—whether it was fact, myth, or convenient propaganda. But whatever it was, it worked. Not one of them challenged me.

  Yet I could feel their hatred. Their simmering resentment. Their growing urge to rebel, even if it meant death.

  By nightfall, I stood atop the dam, holding what might as well have been a Damocles sword—not a blade, but a torch, burning low but steady in my right hand. It was all I would need. Fire, pressure, and gravity would do the rest. My actual sword, dull-edged from the mountain climb but still heavy with authority, rested in my left.

  The work began beneath a sky scraped clean of clouds, moonlight pouring down like molten silver. Hundreds of beavers swarmed across the structure, lit by flickering magical lamps and the occasional glowing crystal embedded in the wood. Their movements were efficient, their paws quick, but I knew better than to believe their obedience was sincere.

  Occasionally, I moved to a different section of the dam, never staying long in one spot. I was acutely aware that they might attempt to sabotage the portion I stood on, hoping to send me into the abyss below. I’d seen betrayal too many times to believe in surface-level compliance.

  An hour passed. A slow, crawling hour of boredom and tension. The creak of timbers, the rhythmic clatter of tools, and the soft murmuring of beaver voices filled the night.

  Then, from above—wings.

  A few harpies descended, their feathers catching the moonlight. They wheeled silently above me, talons stretched and eyes scanning the crowd below. Instantly, the beavers reacted. Bows were drawn with a unity that bordered on reflex. Arrows whistled upward, but the harpies were faster, dodging through the air in wide, mocking loops.

  I tilted my head. Something was strange.

  A few of the harpies weren’t attacking—they were carrying things. Pots. Ceramic or maybe metal, the kind of containers you used either for cooking or… for war.

  I didn’t know what they were planning, not yet. But I knew enough to be intrigued.

  Behind me, the sounds of the beavers’ work began to shift. Less regular. Less rhythmic. More... careful. Calculated.

  “Miss vampire,” a voice called out from behind. I turned, my eyes narrowing as a lone figure approached me. The old beaver shuffled forward on all fours, his movements slow and deliberate. The others—his fellow villagers—followed suit, mirroring his actions as they closed in. As the beaver stood upright, they each drew their bows, pulling back their strings with precision and hostility. They were ready to strike.

  I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. The betrayal was expected, but the timing… it was laughable. I shifted my stance, eyes drifting over the long line of beavers, all poised to strike. It was utterly useless.

  I took a slow step forward, inching closer to the dam’s edge, as though to give them the faintest taste of victory. The soft ripples of the river far below me were drowned out by the weight of the moment. “The beaver council rejected your proposal and declared you our enemy. Surrender at once,” the leader said, his voice shaky but firm. “Your weapon is dull, and you are alone.”

  Boredom washed over me like a tide, my patience worn thin. I glanced down at the torch in my hand. "Well, any piece of metal can be used for bashing a few beaver heads open," I said, my voice calm, almost detached. “I guess I have no choice, then.” With a casual flick of my wrist, I lifted the torch high, the fire sputtering in the cool night air. My lips curled into a faint smile. “You should have shot me while you still had the slightest chance.”

  In the next heartbeat, I lunged backward, launching myself off the dam’s edge with reckless abandon. A hundred arrows shot from the bowstrings in unison, their deadly tips slicing through the air like a swarm of hornets. For a moment, I was weightless, suspended in midair as I plummeted.

  The world around me became a blur of motion and impending death. The dam, the arrows, the beavers’ shouting—all of it faded as the ground rushed up to meet me.

  Then, impact. My legs slammed into the hard, unforgiving surface of the dam. The force of the landing sent shockwaves through my body. The torch nearly slipped from my hand, but I managed to keep my grip on it—barely.

  I slid. A violent, bone-jarring slide down the surface of the dam, my skin scraping against the coarse, rough wood. The friction was agonizing, tearing at my body, pulling pieces of flesh off with each agonizing second. My blood splattered across the surface, a trail marking my descent. The waterfall, roaring just beside me, threatened to swallow me whole as I hurtled downward. The fear of the impending drop clawed at my chest, but there was no time to think. Only survive.

  The pain of the friction was unbearable—skin and muscle ripped away as I slid farther, faster. My legs screamed with every inch of movement, but I fought to keep my grip. I had to keep going. I had to.

  After what felt like an eternity of falling and scraping, I finally managed to angle my sword—now dull, barely an extension of my will—against the dam’s surface. I thrust it into the wood, hoping for the familiar bite of steel against soft timber. But the wood was tougher than I expected. It didn’t give easily, despite my best efforts. I gritted my teeth as I pressed my body against the dam, pushing harder, creating more friction to slow my descent.

  Pain bloomed in my body, but I ignored it. The sword finally bit deep enough to make a difference. Splinters of wood dug into my flesh, but I held on.

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  For a long moment, I rested there, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Blood pooled around my body, staining the wood beneath me, but it didn’t matter. I healed. My wounds closed, my skin pulled together like a second chance. Thirst increased rapidly, but not enough to drive me wild. I waited for a minute—no more—until I had the strength to move once more, torch still gripped tightly in my hand.

  I pressed the torch to the wood, desperate to ignite the dam, to set it ablaze before they could react.

  But it didn’t work.

  I watched, stunned, as the wood darkened but refused to burn. It was like nothing I had ever encountered. The wood was too dense, too fire-resistant, too wet. No matter how much I pressed the torch against it, the fire sputtered and struggled, but it wouldn’t catch. The surface blackened in futile resistance, but the fire simply wouldn’t spread.

  Frustration welled up inside me. “Fuck,” I muttered under my breath. The plan had failed. Of course, it had. It was too simple to begin with. I had underestimated the dam, just like I had underestimated the beavers’ ability to sabotage me.

  The water wasn’t just a threat—it was their lifeblood.

  I gritted my teeth as I realized the magnitude of my failure. I had hoped the fire would spread quickly, an uncontainable force that would force the beavers to flee. But now, I had nothing. No way to push forward. No way to make them see reason.

  I had expected the betrayal from the beavers. That was the easy part. What I hadn’t anticipated was the durability of the dam. The beavers, those stubborn, arrogant creatures, had engineered something truly indestructible. And now, I was trapped.

  If this failed… everything would be lost. The elves would never side with humans against the Devourer, and the humans would turn their back on me the moment they realized I was the one who led them into this mess.

  I pressed the torch harder against the wood, though I knew deep down that it wouldn’t work. My mind raced with every passing second. The weight of failure crushed me, but there was no time to wallow in it. If I didn’t find a solution soon, this failure would cost me everything.

  Suddenly, a section of the dam to my right groaned and creaked as it swung open, revealing a wooden platform forged only moments ago. Three archers stepped out onto the precarious ledge, bows drawn and aimed squarely at me.

  “By the gods…” I muttered, eyes widening as I surveyed the structure anew. This wasn’t merely a dam—it was a damn fortress.

  Annoyed by the sudden turn of events, I shoved my feet against the dam’s surface and leapt away, my limbs stretching out wide as if to embrace the void. I abandoned the useless sword behind, feeling its weightlessness as it slipped from my grasp. The torch followed in a wild arc toward the archers, but my aim betrayed me completely. It tumbled through the air, striking the wooden walls repeatedly as I plummeted downward, desperately trying to slow my fall.

  “Wohooo!” I couldn’t help but laugh, the rush of the fall filling me with a manic exhilaration. The thought of crashing painfully onto the ground below was a distant worry compared to the thrill of freefalling through the cool night air. My hair whipped wildly around my face, strands caught by the wind, and the hem of my dress fluttered violently, a chaotic dance in the gale.

  I twisted midair to watch the world below rush ever closer. The roaring waterfall thundered beside me, a constant reminder of the peril awaiting at the dam’s foundation—the stone wall I had noticed earlier that night, cold and unyielding.

  A sudden grip seized my arms. The familiar strength of a harpy’s grasp yanked me from the abyss just as the ground threatened to claim me. My shoulders ached under the sudden strain, joints protesting the harsh force, but even then, I couldn’t suppress the wild laughter bubbling from my lips.

  With frantic, powerful beats of her expansive wings, the harpy arrested my fall, halting us a full hundred meters above the earth. The night air rippled with the force of her magic and might as she hovered, wings thrumming like a living drumbeat, holding me safe—at least for now.

  “Do you want to die that badly?” a voice screamed through the wind, sharp and unmistakable.

  “Death is temporary,” I called up to her with a wild grin. “Can you bring me back up? My life depends on destroying this dam. And honestly? I’m having the time of my life right now!” My laughter echoed through the night, a little unhinged but genuine.

  She hovered, wings beating steadily as she shot me a wary glance. “You’re insane. That wood isn’t just any timber—it’s magically enhanced. And there are hundreds of those mongrels inside. This isn’t a simple dam; it’s more like a city.”

  Her words made everything click. No wonder the towns I’d seen floating on the water could raise something so massive. They weren’t just builders—they were magic wielders.

  “Magically enhanced, huh? Is there a way to remove that enchantment?” I asked, already turning possibilities over in my mind.

  The harpy hesitated, her feathers ruffling in the breeze. “You...”

  I cut her off, finishing her thought with a smirk, “Can?”

  She sighed, then nodded. “In theory, yes. There has to be a mana source inside. You’d recognize it if you saw it, but… how the beavers enchanted the dam? That part’s a mystery even to me.”

  Better than nothing. “Perfect. Now I just need to find a way inside.”

  Simple plan: destroy the mana source, burn down the dam. Dumb but straightforward.

  Her expression darkened. “There are hundreds of archers posted on the dam. Getting in by normal means is suicide.”

  I rubbed my chin, considering. “Agreed. But there’s got to be some way inside, right?”

  “They open their embrasures whenever we come near, trying to block anything suspicious,” she said, gesturing to the opening to my side—the one I’d dangled on earlier.

  “That’s my way,” I said with a nod. “I’ll need some of your friends to act as bait.”

  I looked up, locking eyes with her, waiting for her answer.

  “Alright.” Her answer caught me off guard. I expected hesitation, maybe outright refusal. Yet, here she was, ready to put herself—and her kin—on the line.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Why are you helping me? What’s in it for you?”

  She folded her arms, her crimson feathers ruffling slightly in the wind. “Generations ago, this basin wasn’t flooded like it is now. It was wild land, teeming with animals—perfect for us harpies to call home. But then the beavers came, building these massive dams. The water level rose, swallowing our hunting grounds, our nests. We fought back, but their arrows claimed too many of our people. The elders gave up, retreating to higher ground—only to see those places drowned after heavy rains. They destroyed our homeland. We want revenge.”

  Her words struck a chord, raw and filled with centuries of loss. Though my trust was cautious and begrudging, I found myself relying on their hatred—for now, at least.

  She lifted me high into the cold night air until we reached a group of young harpies, their eyes burning with the same restless hunger. They revealed what they’d brought along: a small salamander, barely larger than a fist, who unleashed fiery bursts when squeezed just so.

  Together, we shaped a brutal plan—to set the dam ablaze, reduce it to ash, and reclaim the basin for the harpies, even if only until the beavers rebuilt their fortress and the water returned. Whether the harpies could stop the beavers next time wasn’t my concern. What mattered was the flood—the destruction—watching it wash away everything in its path, including two armies waiting to clash.