Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
The ancient sea gnaws at the shoreline, spitting debris across the sand like the remnants of a shipwreck. Amidst the wreckage, the swaddled infant initially seems strange driftwood—out of place and doomed to drown among the frothy waves. Mist rolls in from the ocean, mingling with the tang of salt and decay. Bleached seaweed drapes over half-submerged bones that protrude like ghosts of the land's forgotten past—the air trembles with the distant hum of churning tides. Near the water's edge, a single figure stands, tall and resolute against the bleary horizon, while another hovers close, uncertain as the ruin at her feet.
Triactis moves with careful intent, eyes scanning the shore, and his posture is one of focused determination. His presence is the only solid thing in this shifting world of mist and driftwood. As he spots the unexpected burden among the scattered debris, he hesitates, though only for a moment, and then approaches the bundle with the same resolute grace that defines him. His breath fogs in the cold air as he crouches, and the relentless sea casts another wave at his boots, eager to claim what it lost. He reaches with steady hands, cradling the tiny form with the care of a man familiar with the weight of life and death.
Leonida stays back, mist clinging to her silver hair, her eyes darting between Triactis and the restless surf. She shifts her stance, a silent battle with herself as she watches him lift the child into the air. Doubt hangs around her like the fog, but something else, too—an unformed curiosity, a spark of interest. She draws a ragged breath, unwilling to speak, unsure of the words that might come.
The coastline stretches around them, a barren crescent under the slate sky, and every detail of the landscape underscores their moment of discovery. Driftwood lines the beach in jagged tangles, sea-polished and bright against the sand. Patches of dense fog swallow the land in slow, silent gulps. As Triactis stands, the cry of a gull pierces the air—a stark, lonely sound above the wash of waves. It fades into the rumble of the tide, leaving the shoreline eerily quiet again.
He holds the infant close, inspecting the wrappings and fragile limbs. His expression is deep contemplation, like a general revising plans in the face of the unexpected. Yet there is also softness, a gentleness foreign to his soldier's face. He turns toward Leonida, eyes meeting hers with the full weight of understanding. He sees the truth in the child's arrival: this is a beginning, an end, and a summons.
Leonida watches him with an intensity that seems out of place against her initial reluctance. She steps forward, sand crunching beneath her boots, a testament to the resolution within her. This child, this mystery—Triactis has already decided what it means. She can sense his certainty as plainly as she feels her misgivings.
The mist thickens, swirling around them like the promise of something more significant, the air heavy with portent. Leonida's mind spins with questions, each more urgent than the last, but she bites her tongue, letting them crowd her thoughts rather than the open air. What does this mean for them? For her? She's known no rival, no peer—until now, until this small, breathing challenge delivered by the sea itself.
Triactis's body language speaks louder than words. His strong and unwavering arms cradle the child with the tenderness of newfound purpose. There is a certainty in his movements that reveals more than mere duty—something akin to hope, a rare and precious thing for him to possess. He sees this arrival as an omen, destiny manifesting on the bleak shore.
Leonida struggles against the same tide, her emotions as tangled as the driftwood at their feet. Resentment and curiosity wrestle within her, each refusing to give ground. She takes another step closer, fists clenched, trying to see what Triactis sees in the fragile bundle. Her features are drawn tight with the effort of restraint, her usual composure cracking under the weight of this unexpected upheaval.
They exchange glances again, the silent language of family, soldiers, and exiles. Triactis breaks the silence first, his voice low and resolute. "We cannot ignore this," he says, cradling the infant with the conviction of a man unafraid of consequence.
Leonida nods, her voice barely above a whisper, but edged with defiance. "And what if this changes everything?"
Triactis meets her gaze, unflinching. "Then everything must change."
The air is still between them, the world holding its breath. Leonida breaks the tension, a fierce determination kindling behind her eyes. She steps forward, resolve in her every motion, joining Triactis in accepting this new, shared fate. Her fingers brush the child's forehead, hesitant yet possessive, acknowledging what cannot be denied.
"His name," she says, her voice stronger now, more confident. "We should give him a name."
Triactis nods, the faintest trace of a smile—something only she would recognize, an echo of shared years and unspoken bonds. "Kalon," he says, the word firm and decisive, a naming and claiming both.
And with that, the sea's claim is broken. They turn away from the roaring surf and swirling mist, walking together along the desolate shore, back to the life they thought they knew. The world around them is stark and bleak, but the infant is warm in their arms. Above them, the gull cries again, but this is an answer.
(10 Years Later...)
The children's sparring has the rhythm of an ocean squall, all tension and ferocity as they crash and retreat in the dirt of the practice yard. Leonida lunges, and Kalon twists, youthful limbs pushing the bounds of balance as they test their strength and speed against one another. Leonida presses forward, quick and relentless, driving Kalon back until something in him catches fire. A desperate parry, and his form lights with unearthly strength. Her blade is thrown from her hands as she lands hard in the dust. Kalon stares down in disbelief, energy dancing on his skin.
Leonida is back on her feet instantly, her face flushed with anger, pride, and something else—a reluctant admiration. She brushes off her clothes, retrieves the sword, and scowls at Kalon, her breath coming fast. "You cheated," she accuses, but her eyes glimmer with humor.
"Maybe," Kalon replies, voice light and teasing, still awestruck by his power. He offers her a hand, but she waves him off, refusing to acknowledge the gesture of victory.
Triactis approaches, his tall form casting a shadow over the children. His expression is a mixture of approval and caution, eyes lingering on Kalon as if trying to see through the mystery of the boy's strength. "Again," he commands, the single word holding encouragement and challenge.
They reset their positions, dust kicking up around their feet, determination setting their jaws. The world narrows to the practice ground, each other, and the rhythms of the contest.
Kalon knows nothing but this life, this endless dance of training and rivalry. He basks in the comfort of it, even as his newfound strength pushes the bounds of what he understands. The farm in Southern Ravenholm stretches wide around them, its meadows and hills fading into thick, sheltering woods. A long way from the sea and the uncertainty of his first days, a long way from anything but Triactis's watchful care.
"Ready?" Leonida calls, her voice confident, taunting, breaking into Kalon's thoughts.
"Always," he grins, and the practice yard comes alive again with the clash of swords and young, fierce voices.
The sunlight softens as afternoon deepens, casting a warm glow over their homestead's sprawling fields and rugged landscape. Triactis stands at the edge of the training ground, arms crossed over his broad chest, a silent sentinel over the children's efforts. His presence is reassuring, a constant against the backdrop of shifting skies and growing shadows. He watches Kalon and Leonida with the steady gaze of a man who has dedicated his life to guidance, seeing in their struggles both the echoes of his past and the seeds of their future.
He intervenes at just the right moments, stepping in to offer instruction or correction with the precision of a seasoned tactician. "Kalon, control your energy. Feel its rhythm," he advises, his voice carrying the weight of experience and the warmth of mentorship. He turns to Leonida, who attacks with fierce determination. "Don't let your emotions rule you. Use them."
She nods, setting her jaw with renewed resolve, sparring as if the world depends on it.
Triactis's role in their lives is more than that of a trainer. He is their anchor, protector, and authority figure tempered by genuine affection. There is a depth to his care that speaks of unspoken promises and unseen burdens. He moves among them with the warrior's dignity and the father's tenderness, a contrast that defines him and his commitment to their growth.
Kalon feels this care every moment, from the structured days filled with training to the quiet evenings where Triactis shares stories of valor and loss. He is the father Kalon has always known, and his belief in Kalon's potential is both a comfort and a challenge. There are moments when Kalon glimpses a hint of sadness behind Triactis's kind eyes, a ghost of concern about a future that Kalon is only beginning to imagine.
"Again," Triactis calls, the word a mantra, a promise. The children's laughter rings out over the valley, mingling with the call of distant birds and the rustle of the wind.
The challenge between Leonida and Kalon simmers beneath the surface of every interaction, fueling their rivalry and growth. Leonida's competitive nature is a fire that never dims, driving her to push herself—and Kalon—beyond their limits. She demands a rematch after a rematch, relentlessly pursuing victory and validation.
"Kalon," she taunts, tossing a practice sword at his feet as the sun hangs low on the horizon, "or have you already forgotten how to fight?"
He picks up the sword, meeting her challenge with a playful and serious grin. "I won't go easy on you this time," he warns. Knowing it masks her more profound need to prove herself, he enjoys the banter.
They square off again, Triactis observing with pride and concern. Leonida is fierce and focused, pushing Kalon with all the skill she has honed through years of training. She forces him back, her intensity unmatched until Kalon feels that familiar spark within him. He hesitates, unsure, and she takes full advantage, knocking him to the ground with a triumphant laugh.
"Yield!" she declares, breathless and triumphant.
Kalon sits in the dirt, more stunned by his failure than by the fall. He looks at his hands, then at Leonida, his young face a mix of frustration and admiration. "You got lucky," he says, but his voice lacks conviction.
Triactis steps forward, offering Kalon a hand up, his touch firm and reassuring. "Your strength is not in luck, Kalon. It's in understanding. The day will come when you'll need both."
Leonida's eyes flicker with satisfaction and a flicker of something else—something unsettled. Kalon's power is both a challenge and a shadow over her, one she cannot yet comprehend. She turns away, eager for more practice, more proof of her worth.
Outside the arena, their lives are a tapestry of routine and exception, stitched together with moments of camaraderie that reveal their bonds. There are shared chores and stolen moments of laughter, times when the weight of training gives way to the levity of youth.
Kalon and Leonida find themselves sprawled in the grass one warm afternoon, breathless from racing each other across the fields. The sky is a brilliant canvas above them, and their voices echo in the open air, free from the demands of sparring.
"Triactis won't be happy," Kalon laughs, brushing dirt from his clothes. "He'll make us run laps until dark."
"Then we'll have a head start," Leonida counters, a grin splitting her face. Her competitive spirit was never entirely at rest, but softened in these moments of play.
They lapse into comfortable silence, the sounds of nature their only company. These moments show the depth of their relationship, the familiarity that can only come from shared history. Yet, beneath the surface, there's always an edge, an unspoken awareness of the rivalry that divides and binds them.
"Why do you always have to win?" Kalon asks suddenly, the question half-teasing, half-serious.
"Because someone has to," Leonida replies, her voice light but her eyes holding the weight of a truth they both know.
It's an answer that says more than words should at their age. It's the essence of their dynamic—unresolved and raw, but undeniably theirs.
Another day, another session on the training grounds, and Kalon's power grows more apparent with each passing moment. The sun burns high and hot as he faces Leonida once again, Triactis observing with his usual mix of focus and fatherly concern.
The duel begins with familiar intensity, but Kalon's energy feels different this time, more controlled, more potent. Each swing of his sword crackles with latent strength, and even he seems startled by the force of his attacks. He struggles to contain it and wield it with the precision Triactis demands.
"Control, Kalon!" Triactis calls out, his voice cutting through the heat of the day. "Feel the balance."
Leonida is undeterred, her determination as fierce as the desert sun. She presses on with skill and tenacity, refusing to let Kalon's growing power overshadow her. But the energy radiating from him is palpable, and he sends her sprawling with a single, unintentional blow.
She lay there for a moment, more stunned by his strength than by the fall itself. Her face flushed angrily with the sting of being bested, and she glared up at him, defiant and burning bright. "You can't even control it," she snapped, the accusation barbed and bitter.
Kalon extends a hand, his expression a mix of confusion and apology. "I didn't mean to—"
But Leonida pushes his hand away, frustration turning her movements sharp. "I know," she says, but the words hold a different truth: I can't compete.
Triactis steps in, sensing the fracture between them, the growing pains of young hearts and powerful destinies. "Kalon, come with me," he says, his voice a balm against the sting of the moment. He leaves Leonida to wrestle with her doubts, knowing she will rise again, more determined than ever.
In the quiet of the barn, away from the clamor of training and rivalry, Triactis and Kalon sit together in the softening light of evening. The smell of hay and warm wood fills the air, comforting against the uncertainty surrounding them.
"Kalon," Triactis begins, his tone gentle yet firm, "you have a gift that comes with great responsibility."
Kalon listens, his young face serious, absorbing the words with eagerness and trepidation. "But I can't control it," he admits, voicing the fears that have haunted him since the first spark of power.
"You will," Triactis assures him, the conviction in his voice steadying Kalon's wavering confidence. "In time. But you must be prepared. The world beyond our valley is vast and dangerous. You need to understand both your strengths and your limits."
He places a hand on Kalon's shoulder, its weight as comforting as the words he imparts. "Do not be afraid of your potential. Embrace it, but never let it rule you."
Kalon nods, the gravity of Triactis's message settling into him. He looks at the man who has been his mentor, his father, his guide, seeing for the first time the worry etched in the lines of his face—worry not just for Kalon but for all that lies ahead.
"What if I fail?" Kalon asks, the vulnerability in his voice a rare crack in his determined facade.
Triactis smiles, a tender, knowing smile. "You won't," he says, and there's something like pride in his eyes.
Even as the days grow more intense with training and expectation, the balance between the three of them remains—at times strained, at times affectionate, but always present. The rhythm of their lives pulses around it, a steady heartbeat against the backdrop of the wild, untamed land.
In the last light of dusk, they face off one final time, Leonida and Kalon circling each other in the sun's fading glow. Their movements are sharp and deliberate, each feint and strike carrying the weight of all that has come before. This time, there is no burst of unrestrained power, only the clean, fierce competition of two young warriors finding their place in the world.
Leonida is tireless, refusing to yield, her determination as bright as her blade. Kalon matches her pace, finding strength in his control, in the teachings Triactis has imparted. The contest is fierce and even, leaving them both breathless and triumphant.
They collapse side by side in the dirt, exhausted but laughing, the sound echoing across the darkening fields.
"You didn't win," Leonida teases, her voice a mix of relief and resignation.
"Neither did you," Kalon counters, and there's a warmth in his words, an acceptance of their shared struggle.
Triactis watches from a distance, the evening shadows stretching long behind him. His heart is whole as he sees thee, the two he has raised and nurtured, bound by more than blood and training. The ties that hold them are complex and fragile, but he knows they are strong enough to withstand the trials ahead.
In this moment, they are simply children, carefree and untouched by the weight of their destinies. In this moment, everything feels possible.
(2 Years Later...)
They come at dusk, cloaked in the dim certainty of the inevitable. Yharim's officials circle like vultures around a wounded heart, Triactis and the child at its center. Their voices are crisp as winter air, carrying the edge of absolute orders. They expect obedience; they will have it. Triactis stands motionless, unwilling to yield, unable to do anything but. He holds the child tightly, his final gift in a world where choice has withered and died. His goodbye is soft as the silent snow.
The courtyard echoes with cold, unfeeling precision. The officials' footsteps tap against stone, a metronome marking time until surrender. They come with a calculated purpose, their cloaks rippling in the chill like black banners of conquest. The world around them holds its breath, suspended between the last light of day and the heavy dark of what must come.
Triactis is a lone figure against the tide of inevitability, his silhouette stark and defiant. He grips the child with a tenderness that belies the rigid lines of his posture, an island of warmth in an ocean of frost. The years have carved him into something resolute and unyielding, yet at this moment, they have made him fragile and reluctant. He stands on the precipice of loss, knowing the demands that weigh upon him, feeling the crushing certainty of his helplessness.
The officials' presence looms, an inescapable force. Many are faceless in their collective authority, their intentions clear and unwavering. They tighten their circle, closing in like wolves, patient and relentless. The coldness of the evening seeps into everything, into stone, skin, and resolve, turning each breath into a cloud of hesitation.
Triactis resists with all he is, but resistance is necessary for those who still believe in choice. He clings to the child, a precious weight in his arms, unwilling to relinquish the life, warmth, and promise that Kalon represents. His heart is a battleground where love and duty wage war, the terms of surrender cruel and inescapable.
The standoff hangs in the air, tension coiled as tightly as his grip on the child. He knows these men, knows the will that drives them, knows there is no escaping what they demand. But still, he holds on, defying the truth that gnaws at him, the truth that has shadowed his every decision since Kalon came into his life.
The ground is cold beneath his feet, the sky above as gray and uncaring as the voices that cut through the evening stillness. He stands in the gathering gloom, an exile once more, this time from the one thing he cannot bear to lose.
Their words are sharp and impersonal, striking with the efficiency of a well-honed blade. "Triactis, you know the terms," one of them states, his voice lacking empathy or doubt. It is the sound of inevitability, the sound of decisions made long ago, before this moment, before Kalon, before anything that mattered.
Triactis flinches at the words, at the finality they bring. His hands tighten around the child, a desperate act of love and refusal. "I have taken care of him. He belongs here," he replies, but the words are thin armor against the coming storm.
The officials remain unmoved, their detachment a wall of ice against which his protests shatter. They step closer, a unity of purpose and will. Each movement is precise, choreographed by the iron hand of their master. "You cannot keep him," another insists, as cold as the encroaching night. "This has already been decided."
Triactis stands firm, but his resolve is a thing of the past, crumbling under the weight of now. He looks at Kalon, the child who brought light to his exile, who stands to lose so much more than he can understand. His heart is raw and exposed, bleeding into the frozen air, but he does not move. He cannot.
"You would make him a weapon," Triactis accuses, a thread of defiance lacing the sorrow in his voice.
A nod from one of the men, acknowledgment without concession. "He is needed. He will serve."
The words chill him to his core, yet they are nothing he hasn't known. Nothing he hasn't feared since the day Kalon washed ashore and changed everything. He turns his back to the circle for a fleeting second, trying to shield the child from the reality that closes in like a vise.
The courtyard is an arena of silence, broken only by the officials' relentless advance and Triactis's futile attempts to bargain with a fate already sealed. He cradles Kalon tighter, each moment of delay a stolen gift.
Triactis whispers a goodbye as fragile and final as falling snow in dusk. "I am sorry," he says, words meant for Kalon, himself, and the life that might have been. The tenderness in his voice is an aching contrast to the cold detachment of the men who wait to take the child from him.
Kalon stirs, tiny and trusting in the soldier's arms, unaware of the weight of love and loss surrounding him. His innocence cuts deep, a bright shard in the darkness, and Triactis holds on as if the strength of his heart might somehow defy the inevitability closing in.
But the world around them is brittle with certainty, and even love has limits when faced with the demands of an empire.
The officials press closer, their formation tightening with mechanical precision. They know Triactis, the man who raised a rival and a warrior, and they know that his will can be broken even if his spirit cannot. Their words are knives, slicing through the fragile hope he clings to: "This is your last chance. Relinquish him."
The silence is a suffocating shroud, wrapped tight around Triactis's heart. He stands on the edge of the only choice left to him, which is no choice.
He lifts Kalon to his chest, an embrace both fierce and tender, memorizing the warmth of the child's small body and the weight of a life he must surrender. The moment stretches, fragile and perfect in its pain, as Triactis does what he has always done—he loves with everything he is, and he lets go.
His arms fall to his sides, empty and cold, as he finally relinquishes the child to the officials' waiting grasp. It is an act that shatters something within him, a breach more profound than any wound of war. He stands there, exposed and vulnerable, the stark lines of his figure etched against the failing light.
The officials move with efficiency, swiftness, and unfeelingness. They take Kalon with the confidence of those who have already won, retreating from the courtyard in silence, their task complete. The shadows of their forms stretch long and dark behind them, as if reaching back to claim even the ghost of hope that lingers.
The distance between Triactis and the child grows with each step, a chasm of heartbreak and inevitability. He watches them leave, the resolve in his posture crumbling into something frail and desolate. Kalon is gone, carried off into a future that Triactis can no longer protect him from.
The world around him is stark and silent, a canvas stripped of everything but the raw strokes of loss. Triactis stands alone in the courtyard, the emptiness around him reflecting the emptiness within. His breath fogs in the cold air, each exhalation a reminder of the life he can no longer call his own.
Kalon's early sanctuary has ended, sealed by the blunt force of orders and the sharp edge of fate. The bleak landscape of Triactis's loss is a prelude to the dark and treacherous path for the child, a path marked by the shadow of an empire's ambition and the ghost of a warrior's love.
He remains there as the night descends, an exile once more, watching the distant figures fade into nothingness. In this moment, he loses not just Kalon but also the life they might have shared and the future that might have been. The stars blink into view, indifferent witnesses to his solitude, as Triactis finally bows his head and turns away.
In the vast silence that follows, a single truth echoes through the cold: There is no choice.
Chapter 2: The Court of Shadows
Chapter Text
(10 Years later...)
His name erupts like wildfire across the empire, an uncontrollable force that sears the night and blazes into banners, into toasts, into promises of heroes' feasts. Crimson lanterns glow in spectral unity. Even in the reluctant embrace of this celebration, Kalon the Unvanquished, Kalon the Peacemaker, whose infamous edge cleaves even treaties into order. Only those closest to Yharim know the measure of truth. They alone see the warmonger under all his skins. When the fireworks fade, Kalon finds his path uncluttered by rival courtiers, straight to the throne room where a more extraordinary task awaits.
Yet for now, the courtiers sing his praises as one of their own. He wears his reputation like an elegant chain, and if it binds him, none dare speak so plainly.
Gold-rimmed goblets catch the scarlet light as nobles toast him repeatedly, even as Kalon pushes past. For once, the throng lets him through, each hoping to claim some small credit for what he alone accomplished. He weaves through luxury and opulence, understanding better than any the weight of Yharim's gilded strings. They dangle everywhere—no one more than a clever puppet.
"Kalon," one lord calls, desperation gilding his tongue. "Your treaty will be remembered for ages. Won't you—"
"The Warmonger has no interest in your games," whispers another, less eager to challenge his dismissive stride.
A serving girl offers him wine. Kalon waves her away. They call him a peacemaker now, but he feels the blood of a hundred villages on his hands. It is crimson like the lanterns, banners, and sunset day as he climbs the final steps to Yharim's domain.
The hall is vast, endless in architecture, stone turned to bone beneath a tyrant's gaze. Torches burn low and sullen, but they do not die.
Yharim sits on his high throne, wrapped in glory. He does not stand as Kalon approaches; this is his way. Authority personified.
"Kalon," Yharim says, voice echoing through the chamber, laced with admiration and something colder. "Your success precedes you."
"Does it?" Kalon's voice is measured and steady. "Then my arrival is redundant."
The tyrant's laughter fills the chamber like a warm liquid, a drowning wave. "Even your humor is as sharp as your blade." He leans forward. "Tell me, do you know what the people call you now?"
"Yours," Kalon replies, a whisper that defies the vast space.
"Mine indeed." Yharim rises, each motion deliberate, a monarch in every breath. "And theirs. Do you hear it, Kalon? Your name trembles in the very air." He steps down, close enough to catch the cold in Kalon's eyes. "Do you not want more?"
Kalon watches the powerful man draw nearer, his own shadow growing and growing, threatening to swallow him. His name burns like a flame through every corner of the world. He almost believes it, but not quite.
"Tell me," he says, "what does 'more' mean for those of us already legendary?"
"It means everything." Yharim's gaze is unwavering, the full attention of a demigod turned conqueror. "More strength, power, control over what even the ancients deem impossible."
"And what must I bleed for such privilege?"
Yharim gestures, a sweeping arc of his arm, "You've given your blood already. Could you give me another? Only one."
"Which?"
"The Titan." Yharim smiles, knowing Kalon's mind is already turning and calculating. "I want Xeranoth."
Silence wraps the throne room, insulating its blasphemy. Xeranoth. Kalon feels the enormity of the name, the terror and ambition bound into a single challenge. He feels the push of fate, ancient and undeniable.
"You think I'm ready?" Kalon states, knowing he is ready or doomed.
"I think you are necessary." Yharim's voice is low and fierce, the voice of a universe spun mad by ambition. "Your fire is matched only by his. What others see as equal, you will prove unequalled. This task will etch your name into stone itself."
He sees himself, a conqueror, beneath the weight of those words. He sees the sword in his hand and the world at his feet. He sees nothing at all.
"Then I will go."
"Swiftly," says Yharim, turning back to his throne. "Return with a broken god or not at all."
Kalon steps into the hall, the corridors winding and twisting back to where courtiers scheme and grasp for things they do not know are theirs only by the tyrant's will. A broken god. Is that what he is? Even in victory, he cannot escape the tremors of Yharim's whispered demand. He is proud and ashamed and lost in it all.
His thoughts batter him like a siege. Kalon thinks of what he has done and what he will do and finds he no longer knows the difference. His life is constantly unfolding, the future curling back onto the past.
He shakes the thoughts off with a soldier's discipline. He has a task now, and in doing it, he will not think of anything else. Let them say he conquered what was impossible to defeat. Let them say he cut the heavens into pieces. He is Kalon. It is enough, even if it isn't.
The court fills his wake, his name their echo, his shadow long and unbreakable.
It is an endless scream that nearly takes him. Hell cries its song through stone and bone, a raging aria that grinds even Kalon to dust. Only stubbornness turns his path to victory. He fights on through molten shadows, through smoke and fractured sky. Time fractures as well. Moments float like suspended amber, unfeeling as he is not. A lesser man would die. It is the only truth. He staggers onward, veins bursting, dreams torn loose from thought. He arrives. With a titan's breath, he crashes into the final gate, reality reeling from his intrusion. "Who dares approach me?"
Kalon's heart races, the drum of his determination. His blood pounds with agony and something like elation, each pulse driving him closer to the edge of his being. The gate shudders and crashes open, each movement a torment and a triumph. His chest heaves, burning lungs crying out. He is alive, and he will prove it.
He steps into the giant cavern, a warrior entering his fate. The heat devours him. He does not care. The ancient presence digs into his bones, crushing in its terrible promise. He will not fail. He is fire, breath, and pure wrath, a dark star blazing in this broken sky. He will not fail. He is—
—alive.
"Who dares approach me?"
The cavern shudders, echoes collapsing inward. Each syllable is a disaster. Each word is a hurricane.
"Kalon." He throws his voice like a challenge, a weapon. "The Godslayer."
"Do they call you so?" The laughter is brutal, hollow, a peal of thunder split by light. "You speak with the boldness of the desperate."
The titan's form unravels from shadow, from void. Chains whip the air. Eyes bloom in the dark like cosmic flowers.
"They call me The Scourge," Kalon says, steady. "They call me The Ghost of Guillemot. Do you know what that means?"
"It means you die."
The assault is massive, a living hurricane. Kalon hurls himself out of its path, but the blow shatters reality, fragments piercing his soul—the titan's void energy curls through the cavern, distorting space. Kalon gathers himself. Another impact thunders past him, splintering the ground.
He answers with his brand of violence, rolling forward, reaching for the spin and shine of Zenith. He arcs it like a star, and it crashes into the titan's form. An impossible bloom of light. An unthinkable pain. The god's roar is rage and worlds unmade.
The titan seethes, ripples of power lashing the walls of his prison. "An insect with a sharp blade," he bellows. "How many of your kind must I crush before they tire of it?"
Kalon ducks beneath another assault, the attack blistering the air above him. "They have only to send me once."
His strike cracks against the titan, driving Xeranoth back. "Is this what gods do, then? Hide and take it until they break?"
Do you think I stand broken?" A chorus of laughs that smashes his resolve, almost. "A thousand years would not suffice, little warrior."
"We shall see," Kalon says. He cuts across the distance, gliding on the razor edge of violence.
He will not die. He will not fail. Kalon has lived lifetimes in these last moments, each strike collapsing another eternity. The titan answers with five more. Kalon the Unbreakable, holding against an avalanche of despair. Kalon the conqueror, unwilling to fall. Kalon. Only Kalon.
He will not die.
The presence presses into him, brutal, unyielding. Xeranoth rises like a cosmic dreadnought, surrounded by stars, born of fury. But Kalon does not flinch. He does not yield.
They called him to do this: to stand against the impossible and bleed it dry. A godslayer is what he has become.
He shatters. Kalon explodes into endless pieces, each one a failed blow. He is no longer a man but a ruin, bloodied and torn by god-like futility. Time bends as he crumbles, the titan outlasts him, and eternity reduces him to ash—his will breaks before his body. Xeranoth's strength collapses his reason. "You die for nothing, little ghost." Kalon knows the truth. Desperation takes him. The blows become desperate, a mortal frenzy, without purpose, without honor. Then, the memories come. They batter him as forcefully as the fight. They shake loose his fury- His resolve.
Kalon drives forward, driven by panic. Each step is the ghost of strength, the ghost of purpose.
"Futile." The word reverberates—a disaster of truth.
A disaster that cuts more profoundly than any wound, "I will not fall," Kalon hurls back, but it is weak, broken, almost pleading.
Xeranoth tears into him, shattering what remains of his soul. "You are a coward. You fight without conviction."
Another impact crumbles his resolve, and another round of the gods' laughter follows. He stumbles, ragged. He is a man, after all.
He stands broken.
He is nothing.
Nothing, but then. Kalons memories.
He remembers Leonida. Her voice, calm as moonlight, cutting him like a blade: You will never be his equal.
He remembers Triactis. Honor will kill you. I am proof.
He remembers Sandy. A boy's tear-stained face. A town in ruins. He remembers.
Kalon remembers more than names, more than faces. He remembers hope. He remembers all he was and all he lost. It drills into him relentlessly, mercilessly. It is a divine assault he cannot turn away—a torrent, a flood, a siege. It is everything.
And this time, he cares.
It bursts loose in him, more potent than fury, more searing than fire. His rage is something else now. Something greater.
He rises with the swell of it. Rises to a defiant scream that reverberates through the chamber.
Rises as the ghost of a purpose, a soul that will not break.
Xeranoth hesitates for the first time, and Kalon sees it.
"What gives you strength?" Xeranoth asks, more bewildered than demanding.
Kalon does not answer with words. He does not respond with despair.
He answers with light and agony with one final push.
Zenith arcs like the divine fury of the strongest wills, burning even the titanic heart of the gods.
It is over.
The world shakes. Hell itself quakes with the collapse. Xeranoth stumbles, chains of void and violence finally sundered. The light of dying stars seeps from the titan's shattered form.
Kalon staggers back, unwilling to collapse, though everything around him does. He will not fall. Not now.
The towering titan crumbles to dust. Kalon is on his knees, but not defeated. Xeranoth was a god, and now it is a ruin. This killer was Kalon, and now it is Kalon. He can still say the name and hear it echo across every circle of the eternal depths.
He has not broken.
Kalon rises. The truth follows him, even now.
He retraces his path, bloodied, triumphant, still breathing. He thinks of the task that brought him here and what he leaves behind. He believes he is more than he was. He thinks he is nothing at all.
Time fractures around him, but Kalon holds the memory close: It bursts loose in him, more potent than fury. More searing than fire. More alive than he has ever been.
It is the ghost of a purpose. A haunted dream. A second chance.
He returns, Xeranoth's death heavy in his hands. It is a victory, though Kalon will never know which of them it belonged to.
Chapter Text
Yharim's court throbs with forced merriment, the air so saturated with incense and perfumed bodies that Kalon's lungs protest. Every torch flare and goblet clash is a theater act—one he has been cast in since birth, though he's never learned the lines. Last time, the empire toasted his savagery; this time, they laud his mercy, as if the crowd's verdict could shift the nature of war. The hollow reverence for "Kalon the Unvanquished" fills the vastness with smog, and when his name detonates again across the high dome, it lands heavier than any chain.
Tonight, even The Scourge keeps to the shadows, draping itself along the back wall, its profile a jag of condensed void. The beast's regard is inscrutable, but Kalon knows it's waiting for him to make a mistake, to betray any glimmer of frailty. The courtiers sense this, too. They orbit him with the precision of wolves around an old bear, a dance of thinly veiled challenge and flattery. He drinks, but not enough for it to matter.
"Corinth!" a voice calls—always the old name, always with the edge of nostalgia and danger. A woman with a death-wish smile slithers to his side, offering a goblet of something viscous and iridescent.
"Let's not make a spectacle," Kalon mutters, not unkindly. He accepts the drink, but only because refusing would be a spectacle. She nods, understanding the game, and retreats without another word. The others—princelets, warlords, parasitic kin—watch this exchange and file it for later use.
The songbirds in the rafters begin a new round of courtly hymns. The melody was meant to sound exultant, but the minor keys undercut every note. Kalon recognizes a funereal overtone masked as celebration, and he wonders if the composer had known how many heroes lay beneath this hall's marble tiles.
He closes his eyes. Even in darkness, the memory finds him.
(Kalon's first flashback...)
Five years ago, he'd sat on the eastern wall of Zahrazil at dawn, legs dangling over an abyss. He was younger, not by much, but the absence of scars was its kind of youth. The sun rose angrily over the desert, painting the dunes with the same blood-orange that haunted his dreams. That morning, the merchant's boy was the only other soul awake in the village.
"Does the war god ever sleep?" the boy asked, plopping beside him, not waiting for permission.
Kalon blinked once, twice, then let a smile ghost his lips. "Does anyone, these days?"
"I do." The boy grinned. He was sandy-haired, slender, and too quick to laugh for a place like this. "But I like to wake in case you need saving."
The simplicity disarmed him. "If I ever need it, I'll come find you."
The boy held out a hand. "Sandy." His grip was soft, but the calluses told a story of labor.
"Kalon."
They sat together as the city stirred, the sun warming their backs, the silence not oppressive for once. Sandy's unafraid and open presence began a subtle tectonic shift inside Kalon. It was the first time he'd considered that victory might mean more than surviving to the next battle.
(Back to present...)
"Kalon." The word slashes into his reverie. He opens his eyes and finds Yharim, the tyrant, king, and monster, standing directly before him. The room goes silent as if the air itself is bowing.
"Your mind is elsewhere." Yharim's words are half-accusation, half-invitation.
Kalon meets the ruler's gaze, the old steel in his posture, but none of the old venom. "Reflection sharpens the blade."
Yharim tilts his head. "And yet your hands are empty. Is this peace, or is it apathy?"
"I await your next command," Kalon replies.
Yharim laughs—an unclean sound, but genuine, the way a lion's yawn is genuine. "You think in binaries. Kill or be killed, rule or be ruled. But the world is made by those who see the curve between points."
He leans closer, voice dropping to a frequency only Kalon can hear. "Have you heard of the Sisters of Discord?"
Kalon nods, just once. Rumors had reached even the deadest places: two entities, impossible to catch, leaving only charred ruins and vanished armies in their wake.
"Good," Yharim purrs, satisfied. You will bring them to me—alive, if possible. If not, ensure their lives are erased from existence."
A commotion stirs at the far end of the hall—a messenger, haggard and breathless, colliding with a guard in his haste. The two exchange words, and the messenger runs straight for the throne. Yharim flicks a finger, signaling to wait, his eyes not leaving Kalon's.
"The world is changing," Yharim whispers. "You are my knife, but every knife dulls eventually. Show me you are not yet dull."
"I understand."
Yharim straightens and speaks for the room: "My champion is restless for new conquest. We shall grant it." More muted cheers ripple through the court.
Kalon bows. Yharim calibrated Kalon's motion for just enough respect. As he turns to go, the messenger rushes to intercept him.
"Urgent dispatch, Lord Kalon." The man, little more than a child in uniform, offers a scroll sealed with the sigil of the city's eastern watch.
Kalon slices the seal with a thumbnail. The message is succinct, almost desperate:
Sisters sighted near Zahrazil ruins. Entire patrols lost—approach with all haste.
He glances up at Yharim, who is already watching with the pleasure of a predator anticipating the hunt.
Kalon leaves the great hall, descending into the palace's arteries, past laboratories where Draedon's acolytes harvest godspark from screaming captives, past armories where child soldiers drill for the next crusade. He collects his weapons in silence, each buckle and strap a silent ritual.
Outside the palace gardens, overrun with the flowers of conquest—blooms from every realm Yharim has annexed, their colors more garish than beautiful. Kalon heads not for the stables, but the east gate, where a mount and pack have been prepared for him, no doubt at Yharim's prior order.
The city's outer walls are gray with new mortar, still pitted from the last siege. He steps through the portal and inhales the night air, free of perfume but heavy with the iron tang of approaching storm.
He has traveled only an hour when he senses her.
The Scourge peels itself from a patch of darkness, striding beside him as if it had always been there. "You do not relish the hunt?" it asks, voice like two rocks colliding.
"I do what is required." Kalon does not slow his pace.
The Scourge tilts its head, a parody of curiosity. "You are not the same as before. The Bound Titan broke you more than you admit."
Kalon shrugs. "I am still here."
"For now."
He ignores the barb. "You're following me."
"I am always watching," it replies, unblinking. "The Sisters will end you, if you let them inside your head."
Kalon considers this. "They are not inside my head."
The Scourge shows teeth, more nightmare than anatomy. "They will be."
The desert opens before him, studded with the petrified bones of ancient trade and fresh war. As he rides, the silence settles in, as comfortable as a cloak. He lets his thoughts drift again, and this time the memory of Sandy is sharper, warmer, close enough to taste.
Once, long ago, someone had cared for him beyond his use as a weapon. Once, he might have cared enough to run. That was gone, and yet—its ghost persists.
He adjusts the grip on his sword. The hunt awaits, and so does its ending.
Zahrazil remembers him. Even with its bones picked clean, the old market still hisses with the memory of fire and swords. Kalon walks the ruins without armor, just the cloak and blade and the slow-breathing silence of a man who has seen his ghost. Every step grinds over glass—shop signs reduced to slag, market stones fused by ancient heat. Even the wind refuses to touch this place.
He passes the dry fountain, its basin clogged with red dust and the coins of fools who once believed in fortune. The last time he crossed Zahrazil, it had been alive, choked with shouts and the smell of fruit and spices. He'd left it a graveyard, on orders, on reflex.
Now it serves as his hunting ground. The quarry: two sisters, chaos incarnate, last seen trailing a wake of disappearances from here to the Emerald Nexus. Kalon knows what they are. He knows Yharim doesn't care about the collateral, only the demonstration of power. He suspects that the mission is a message, not just to the Sisters, but to him—a reminder.
He scans the archways, the burned-out vendor stalls, every shadowed crevice. The air feels thick with electricity, as if the town were waiting for the match to fall. He stops at the old butcher's, a hole in the wall where a blue-eyed boy once offered him a haunch of lamb on a dare. No bodies were left. They never leave bodies.
He moves on. This time, there is no voice in his ear, no Scourge to break the silence. The absence is a threat. He feels watched, but not by the dead.
A whistling cry—between laughter and a bird of prey—comes from above. Kalon reacts without thought, rolling aside as a comet of wildfire and teeth crashes where his skull should be. Ashe lands in a tangle of limbs and flame, eyes bright with appetite.
"Well, well. The Ghost finally visits his own grave," she purrs, voice like a fuse.
He draws Zenith, but Ashe's next move isn't for his weapon; she goes for his face, fingers burning. Kalon ducks low and slams her into the dead fountain. Heat ignites his cloak, burning away the outer layers. Her laughter doesn't stop.
"Do it, Corinth!" she hisses, daring him to finish the job.
He swings, but the blade meets only smoke and embers. Ashe reforms above, crouched on the statue of a forgotten merchant king. Her hair flows like a banner of flame. The sword glows in her presence.
From the far side of the square, a ripple of cold air warns him a split-second before the void bites at his ankles. Haruka, silent as ever, steps from between two collapsed archways and lifts a hand. The shadows respond, pinning Kalon's feet to the dust.
"You have to be faster," Haruka says, her tone flat as moonlight on steel.
He tries to wrench free, but the force is absolute. Zenith shudders, as if it, too, can feel the threat.
Ashe cartwheels from the plinth and lands beside him, tracing a line of fire across his jaw. The pain is clean, almost surgical.
"Remember what you did to Zahrazil?" she coos, face inches from his. "Every child, every trader. You think that makes you strong?"
He clenches his jaw. "You're the ones who poison water, who drag whole towns into the abyss."
Haruka's eyes flick to Ashe, a silent cue. "We do it for the fun. You did it for a master."
The words meant to dig, and Kalon lets them. He banks the rage for later.
Ashe leans in, her tongue flicking over the blood on his cheek. "You're here for a reason. So are we. Shall we skip the performance?"
He spits in her face, a red line cutting across her smile. The insult is met not with anger but glee.
"Perfect. I love it when worms try," Ashe says, stepping back.
Haruka unpins him. The release is sudden—he barely keeps his footing. The twins encircle him, one blazing hot, the other void-cold, their movements always counterbalanced, always perfect. He could carve one, but the other gutted him while he blinked.
Kalon knows their pattern: Ashe starts the violence, and Haruka finishes it.
He steadies his breath and raises Zenith, letting his War Essence rise to the edge of conscious thought. The world slows, clarity sharpening every detail: the twitch of Ashe's fingers, the soft exhale from Haruka's nostrils, the flicker of movement behind the old bakery where a third party might be watching. It doesn't matter. The fight is now.
Ashe comes first, a whip of fire arcing for his temple. He catches it on the flat of his blade, the heat vaporizing the sweat on his brow. Haruka is already behind, a thin wire of shadow closing around his throat. He twists, breaking the choke, and slashes backward. Zenith hums, but only manages a shallow cut before void pressure clamps his arm in place.
The sisters move with predatory grace, always one step ahead. Ashe takes his legs, a sweep of burning boot that sets his nerves screaming. Haruka drops him with a palm to the base of the skull. He sees stars, tastes copper. His body wants to quit. He refuses.
He punches up, blind, and his knuckles crack against bone. Ashe yowls, but her grip is vice-strong as she pins him to the stone. Haruka kneels on his back, the cold pressing the air from his lungs.
"Had enough?" Ashe whispers in his ear.
He snarls, but the words turn to foam in his mouth. "You think this is a victory?"
"We know it," Haruka says, tightening her hold. "But you'll be a story for ages. The war god was struck down, into the gutter where he started."
The insult burns. Kalon channels it, flexing his arms, pushing with every ounce of strength. For a second, he gains leverage—enough to roll Haruka off and drive an elbow into Ashe's ribs. The impact is satisfying, but fleeting. Ashe grins, baring bloody teeth, and rakes her nails down his face, searing four perfect lines.
Zenith lies just out of reach. He lunges for it, but Haruka is there, foot on his wrist, grinding the bones. He gasps, the pain folding him in half.
Ashe sits cross-legged on his chest, bending low to meet his eye. "You can't kill what you are, Corinth. You can only die by it."
He doesn't answer. He saves the air for what's next.
Haruka leans down, her void-cold breath raising gooseflesh on his neck. "You're no use to Yharim dead. That's the fun of it."
He hates them for knowing this, and he hates Yharim more for sending him here, knowing it was an execution by any other name.
Haruka lets go and steps back, allowing him to stagger upright. The twins watch, unconcerned, as he collects himself, shivering with fatigue and hatred.
He forces his legs to work, even as they threaten to collapse. Picks up Zenith, hands shaking. The sword is heavy, the air heavier.
"Do it again," Ashe commands, all pretense of playfulness gone. "Fight us, Warmonger."
He does. It's what he's for.
He attacks with everything left, War Essence burning the marrow in his bones—Ashe answers with flame and laughter, Haruka with silence and absolute darkness. The sisters break him down, cut by cut, word by word. With each failed swing, each parried strike, they dissect his technique and confidence, leaving him raw. His lungs ache, his heart slams, and with every cycle, his movements slow.
Ashe taunts him, "What would the old man say? 'You never learned to lose gracefully.'"
He slashes wildly, almost desperately, and for a moment her eyes flash with something like respect. But Haruka is already there, arm around his throat, the void draining every spark from his limbs.
Ashe kneels in front, studying him. "We can end this gently or ugly, Kalon. Your choice."
His answer is a headbutt, splitting Ashe's lip. The sisters sigh in unison.
Haruka's grip tightens, and the world begins to spin. Ashe pinches his jaw and whispers, "Next time, leave the memories behind."
A final surge of pressure, then black.
He falls into oblivion, Zahrazil's dust rising to meet him. He has the sense, just before it all fades, that the sisters have already moved on to new prey, that his legend is now just another broken thing left behind in the ruins.
(Kalon's second flashback...)
Kalon wakes, but only barely, on the jagged edge between agony and memory. His body is intact; his mind, less so. The carnage of battle is a stain beneath his fingernails, and the taste of blood coats every thought, but as consciousness claws its way back, it finds a world no gentler than the one it left behind.
He is not in the Underworld. Not quite. The light here is wrong—a flicker caught between fire and frost, a memory of burning overlaid with a chill that could only be guilt. He knows this place. He knows the way the ground gives underfoot, the copper tang of blood that cannot be washed from stone. He knows the sounds, too: a chorus of distant screams and the rhythmic crunch of flesh learning its limits.
He is home. He is in Yharim's court, again, always.
There is a boy with his jaw clenched shut, his knuckles white on the hilt of a dull practice blade. The boy is not yet the ghost, the monster, or the warmonger. The boy is built by repetition—pain as curriculum and prophecy. Each morning brings a new lesson, and each lesson brings a new scar. Destruction is the arithmetic of empire: the sum of one's failures equals the day's measure of flesh and shame.
The yard was crowded with others like him, but none stood straight, bled red, and survived as often. Today's instructor is a man with no name, only a voice like a rusted chain and a smile that always follows a strike. The boy never blinks- Never looks away.
He is learning what it means never to look away.
The lesson concludes. The blood is mopped, the teeth are swept, and the boys are given food. The food is always the same—pale, flavorless, enough to keep them alive but never enough to blunt the hunger that will define the rest of their lives.
The boy eats alone, always. He does not miss the company. He does not know what missing means. He only knows the next thing: there will be more lessons. There will always be more lessons.
He is older now. The gap between child and blade has closed. He stands before Mageara, the legendary paladin who never lost her dignity, even after Yharim stripped her of her honor and chained her to his empire. Mageara teaches him the finer points of execution. There is, she says, a killing art. She calls him by his name—Corinth, sometimes, Kalon at others—her voice calm as the iron of her shackles.
"You cannot kill what you do not first understand," Mageara says, lifting a blindfold from the block. A condemned man kneels there, eyes wide with terror and hope.
"Do you understand him?" she asks.
"I understand what he is," the boy answers, voice scraped raw by practice.
"And what are you?"
He does not reply. The blade answers for him, the execution as precise as a heartbeat.
"Good," she says, her approval as sharp as the cut. "You will be more than it."
He almost believes her, but not quite.
Yharim's throne room is as Kalon remembers it: cold, echoing, the walls a dull reflection of the tyrant's will. The years have done nothing to soften the man; if anything, they have intensified his presence, a gravitational pull that drags all ambition toward itself and crushes it flat.
Kalon stands before the throne, head bowed, heart hammering with something like hope but not quite.
Yharim scrutinizes him like a butcher evaluating livestock. "You survived," he says, a statement of fact, not admiration.
"I did," Kalon replies, and there is no pride in it.
"I have a task for you."
"Another?"
Yharim's lips twist in a smile that could slice glass. "There is always another. You are not here to rest."
Kalon nods, waiting.
"There are two beings in this world who threaten my reign. Both are older than you. Both are stronger. One is loyal, but not to me. The other is loyal only to itself."
"Which would you have me kill?"
"Both," Yharim says, and Kalon hears the note of uncertainty for the first time. "But the Sisters are your priority. Do not return until they are gone."
Time fractures around the memory. Kalon feels the weight of a thousand days, each perfect repetition of the last, a loop of violence and disappointment. He wonders if the world outside is any different, if there is any possibility of something other than this relentless cycle.
Then he is back in the present, back in the ruin of his own body. The pain is pure and clarifying. He does not know how long he has been unconscious. He only knows that he is alive, and therefore obligated to continue.
He drags himself upright, every muscle protesting, every bone aware of its existence. He inventories the damage: nothing permanent, nothing fatal- Not this time.
He tries to remember the moment of victory. He tries to feel something about it. All he feels is empty.
(Back in Yharim's Court...)
Far above, in the highest spire of Yharim's palace, the Scourge stands before its master, the room humming with layered vibrations as their words intertwine.
Yharim's tone is glacial, his eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the glass. "The Sisters will destroy him."
The Scourge's reply is a slow, deliberate pulse: "He has survived all others."
"Not these. I have seen the numbers. The probability is less than four percent. And if, by some fluke, he returns?"
The Scourge does not blink. "You will dispose of him?"
"I will have you do it," Yharim says, and the words land like a sentence passed down from the mountain itself. "Corinth is too dangerous to fail me again. He was supposed to lead by example. Now he is a liability."
The Scourge inclines its head, a slight gesture that seems calculated for efficiency. "As you wish."
Yharim turns, finally, to look his weapon in the eye. "Make sure he never sees it coming."
The Scourge flickers with anticipation. "Of course."
They stand silently for a moment, master and servant, aware that the game is already in motion. Both are aware that only one can survive its end.
(Back in Kalon's memory...)
Kalon's world is heat, haze, and water dripping from somewhere above. He crawls toward the sound, every inch a battle. The pool is shallow and brackish, but he drinks anyway, savoring the pain as it slides down his torn throat.
He remembers the words of his instructors—never show weakness, never ask for help, never, never, never. He has followed their rules for so long that he can't remember another way to be.
He sits back against the wall, letting the cold seep in. He remembers Triactis's hands, scarred and gentle as they reset his dislocated shoulder. He remembers Yharim's voice, promising glory and immortality. He remembers nothing of his mother, nothing of his father, only the indifferent cruelty of a world that expected perfection and punished anything less.
Now that he has no one to prove himself to, he wonders what the point is.
He wonders if breaking is possible, even after being broken many times.
He wonders, and then he sleeps.
In the depths of that sleep, the memories multiply. There are new ones, or perhaps old ones, Kalon had tried to forget. The laughter of other children twisted into malice. The sting of frost on bare skin is punishment for a failure, not even his. The look on Yharim's face the day he brought down his first real enemy—a flicker of satisfaction, quickly buried under the granite of expectation.
There was a girl in these memories once. She is younger than Kalon; her name is gone, but her face is not. She tells him that kindness is not a weakness. He tells her that kindness is for the dead. She smiles at him anyway, and for a moment, he believes it.
The memory ends as all memories do: with blood and regret.
He dreams of the Sisters, then. They move as one, fire and void in harmony. They kill because it is beautiful to them. They kill because it is what they are. Kalon understands them more than he would ever admit.
He dreams of them killing him. It is not an unpleasant thought.
When he wakes again, there is only the silence of his failure. He knows, even before the full pain returns, that Yharim will not forgive this. He knows that the next mission will be the last.
He knows that he is alone.
He sits there for a long time, letting the emptiness settle in.
It fits him well.
The blood on Kalon's hands never dries, not in memory. Not when every shadow lengthens into the shape of a boy he once loved and left behind. The walk back from Hell is emptier than he imagined. With each step, the weight of Xeranoth's last words drags at his feet, but heavier still is the sudden, crystalline recall of five years lost to ambition and violence. It is not victory that replays; it is the long ache of Zahrazil, the market town swallowed by sand and its neglect.
He does not want to remember, but memory hunts him anyway.
Zahrazil, five years ago: the whole world was a cracked basin shimmering in late dusk, the scent of dying incense curling in the ruined bazaar. Zahrazil was not a place for heroes, but Kalon was not a hero then. He was a weapon without a master, drinking cheap arak at a corner table because it was too bitter for anyone else. He was alone until the boy, Sandy, sat across from him, face sunburned and hair a ragged brown that glinted gold where the sun cut through the smoke. The boy was too thin, dressed in the threadbare tunic of a minor clerk, eyes already calculating the safest way to die in a world full of monsters.
"You don't look like you belong here," the boy said, and Kalon did not answer because it was true, and he hated the truth.
Sandy smiled anyway. "No one does, but you least of all."
Kalon watched him without blinking and measured the shape of threat or kindness in every word. "Why do you care?"
The boy shrugged. "Maybe I don't. Maybe I like the look of a man with nothing left to lose."
He said it like a dare, and Kalon took it, not with words but with a silent, sharp nod.
After that, Kalon made it a point to stop in Zahrazil whenever his missions allowed him. At first, it was an inconvenience- a detour, a wasted day—but then it became something else. He learned the patterns of Sandy's life: the times he worked in the spire archives, the hours spent running notes for local judges, the nights when he could be found by the ruined fountain, staring at the moon reflected in red mineral water.
It was always easy to find him, but impossible to predict what he would say next.
Sandy greeted him with jokes, with stories about court intrigue and petty merchant squabbles. Sometimes, late at night, with questions Kalon never answered.
"Why do you keep coming back?"
"I have business."
"With me?"
Kalon almost smiled then, but he didn't. He didn't know how.
They grew close in the negative space between Kalon's silences and Sandy's insistence on filling them. For two years, Kalon visited when he could, always staying just long enough for the ache of leaving to matter. Sandy was too clever to be fooled by Kalon's armor of indifference. He asked questions Kalon could not ignore: about the war, Yharim, and living costs under a tyrant's shadow.
Kalon, for all his discipline, was defenseless here.
One night, when the wind was strong enough to drown out even the memory of battle, Sandy pulled him into the shelter of the crumbling cistern. They drank sour wine and watched the stars flicker through the sandstorm haze. Sandy's fingers brushed against Kalon's. He didn't recoil, but neither did he reach out.
"You know I love you, right?" Sandy said, too plainly, eyes sharp enough to make it real.
Kalon blinked. He said nothing.
He let the silence answer for him.
But he did love him. He loved him with a violence that frightened him more than any enemy. But Kalon was born to disappoint. He knew the fate of every town he visited, every friend he let too close. Sandy was better off untouched, even if Kalon's presence was already a slow poison.
He tried to end it. Tried to stay away. Could not.
On the rare occasions he returned, he found Sandy waiting, undiminished by distance or neglect. Sandy met every absence with joy, every arrival with a joke, every awkward reunion with the patience of a saint or a fool.
"You could leave," Sandy said once, voice low and serious, just before dawn. "You could stay here. Or we could run. You don't have to be his weapon."
Kalon watched the horizon, counting the hours until he would be summoned away again. He could not imagine a world without war, without orders. He could not imagine a world in which he deserved this.
"I'm not worth it," he finally said.
"That's not your call," Sandy replied, as if it ended the matter.
Kalon remembered every detail. The scar on Sandy's upper lip, the nervous habit of twisting his ring, the way he made Kalon believe, if only for a moment, that the world could be kind. But always, after every memory, came the same conclusion: Kalon left him anyway.
He left Zahrazil and him to die when the orders came.
He has not forgiven himself. He never will.
In the present, Kalon pauses at a crossroads in the infernal tunnel. He can almost see Sandy's shadow ahead, half-turned as if waiting for him to catch up.
He does not hurry.
He lets the memory fade, slow and cruel, before continuing.
Later, when he finds a place to rest, Kalon stares at the darkness above, seeing only the reflection of old light in the ruined water. He thinks about Sandy until the memory is too sharp to bear, until it returns to the red haze of battle and the echoing voice of a dead god:
You fight only for yourself.
Kalon closes his eyes. In the absence of sleep, there is only remembering. In the absence of mercy, there is only the pain he chooses to keep.
He will not let it go.
He cannot.
(Down In the Underworld...)
Hell was not meant for the mortal, yet Ashe and Haruka descend its stairwells like conquering royalty. Their footsteps leave no echo; the Underworld remembers and fears them too much for that. Above, brimstone rivers snap and flicker against the glassy cavern ceiling, seeding the air with a sullen, red glow. The twins move in perfect step, their shadows snaking together and apart, one a flickering ember, the other a sliver of obsidian night.
"You walk too loudly," Haruka murmurs, voice sheared clean of warmth.
"I walk victorious," Ashe retorts, her wildfire hair trailing sparks. "We broke the war god. Let the world tremble with every step."
The path is not for conversation. Heat pours from below in greedy, grasping hands. Demons and shades peel away as the Sisters advance, recalling the disaster left in their wake. Only the torches cling stubbornly to the walls, flames bending low as if in prayer.
"What do you suppose he'll give us?" Ashe, always first to claim the horizon, flashes a grin. "A kingdom? Or does he want to say thank you?"
"Neither," Haruka answers, silver gaze narrowing. "It's always a test. And we've already won."
Ashe's laughter is wildfire: bright, unchecked, meant to be heard by every lurking nightmare. "Would you rather have failed? There's no game in that."
They speak in short sentences, a habit of women who trust only each other and themselves. The Underworld has stripped every word of ornament.
Their goal is near. Through a gauntlet of obsidian colonnades lies a theater chiseled from the skeleton of an ancient god. Its seats are filled with emptiness, and the dais is lined with spectral chains thicker than men. In its center, a single figure stands, cloaked and towering. The hooded man leans on a crooked staff, facing a void within a more bottomless void.
"You came," the hooded man intones, not turning.
"And you waited," Haruka counters. "We expected a messenger."
"I have little faith in messengers," the figure says. "They perish so easily. Or worse, lie." The man's shadow spreads across the amphitheater floor, swallowing up every lesser darkness.
Ashe vaults onto the dais, landing a pace from him. Haruka blinks, and is there.
"We did as you asked," Ashe declares, her words tasting of ash and honey. "Your enemy is broken. He may never wake."
"He will," the hooded man corrects, his voice almost gentle. "You were meant to humble him, not destroy. A test of endurance, not annihilation."
"And if we broke him?" Haruka's tone is like knives arranged in perfect rows.
"Then you are both more and less than I paid for." The man drops his staff. It shatters the stone with a crystalline note. "Tell me, did you enjoy it?"
Ashe bares her teeth. We enjoy everything. Is that so strange to you, little god?"
A tremor ripples the dais. The hooded man's frame dilates momentarily, as if reality cannot hold it stable. "Not strange," he says, "but disappointing." He reaches up and draws back the hood.
It is a face both familiar and impossible- not a man's face but a kingdom's architecture. Yharim: the tyrant, the conqueror, the eye at the center of every storm. When it finds the Sisters, his gaze is heavy enough to break bone.
"You!" Ashe's amusement burns off, replaced by pure, licking flame. "All this—"
"All this," Yharim interrupts, "was the crucible. Could you outmatch him? I needed proof."
Haruka's silver eyes become glassy and unreadable. "Now you have it."
"And now," Yharim says, "I have no use for you."
The twins move in unison, but Yharim is faster. His hands are empty, yet the gesture is all that's needed. A line of red, thin as a thread, bisects the amphitheater. Haruka stares down at the wound blooming across her chest, black against her pale skin. Ashe has already staggered, knees buckling, clutching her stomach as if trying to hold herself together by force of will.
"You don't get to be disappointed in us," Ashe snarls, blood steaming in the air. "We did everything you asked. Everything."
"You did too well," Yharim replies. "Perfection is the only thing that truly terrifies me. Especially when it is not mine."
Haruka kneels. Her hair is damp with sweat, lips drawn tight in concentration. "Do it," she says, eyes never leaving her sister.
Yharim watches, clinical as a surgeon. "You may say your last words."
"Not to you," Ashe spits. She drags herself to Haruka, pressing her forehead to her twin's. "We'll see you on the other side, you bastard," she calls out, but her voice is already losing heat.
Yharim closes the distance. He places a hand on each bowed head, almost paternal. Then he tightened his grip, and both skulls caved inward, bone powder and blue fire spraying the dais.
When he lets go, the bodies slump together, inseparable even in death.
Yharim steps back and wipes the residue from his hands. "Even the strongest are predictable, in the end," he murmurs to no one.
He surveys the ruined amphitheater, the Sisters' corpses still leaking divine ichor onto the stone. "Let them be a warning," he says, raising his voice to the empty seats and the crawling shadows above. "This is all that comes to those who overreach their station."
His gaze lifts, as if sight could pierce the stone above and reach the living world. "I wonder what you'll make of this, Kalon. I wonder if you'll learn."
He turns, steps into the dark, and is gone. The Underworld reasserts itself, silence crowding every corner. For a long moment, only the cooling blood and the faint, stubborn warmth of twin hands were still intertwined.
(Kalon's third flashback...)
Night. The world above was sand and glass, but in Kalon's sleep, the world was flesh and fever. Every memory was a blade. Some nights he dreamed of Xeranoth, or Yharim's face, but more often it was Sandy. This time, the memory was a calm before the storm, years ago, but no less dangerous.
Sandy waited for him in a warren of candle-lit tunnels, somewhere below the throne's reach. He never called for Kalon, but Kalon always found him. The boy—man, now, had grown into sorrow, yet always seemed too gentle for their inhabited world. He wore blue, the color of hope, but hope had never suited him.
"You look tired," Sandy said, as Kalon entered. "Did Yharim make you rerun the gauntlet?"
"Not today," Kalon replied, but his body betrayed him; he moved stiffly, favoring an old wound, and Sandy saw it.
"I made tea," Sandy said, not quite meeting his eye. "If you're staying."
Kalon tried to smile, but all that came was a weak mouth twitch. "For you? Always."
He took a cup, but his hand trembled. The candlelight made it obvious, so Kalon set the cup down, untouched. Silence grew between them, as it often did before these conversations. Sandy was the only person Kalon let see him break.
"It doesn't have to be like this," Sandy began, cautious but firm.
Kalon laughed, once, sharp as a break. "Of course it does."
Sandy looked at him, really looked. "No. It doesn't. We could leave. Together."
He said it every time, but this time, it felt new. Kalon may be exhausted.
"Yharim would hunt us to the ends of the world. You know that," Kalon said. His voice was flat, but the words hit something inside him.
Sandy shook his head. "Let him. There's more to life than being a knife in someone else's hand. I know you, Kalon. I know you aren't just—"
Kalon put up a hand. "Don't."
Sandy pressed on. "You could be anything. You could be good if you'd let yourself try."
Kalon turned away. "I've done things you wouldn't forgive. No one would. Not even me."
"But I do forgive you." Sandy's voice was a whisper. "I've seen what Yharim makes you do. It isn't you. It can't be."
Kalon let that sit, the words worming under his armor. He didn't know how to respond, so he didn't. He stared at the stone wall, at the flicker of candlelight.
Sandy crossed to him, closing the space between them with a nervous certainty. He touched Kalon's hand. "Please. I'm begging you. Don't wait until it's too late for us."
Kalon didn't pull away, but he didn't answer. The truth was too raw. He could imagine it—running, hiding, maybe even living—but it was a fantasy, like the peace in his old nightmares. The world didn't allow peace for men like him.
Sandy put his arms around Kalon and held him tight. The touch was electric. Kalon felt all the tension melt away for a heartbeat, replaced by something older than fear. He could have said yes. It would have been easy, in that moment, to say yes.
But he didn't. He let Sandy hold him, let the silence be its answer.
Sandy pulled back, eyes wet. "You want to stay. You want to be the monster for him."
"Better me than someone else," Kalon said, voice like grit.
Sandy smiled, broken and beautiful. "That's not how monsters work. They don't absorb the world's sins. They spread them."
Kalon cupped Sandy's cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. "If I left, you'd hate what I'd become. Here, at least, you can love me for what I am."
Sandy's answer was to kiss him hard. Nothing was gentle in it—need and history and everything that could not be said. Kalon kissed back, urgent, desperate, as if the act could ward off the world outside. For a moment, nothing mattered except his taste, warmth, and pressure.
They broke apart, breathless.
Sandy's hands slid under Kalon's shirt, tracing old scars like reading a map. "Tell me you want this," he whispered.
Kalon did. He always did. He never said it, but his body did. He lifted Sandy, pressed him against the stone wall, and felt the tremor in Sandy's breath as they collided. Sandy's legs wrapped around him, soft and sure, and Kalon lost himself in the contact.
They made love like people about to die, like two men convinced this was their only night left. Every kiss was a plea, every bite a promise. Sandy was rougher than Kalon remembered, but maybe Kalon had gotten used to Yharim's cruelty. He craved this gentler kind of violence that left no lasting mark.
After, they lay tangled on the floor, bare and exposed, the stone cold against their skin. Sandy rested his head on Kalon's chest, and for a while, neither spoke.
"I don't want to lose you," Sandy said, voice hoarse.
Kalon stroked his hair, slowly and carefully. "You won't. Not while I'm breathing."
Sandy closed his eyes and held on a little tighter. "Promise me?"
Kalon didn't answer. He kept holding on, as if he could freeze this moment and live in it forever.
The candles burned low, shadows gathering in the corners, but Kalon wasn't afraid of the dark for once. For once, he believed there could be a dawn at the end of this night.
But they both knew better. The world was made for happy endings, but not for them.
(Back to present...)
Kalon awoke with the taste of blood on his tongue and the pulse of defeat thumping behind his eyes. He drifted in and out of sense for days; once his strictest ally, time had dissolved into red slashes and fits of cold sweat. Whenever he opened his eyes, the world above him was just a shifting blur—stone, sometimes fire, sometimes nothing. There were no dreams of Sandy, no visions of conquest, only raw and endless pain.
When the agony finally lessened, he found himself in a bed he didn't recognize. His wounds had been cleaned and stitched, but none with a healer's touch. Whoever tended him had been efficient and clinical—perhaps Draedon's medics, or the Scourge itself. That possibility made Kalon's skin crawl.
He rose slowly, every joint screaming with the effort, and dressed himself in the clothes left at his bedside: a black tunic and a red sash—if you cared to read the signs, the uniform of a condemned man. He drank the water left for him and ignored the tray of food. He could not remember the last time he had been hungry.
He had failed. No one would say it, but the Sisters of Discord had left him broken, alive only by their whim, and Yharim was never kind to those who survived by mercy alone. Kalon had seen what happened to men who returned in disgrace. Usually, they didn't return at all.
For two days, he paced the boundaries of his world—his room, the corridor, the cold bath where he cleaned the filth from his wounds. There were eyes everywhere. Shadows lingered just beyond his sight; sometimes, the glint of an inhuman eye flashed from a darkened alcove. He waited for the summons or the execution. Neither came.
He considered running. Not because he believed he could escape, but because it was the only act of agency left to him. Yharim would crush the rebellion himself if he had to. Kalon had no illusion of mattering. But the thought of flight made his body recoil. The boy, Sandy, had once begged him to run away, to create a life somewhere far from the empire, and Kalon had refused. The lesson stuck with him: indulging hope was the best way to kill it.
On the morning of the third day, there was a knock. Two guards, their faces blank as a slate, bowed and gestured. "The Emperor awaits."
Kalon followed. The palace corridors felt colder than before, each step echoing in the hush of unspoken judgment. No servants lingered; even the courtiers kept their distance, watching from behind drapes and half-closed doors. Rumor had moved faster than truth. By the time Kalon reached the antechamber, he was confident his fate had already sealed itself.
The throne room was empty but for Yharim and the Scourge. The Scourge hovered behind the throne, a silent moon orbiting a blood-red sun.
Yharim did not stand when Kalon entered. He regarded him with amusement, as if the whole world were a play staged for his entertainment. "So," Yharim said, voice mild and level. "You live."
"I do, Majesty," Kalon replied, bowing low, but not so low as to seem desperate.
Yharim studied him for a long time, eyes glittering. "I expected a corpse. Or perhaps a head in a sack. But the Sisters let you live. Do you know why?"
Kalon did not answer. He did not trust the question.
"Because they are sentimental," Yharim continued. "They admire you, even in failure. The Ancients always did have a soft spot for warriors with scars."
Kalon nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"You failed," Yharim said, and the words cut sharper than any blade. "But so have many before you. Some failures, though, are instructive." He leaned forward, the throne creaking beneath the power shift. "Tell me, Kalon: do you know why I allow my greatest soldier to return in disgrace?"
Kalon forced himself to look up. "To see if I'll serve you better the next time."
"Good," said Yharim, smiling with no warmth at all. "You have the right instincts." He rose, descending the dais in measured, echoing steps. The Scourge drifted after him, silent but watchful.
Yharim stopped an arm's length away. "You are not punished, Kalon. You are re-forged. You will lead another campaign. This time, there will be no Sisters, no gods to test your resolve. Only mortals. I expect you to break them."
Kalon could have wept with relief, but all he did was nod. "I will not fail you again."
"I know you won't," Yharim said. He placed a hand on Kalon's shoulder. For an instant, Kalon thought he might crush it, but the touch was almost fatherly. "You're free to go. Rest, rebuild. I will call on you soon."
Kalon turned to leave, but the Scourge blocked his path. Its eyes, countless and blinking, watched him with a predatory patience.
"Well fought, Corinth," it said, voice an echo of old pain. "Do not let the next war define you. Define it."
Kalon wasn't sure he understood, but he bowed his head. The Scourge nodded, and Kalon was allowed to pass.
In the corridor outside, he let out a long, shaking breath. He felt lighter than he had in weeks, though the weight of expectation had only grown.
It was a mercy, he supposed. Or a reprieve.
He wondered if Yharim's forgiveness was anything but a clever way to keep a sword sharp and ready for use.
He wondered, too, how long until Yharim pointed that sword at himself.
(Kalon's final flashback...)
The palace was always coldest just before dawn, the silence of its corridors broken only by the distant whine of Draedon's machines and the pulse of Kalon's insomnia. He lay atop the sheets, eyes fixed on the vault of shadow above his head, willing the world to stillness. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept without nightmares. He couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to.
When the knock came, he didn't flinch. It was not yet sunrise, but he had already dressed—black again, the color of mourning for men who still lived. The guard who entered was not one of the usual men. His eyes lingered on Kalon's scars, then flicked away.
"You're presence is required in the Foundry," he said, voice flat.
Kalon nodded and followed, boots quiet on the frozen floor. The palace seemed emptier with each passing day, as if its stone remembered every life lost within its walls. He wondered if he would one day become just another ghost here, haunting the halls with unfinished business and old regrets.
The Foundry was Draedon's domain. It reeked of ozone and melted metal. The corridor outside was lined with failures—automatons warped and shivering in their glass tanks, each a testament to an experiment gone awry. Kalon did not linger. He entered the central laboratory, where Draedon waited, pale hands folded over a stack of dossiers.
Draedon did not look up. "Sit."
Kalon sat.
"I have a mission for you," Draedon said. "A rebel cell has been identified in Zahrazil. Your task is to eliminate it."
Kalon nodded, expecting more.
Draedon's eyes, sunken and hungry, flicked up to study him. "The target is not military. They're civilians. Artisans, children. The rebels hide among them."
Kalon did not speak.
Draedon's lips curved in a parody of a smile. "We require absolute compliance. There can be no witnesses."
It was an execution, then. Not even the dignity of a fight, Kalon absorbed the order and felt the familiar chill crawl up his spine. He tried to imagine the streets of Zahrazil, the faces of the doomed. All he could see was Sandy.
"Do you understand?" Draedon asked, a needle in his tone.
"I do," Kalon said, though it felt like a lie.
Draedon slid the dossier across the table. "Go now. Return when your mission is successful."
Kalon rose, the file heavy in his hand, and walked out without another word.
—
He returned to his room, read the file in the dark, lay down, and waited for the sun to rise. He did not know when he fell asleep. The dream that found him was not the one he expected.
He was in Zahrazil, the city turned to ash and salt. He walked the streets with blood on his boots, the people parting before him like waves. He felt every blow and scream, but none registered as accurate. He was underwater, smothered by a will that wasn't his. The civilians were unarmed, their only defense a futile hope. He killed them anyway, methodically and numb.
He found Sandy in the center of the city. He wore the blue scarf Kalon had once torn from his neck and wrapped around Sandy's shoulders as a promise. Sandy stood with his hands raised, shaking.
"You don't have to do this," Sandy said.
Kalon tried to stop, but his arms obeyed someone else. He tried to throw down his sword, but it clung to his hand, an extension of his guilt.
"You don't have to," Sandy repeated, softer.
But he did. He drove the blade home, through cloth and bone and memory. Sandy fell, blue scarf blooming red. The world froze.
Kalon screamed in the dream, but there was no sound.
He woke with a hand to his throat, choking on a sob. The sheets were a tangled mess, his clothes soaked through with sweat. He'd bitten through his lip; the taste of blood was sharp, bright, and accurate.
He sat up and wept, silent and convulsive. He did not try to wipe his face. He wanted the evidence. He needed to feel every drop of it.
When the tears dried, he sat in the darkness, staring at the opposite wall. He could see Sandy there, smiling as if nothing had happened.
Kalon closed his eyes and waited for the sun. He did not hope for anything.
Notes:
I decided to break this chapter into sections(with some bold headers), as it is long and has many scenes. This is to avoid causing any confusion, if any.
Chapter 4: The Death of Shadows
Chapter Text
A triangle of silence formed in the throne chamber, its vertices drawn with surgical care. Yharim above, Kalon to the left, the Scourge to the right. Draedon's far-off laboratory chittered through the walls, all servitor whirring and harsh lights, but nothing reached the chamber itself; the sanctum had its gravity, a pressure that kept the world at bay. Sand-laced air drifted in from high vents, but not a speck dared settle on the obsidian floor.
Kalon resisted the urge to adjust his posture. To do so was to admit discomfort, and Yharim's eyes always registered such weakness. The Emperor slouched in his throne—if such a term could apply itself to that machine-fused excrescence of iron and petrified bone—hands folded, chin propped on knuckles. He regarded Kalon and the Scourge as if weighing livestock at market, gaze flicking with staccato precision between them.
The Scourge didn't bother with posturing. It hung in the air beside Kalon, coils knotted in a lazy, deliberate pattern, scales twitching and stretching like the slow exhalation of an old lung. Chains from a previous aeon still clung to its body, draped like ceremonial sashes. Its eyes, dark and depthless, remained fixed on Yharim, but Kalon could sense the creature's peripheral awareness; it noted every breath, every flexed finger.
Yharim spoke first, voice carrying the unmistakable timbre of command. "Two things require correction in the Zahrazad. The first is the condition of the Atlatian pylon; the second is the recent upwelling of worship in the sector." He flicked his fingers, and a holographic image of the desert region erupted from the floor, projected in a faint blue. "The pylon is offline. None of Draedon's repair teams have returned. The connection to Smaragdum Wastes is severed, and so are the Atlatian supply routes. I need it restored."
Kalon nodded, memorizing every vector of the desert's topography. "I'll need a battalion. The Smaragdum irregulars, at minimum." His voice, cold and even, was careful to betray neither eagerness nor reluctance.
Yharim clicked his tongue. "Unnecessary. Your team will consist of you and the Devourer. No others."
Kalon's jaw worked for a half second. He glanced at the Scourge, saw no hint of surprise in its static features. "Then you expect opposition beyond mere banditry."
"I expect divine interference," Yharim replied. "The old Rain cult is gathering. Already, they have a prophet. Already they pray for a storm."
The Scourge's voice rippled, layers upon layers of sound beneath the words: "You desire we destroy their god?"
"If the opportunity presents itself, yes. But the priority is the pylon. I have invested too much in its completion to let it rot beneath a new prophet's altar."
A silence pressed in. Kalon did the calculus of the mission: desert, heat, the threat of Ashal's faithful. But mainly, the proximity of the Scourge. Yharim always paired them for the most challenging, ugliest work. The last time, Kalon came back with three ribs poking through skin, and the Scourge came back with a mouthful of angel wings. They did not collaborate so much as synchronize violence.
Kalon shifted, voice low. "If the Rain God is abroad, there will be casualties."
"Let there be casualties." Yharim's smile was surgical, devoid of warmth and all nerves. "You are both licensed for annihilation, within reason."
Within reason, as if Yharim believed in such things. Kalon forced a nod.
The Scourge tilted its head—at least, the segment that functioned as a head—and stared into Yharim with predatory stillness. "How long do we have?"
Yharim considered. "The dry season has three months before the cults move underground. I want the pylon online in one. That is your constraint."
Kalon glanced at the Scourge, tried to detect some trace of strategy in its blank stare. All he read was endless appetite, chained and perfectly still.
Yharim stood, the entire room shifting its orientation in deference to his movement. He descended the steps and approached Kalon first. "You will report in weekly. Do not deviate from the main objective, and do not repeat your last misjudgment." His gaze narrowed. "Understood?"
Kalon's nod was almost a salute. "Understood, my lord."
Yharim turned to the Scourge. He reached out and, with a surprising tenderness, traced a finger along a link of the god-eater's chain. "And you, old friend—keep him on the leash. If he strays, devour him."
The Scourge's mouth split into a mimicry of a smile. "If he strays, I will consume the desert itself."
Yharim barked a short, humorless laugh. "Efficient, as always. You are dismissed."
Kalon bowed, pivoted on his heel, and strode from the room. He left before Yharim could change his mind, or before the Scourge could snatch a piece of his shadow for later. In the hall outside, the blue projections faded, replaced by soft lamplight and the faint buzz of distant labs. Kalon's mind began its standard audit: reviewing supply requests, maps, and kill lists to update. Only after he'd made it halfway to his quarters did a small, persistent memory surface—Sandy, smiling in the city of Yharim's youth, his hands sticky with syrup and sunlight. Kalon exhaled, and the memory dispersed like so much smoke.
Back in the chamber, Yharim did not dismiss the Scourge. Instead, he waited for the great serpent to coil itself into a more intimate posture. "He is slipping," Yharim said, almost a whisper. "You saw it. Even now, he resists the war-essence."
The Scourge's laughter was tectonic, a subaudible vibration. "He is tired, master. Tired of killing, tired of running from himself. You have shaped him too well; now he questions the shape."
"He will not question it after Zahrazad," Yharim murmured. "You understand the real objective?"
The Scourge dipped its head in assent. "He is not to return."
Yharim's smile reappeared, cruel and satisfied. "Unless he brings me the head of a god."
The two regarded each other for a long moment—no need for further words. Yharim retreated into the machinery of the throne, where screens and tubes awaited his attention. The Scourge, left alone, undulated across the obsidian and out of the service corridor, chains hissing behind.
As it moved, the Scourge considered the sum of Kalon. Warrior, yes. Monster, yes. But so much more enjoyable for his flaws. The mission would be memorable.
Even if, in the end, only one of them returned.
The Zahrazad was a desert of relics, every dune and fissure a monument to something long dead. Sunlight stabbed the horizon in broken slats, carving the land into bands of bone-white glare and obsidian shadow. By the end of the first week, Kalon could no longer distinguish between midday and midnight. All time here was the same—measured in windburn and thirst.
They made steady progress, Kalon and the Scourge, twin shadows skating the edge of the old caravan roads. Kalon kept his hood low and his sword sheathed, not out of caution but because there was nothing left to threaten them. All the desert's predators had learned, centuries ago, to avoid the scent of the god-eater. Even the vultures stayed at a respectful altitude, wingspans reduced to motes against the blistered sky.
They passed through the ribs of petrified leviathans. They passed wells filled with brine so concentrated that it hissed at the touch of living flesh. They passed entire towns reduced to tumbledown mausoleums. At first, Kalon catalogued the ruins and sketched strategic routes in his head. He imagined possible threats: Rain cultists, hidden enclaves, scavengers. After three days, the routine bored even him. The only company was the wind and the Devourer.
Kalon tried to keep his mind on the mission, but after so many years of subservience, his mental discipline was a threadbare thing. Thoughts of Sandy would break through, usually at the most inopportune moments: a whiff of sweet rot from an abandoned orchard, or the glint of blue glass in the dust. Kalon's training told him to suppress, to compartmentalize, to smother the memory beneath tactical concerns. But in the endless repetition of the Zahrazad, every denial only made the flashbacks sharper.
Sometimes Sandy appeared as he was in life—cheerful, persistent, always half a step behind Kalon with words of support and private jokes. Sometimes he was as Kalon last saw him: face pale, lips trembling, a single blue scarf stained with arterial red. Kalon would blink, and the memory would fade, but the feeling never did. That gnawing, squalid guilt.
The Scourge kept pace beside him, never tiring, never complaining. When it spoke, the words seemed to vibrate directly into Kalon's skull. "You're slow," it said on the fifth day. "Your pace is unbecoming."
Kalon grunted. "I'll last longer than any cohort Yharim ever sent."
The Scourge's laugh was a dry rattle. "All the same, you're slow." It didn't press further. The Scourge rarely repeated itself.
That night, Kalon tried to sleep, but the sand gave no comfort. The stars above were cold and pitiless. As he drifted, Sandy's face returned. Not in words, not in action—just the image, floating behind his eyelids. The following day, he awoke with a film of tears already dried to the skin.
He forced himself onward, determined not to give the Scourge the satisfaction of seeing him break. But the pattern repeated: each day, a little more memory, a little less resolve. He remembered Sandy's laughter, the way he'd pat Kalon on the back after a duel, the way he'd say "we'll get through this" even when neither of them believed it. Kalon remembered the last time Sandy noted it, remembered the way the words turned brittle in his mouth, remembered the betrayal in his eyes when Kalon finally raised the blade.
On the seventh day, the strain became too much to bear. Kalon fell behind, stumbled, then dropped to one knee. His fingers dug into the sand as if to anchor himself to something real. The Scourge circled back, coils drawing patterns in the dust.
"Do you wish to die here, Warmonger?"
Kalon didn't answer. He tried to summon anger, but the only thing left was sorrow. "Did he have to die?" Kalon whispered, voice nearly gone. "Did any of them?"
The Scourge regarded him, expressionless. "Everyone dies, Kalon. Sooner. Some at your hand."
Kalon clenched his fists. "He wanted me to run. Leave the court. We could have disappeared, both of us."
"You would have been hunted," said the Scourge. "They would have found you, found him. It is always the same."
Kalon pressed his forehead to the sand, let the chill of predawn soak into his bones. For a long time, he didn't move. The Scourge watched, patient as bedrock.
Eventually, Kalon's shoulders shook once, then again. He made no sound, but tears cut pale rivers through the grit on his cheeks. He knelt like that for hours, unmoving, while the wind slowly buried his legs.
The Scourge watched, then looked away.
When Kalon finally stood, he said nothing. He wiped his face, straightened his cloak, and resumed the march. The Scourge slithered alongside, and together they moved toward the burning center of Zahrazad.
Neither spoke of what happened, but the memory did not fade, not for Kalon, and not for the thing that once had a name.
By the fourteenth day, the horizon was a mirage of white ruin. In the distance, the spire of the Atlatian pylon thrust from the desert like a broken needle, visible for hours and hours before anything else changed. The march became mechanical, every step pounded into muscle memory. Neither Kalon nor the Scourge bothered to speak; there was nothing to say.
At sunset, they stopped in the shadow of an old obelisk, blackened by centuries of sandstorms and neglect. Kalon sat with his back against it, running maintenance on his sword. The Scourge coiled in a broad circle around him, eyes pinpricks of red set deep in the coils.
"You are thinking of him again," the Scourge said, voice low and echoing.
Kalon didn't look up. "I am thinking of the mission."
The Scourge's tail snapped against stone, spraying a fan of powdered granite. "You are lying. You have been lying since the day you left the court."
Kalon set his blade aside, exhaling through his nose. "What do you want, Scourge?"
The Scourge uncoiled, looming higher. "I want to know why you persist in your weakness. You were Yharim's only weapon that scared the gods, once. You could have crushed kingdoms by walking through them. Now you mope, you weep for a dead boy who was too soft for the world."
Kalon's teeth ground together. "Say his name."
The Scourge shrugged a hundred chitinous plates. "Names are for the dead. He is dust. And you are less than you were."
Kalon stood, blade in hand. "I made choices you could never understand."
The Scourge's smile was a slice of darkness. "I understand perfectly. You chose to fail. You chose to forget what you are. You crave love, pity—anything to excuse what you did. You are a disgrace, Kalon. You are a failed war god, and it disgusts me."
Kalon's hand tightened on the hilt of Zenith. He stared at the Scourge, searching for any glimmer of the being it used to be. "You talk about failure, but all you do is eat. You destroy, then wallow in the bones. What do you know about loss?"
The Scourge's laughter was deep, hollow. "I know it better than you. I have been caged, slaughtered, and revived more times than you can imagine. You want to talk about hypocrisy? At least I admit what I am."
Kalon's face twisted. "You're not honest. You're a coward. You act like you don't care, but you do. You wouldn't be here if you didn't."
The Scourge slithered closer, its armored body radiating heat. "I am here because our emperor commands me. The difference between us, Kalon, is that I know who my master is. You pretend to have none, but you always obey someone. Even your grief is just another leash."
Kalon's voice dropped to a whisper. "I obey no one."
The Scourge's eyes flashed. "Lie to yourself if you want. But don't lie to me."
They stood like that, tension vibrating between them like a wire about to snap.
Kalon's following words were a growl. "You can't shame me into being what Yharim wants."
The Scourge sneered. "I don't want you to be what Yharim wants. I want you to be what you were supposed to be. The only thing worth respecting in this wretched world."
Kalon moved then, faster than thought, blade slicing the air. The Scourge reared, teeth bared. For a second, nothing happened.
Then, in perfect synchrony, they launched their attack.
The opening blow detonated the obelisk. Stone and sand shivered outward in a shockwave, flattening the next six dunes. The Scourge struck first, as it always did, uncoiling with a speed that left afterimages in the heat. Its jaw unhinged, swallowing three meters of desert air before clamping down on Kalon's shoulder. Plate and flesh crumpled. Kalon felt something pop in his chest, then the familiar wash of pain as his nerves registered the wound.
He didn't flinch. With his free arm, he drove Zenith into the Scourge's side, burying the blade to the hilt and dragging it along the armored belly. The sword's edge flashed; the wound sizzled, a dark ichor bubbling from the gash.
The Scourge howled, rolling back, scales rippling like a field of knives. It spat a wedge of blue fire at Kalon, forcing him to dodge left. The fire scorched the sand to glass, turning an acre of Zahrazad into a lake of molten obsidian.
For a heartbeat, both waited, measuring the other's injuries, then attacked again. Kalon charged, body already knitting itself back together. The Scourge met him, using its mass as a weapon, smashing Kalon flat and grinding him through the glass. Kalon punched upward, a kinetic blast from his war-essence catching the serpent under its chin and launching it skyward.
The Scourge landed two hundred meters away, carving a new canyon as it impacted. Before it could recover, Kalon was on top of it, raining blows with Zenith and boot heels, every strike calibrated to break or rupture. The Scourge lashed out with its tail, catching Kalon in the ribs and flinging him in a high arc. He crashed down, rolling, the sand giving way under him.
They fought for hours, then days, neither willing to concede. The desert became their arena, each attack reshaping the landscape. Glass towers rose and fell, their forms transformed by the attacks. Salt flats buckled. Old bones surfaced, then vanished beneath new layers of carnage.
The Scourge fought with the patience of a fossil—never tiring, always anticipating, every feint just a setup for a deeper trap. Kalon fought with a desperation that bordered on berserk, drawing more profoundly and deeply on the war-essence that Yharim had so painstakingly trained into him. Every time he faltered, memories of Sandy drove him forward, a sharpness in his mind that would not dull with pain.
On the third day, the Scourge changed tactics. It stopped trying to outpower Kalon and started to outthink him. Every feint was countered, and every charge redirected. Kalon found himself on the defensive, losing ground with every exchange.
At sunset, the Scourge finally pinned him. It coiled around Kalon's torso, crushing inward. Ribs shattered; lungs collapsed. Kalon tried to bring up his sword, but the Scourge caught his wrist in its teeth, snapping bone with a wet, clean sound.
"You, Kalon, are done," the Scourge said, voice vibrating inside Kalon's skull.
Kalon spat blood. "You never beat me. Not in the court, not on the field."
The Scourge leaned close, breath hot and metallic. "I beat you the day you killed your lover. You just never stopped fighting yourself."
Kalon tried to move, but the coils tightened. Death crept in at the edges of his vision.
The Scourge waited for the struggle to cease. When Kalon finally slumped, unconscious or dead, the Scourge relaxed its hold. It regarded the battered, broken body with something like pity.
Then, with deliberate care, it turned and vanished into the waiting desert.
Kalon woke to the taste of iron and the smell of scorched hair. His body, broken and blood-wet, was half-buried in a crater of glass. Above, the stars wobbled. He could not move his arms or legs, but sensation—pain, exquisite and total—proved he was still alive.
The Scourge's shadow loomed over him, blotting out the moon.
"You survived," it said, voice almost gentle. "I did not think you would."
Kalon tried to lift his head, but failed. A ragged cough sent flecks of blood across his chin.
The Scourge crouched, lowering its head until its eyes met his. "You were brave. You were strong. But in the end, you are still only a man. Pathetic."
Kalon blinked. The word cut is more profound than the wounds.
"I could kill you now," the Scourge went on, "but that would be a mercy you do not deserve. Yharim wished you dead, but I think this is better. You will not die quickly. You will have time to think. Perhaps you will even beg the sun to finish what I started."
It paused, considering. "You know, Sandy would be ashamed to see you like this, the one you loved. He would not weep for you. He would walk away."
Kalon's vision blurred. For a moment, he thought he saw Sandy standing at the edge of the crater, scarf fluttering, arms crossed. The memory stabbed him anew.
He tried to speak, but his throat was a ruined thing. The only sound he made was a strangled whimper.
A single tear traced a crooked line down his cheek, carving a path through the dust and dried blood.
The Scourge watched without blinking. "Goodbye, Kalon. Remember what you were."
It turned and slithered off, trailing chains that sang against the glass.
The sky overhead was a hollow vault. The desert was silent, except for the slow, uneven sound of Kalon's breathing.
He looked one last time to where he imagined Sandy had stood.
There was nothing there, just the wind and the long, patient dark.
Chapter Text
The Bone Sea had no night or day, just an endless pale gradient and the skitter of wind over dead calcium. Kalon lay face down in the lee of a whale-sized vertebra, cheek pressed to the salt pan. There was no pain. His nerves were a burned wire, too thin to carry a signal, and the only sensation was the slow diffusion of his blood into the parched earth. It was the stillness he noticed, not the agony: he had spent his whole life moving, fighting, never allowed to pause. Now, in this frozen second, nothing chased him. He almost wept in gratitude.
Then, of course, Sandy arrived.
He did not come with trumpets or ghostly shimmer. He was just there, sitting cross-legged three meters away, elbows on knees, staring at the horizon as if waiting for the plot to catch up to him. He looked as he had before the end: hair in his eyes, scarf wrapped tight, a little less color in the cheeks, but otherwise alive. Kalon wanted to speak, to say something final, but the words stayed stuck behind his teeth.
"I told you so," Sandy said at last, not looking over. The voice was thin, almost brittle, but true to memory.
Kalon summoned what dignity remained and shifted his head a centimeter in the dust. "You were always an optimist," he rasped. "If you thought I'd survive this, you didn't know me at all."
Sandy snorted. "I knew you better than anyone. That's why you never listened. If you had, maybe I'd still have a working aorta."
A silence grew between them, soft as a bruise. Kalon tried to close his eyes, but the lids wouldn't move. His gaze locked on the horizon, where the bones grew smaller, then vanished into a haze.
Sandy let the quiet stretch, then: "You should've run. The second we saw what he was, you should have taken my hand and left. I begged you. Remember?"
Kalon's chest hitched, though the movement cost him. "I remember everything. But it wouldn't have mattered. He always knew. There was never a way out."
"That's not true. There's always a way out, you just weren't brave enough to take it."
The accusation hung heavier than any chain. Kalon wanted to spit back something cutting, but instead he coughed—a spatter of red against the bone—and felt the world tilt, just a little. "You think I liked it? You think I didn't wish it was different, every day, every hour?"
Sandy finally turned to face him. The eyes were sharper here, lit from inside. "Wishing is for people who plan to survive. You always planned to die. That's why he owned you."
Kalon tried to push up and get to his knees, but his arms wouldn't respond. All he managed was to roll onto his back, eyes up to the blank dome of sky. "If you're here to punish me, you're late. The Scourge already did it better."
Sandy laughed, a sound Kalon hadn't heard in years. "This isn't punishment. This is a chance to get it right. You can't win against gods or tyrants by out-murdering them. You have to be better."
"Easy for you to say," Kalon said. "You're dead."
"And you're not. Not yet." Sandy stood, dusting off his trousers with exaggerated care. "You're going to get up, Kalon. You're going to walk out of this. Because if you don't, he wins, and I'm not letting him have the last word."
Kalon blinked. "Why do you care?" He meant it as a challenge, but it sounded like pleading.
Sandy looked down at him, her smile turning melancholy. "Because I loved you, idiot. Even if you didn't deserve it."
Kalon closed his eyes, finally able. The darkness behind the lids was not peace, but memory—every argument, every betrayal, every small kindness he had failed to repay. In the center of it all, Sandy stood, as indelible as the sun.
"You know what your real problem was?" Sandy said, his voice softer now. "You weren't afraid of Yharim. You were afraid of me. Afraid that if you ran, I'd make you be something more than a weapon. Maybe even a person."
Kalon didn't answer. There was nothing left to say.
The wind shifted, picking up grains of salt, and Sandy's shape began to unravel—first at the edges, then all the way through. "Time to wake up," he called, voice already thinning to transparency. "And this time, don't fuck it up."
Kalon's consciousness surged, every wound and regret flaring to white. His eyes snapped open, vision full of sun and sand. The taste of blood was fresh, authentic, and his chest ached with the weight of memory.
He was alive for now.
The Bone Sea sprawled before him, a corridor of death and empty promise. But for the first time since he could remember, Kalon felt the urge to move. To crawl, if he had to.
He reached for the broken sword at his side. It was only a fragment, but it would have to do.
And somewhere, in the next world over, Sandy smiled and turned away.
Kalon's return to the world was not a triumph. It was a coughing fit, sharp pain at every joint, and the taste of iron corroding his tongue. The heat above was enough to blind a man; every inch of skin burned like it had been sanded raw. He blinked, and his eyelids scraped against grains of salt.
He tried to roll over, but the left half of his torso was a single bruise, ribs straining against shredded muscle. His right arm was numb past the elbow; his left leg twitched with a mind of its own, muscle memory still running combat drills even as he lay broken. He took a long, shuddering breath, and the air scorched his throat down.
The world was a mix of noise and ache, but also clarity. The dream of Sandy had done its work; Kalon was alive, and would remain so until physics decided otherwise.
He took stock: no sight in his right eye, but enough vision on the other side to see the endless drift of bones and sand. Both hands were intact, but the little finger on his left was bent ninety degrees, tendon snapping with each twitch. His tunic was mainly gone, replaced with a sunburn so deep it looked like a birthmark. From the waist down, everything was a mass of grit and blood.
He tried to laugh at the absurdity of it, but the sound got caught in his chest. Instead, he set his teeth and got his knees under him, every movement sending a bolt of agony from hip to skull. He pressed his palm to the ground for leverage and found the surface hot enough to sear a brand into the flesh.
Still, he forced himself upright because the only alternative was to die horizontal, and Kalon had never done anything lying down that he couldn't do standing up. The horizon shimmered with heat, no sign of shelter or relief. The only thing that mattered was Zenith.
He reached for the sword out of habit, expecting the familiar weight at his belt. His hand closed on empty air. A shock of real panic shot through him—no blade, no hilt, not even the ghost of a scabbard. For the first time since childhood, Kalon was genuinely unarmed.
He scanned the ground, seeing a jitter of double-images—no weapon in the dust, just the pressed-in pattern where it had lain beside him. The absence felt worse than the injuries; it was a stripping away, a kind of nakedness only a soldier could know.
He tried to recall the moment he lost it. Memory flickered in brief, ugly bursts: the Scourge's mouth, hot as a forge; the snap of his wrist in its jaws; the final impact with the glass pan. But nothing of the blade after that—no clatter, no glint in the sun. Just blank, like the world had swallowed it.
He closed his good eye, forced himself to listen—nothing but the wind and his ragged breath.
And then, so faint he thought it might be a hallucination—a tremor in the ground. It lasted less than a second, a ripple running beneath his fingers. Kalon's instincts catalogued it and filed it away: not a danger yet, but worth remembering.
He opened his eye and squinted against the glare, determined. If the Scourge had left him alive, it must have wanted him to see this through, to fail on his terms. Or maybe it just wanted to watch him suffer. Either way, he had to move.
He dragged himself upright, swaying on legs that might give out at any step. The heat pressed down like a hand, and every cell screamed for water, but none of it mattered if he couldn't find the sword. He scanned the boneyard, searching for the one thing that made him whole.
Somewhere out there, Zenith waited.
And he would find it, or die with his hands in the sand, reaching for what was lost.
The hours bled together, each step of Kalon's search draining color from the world. The Bone Sea was unkind terrain, built to break even the most stubborn. Every rise was a ridge of jagged vertebrae or a crest of fossilized jawbones, and every depression was filled with dust so fine it might choke a man who breathed too quickly. Kalon moved through it all with the grim patience of a mortician. He kept his head low, eyes fixed to the ground, scanning every drift and hollow.
Thirst became his companion. The first sign was the sticky film on his tongue, then the way each swallow scraped his throat like a rasp. By midday, he could taste blood in his saliva, and his lips split with every curse he muttered at the sun. But he kept moving. Kalon had trained for deprivation—Yharim's court saw to that.
He searched in a spiral, methodical, because chaos was a luxury for the living. Each pass grew more expansive, the radius of futility expanding. Once or twice, he thought he glimpsed a flash of crystal in the dust—hope flaring, then dying as it revealed itself to be nothing but shattered glass, the byproduct of his earlier battle.
The wound in his side reopened somewhere along the way, painting his waist red. He ignored it. He would bleed or he would not, and either was fine so long as he found the blade.
The sun was nearly down when he finally saw it, a glint, half-swallowed by sand, a shape too geometric to be bone. He limped over, fell to his knees, and began digging with both hands.
The first handful brought the hilt. It was intact, worn and scuffed, but still recognizable—the leather grip, the knurled pommel, the faint trace of runes along the tang. He nearly sobbed in relief.
He braced, closed his eyes, and yanked. The hilt came free, but there was no resistance. The blade did not follow.
It was gone. Zenith was just a grip and an empty socket; the metal snapped off clean.
He stared at it, not understanding. For a moment, he tried to rationalize: perhaps the blade had sunk deeper, maybe it was buried just beneath. He dug with growing desperation, fingers clawing through the grit. Nothing. No blade, not even a fragment.
He sat back, hilt in lap, and felt the first stirrings of something very close to hysteria.
"Of course," he muttered. "Of course it ends like this."
He looked up and scanned the nearest dunes. The desert stretched on, a theater of old violence, every contour mocking him. He stood—too quickly, almost blacking out—and staggered toward the nearest rise. It was a miserable climb, every step sending pain lancing through his heel and knee.
At the summit, he found what he'd hoped not to.
The Zenith was scattered down the far side of the dune, reduced to a fan of splinters and shards. Each fragment caught the light and bent it into a rainbow of sharp edges, dazzling and pointless. It was almost beautiful, if you were the kind of monster who enjoyed destruction.
Kalon dropped to his knees, the old pain now joined by something colder. He reached out, picked up a piece of the blade—a shard maybe ten centimeters long, the edge still so keen it bit into his skin without pressure. He let it cut him, just to feel a clean pain, then set it back down. He was numb to anything else.
He looked down the slope, at the carnage, at the end of everything.
That was it. No sword. No hope.
He sat there until the sun died and the Bone Sea was a field of mirrors, reflecting nothing but failure.
Night in the Bone Sea was a slow suffocation. Even after the sun dipped, the heat lingered like a fever, and every breath brought a little more dust into the lungs. Kalon sat at the summit of the dune, eyelids drooping, body limp with exhaustion. The loss of Zenith was still raw, but the more significant loss was a future; he couldn't even imagine what came next.
The wind died for the first time all day, and a hush fell over the landscape. Kalon almost mistook it for peace.
He did not hear the serpent until the sand exploded beneath him.
A whiplash of force caught him behind the knee and flipped him down the side of the dune. He tumbled, arms flailing for purchase, and hit bottom hard enough to knock the last of the air from his lungs. For a second, everything was grit and blood in his mouth.
He looked up and saw it: the Desert Scourge. It was not the Devourer he'd fought before, but something smaller, leaner—a mere cousin to that primordial horror, but still three meters of sinew and jagged bone, wrapped in scales the color of old parchment. The head was all mouth, rows of crystalline teeth glinting in the afterlight.
It circled, wary. Even a starved predator recognized another killer.
Kalon's body screamed protest, but he rolled to his feet, hunched and ready. He clutched the useless hilt of Zenith in his fist. He looked at it, laughed bitterly, and threw it away. It landed pointlessly in the dust.
"Well," he said, voice a cracked croak, "this just isn't my week."
The serpent hissed, a sound like dry leaves rubbed together, and lunged.
Kalon dodged, barely—his left leg was almost useless, so he twisted with his upper body and let gravity do the rest. The Scourge missed, but not by much; he felt the wind from its passing as it struck and recoiled, leaving a furrow in the sand.
He tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. The flats ahead were open ground; the dunes behind, a deathtrap. He limped in the only direction that didn't immediately spell suicide, and the Scourge followed with a lazy, almost playful motion.
He glanced over his shoulder, saw the thing keeping perfect pace, and shouted, "You know, I was supposed to die a war hero, not a snake snack!"
The serpent seemed unimpressed.
He kept moving, each step draining his reserves. The pain in his ribs spiked; he tasted copper again. He tripped, caught himself, and staggered onward.
The Scourge closed the gap, lashing out with its tail. Kalon flinched and fell sideways, earning a shallow slice across his back that stung but did not kill.
He rolled, scrambled to his knees, and looked at the beast. He could see now that it was sickly—one eye clouded, segments of its hide peeling away in ragged strips. It was hungry, desperate, and likely in agony.
They weren't so different.
Kalon stood, wiped sweat from his brow, and faced the Scourge. "Fine. Let's finish it."
He braced, half-hoping the old war-essence would flare up, give him one last trick. But there was nothing left—just the raw, exhausted machinery of his body.
The serpent lunged again, faster this time, and Kalon barely dodged.
He landed hard, rolled, and then, because the alternative was standing still and being devoured, ran.
He knew it was pointless, but he ran anyway.
The chase lasted for an hour, but it felt like a year had been shaved off Kalon's soul. The serpent pressed him hard, but never relatively closed; it was a hunter that liked to savor the endgame. Kalon's lungs were sandpaper, his heartbeat a spike in his ears. In the first few minutes, he tried for speed, but quickly realized the only way to stay ahead was to conserve energy, luring the Scourge into wasted moves.
He darted through bone arches, dove behind femurs taller than a man, and more than once threw himself into a thicket of rib cages to slow the serpent's momentum. Each near-miss left him with fresh cuts, new bruises, but he was still alive and—barely—moving.
He found himself at the edge of a salt flat, ground brittle and cracked. The Scourge circled, drawing smaller and smaller orbits, waiting for him to trip or collapse. Kalon tried not to show how close he was.
He stumbled, righted himself, and glared at the monster. "You want a piece of me? Come on, then."
The serpent obliged.
It rushed him, mouth open. Kalon dodged, caught the creature's head with both hands, and drove his knee into its jaw. Bone cracked, but not enough to matter. The thing writhed and threw him off, sending him skidding across the salt. He scraped to a stop, rolled, and got back on his feet.
It struck again, this time from the side. Kalon felt the bite before he saw it—a row of teeth piercing his right calf. He screamed, not out of fear, but in outrage, and hammered his fist down on the serpent's head until the teeth let go.
They circled, two animals on their last legs.
Kalon let the Scourge approach, then feinted left. As it lunged, he threw a handful of salt into its cloudy eye. The beast recoiled, howling, giving him a second to grab its tail and swing it with all the leverage he could muster. He toppled it, sending the thing into a roll.
He landed on top, gripping the creature's head, thumbs pressed against its fangs to keep them from his face. The serpent writhed, coiling around his torso, squeezing tighter. Ribs creaked. The world pulsed with red spots.
Kalon head-butted the serpent once, twice, until the scales split and the beast relented. He used the moment to slip an arm around its neck and twist, trying for a choke. The serpent thrashed; he held on, fingers locked. Each second was a lottery—would it die, or would it break him first?
The coils tightened. Kalon felt something pop in his back. He was seeing double, but he squeezed harder.
The serpent's tongue flicked, frantic. It started to flag, movements growing less coordinated. Kalon dared not relax, but he was slipping, too—nerves on fire, every muscle at the breaking point.
"Not… letting go," he hissed, each word a struggle.
The creature's jaw worked, trying to bite, but Kalon's grip forced its mouth shut. He used what remained of his leverage to pin its head to the ground, grinding it against a sharp outcrop of bone. The surface cut into his palm, but he didn't let go.
He remembered Sandy, remembered that last look—love and disappointment mixed. He used it, fueled himself on it.
Minutes passed, or maybe a whole life.
Finally, the serpent's struggles slowed. It twitched, then stopped moving.
Kalon waited another ten seconds, then ten more. Only when the creature's body went slack did he collapse onto his back, gasping, lungs raw.
He looked up at the sky, where the first faint stars began to blink into existence. He was still alive. The Scourge was not.
He let himself breathe, one hand pressed to the new wound in his leg. It was bleeding badly, but that was a problem for tomorrow. For now, he'd earned this moment.
He rolled onto his side and spat at the dead serpent. "Told you. Not my week."
The wind picked up, chilling the sweat on his skin.
Kalon closed his eyes, just for a second, and felt the world spin around him.
He would wake, if he could. But for now, he was content to lie there, tangled in victory and defeat, the salt flat his only audience.
The pain was a new country, one Kalon had never visited before. Every nerve was an exposed wire, every heartbeat a detonation. He drifted in and out of awareness, blinking up at the stars, waiting for one to fall and finish the job. But none did.
His hand still gripped a length of serpent scale, sticky with blood—his and the beast's. He let go, fingers too raw for feeling, and turned his head to the side. The world was all salt and bone, the taste of defeat burned into his gums.
He lay there, unmoving, until the cold seeped through his spine and reminded him he was still something alive.
He tried to laugh, but it came out as a grunt. The body always had more to give than the mind allowed.
That was the lesson of Yharim's palace, drilled into him over the ears: survive. Then, if you must, hate.
Kalon rolled over and tried to stand. The left leg was useless; the right barely obeyed. He used his arms to push, then levered himself upright on one of the salt-crusted bones.
Every movement sent a bolt of agony through his body. The wounds in his calf and side were open and pulsing. He pressed a strip of tunic against the worst of them, teeth gritted, and hissed as the salt did its work. The pain was clarifying.
He limped to the corpse of the Scourge and spat on it. "I'll see you in hell," he said, and the words gave him just enough power to take the first step away.
He moved forward, no destination in mind. The war-essence flickered inside him—a guttering flame, but still present. With each step, it grew brighter, consuming pain and turning it into momentum. He thought of Sandy, of the look in those dead eyes, and swore never to forget.
He thought of Yharim, of the Scourge, and all the ghosts they had made of him.
He would have vengeance.
The desert rolled on, indifferent. But Kalon was moving now, step after step, until the horizon blurred and night took him.
He would not stop. Not now.
Kalon walked until his feet were pulped meat and the world dissolved into a tunnel of pain. He left a trail of blood and skin in his wake, a breadcrumb line for anyone who cared to follow—though he doubted anyone would. The Bone Sea was vast enough to hide a hundred bodies, a thousand failures, and the desert was eager for more.
He didn't know where he was heading. The idea of direction was meaningless, but the act of movement was all that mattered. Each time he stumbled or fell, he remembered the serpent's teeth in his calf, the Scourge's chains, Sandy's smile as it curdled to grief. He turned those memories into a rope and pulled himself forward, hand over hand, meter after meter.
The night wore thin. The sky started to lighten, a sickly yellow haze over the horizon. Kalon squinted, shielding his good eye. Every part of Kalon was ruined, but the stubborn core would not extinguish.
He found himself thinking of Sandy. Not the ghost from his fever-dream, but the real one—the way he used to tilt his head when Kalon said something clever, the steady patience in his voice even when arguing. Sandy had wanted him to run, to abandon the war, to be something other than a weapon.
Too late for that, Kalon thought. But not too late to finish what you started.
He would not die in the desert. Not with Yharim's work unfinished, not with the Scourge still eating its way through the world. There were debts to pay, and Kalon was the last creditor.
As the sun broke over the ridge, Kalon pushed through a crust of brittle salt, each step carving a notch into his memory. He chanted names to himself—Yharim, Draedon, the Scourge—each one a wound, opened once again.
He thought of Sandy again, and for the first time in years, let himself feel the ache. It was not weakness, but a sharpening. A reminder that love was just another word for unfinished business.
By midday, he reached a plain of fractured bone. He dropped to his knees, hands clutching shards of vertebrae, and screamed until his voice tore. The sound echoed, bounced between dead giants, and then was gone.
Kalon slumped forward, breathing hard. He pressed his brow to the grit and whispered a promise: "I will burn them all. For you."
There was no answer, but he didn't expect one. The world was indifferent. The work was his alone.
He stood, swaying, and looked to the next horizon. He set his jaw and walked.
He would not stop. Not now. Not ever.
Notes:
This is all that I have written currently. I will try to update as frequent as I possibly can.
Chapter 6: From the Dust
Chapter Text
Three days in the wastes, and Kalon still tasted blood behind his teeth.
The air above the Bone Sea had not changed—thin, dry, full of glare and dead silence. Banners of heat shimmered above the dunes, the sand grains ground down from fossil and time, and the only motion for miles was the listless drift of wind, never enough to cool his skin. Kalon's tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He forced his eyelids open; the lashes crackled as they separated.
At first, he saw only blank sky and the bladed shadow of a vulture orbiting overhead. Then the smell hit: salt, sunbaked leather, the sour tang of old sweat. Not his own. Someone had rolled him onto his back and propped his head on a crumbling sack. Beyond his boots, and partially eclipsed by the vulture's wing-shadow, a tall man in a pale caftan knelt over a spread of glass vials and ceramic bowls.
Kalon's body, when he tried it, was slow to respond. His forearms and left thigh were bandaged in rag strips, knotted with a merchant's efficiency, and he felt the clean sting of something bitter smeared beneath. He flexed his hand. Zenith, or what remained of it, was gone.
"You're awake," the man said without looking up. His voice was practiced neutrality—neither eager nor bored, but somewhere in the spectrum between them.
Kalon pushed himself up, muscle by muscle. "Who are you?"
"Davos. Traveling Merchant. Owner of this stretch of bad land." Davos uncorked a squat bottle, poured two fingers of greenish liquor into a bowl, and slid it to the lip of the cloth between them. "You'll want to sip that. Restores circulation. Also clears most toxins."
Kalon sniffed the liquid. The fumes bit at his sinuses; he recognized cactus spirits and what might've been dry opium. He drank, barely grimacing. His vision sharpened, bringing Davos into sharper focus.
Davos' features were built for arithmetic: lean face, lined with sun, eyes calculating and alive with the same restless energy as the desert. His caftan, patched in six places, but the patches matched the base fabric, was stitched by someone who valued both function and appearance. His boots were new and expensive, sand-bleached but unscuffed. Kalon doubted the man ever walked unless he had to.
"My gear," Kalon said. "And my hilt."
"In safe hands," Davos assured him, already repacking the medical kit into a lacquered case. "You were almost dead when we found you. No pulse. Blood pressure is like a dried fig. I'm impressed, truly. They said you fought the desert ghost out in the east. Not a wise move."
"Not a move at all," Kalon corrected. "Job. Where's your camp?"
Davos grinned, showing an array of gold and onyx teeth. "We're three ridges south, at the old boneyard. You're lucky my men recognized your face before the vultures did."
Kalon flexed again, this time testing the bandages. Beneath the linen, his skin tingled with the slow bloom of healing. "How long?"
Six hours since extraction. I gave you the best blood we had. Scavenged some nanites off a dead scavver, but they're not meant for your breed. Might get some fever dreams." Davos tilted his head, examining Kalon with the detachment of a butcher sizing up a carcass. "But you'll live."
Kalon nodded, drinking again. The bowl was already empty; he had no memory of swallowing it all. "I owe you," he said, though the words came out flat.
Davos's grin faltered into a merchant's deadpan. "Indeed, you do. And I do expect payment. The Merchants of the Forgotten are not a charity, even for heroes." He made the word "heroes" sound like an insult, or perhaps a bad investment.
Kalon tried to stand. The bones in his legs felt like they'd been sandblasted, but he got upright on the second attempt. The pain was clean, not the sticky kind that lingers after nasty wounds. "I have somewhere to be," he said.
"You're not going anywhere until you can walk a hundred paces without falling." Davos was already moving, rolling up the patient's tarp and stowing the vials into a pouch at his side. "Besides, you left your payment back at the boneyard. I suggest you return with me before the jackals make off with it."
Kalon looked down. The field around him was a slaughterhouse: a dead antlion the size of a wagon, two bisected sand-hounds, and a scatter of bone and chitin fragments. The blood was already drying, darkening to black in the sun. He saw, in the sand nearest to his left hand, a partial imprint of Zenith's crossguard, as if it had burned a sigil into the ground before being taken.
He grunted. "Who else made it out?"
"Just you and what you see here," Davos said, with a lazy sweep of his arm. "We got here ahead of the patrols and ahead of the worms. Call it luck, or call it investment. I call it profit."
Kalon spat, then regretted it; his mouth was too dry to waste. "You want a contract," he guessed. "I'm not a mercenary."
"Nor am I." Davos's eyes narrowed, less smile than calculation now. "But there are things that need finishing in Zahrazad. Things you can do better than any man alive. I've watched the records—they say you're a ghost of the old court. The last hand of the Light. Is it true?"
Kalon looked away, scanning the horizon. "I have no court. Not anymore."
"That's what makes you valuable," Davos said. He moved closer, enough for Kalon to see the blue pinpricks of synthetic implants in the merchant's irises. "Come. We'll saunter. If you fall, I'll help you up. Either way, we both get what we want."
Kalon started walking. The sand creaked underfoot, crusted over with bone dust and glassy grit. They went side by side, Kalon's stride stiff but unbroken, Davos's footsteps leaving a precise, almost mathematical trail.
After a hundred paces, the ground dropped into the basin of an ancient river. Here, the wind had carved out shapes like petrified sea serpents. The boneyard was more literal than poetic: a ribcage of some prehistoric leviathan, now a landmark for scavengers and lost traders. There were tents—six of them, set in a crescent—and a single column of smoke rising from a cookfire. The vulture from earlier had made a home of the highest rib and glared down at them with the practiced malice of a tax collector.
Kalon's hilt was laid out on a tarpaulin next to his coat and pack. Two guards in mismatched armor stood behind the table, and both carried crossbows, but neither had them raised. Davos nodded to the men, then gestured for Kalon to take a seat.
He did. The pack had been rifled through, but nothing was missing. The coat was folded, and the hilt had been cleaned and oiled.
"I took the liberty of removing the less… volatile components," Davos said. "My men are skilled, but they know how to respect sacred things. Your Zenith is quite a specimen."
"Not much of a sword," Kalon said, but the lie felt wrong in his mouth.
Davos didn't argue. "My terms are simple. You help me retrieve something from the ruins south of Scheherazade, and I forgive your debt. Walk away a free man."
Kalon looked up. The ruins south of Scheherazade were two days' walk across the salt pan, and even from here, the haze of its broken arches stood out on the skyline. "What's in it for you?"
"I'm a merchant," Davos replied. "Gold. Relics. Artifacts that will keep my caravan alive for another year. And I need a man who can handle himself." He tapped a finger on the table. "Word is, you're the only man to survive the Devourer's bite."
Kalon shrugged. "I've survived worse."
"Not according to the records." Davos's eyes flashed with the old predator's gleam. "I know who you were. But I also know what you are now. You're a man in debt, and that's the only thing that matters to me."
Kalon fingered the edge of Zenith, feeling the pulse of old energy in the metal. "I'll consider your offer," he said.
"Good," Davos said, already moving away. "Sleep. Eat. We leave at dawn." He left a second bottle of the cactus liquor by the hilt, a silent reminder that every transaction carried interest.
Kalon stared at the bottle, then the sky, then at the distant bones of the world. He hated that the merchant was correct. He had survived everything, except the future.
The sun dropped lower, painting the Bone Sea in gold and shadow. Kalon drank again, then closed his eyes and dreamed of the old court, and the things he would never return to. Somewhere behind him, Davos watched from his tent, already tallying the odds, already plotting his next move.
In the Bone Sea, only the dead ever rested easily.
Kalon slept in fits and starts, a few minutes at a time, always expecting the air to shift, the blade to fall, the old instincts to snap him awake at the worst possible moment. The caravan camp was a perimeter of spears and low fires, but there was no sense of security. Even asleep, Davos's guards watched each other as much as the dunes.
When the world lightened to predawn blue, Davos was already standing over him, the hem of his caftan dusted with grit. He held a wooden tray with two bowls—one filled with a boiled millet, the other with a strip of dried meat coiled like a parasite.
"Eat," said Davos. "You'll need your strength. First light in this part of the world is like a hammer."
Kalon obliged, chewing through the breakfast in silence. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "Let's get this over with."
"You're a man of purpose." Davos sat cross-legged across from him, hands folded with a trader's patience. "I respect that."
Kalon eyed the guards. "They're going to follow me around?"
"They are. You've a reputation." Davos's smile was small, nothing behind it but sharp teeth. "I'd prefer not to lose my investment on the first day."
Kalon shoved the bowl aside. "You want something from those ruins. You said so last night. What is it?"
"A ledger," Davos said. "But the ruins are crawling with the dregs. Scavver gangs, ratkin, some offshoot of the Serpent God cult. And the old deathtraps, if the stories are true. You go in, bring back the ledger, and the job is done."
Kalon's mouth twisted. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you'll be free to limp back across the Bone Sea with the next dust storm," Davos replied, tone mild. "But I wouldn't wager on your odds. Most men don't survive three days out here, let alone what you've just walked through."
"I don't work for coin," Kalon said. "Never have."
"Ah." Davos folded his hands. "But debt, on the other hand, is a currency all men obey."
"Two jobs," Kalon said. "I'll get you your ledger. Then I go. No more leash."
Davos's gaze flicked to the horizon, feigning consideration. "Two. And after that, we shake hands and part as men of business."
Kalon nodded once, and for a moment, the air was as brittle as glass.
Davos stood, and their conversation was done. "The guards will show you the route. You leave at dawn. Good hunting."
The sun, when it rose, did so with a violence that bordered on sadism. The air was a skin-tightening pressure, every breath tinged with the stench of old salt and burnt minerals. The ruins were visible by midday, the spiked silhouettes of its trade arches jutting up like the vertebrae of some fossil god.
Kalon moved at a steady clip, Davos's guards a half-step behind. They were competent, but not soldiers, and certainly not killers; their armor was for show, their swords clean and untested. He noted the gaps in their formation and pushed ahead.
The outer walls had half-collapsed under centuries of siege and sun, but the inner market was still a maze of stone and fire-blackened timber. Kalon led the way, ignoring the lizard-men that scuttled through the side alleys and the flares of movement from above.
The rendezvous point was a sunken plaza lined with broken statues. Davos's intelligence had been good—there were already three scavenger corpses on the steps, cooling in the shade. Kalon picked his way over them, scanning the ground for tripwires or mines.
Inside the old scribe's hall, the air was cooler, if not cleaner. The walls had been tagged with newer graffiti, cultic symbols, and the all-seeing Eye of the Light. Kalon suppressed a laugh.
He moved methodically, breaking open cabinets and checking beneath the overturned desks. He found the ledger behind a false panel in the wall, wrapped in a cloth stamped with the old merchant's seal. The book itself was heavier than expected, bound in blue leather and locked with a simple clasp. Kalon stashed it in his pack and made his way to the exit.
He felt, rather than heard, the trap trigger under his left heel. He snapped his weight back, but the pneumatic spike still grazed his calf, parting the fabric but not the skin. "Sloppy," he muttered, turning off the mechanism with a twist of his boot knife.
Davos's guards flinched at the sound. "Is it done?" one asked, voice tight.
Kalon held up the book. "First job's finished. Let's get back before something hungrier than us comes to check the noise."
The return trek was slower, the guards keeping farther away now. At camp, Davos was waiting, arms folded and a sour twist to his mouth.
"Impressive," Davos said, taking the ledger with a deftness that belied the genuine hunger in his hands. "Have you ever considered a career in acquisitions?"
Kalon grunted. "One more job. Then I'm free."
Davos made a show of thumbing through the ledger's pages. "Of course, of course. There's a ruin half a day east, an old moon shrine. I'll need an artifact from there—a lens, about the size of your fist, set in silver."
Kalon didn't even sit. "Who do I kill?"
"Hopefully no one," Davos said. "But if it comes to that, kill quickly. The locals out there are persistent."
Kalon shouldered his pack, his hilt resting against his spine. "You always send men to die for you?"
"I prefer the term subcontract," Davos replied. "And you're not dead yet."
The air had gone red and dim with the approach of dusk. Kalon lingered, waiting for the punchline, but Davos only watched him with those pale, patient eyes.
"Do you ever tire of being someone else's property?" Davos asked, almost offhand.
Kalon spat again. "Traded one leash for another," he said. "Yharim would've liked you."
Davos smiled with all of his teeth, no warmth in it. "But he never paid his debts."
Kalon left before the joke could finish, already thinking of the lens, already plotting the next move.
Behind him, Davos laughed—a flat, soundless thing—and turned to his ledger, his calculations running ahead of the night.
Yharim's throne was not designed for comfort. It was forged for control—every angle calculated, every pressure point an unconscious reminder of his authority. He sat with perfect posture, his fingers drumming a mechanical rhythm on the armrest as he reviewed the day's influx of reports. Data streamed across the glassy surface before him: troop movements, resource tallies, a worrying uptick in black market technology moving through the western port cities. Yharim digested it all with a practiced indifference.
He was calibrating the torque in his left cybernetic wrist when the Scourge entered, as always, unannounced. The air shifted before the Devourer did, temperature dropping a degree, the lights flickering as if in submission to the cold void at its core.
"Report," Yharim said, not turning from his panel.
The Scourge's voice was a physical thing, pressing in from all sides at once. "The Warmonger has fallen. Confirmed by four witnesses and a telemetry drone."
Yharim's hand paused. He allowed himself a moment—just enough to savor the memory of Kalon's last act of rebellion, and then to erase it. "Show me."
A swirl of nanites arranged themselves into a projected image: Kalon, battered, dragging himself across the sand, then collapsing amid the shattered remains of the Desert Scourge. The feed terminated as vultures descended, pecking at the corpse with the indifferent efficiency of nature.
Yharim closed his eyes. "Good." He let the word hang there, heavy with the finality of an execution order. Then, to the Scourge: "Did the body recover?"
"Unclear," said the void-god. "But none can survive the Bone Sea without a lifeline. He is dead in all ways that matter."
Yharim allowed himself a thin smile. "Well done." He leaned back, the light in the throne room refracting off the gilded wires embedded in his skull. "But now I have an opening to fill. The Light must have its enforcer. I need something terrifying, unorthodox. Not a clone of the old Ghost—something new. You follow?"
"I do," said the Scourge, with a resonance that suggested amusement.
Yharim leaned forward. "There's talk of a girl. Some wildlings out east, sacked two border towns in a single night, leaving nothing but ash. Eyewitnesses say she summons blood and fire at will. No military training, but already a legend in half the frontier villages." He let the words breathe, watching the Scourge for a reaction. "She calls herself nothing, but her enemies have started using a name. Calamitas."
The Scourge's eyes blazed with a greedy, hungry light. "A witch. Untested, unbroken."
"Precisely," Yharim said. "You'll bring her to me. Alive and mostly intact. I want to see what she does under proper supervision."
The Scourge inclined its vast, segmented head. "If I succeed?"
"Astrum Deus," Yharim said, almost idly. "Or what's left of it. The corpse is entombed beneath the world; you can eat your fill. But only after the job is complete."
The Scourge trembled, its chains rattling with anticipation. "Consider it handled." The entity retreated in a vortex of chill and darkness, leaving behind a faint metallic tang and the echo of primal hunger.
Yharim waited until the sensors indicated all was clear, then smiled earnestly. He flexed his left hand, testing the full range of motion of the new mechanical wrist. Smooth. Precise. Stronger than any flesh. Everything was moving to plan, and soon the world would have a new legend to fear. The old Ghost was dead; long live the Brimstone Witch.
He toggled a private channel to Draedon's lab, patching in the sallow voice of his chief engineer. "The Scourge is moving east. Track its progress. If it brings the girl, prep a containment array."
Draedon's reply was automatic. "Understood, my liege. We will ready the array."
Yharim terminated the link. He drummed his fingers again, each tap sending a ripple through the palace's systems, each beat a tiny pulse of dominion.
Let them tell their ghost stories, he thought. The only monsters worth fearing were the ones you built yourself.
And he was already working on the next.
By the time the caravan's watch fire had shrunk to embers, Kalon was already picking his way through the dead city at the edge of the Bone Sea. He left the guards behind, the memory of their useless clatter trailing off with the sound of his footsteps. The air was cleaner at night, the heat replaced by a brittle cold that cut deeper than any knife. It suited him; the less he had to feel, the better.
He moved fast, never bothering to avoid the scattered bones that crunched under his boots. The first temple was a sunken ruin, with columns eroded to nubs, its altar long since stripped of any sacred remains. He kicked in the door, scattering a cluster of giant sand-bugs that had nested in the vestibule. The largest reared up, clicking its mandibles, but Kalon split it down the center with Zenith before it could lunge. The others scurried for cover, and he let them go.
Inside, the loot was exactly as Davos had predicted: a cache of old vases, some banded in gold leaf, a handful of ancient cloths preserved by salt, and a tablet engraved with the story of a king who starved his city to spite a rival. Kalon stuffed everything worth more than a copper into his pack, marking the rest for later retrieval.
Next was a dome-shaped shrine, half-buried in the sand. Here, the guardians were human, or had been—three scavvers who fancied themselves priests of some bone cult. They shouted threats from behind a barricade of stacked benches, but Kalon ignored their warnings and walked straight through. The first one dropped a stone on his head; Kalon didn't flinch. The second lunged with a hook-sword, and Kalon knocked her aside, leaving her breathless on the tile. The third ran. Kalon didn't bother to chase.
He took what he needed—two engraved lenses, a clutch of silver coins stamped with the moon's face, and a reliquary filled with some kind of perfumed sand—and moved on. The city's market square was last: dozens of ruined stalls, their wares petrified or stripped long ago. Here he found a single merchant corpse, mummified and propped against a stall. Kalon took the ledger from its lap, along with a ring of keys and a pouch of pearls.
By sunrise, he had cleared three ruins and a dozen minor threats. He returned to the boneyard, dropping the loot on Davos's table with a clatter that woke half the camp.
Davos blinked blearily, then grinned. "You work quickly."
Kalon shrugged. "You said urgent."
Davos inventoried the haul with nimble fingers, eyes bright with the fever of acquisition. "You could've sold this on the open market for ten times what I'm paying."
Kalon dusted sand from his sleeves. "Not in the habit of counting other people's money."
Davos closed the ledger, setting it aside with reverence. "You're efficient. I like that."
"My debt is paid," Kalon said. "More than paid."
Davos's smile flattened. "Not quite. You forgot the second job." He pointed to the moonstone lens, the one Kalon had picked up in the shrine. "That's the piece. But I need a delivery. There's a broker in Guillemot—a woman by the name of Orlaith Noctis. Take it to her. Then you're free."
Kalon stared at him, expression unreadable. "You could send one of your own."
"I could," Davos said, "but I trust you not to fuck it up. Or at least, to be honest about it if you do."
Kalon considered. "When do I leave?"
Davos gestured to the open waste. "Now. The faster you're gone, the less I have to worry about you burning my operation to the ground." He made it sound like a compliment.
Kalon slung his pack, checked the edge on Zenith, and set off again—this time with a straight path, no looking back.
He wondered, for a bitter instant, if Yharim had ever felt this free. Then he remembered the man's eyes and the way Davos smiled when he lied.
Some leashes just changed hands.
Dawn was a knife through the boneyard, the sunlight catching every jag of bone and twisted metal. Kalon returned to find the camp already awake—Davos at his folding desk, calculating profits in silence, the guards pretending not to watch as he approached.
He dropped the moonstone lens on the desk. "Job's done. I'm leaving."
Davos took his time, rolling the lens between his palms and holding it up to the light. "You did well. But there's one thing left to settle."
Kalon crossed his arms. "You owe me nothing."
"That's where you're wrong." Davos set the lens down with care, then looked up, eyes sharpened by a sleepless night. "You think you're free, but you're still marked. Half the world wants your head for what happened in Zahrazil."
Kalon's face didn't move. "I was a weapon. Not the hand that pulled the trigger."
"That distinction is lost on the widows and the orphans," Davos said, voice low. "But not on me. I know what it means to be used."
"So what's this, then? Another leash?" Kalon asked, his tone more weary than bitter.
Davos leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I'm offering you protection. Membership in the Merchants of the Forgotten—real protection, the kind you can't buy with coin. In exchange, you keep us safe when the hounds come sniffing. Simple."
Kalon shook his head. "No more contracts. No more debts. I'm done."
Davos smiled, all pity gone from his face. "That's the thing about history, Ghost. You don't get to leave it behind. You only get to pay for it, piece by piece, until someone else says stop."
A thud sounded behind Kalon—an impact, heavy and deliberate. He turned to see Davos's right hand: a man built of slabs and evil intent, hunched in iron armor, a metal jaw welded in place—the Iron Fang.
Kalon sized him up. "That supposed to scare me?"
"Supposed to hurt you," Davos said, and snapped his fingers.
Ruhar moved, fast for something so big, swinging a fist the size of a war drum. Kalon ducked, the blow shearing a slice of air above his head. The guards closed ranks, forming a circle, but none stepped in.
"You're making a mistake," Kalon said, voice tight.
"Maybe," Davos said, "but it's not my mistake."
Ruhar lunged again, this time with an open palm, aiming to crush Kalon against the bones. Kalon slid aside, using the momentum to spin behind the brute and land a sharp elbow to the kidney. Ruhar barely noticed.
"You want me to break your toy?" Kalon called Davos.
Davos didn't answer. Ruhar did, with a backhand that caught Kalon on the shoulder and sent him rolling across the sand. The hit would have broken a lesser man. Kalon came up with blood on his teeth, more alive than angry.
He planted his feet, bracing for the next round. "Last chance, Davos."
The merchant only shrugged, as if to say, You had your chance.
Kalon smiled, a thin crescent of contempt, and waited for the Iron Fang to charge again.
Ruhar charged, the sand exploding under his feet, iron jaw glinting in the light. The first punch was a battering ram—a blur to most, but Kalon had seen faster in Yharim's court. He sidestepped, let the air pressure of the blow buffet his ribs, and flicked a finger at the man's exposed flank.
Ruhar whirled, swinging wide, every movement pure force with no thought for defense. Kalon played along, keeping just out of reach, letting the brute exhaust himself with haymakers and tackle attempts. He even slowed once, deliberately clipping his shoulder against Ruhar's forearm, just to give the crowd a taste of contact.
Three minutes passed in a haze of missed blows and spiraling dust. By the second minute, even Davos's men were snickering; by the third, the laughter was open. Kalon grinned through the sweat and the blood on his chin, then decided he'd had enough.
When Ruhar came in for a bear hug, Kalon ducked and hammered a palm into the man's solar plexus. Ruhar folded, gasping, but managed to stay upright. Kalon stepped in and kneed him in the groin—not enough to ruin, just to reset. Two quick jabs to the temple, left-right, and then a final uppercut straight to the steel jaw.
The sound was like a hammer striking an anvil. Ruhar's head snapped back; he staggered, then fell flat, making the sand shudder under his weight. The crowd was silent for a long heartbeat.
Kalon wiped his mouth and stepped over the body, not bothering to check if Ruhar was breathing. "You hire muscle for show, Davos. Next time, try for quality."
Davos did not react, but the tic in his jaw gave him away. "You could have killed him."
Kalon shrugged. "Didn't have to."
The merchant gestured to his men, who moved in to drag Ruhar away. "Consider the debt paid. But know this, Ghost—every time you make a move, someone's watching. You'll never be free."
Kalon shook the dust from his sleeves. "If I'm never free, neither are you."
He left the camp without another word, the sunrise at his back, and the knowledge that some debts were meant to be broken.
Kalon had barely made it three dunes past the boneyard before the sound of hooves caught up with him. He turned, expecting a posse, but it was only Davos, riding a sand-bred mare and flanked by two of his smaller, sharper guards.
"Leaving so soon?" Davos called, reining in beside him.
Kalon kept walking. "You said the debt was paid."
"It is," Davos agreed. "But I have one last request." He tossed a canteen to Kalon, who caught it and sniffed water, not liquor. Escort my caravan to Guillemot. The routes are crawling with trouble lately. Old debts, new vendettas. Make sure we arrive alive, and I'll see that you do, too."
Kalon squinted at him, weighing the words. "You afraid of ghosts, Davos?"
"Always," the merchant said. "That's how I've survived this long."
Kalon uncapped the canteen and drank. "And when we reach the city?"
Davos's eyes glinted, almost sympathetic. "Then you're free. My word."
Kalon nodded. "Fine. But we do it my way."
"Wouldn't dream of it otherwise." Davos turned his horse, gestured for Kalon to follow. "We leave at dusk."
The return to camp was silent. The men avoided Kalon's gaze, and Ruhar, newly conscious, nursed a headache and pretended not to notice him. Kalon packed supplies quickly and with minimal chatter. At sunset, they rolled out, a line of carts and riders heading north toward the promise of civilization.
Kalon took point, scanning the horizon for signs of movement. The old soldier in him resurfaced—planning, anticipating, watching for patterns. The journey would take them over a week, through territory even the Empire's scouts avoided.
On the second night, as the camp settled and the wind howled over the tent flaps, Davos joined Kalon at the perimeter.
"Why did you do it?" the merchant asked.
"Do what?"
"Survive. Run. Fight back." Davos sat beside him, folding his arms against the cold. "You could have disappeared. But you keep showing up."
Kalon considered the question. "Maybe I want to see how the story ends."
Davos smiled, soft for once. "So do I."
They sat together in silence, the sky above littered with dead stars, both men waiting for whatever came next.
In the distance, the city lights of Guillemot shimmered against the black—a destination, or maybe just a pause before the next cycle of escape and obligation.
Kalon drank from his canteen, feeling the water burn down his throat.
Some debts never really leave you. They just traded shapes.
Chapter Text
A week's march and the world changed its teeth.
The Zahrazad wastes thinned into gravel hills, then yielded to the first green Kalon had seen in years—a sickly haze of grass clinging to the slopes as if afraid to grow bold. The air, once razor-dry, now dragged its humidity like a disease, and the wind carried the scent of moss, pine, and rot. The caravan moved with the discipline of exhaustion: every footstep calculated to save energy, every voice rationed to half-volume. Davos and his guards had stopped wearing their rich merchant colors, adopting scavenger blacks and dun like the rest. Only the polished links of Davos's chain showed through, glinting beneath his caftan in the half-light.
Three days ago, they'd crossed a dried riverbed littered with petrified wood. Today, they followed the ghost of an imperial road—a strip of crushed shell leading them north toward the heart of Ashpine Watch. The ancient forest here was unlike anything Kalon remembered. The trees rose as if under pressure, trunks gone black from fires that must have burned centuries ago, new growth strangling the charred remains in a kind of grim embrace. Every few miles, the ground heaved with the pale bones of something monstrous, exposed by erosion or perhaps by intention.
Davos rode a step behind Kalon, swaddled in heavy fabrics despite the mounting heat. He seemed smaller now, shrunken by the landscape, but his eyes were keener than ever. He watched the road, the trees, his men, and above all, Kalon.
"Not much further," Davos said. The words came out as a courtesy, not a comfort.
Kalon didn't respond. He was busy inventorying the threat surface. He'd seen movement at the treeline: first a flicker of color, then the definite outline of a scout. Too clever for bandits. Too cautious for patrolmen. He logged the information and continued walking, feeling the muscles in his legs come alive after weeks of disuse.
They crested a ridge and finally saw the Ashpine Watch. The fort was built to intimidate, not to defend—a bluff of white marble and seraph gold looming over the wooded border, its towers visible for miles in every direction. The flags of Eldoria and the Eye of the Light fluttered side by side, but the checkpoint itself looked deserted.
Davos slowed. "You've been here before?" he asked.
Kalon nodded. "Once." The memory was brief, sharp, and unpleasant. He'd passed through on a death warrant, flanked by two of Yharim's golden enforcers. He remembered the shape of the executioner's hood and the cold sound of the gate slamming shut behind him.
"Then you'll know the rules," Davos said. "No weapons drawn, no sudden moves. They're jumpy after the war."
Kalon fingered the hilt of Zenith through the cloak. "No war ever ends. It just starves for a while."
Davos snorted. "You'd make a terrible diplomat."
The gates of Ashpine Watch loomed up fast, then faster still as the merchants closed ranks. A pair of seraph guards—wings folded, eyes like polished steel—waited under the portcullis. They wore the standard issue: white armor banded in celestial blue, swords as long as Kalon's arm, faces hidden behind mirrored masks.
One stepped forward. "Papers," they demanded, voice preternaturally calm.
Davos produced a scroll, offered it with both hands, head slightly bowed. "Merchants of the Forgotten, transit to Guillemot. Manifest is in order."
The guard took the scroll, unrolled it, and read. He didn't look at the names. "And your escort?"
Kalon didn't flinch as the guard's gaze landed on him. "Hired muscle. Temporary," Davos said.
The guard nodded. "Wait here." He disappeared into the shadowed recess, scroll in hand.
Time thickened. Kalon tracked the watchtower slits, counting faces behind the glass. Six. Maybe seven. Enough to kill them all before the merchants could run, but not enough to hold the fort in a real siege. He wondered if the garrison was understaffed or if something else was diverting resources from the border.
Davos pulled up beside him, voice barely above a whisper. "If you're going to do something reckless, warn me first."
Kalon almost smiled. "You paid for muscle, not loyalty."
"I paid for both," Davos said. "One way or another."
The guard returned, mask unreadable. "You'll have a guide through the perimeter. Do not deviate from the path. If you do, we will kill you."
"Understood," Davos said, bowing again. The men tensed, but Kalon could see the relief in their shoulders as the gate ratcheted open. It was a narrow squeeze for the carts and livestock, the marble teeth of the portcullis only inches from Kalon's head as he walked through.
Inside, the Watch was even emptier. Banners hung limp from the eaves; the fountains in the courtyard were dry and crusted with mineral. The only movement was the slow circuit of two patrols—one in the open, the other tracing a path along the inner walls, weapons drawn but casual in their rhythm. The guide, a young seraph with burn scars on her neck, led them through without speaking, eyes locked on the horizon.
They passed out of the main compound and into the winding switchbacks that cut down the northern face of the ridge. The forest below was denser, the air heavy with the smell of wet moss and something more metallic. Kalon stopped at the first bend, scanned the trail ahead.
"Problem?" Davos said, half-amused.
Kalon pointed. "Tracks. Not human." The prints were deep, three-toed talons gouging the mud. "Harpies, maybe."
Davos's eyes flickered. "You sure?"
Kalon knelt, touched the edge of a claw mark. Still fresh. "Could be worse," he said. "Could be hunting."
They moved on, but slower now. Kalon felt the old predator's tension returning, the pulse of readiness that used to govern every hour of his waking life. He was being watched again, but this time the watcher was close—so close he could taste the intent on the wind.
He looked up. The canopy shifted, branches twitching under a weight too subtle for any normal bird. He thought he saw a flash of silver, a glint of blood-red, but then it was gone.
Davos noticed the change in Kalon's stride. "You see something?"
"Not yet," Kalon said, and kept moving.
By the time the road leveled off, the sun was already angling low, staining the trees the color of old wounds. The city of Guillemot waited beyond the subsequent rise—a smear of smoke and light against the deepening blue, the City of Wolves living up to its name.
Kalon paused at the crest, staring down at the city's ragged sprawl. "You have business here," he said to Davos.
"I have business everywhere," Davos replied. "But here, I have debts."
Kalon's hand drifted to the blade again. "And what about me?"
Davos's voice dropped. "You're free after this. The books are closed. You can walk away, or you can stay and see the world try to forget you."
Kalon's lips twitched, almost a smile. "I'd rather it remembered."
Davos shrugged, the gesture surprisingly gentle. "Some debts never really leave you," he said. "They just change hands."
They started down the trail, the caravan winding into shadow. Above them, something circled—too high for an arrow, too low for a star. Kalon watched it for a moment, then turned away, already planning for what would happen when it landed.
In this world, every border was a wound that never healed. And some things, Kalon knew, were born to open them wider.
(Two Days Prior...)
Two days before Ashpine Watch, the road ran red for a mile.
Kalon spotted the ambush before it sprang. The sand had shifted in a way that only made sense to a man who'd lived under war: the brush too carefully undisturbed, the slight oil-sheen of a trigger wire stretched between two rocks, the half-concealed eyes of goblins peering from a trench that smelled of their fear.
He could have warned the caravan. He could have let Davos and his men handle it with coin and negotiation, as was the Merchant's way. But the day was already dying, and Kalon, tired of the creeping, unspoken threat, stepped out ahead of the convoy and cut straight for the kill zone.
The first goblin broke cover with a spear, expecting hesitation. Kalon took the shaft in his off-hand and twisted, dislocating the arm without breaking stride. Two more swarmed him from the left—one swinging a rusty scimitar, the other brandishing a nail-studded club. Kalon slipped inside the arc of the club and drove his palm into the goblin's throat. It made a noise like a stomped frog. The scimitar goblin was smarter, but not smart enough; it tried to circle behind, but Kalon pivoted, using the dead goblin's body as a shield and battering ram. The scimitar snapped against the corpse's skull. Kalon finished the job with a boot to the knee and a single, methodical strike to the back of the head.
Davos's men watched from a safe distance, exchanging nervous bets on how long it would take Kalon to clear the trench. He did it in three minutes, all told, and when it was done, he wiped his hands on the grass and said nothing.
"That was quick," Davos called as the last of the goblins bled out on the sand.
Kalon shrugged. "They weren't expecting anyone to fight back."
Davos surveyed the carnage, assessing the lost product and the wasted time. "They never do," he said. "But they always come back." He ordered his men to loot the bodies for anything worth resale, then ordered the rest burned.
The desert gave way to hills, then to tangled forest. Kalon watched the transition with a hunter's suspicion: every new color a warning, every unfamiliar bird call a possible signal. The green was alive with things he'd forgotten how to name. Flowers clustered like open sores around the stumps of old trees; vines dangled from branches as thick as his wrist. The light at ground level was a perpetual dusk, golden only in the high canopy, and everywhere Kalon stepped, he felt the soft, persistent give of moss.
For the others, the arrival at the All-Seeing Border, their first checkpoint, was a return to the world of rules and money. For Kalon, it was more like stepping onto a planet that had never known his name.
He stared up at the walls, white and gold, each stone set with inhuman precision. The banners of the Light hung without a single crease, as if time itself could not wrinkle them. Guards patrolled the ramparts, their faces covered, their every step synchronized like a parade drill. It was order, enforced by the threat of violence so total that the violence itself was invisible.
Davos didn't bother looking at the architecture. He was already inside his head, planning the pitch, calculating how much leverage a man could extract from the mood of a checkpoint.
"You get used to it," he said to Kalon, who hadn't realized he was staring.
Kalon blinked, reined it in. "Never liked walls. They keep the wrong things in."
Davos grinned. "And the right things out, if you're on the list." He flicked a copper coin up at the nearest guard. It landed on the stone with a ringing sound, and the guard stooped to collect it, the only sign of life in his mask.
Kalon scanned the parapets again—no signs of unrest, no alertness beyond the baseline paranoia of any garrison town. But there was something else—a frequency to the silence, as if the trees themselves were listening. He tried to ignore it, focusing on the path ahead, but the feeling only grew as they approached the first gate.
They cleared inspection in minutes, the guards barely glancing at the documents. Davos signed off with a practiced flourish and led his men through, trading jokes and curses in three languages. Kalon drifted at the rear, conscious of how the forest seemed to thicken behind the walls, the pressure of untamed life always pushing against the boundary of civilization.
They made camp in a clearing just beyond the second wall, the merchants circling their wagons as if the old world rules still applied. Kalon sat by himself, cleaning blood from the hilt of Zenith with a strip of linen. The sword was heavier these days—heavier in meaning, if not in mass. He remembered the first time he'd held it, the feeling of inevitability that came with the weight. Now it just felt like an anchor.
Davos joined him, uncorking a bottle of something sweet and expensive. "You did well back there," he said, pouring two glasses and offering one to Kalon. "I've had men double your size fold in the first thirty seconds. Most don't have the temperament for violence."
Kalon took the glass, but didn't drink from it. "Violence is easy. Living with it isn't."
Davos laughed, a genuine sound. "You should meet my wife. She'd agree." He drank, then set the glass down. "You know, there's a bounty on your head in half the cities east of the Watch. Double that in Guillemot."
"I know," Kalon said.
"You ever wonder why they want you dead so badly?"
"Not really." Kalon looked away. "They tried once. Didn't work."
Davos was quiet for a moment. "I don't like debts. That's why I'm bringing you with me—to pay mine off, and to settle yours."
Kalon almost smiled. "I thought you said the books were closed."
"They are," Davos replied, "but sometimes, a man has to write a new chapter."
They drank in silence, the night pressing in around them, and for a while, it was easy to forget they were being watched from the shadows.
It wasn't until the next morning, when they found the first blood trail, that Kalon realized just how close the hunters had come.
(Back to Present...)
Another blood trail started at the edge of the clearing—a line of droplets, some smeared, some clean, leading off into the trees. Kalon crouched, tracing the pattern with his eyes, then rose and followed it, pausing every few feet to listen for the rhythm of the forest. Birds sang, bugs chirred, but underneath was a silence that moved with him. Something out there was waiting for a cue.
Back at camp, Davos was giving instructions to his crew, parceling out rations and running down the day's itinerary. He caught Kalon's eye and waved him over.
"You see it?" Davos asked, no preamble.
"I saw it," Kalon replied. "And whatever made it, it's bigger than a man. Maybe twice as fast."
Davos nodded, unfazed. "That's why you're going to check the Watch. Make sure no one is waiting to tax us on the way in."
Kalon didn't argue. He took the Hilt of Zenith and set out for the border. The path wound steeply uphill, through muddy terrain. Every few yards, he found new tracks: more blood, broken twigs, a few fistfuls of white down scattered across the loam. By the time he crested the ridge, he was ready for a fight.
But the gates of Ashpine Watch were wide open. No guards on the parapets. No patrols in the courtyard. The banners still hung from the walls, but they looked faded, as if the place had been abandoned for months, not days. Kalon eased his way inside, eyes and ears open.
The main hall was empty except for the echo of his footsteps. He peered through archways and found the barracks deserted—beds left unmade, gear stacked in tidy piles as if the garrison had left on parade and simply never come back. In the kitchen, a pot of stew still sat on the stove, gone sour but not yet spoiled. Kalon dipped a finger into the crust and tasted. Only a day or two old.
He checked the towers—nothing but more dust, and more feathers—some white, some tinged with gold. No bodies, no blood.
Kalon circled back to the main gate and looked out over the forest. A thin mist was rising, painting the world in shades of blue and white. He felt the same itch between his shoulder blades, the same sense of being observed by something that enjoyed the hunt.
He returned to camp and found Davos waiting, arms folded.
"Empty?" Davos asked.
"Too empty," Kalon said. "Like they left in a hurry."
Davos considered this, then shrugged. "Good. Fewer taxes, fewer eyes. We're moving."
"Could be a trap," Kalon warned. "You don't just abandon a border like that."
Davos fixed him with a look. "Or maybe they know something we don't. Either way, my business doesn't wait for a committee." He turned to the guards, barking a few quick orders. "We move. Now."
The caravan was rolling within minutes. Kalon took point, leading them up the muddy path and through the silent teeth of Ashpine Watch. His boots echoed in the empty gatehouse, every step a warning to the world beyond.
Once inside, the forest closed around them. The trees here were older, trunks wide enough to shelter a man from a thunderstorm, and the air was cold enough to bite through his coat. The path narrowed, hemmed in by moss and shadow. Kalon checked every side trail, every twisted root, every gap in the branches above. He saw nothing, but that only deepened his unease.
At a bend in the road, Kalon halted. Davos came up beside him, impatient.
"What now?" Davos asked.
Kalon pointed. "That's fresh," he said. A chunk of bark had been stripped from a tree, the wound still oozing sap. Embedded in the cut was a single blue feather, barbed at the end.
Davos frowned. "A marker?"
Kalon nodded. "Or a warning."
Davos snorted. "I've dealt with worse." He gestured for Kalon to keep moving.
They pressed on, deeper into the maze of green and black. With every mile, Kalon's sense of dread grew sharper. The woods here were too quiet, the air too still. Even the wind seemed to avoid this stretch.
When they finally broke into open country, the city of Guillemot sprawled below them, all smoke and crooked rooftops and a thousand points of dirty yellow light—the City of Wolves, restless and waiting.
But Kalon kept looking back, toward the forest behind them, and the open gate at Ashpine Watch. He knew the world well enough to recognize the pattern: where there was an empty cage, the beast was already loose.
He wondered who would be left to count the bodies when it was done.
They moved through the new country at a cautious pace, skirting the wide-open places and hugging the treeline whenever possible. The land rolled in gentle slopes here, the grass thick and wet underfoot, the sky a hard, bright blue that made it easy to spot threats at a distance. But Kalon found his eyes drawn more to the ground than the horizon.
About half an hour in, he caught a patch of white in the gutter beside the trail. He knelt and picked it up: a feather, longer than his hand, quill stained at the root with a brownish-red that could only be dried blood. Not an animal feather, either—the curve was too elegant, the barbs too delicate. Seraph. And not an old one, if the color held.
He slipped the feather inside his sleeve and kept moving, but every step felt more precarious than the last. The silence was absolute; even the birds had fallen silent. It wasn't fear that gnawed at him, but the certainty of a test about to be sprung.
Davos, meanwhile, was all impatience and forward motion. "We have a schedule to keep," he reminded anyone within earshot. "If we're not in Guillemot by nightfall, the buyers take their business elsewhere. You want to eat this winter, you keep those legs moving."
The guards muttered, but obeyed. Only Kalon seemed to notice the atmosphere darken with every mile.
Then the second feather appeared. This one was black, edged in gold, and there were three of them, arranged in a deliberate pattern on a rock beside the path. Kalon stopped the caravan and gestured for Davos.
"We're not alone," Kalon said.
Davos looked at the feathers, then at the woods. "So? Could be a stray. Could be bait. Either way, we keep moving."
Kalon didn't like it. But he wasn't in charge, not really, so he nodded and resumed pointing.
The world got narrower as they approached the lower valleys—trees pressing in, the sunlight strangled by interlocking branches. The carts creaked louder here, the horses' hooves sucking at the muddy ruts. Kalon saw more signs: a strip of cloth, a snapped arrow, a patch of grass bent under the weight of something heavy.
He was about to call another halt when he saw the body.
It was pinned to a tree, wings spread and wrists nailed through the bark. A seraph, female, eyes gouged out, mouth filled with blue-black petals. The wounds were surgical—ribs peeled open, heart removed with the care of a taxidermist. The blood pooled in the earth below, dark and syrupy.
Kalon raised a fist and stopped the convoy. He walked up to the body, circling it once, then twice, looking for a message or a sign. There was nothing but the careful artistry of the kill.
Davos came forward, his face gone pale. "Who did this?"
Kalon traced the edges of the wings, then pointed to a set of claw marks raked across the lower abdomen. "Harpies," he said, and the word sounded less like a guess and more like a verdict.
Davos spat. "Savages. They'll want payment to let us pass, or worse."
Kalon didn't answer. He was looking at the petals, the way they'd been packed into the mouth—a warning, not a trophy.
The men behind him were quiet, all bravado drained out by the sight of the nailed seraph. For the first time, Kalon sensed real fear in the ranks.
He turned to Davos. "We go around," he said. "Through the lowland. Less exposed, but slower."
Davos hesitated. "If we don't make the city by sundown—"
"You won't make it at all if we keep to this road," Kalon cut in. He let the threat hang.
Davos eyed the men, weighing the odds. Then he nodded sharply. "We go around."
Kalon retook point, guiding them down into the gullies and ravines that ran parallel to the main track. He kept one hand on the hilt and the other on the pulse of the woods.
It was a poor trade: less visibility for more cover, but better than offering themselves up on the open road.
All the while, he couldn't shake the image of the dead seraph—how precisely she'd been displayed, how methodically the life had been carved out of her. He'd fought harpies before. They didn't kill out of hunger or rage. They killed to make a point.
He wondered what point was being made this time, and who the real audience was.
The wind picked up, swirling petals and feathers in its wake. Kalon kept moving, but every step felt heavier than the last.
Kalon broke off from the leading group as they picked their way through the ravine. He'd seen plenty of seraph corpses in his life, but few displayed with such precision. He went back to the dead one, this time with a clinical eye, tracing the lines of the claw marks. They were deep and spaced too wide for any normal harpy, which meant either a mutation or something worse. He glanced at the torn wings, the shreds of blue-black cloth still clinging to the joints, and wondered who'd want to hunt the seraphs in their lands.
He didn't have time to dwell. The wind was picking up—low and fast, a weird, scraping sound as it cut through the gully. Kalon jogged back to the caravan, finding the wagons at a standstill. The guards milled in tight circles, casting nervous glances at the treetops.
Davos stormed up to Kalon, face red and voice harsh. "Why are we stopping? We're losing daylight!"
Kalon nodded toward the path ahead, now half-blocked by a fallen log. "The wind's moving things. The road isn't safe."
Davos hissed between his teeth. "You're supposed to keep us safe, not cower every time a branch falls!"
Kalon didn't answer. He walked past the nearest wagon, laying a hand on the flank of the lead horse. The animal trembled, legs locked. "They won't move," he said.
Davos rounded on his men. "Ruhar! Get these nags moving or I'll have your head on a plate!"
There was no answer. Kalon looked around, noticing the absence for the first time. "He's not with the carts," he said.
Davos's face went slack, then pale. "He was right behind me." He turned to the guards. "Split up. Find him."
Kalon held up a hand. "No. We don't split. If it got a seraph, it can pick us off one by one."
Davos bristled. "You want me just to wait here while my best man gets eaten?"
Kalon shrugged. "Up to you. But if you lose any more, you'll never make it to Guillemot alive."
Davos eyed the guards, then looked up at the sky. The wind was getting stronger, the sound almost a howl now. "Fine. You go, Ghost. Bring back the Iron Fang or his body."
Kalon nodded, then turned his back on the camp and followed the narrow trail of broken branches and blood. The gully sides loomed high, funneling the wind in unpredictable patterns. He kept low, watching for traps or signals. Twice, he saw the flash of a blue feather, but it was gone before he could focus.
The trail ran cold after a quarter mile. Kalon stopped, listening. Somewhere up ahead, a branch cracked, heavy and deliberate. He moved toward the noise, boots silent in the mud.
He found Ruhar's tracks first—heavy, uneven, the telltale drag of a limp. Then he saw the drag marks, two parallel furrows running off into a clutch of ferns.
Kalon knelt, squinting at the ground. Blood, yes, but more: a smear of oil, the scent of old leather, and underneath it all, a faint smell of decay that didn't match the weather. He kept moving, his hand on his hilt, his body low and tight.
After another minute, he found a patch of ground torn up by violence—mud splashed on the trunks, small feathers scattered like confetti. In the middle of it, a deep, circular imprint, as if something huge had landed and then leapt away.
Kalon checked the treetops, then scanned the horizon. In the distance, a figure moved between the trunks: tall, hunched, moving fast. He gave chase, boots digging into the mud, senses sharp as needles.
He broke through the last line of trees and found himself staring at a clearing carpeted with blue feathers. In the center, Ruhar lay sprawled on his back, face frozen in a rictus of surprise. His chest was caved in, armor split open like a tin can. There was no blood, but his jaw was missing, the famous Iron Fang torn away with surgical precision.
Kalon approached slowly, eyes on the sky. Above, something significant circled in the mist, wings beating with a slow, predatory confidence.
He looked up and met the gaze of the creature: a woman, or something once shaped like a woman, with wings wider than any harpy he'd seen, claws the length of butcher knives, and eyes that glowed in the half-light. She regarded him with a hunter's indifference, then banked away, vanishing into the clouds.
Kalon crouched beside Ruhar, checked the body for anything useful. The prosthetic jaw was gone, ripped out at the roots. Kalon closed the man's eyes, then stood and looked around for more clues.
Nothing but feathers and the wind.
He turned back toward the camp, already composing the words he'd use to explain the loss. He doubted Davos would care about the specifics—only the impact on the chain of command.
As he walked, he felt the pressure of the hunter's gaze on his back, but didn't look up. There was no point.
Some predators, you just had to live with.
He set his pace steadily, knowing that the real test was still ahead. The next time they met, it wouldn't be a warning.
It would be a contest.
Kalon made his way back toward the camp, every sense tuned to the air above and the ground beneath. He tracked the feather trail with a precision that was half instinct, half muscle memory. Each feather was like a footstep from the predator: close together at first, then spaced wider as if the hunter was in no hurry.
The forest closed around him. The wind had died down, leaving only the faint drip of condensation from the high branches and the low, electric hum of nerves on edge. He passed the same gnarled pine three times, each loop tighter, each turn drawing him closer to the clearing where Ruhar's body lay.
He heard the scream then: not the animal panic of a dying man, but a guttural, metallic howl—Ruhar's death-cry, the last thing his ruined jaw would ever make. Kalon sprinted toward it, boots finding traction in the wet loam, sword out and ready.
He burst into the clearing just in time to see the Iron Fang torn in half, the lower jaw ripped clean away, the body tossed aside like so much butcher's waste. The air was thick with blue feathers and the reek of fresh blood.
Above, the harpy-woman hovered, wings flared to their full span. She was enormous: seven feet if an inch, arms corded with muscle, hands ending in claws that glinted wetly even in the dim light. Her plumage was a riot of steel gray and crimson, her eyes sharp and unblinking. When she landed, the ground shook beneath her.
Kalon didn't wait for the threat. He charged, slashing up at her exposed flank. She caught Zenith's hilt between two fingers, laughed, and wrenched it from his grip with an effortless twist.
"Cute," she said. Her voice was a caw, but shaped into words with surprising clarity. "You're the one they call Ghost."
Kalon grunted, recovered his stance, and raised his fists. "And you're the one killing seraphs in their woods."
She smiled—too many teeth, all pointed. "Call me Jensen," she said. "Grand Harpy. Champion of Garuda. You killed some of my kin, back in the desert."
Kalon spat blood from his split lip. "They tried to kill me first."
Jensen shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Debt's a debt. You know how it is."
He circled, hands ready, mind working through possible attacks. Jensen out-massed him, out-reached him, and now she had his sword. It was going to be a short fight.
Jensen twirled Zenith's hilt, then tossed it aside. "No weapons," she said. "Wouldn't be fair."
Kalon's lips twitched in something like a smile. "Didn't know harpies cared about fair."
She lunged, fast for her size, and slammed him with a forearm that felt like a tree trunk. Kalon rolled with the hit, came up inside her guard, and drove an elbow into her ribcage. The blow landed with a satisfying crunch, but Jensen only laughed and swatted him away.
He hit a tree, back-first, and felt something crack. He got up anyway. "You always fight this dirty?" he called.
Jensen spread her wings, blocking out the sun. "I'm the best there ever was."
She came at him again, feinting low, then snapping her claws toward his face. Kalon ducked, grabbed her wrist, and twisted, using her momentum to flip her over his hip. She landed hard, but rolled instantly to her feet, beaming with approval.
"Not bad, Ghost," she said. "Maybe you're worth the trouble."
He staggered, tried to shake the blood from his eyes. "You want to fight, fine. Let's finish it."
Jensen obliged, launching herself at him in a blur of motion. Kalon blocked the first strike, caught the second, but the third—a brutal knee to his stomach—drove all the wind from his lungs. He doubled over, and Jensen wrapped an arm around his neck, lifting him off the ground with one hand.
"You're light," she said. "Not like the others."
Kalon drove his thumb into her eye. She howled, dropped him, and staggered back. He used the moment to grab a chunk of rock and flung it at her face. She shrugged it off, then, with a flick of her wing, slammed him into the mud.
"Let's see if you dance better than you talk," she growled.
Kalon forced himself to his feet, pain singing through every nerve. "I don't dance," he said.
Jensen laughed again, louder this time. "Then you die."
She came at him, wings out, claws raking. Kalon braced, set his feet, and prepared to meet her head-on.
The fight had only just begun.
Jensen circled him, claws flexing, a look of wild pleasure on her face. "You thought you could just walk out of Zahrazad, leave the desert behind, and play at being a free man?"
Kalon didn't answer. He watched her wings, waiting for the twitch that meant she'd attack.
She smirked, reading him. "You want to know why I gutted your friend? Why did I peel that fancy jaw right off his skull?"
She launched at him. Kalon dodged the main swipe, took a glancing hit to the ribs, and countered with a stiff jab to her throat. She reeled, but not enough. Instead of falling back, she laughed—a deep, chesty sound—and hammered him with both fists. Kalon crashed to his knees, pain like fire in his chest.
"He hunted my sisters," Jensen said, pacing around him now. "He took trophies, bragged about it in the camps. Even traded our feathers to the border lords for silver."
Kalon spat blood. "And you think killing us makes it right?"
Jensen knelt, grabbed his hair, and yanked his head up. "No. But it makes it even."
She flung him back, then stalked over to where the hilt lay in the mud. She picked up the hilt, examined it, and pointed the tip at him. "The Merchants of the Forgotten have their ledger of crimes. Smuggling harpy eggs. Poaching live ones for the alchemists in Guillemot." She sneered. "Did you know, Ghost? Or did you just take the money and run?"
Kalon forced himself upright, breathing shallowly. "You don't care about justice. You care about being the apex predator."
Jensen grinned, showing all her teeth. "There's no such thing as justice out here. Only the hunt."
She advanced, sword leveled. "When I'm done with you, I'll go back and break your little caravan. I'll scatter their bones for the crows."
Kalon searched the ground, spotted a fragment of Ruhar's prosthetic jaw. He reached for it, slowly.
Jensen watched, amused. "Going to try to club me with that? You're slower than I thought."
He let her come close, then, at the last second, hurled the metal shard at her eyes. It scored a direct hit, opening a shallow cut above her brow. She hissed, more in anger than pain, and swatted at him.
Kalon used the distraction to close the gap, aiming a kick at her knee joint. He connected, heard the satisfying crunch, but Jensen barely flinched. Instead, she spun, caught him by the throat, and hoisted him into the air.
She squeezed, claws digging in. "You're weak, Ghost," she whispered. "All the legends, and you're just another mammal in a suit."
Kalon's vision started to dim, but he held on, searching for a weakness, anything that could slow her down.
"Any last words?" Jensen mocked, tightening her grip.
He smiled, or tried to. "Just one. Dance."
He twisted, using the leverage of her grip, and brought both fists down on the joint where her wings met her back. The impact was enough to make her drop him, but not before she raked his side with her talons, leaving three hot lines of pain.
He rolled, grabbed the hilt, and staggered back to his feet.
Jensen was already coming at him again, full speed, eyes blazing.
Kalon braced himself, every nerve alive with pain and the certainty that this time, only one of them was walking away.
Jensen landed in front of Kalon, feathers shivering with anticipation. "Come on then," she said, "dance with me."
He gripped Zenith, knowing the hilt wouldn't last another hit, and flashed a crooked smile. "I usually buy dinner first."
She screeched, more delighted than offended, and lunged at him with both claws. He parried the first, but the second caught his shoulder, slicing through coat and muscle like nothing. He spun with the blow, twisting out of her reach, and used the momentum to drive the shattered end of Zenith into her leg.
The blade snapped clean off, leaving a jagged stub embedded in her thigh. Jensen didn't even flinch; she plucked the broken sword out, tossed it away, and slammed him with the flat of her hand. Kalon hit the ground hard, all the air gone from his lungs.
She pounced, wings folded back, jaws open to bite. Kalon rolled aside, felt the hot rush of her breath just inches from his neck. He came up with a handful of wet moss and flung it in her eyes, buying half a second to get to his feet.
Jensen was on him instantly. She caught his wrist, twisted it until he thought the bone would snap, and then bent low to whisper in his ear.
"I could break you right now," she said. "But that's not how champions work."
He headbutted her, catching her square on the mouth. She staggered, blinking blood out of her left eye. Kalon took the chance to drive his knee into her ribs, then wrapped both arms around her neck and squeezed.
It was like trying to choke a tree. Jensen thrashed, slamming Kalon against the ground, but he held on. When she reached back to gouge his side, he bit her hand—hard enough to draw blood. She yelped, loosened her grip, and he scrambled free.
They stood, circling each other, both breathing hard.
Jensen cocked her head, appraising him. "You're not like the others. Most men beg."
He grinned, teeth stained with his blood. "I was raised better."
She roared, wings spreading so wide they blotted out the sky, and dove for him. Kalon sidestepped at the last instant, caught her wing, and twisted, using her momentum to flip her over his shoulder. She crashed through a fallen tree, splinters flying.
He limped after her, body screaming with pain, ready to finish it. But Jensen was already up, eyes wild, chest heaving.
She charged, slower this time, favoring her injured leg. Kalon let her come, waited for the last possible moment, then dove low, grabbing her by the waist and driving her into the mud. They rolled, trading blows, until she pinned him with one massive forearm.
"You're done, Ghost," she hissed.
He looked up at her, wiped the blood from his eyes. "Not yet."
She raised a fist, claws gleaming. Kalon Spat in her face.
She hesitated, just for a split second. And that was enough.
He brought his knee up, driving it into the open wound on her leg. She howled, loosened her hold, and he twisted free, rolling onto his back and kicking her away.
Jensen came at him, but this time he was ready. He grabbed a broken branch, swung it up, and caught her across the temple. She dropped, stunned.
Kalon scrambled to his feet, chest burning, vision swimming. He saw the remnants of Zenith nearby, picked it up, and leveled the jagged hilt at her throat.
"Yield," he croaked.
Jensen blinked, then smiled—a real, almost human smile.
"You're better than I thought," she said, voice softer now. "Maybe you do deserve to walk out of here."
She backed off, wings folded tight. "But next time, I won't hold back."
He watched her limp into the woods, feathers shedding behind her like a trail of broken pride.
Kalon stood there for a long moment, letting the pain settle, then turned and began the trek back to camp.
He'd survived.
But only just.
The forest spun around Kalon as he staggered away from the clearing, every nerve raw, every breath a lesson in pain. He clutched what was left of Zenith and tried to stay upright. He made it twenty paces before Jensen came crashing back through the branches, claws out, teeth bared in a rictus of predatory glee.
"You thought I'd let you limp away?" she hissed. "The hunt's not over, Ghost."
Kalon braced for another round, but this time he watched her closely. Jensen was fast, almost impossible to track, but she telegraphed every move: no finesse, no strategy, just raw force and the certainty of always being the apex.
He sidestepped her first dive, then caught her with a knee to the solar plexus. She grunted, surprised, but lashed out with a wing, catching him across the face and sending him spinning. He rolled with it, came up low, and jabbed at her wounded leg. The feint worked; she shifted to protect it, leaving her other side exposed.
Kalon took the opening, slamming his elbow into the base of her skull. She reeled, then exploded into the air, wings beating so hard they sent debris and blood flying in all directions.
He barely had time to react before she was on him, talons gripping his shoulders, wings hammering the air as she lifted him off the ground.
They broke through the canopy, into the sunlight, and suddenly Kalon was dangling a hundred feet above the forest floor. Jensen let out a shriek that split the sky, then banked hard, dragging him through a blizzard of leaves and feathers.
He twisted, trying to break her grip, but the talons held. He could feel his ribs creaking, the world narrowing to the burn of lactic acid and the sound of his heartbeat.
She leveled out, hovered for a second, then grinned down at him. "I could drop you right now," she said. "See if you bounce."
He looked her in the eye, saw the arrogance, and spat in her face. "You talk too much."
She roared and let go.
For a split second, Kalon was weightless. Then he spun, grabbed at her ankle, and locked on with everything he had. The sudden drag pulled her off balance, and together they tumbled through the air—two bodies knotted in violence, falling toward the earth.
Kalon swung up, punching her repeatedly in the gut, each blow forcing a grunt and a flicker of pain in her eyes. He twisted her leg, using her weight to torque their fall, and aimed for a patch of soft moss below.
They hit hard.
He landed on top, the breath knocked from his lungs, but Jensen took the worst of it. Her left wing crumpled with a sound like breaking glass, and for the
For the first time, Kalon saw her face show real fear.
He rolled away, crawling through the underbrush until he could get his bearings. Jensen thrashed on the ground, struggling to get up, but the ruined wing dragged behind her like dead weight.
Kalon circled back, still breathing hard, and stood over her. "Yield," he said again.
Jensen looked up, blood in her teeth. She tried to stand, failed, then slumped onto her side.
"Go," she said, voice ragged. "But next time, Ghost, you won't get lucky."
He nodded. "Next time, I'll bury you."
She laughed, but the sound was now smaller, brittle, and defeated.
Kalon limped away, following the path back to camp, his entire body one long complaint. The sunlight through the trees was harsh and unkind, but it promised at least a short reprieve from what waited in the shadows.
He didn't look back, not even when he heard the slow, dragging footsteps of Jensen pulling herself away to lick her wounds.
He'd won, but the victory felt hollow. All it meant was that he'd get to fight another day.
When the world stopped spinning, Kalon lay flat on his back, watching leaves swirl through the broken light above. Every rib hurt, every joint screamed, but he was alive. He shifted, gritting his teeth, and sat up.
Jensen was already moving, dragging herself upright with her good wing. Her face was a mask of rage and pain, but she didn't attack. Instead, she locked eyes with Kalon and let out a low, guttural laugh.
"Not bad, Ghost," she said, coughing blood onto the moss. "You're a better fighter than your reputation."
He said nothing, just levered himself to standing and checked his wounds. His left arm was nearly useless, but he was still able to walk. He limped over to where Jensen crouched, observing her.
She made no move, only glared at him with hard, predator's eyes.
Between them, half-buried in the dirt, was a twisted scrap of iron: Ruhar's prosthetic jaw. Jensen must have lost it in the struggle.
Kalon knelt, plucked the artifact from the mud, and weighed it in his hand. "I'll take this back to the Merchants," he said, voice low.
Jensen didn't respond. Instead, she spat on the ground, then lurched to her feet and staggered off, favoring her shattered wing. She vanished into the trees, silent as a memory.
Kalon turned, pocketing what remained of Zenith, and started the long walk back to camp.
He moved slowly, savoring each step, the ache in his bones a reminder of how close he'd come. The pain was real, but the victory was sweeter: the Merchants would live to see Guillemot, and so would he.
He reached the caravan just as dusk settled. The men saw him first, then Davos, who rushed over, expression flickering between relief and calculation.
"Well?" Davos demanded.
Kalon tossed him the Iron Fang, watched as the merchant turned it over in his hands. "She's gone," Kalon said. "But she'll be back."
Davos nodded, jaw set. "We keep moving, then. Night or not."
Kalon agreed, more with his silence than his words.
As the wagons creaked forward, Kalon took his place at the front, battered but standing. The woods ahead were thick and dark, but for the first time in days, he felt a sense of direction.
He'd survived the harpy.
He could survive anything.
Davos barely waited for Kalon to finish speaking before he waved the caravan into motion. The men were quiet, every eye fixed on the battered ex-enforcer at the head of the line, but none dared ask about the wounds or the missing muscle.
When night fell, Davos ordered a stop just outside the city's perimeter. The air was cold, but the glow of Guillemot's torches lit the clouds from beneath, giving the whole place a dreamlike haze. Kalon dropped onto a crate, feeling the ache in every limb, and waited for Davos to approach.
The merchant sat next to him, bottle in hand. "You did it," Davos said, voice soft. "Most men would have died."
Kalon snorted. "Most men weren't bred for this."
Davos nodded, then stared at the Iron Fang in his hands. He turned the metal over, thumb tracing the bite marks. "He wasn't my favorite," Davos admitted, "but he was loyal."
Kalon let the silence stretch.
"You could have run," Davos said, glancing sideways. "Why come back?"
Kalon shrugged. "That's not how debts work."
Davos smiled, tired and honest. "You keep this up, and I might have to start paying you."
Kalon shook his head. "One more job. That was the deal."
Davos raised the bottle in salute. "Then we're even."
They sat for a while, neither man willing to break the spell of mutual exhaustion.
In the morning, the city gates loomed ahead—massive, iron-bound, with guards in battered livery checking every face that passed. Guillemot was less a city and more a beast: sprawling, unpredictable, always hungry.
The men walked with their heads down, carts groaning under the weight of battered goods and memories. Kalon felt the city's eyes on him, sizing him up, judging his worth.
Davos stopped at the first checkpoint, flashed his credentials, and was waved through. Inside, the city teemed: hawkers, cutpurses, mercenaries, all moving with the quick, furtive energy of people who knew life was cheap.
Kalon walked in silence, every step taking him further from the memory of the Bone Sea, but never from the things that haunted him.
He wondered how long it would take for Jensen to heal. How long before the debts caught up again?
But for now, the city was his to lose.
He grinned, blood still in his teeth, and melted into the crowd.
It took hours for Davos to unload the goods and get the men squared away. Kalon spent most of that time wandering the lower tiers of the city, familiarizing himself with the layout and the rhythms of the crowd.
When he returned to the safehouse, Davos was waiting. The merchant poured two glasses of the cactus liquor and slid one across the table.
"You really are a ghost," Davos said, raising his glass. "No one else could have done what you did."
Kalon drained the drink in a single motion. "You said you had a reward."
Davos grinned, teeth glinting. He reached into a lockbox and produced a small, heavy pouch. "Thirty gold. Enough to start a new life, or a new war."
Kalon weighed the pouch in his hand, then tucked it away. "You're not afraid I'll use it against you?"
Davos shrugged. "If you want to kill me, you'll do it whether I pay you or not. This is just… insurance."
They both laughed—quiet, honest, the kind of laughter that comes after surviving something no one should.
Davos grew serious. "If you ever need work or sanctuary, the Merchants are yours. Just ask for the Ghost."
Kalon nodded. "What about the harpy?"
Davos shook his head. "She'll heal. But she'll never forget. Neither will I."
Kalon stood, checked the fit of his battered coat, and picked up his hilt. "Then I guess we're even."
Davos watched him go, not bothering to offer a handshake. In Guillemot, respect was measured in what you survived, not what you said.
Kalon left the safehouse, stepped into the evening fog, and let the city close around him. He was nobody now, just another face in a crowd of thieves and killers.
But he had his plans.
Vengeance was a hard currency, and Kalon had learned to spend it wisely.
He vanished into the City of Wolves, debts settled, future unbound, and for the first time in years, the ghost was hungry for more than just survival.
He was hunting.
Notes:
Work has been a challenge, so I haven't been able to work on this as much as I'd like. I only hope you've enjoyed what I've written thus far. Thank you.
Chapter 8: A Message to the Moon
Notes:
This chapter will focus on a different part of the world, featuring other characters. Additionally, this is a very short chapter, but there won't be many more like it in the future (as I saw it as a bit of a change of pace). I'll stick to what I've been doing, writing longer chapters.
Chapter Text
Leonida de la Guerra leans her weight into the marble balustrade of the Artemisian Queen’s freshly minted throne room, the gold-flecked torches above painting her silver hair in molten strokes. The lunar motifs carved into the ribbed ceiling stare back, moons in every phase, a frozen tide drawn upward by art and obsession. The scent in here is a paradox: the tang of freshly polished moonsteel from the dais, undercut by clematis garlands—the former bracing, the latter just this side of cloying, as if to remind the new Luna Dominus that the possibility of violence must always domesticate elegance.
For a moment, she lets the room fade to abstraction, closing her eyes and recalling the precise geometry of the courtyard in her foster father's abode, afternoons spent drilling footwork and parries under Triactis' pitiless gaze. She used to resent his pedantry —the enforced repetition that made every lesson feel like a punishment. Now she realizes those afternoons were the last time she felt any absolute safety. Luna Dominus, indeed; there is no comfort at the peak of power, only the view.
Her nostalgia, now disturbed by the approach of footsteps, light but insistent, then the faint scrape of a cloak hem on polished stone. She opens her eyes to see Orlaith Noctis, Head of the Nightblades, standing just inside the perimeter defined by the shadow of the obsidian doors. Orlaith’s presence is always an intrusion; she moves with a feline awareness of her menace, a self-possession so total that even her bows seem to contain a smirk.
“Speak,” Leonida says, voice echoing faintly.
Orlaith's lips twist, not quite a smile. “My lady. Davos sends a message.” Her left hand produces a letter—a lean envelope the color of old bone, sealed with a disc of Embercrest wax. She extends it, then, without permission, steps forward and rests it on the nearest column. Her fingers brush the marble as she withdraws, leaving no smudge.
Leonida does not pick up the letter. “Read it.”
Orlaith breaks the seal with a thumbnail, the wax parting in a single flex. “The convoy of provisions for Scheherazade reached the city gates at dawn. No casualties.” She tilts her head, as if waiting for this to impress. “There was...a complication. Not a threat, just an anomaly. The convoy’s escort was not Davos’ usual man. The Warmonger himself bore this dispatch.”
Leonida’s hands, both gloved, go rigid on the balustrade. She forces the tension out with a long exhale. “The Warmonger is dead. Every bard and merchant swears it, and so do half the spies in every city.”
Orlaith’s eyelids lower; she has heard this before. “If that’s so, your former brother is an exceptionally convincing impostor. I would not mistake his gait, nor his voice.” A pause. “And neither would you, Luna Dominus.”
The honorific is a knife, but Leonida has spent a lifetime building armor for her pride. She takes the letter, rolling the scent of candle-smoked parchment between her fingers. The script inside is trivial—Davos’s code is always absurdly simplistic, made to be cracked on the first try, as if to let her know how little he values secrecy. The only detail worth reading is the time and place: a meeting, one month from now, at the gardens of Lunaris. “Thank you, Orlaith. Inform Davos that his message has been received. You may go.”
Orlaith’s bow is perfunctory this time, a flash of midnight hair and the glint of lunar steel at her belt. She slides into the corridor with no more sound than the turning of a page.
Now alone, Leonida lowers her head, letting her hair curtain her face. Her right hand, restless, travels to the silver pendant at her throat: the moonsteel disk Triactis gave her at twelve, inscribed with a single, deliberate word—VOLUNTAS. There is comfort in the old rituals, even if their priest is long dead. For a moment, her eyes close again. She sees not the throne room, but the moment of Kalon’s last day before his departure.
It is a new era, she reminds herself. The dead return, and the past never stays buried.
Torchlight dances on her armor as she turns, the weight of the message already tilting the axis of tomorrow’s world.
Chapter 9: Into the Pits
Chapter Text
Guillemot regarded the lone figure on its granite promenade with all the mercy of a wolf regarding a limping deer. The city’s climate was one of opportunism—fog banking up the alleys at dusk, knives and bribes passing hands in the open, every façade promising a secret. No one noticed the exile, the foreigner, not until he made a mistake, and then they’d see him as a bleeding memory on the cobblestones.
Kalon leaned against a seawall, knuckles whitening, eyes fixed on the slip of the horizon where the salt haze met the city’s perpetual fireline. It was either a beautiful sunset or the market district burning down again. He couldn’t tell, and he no longer cared. His fingers kept finding the empty spot at his belt where the coin purse used to live. Thirty gold, gone. Davos and his caravan—gone. And somewhere behind him, in the tunnels below Biting Rat Lane, a goblin with a new dental overlay was cackling himself to sleep on Kalon’s money.
He exhaled through his nose. Technically, the tungsten sword wasn’t even his—it belonged to Davos, or to the "collective interests of the trade," as Davos put it, a phrase that meant absolutely nothing and yet somehow implied interest would be charged. He could almost hear Davos’s voice in his head: “We’re all investors in each other’s future, my friend. You lose, I lose, everyone loses. Except the house. The house always wins.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and started the long walk back through the cut-rate labyrinth that passed for the merchant district. It was not a good time to be alone in Guillemot with no money, no friends, and a weapon that felt wrong in the hand.
By the time he reached the goblin’s workshop, the sun had ducked behind the cliffs, and the only illumination came from the high-voltage arcs sizzling inside the shop windows. He stepped into the charged air and shut the door. The sign above it read: “NORT’S. ALL KINDS OF MODS. CHEAP. WE DO NOT DO REFUNDS.”
The tinkerer himself was perched atop a stepladder, tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he replaced a fuse the size of a sausage. Nort wore a set of greasy overalls and, incongruously, a crimson silk cravat. He noticed Kalon instantly, despite the latter’s effort at stealth.
“Back already?” Nort said, voice thin but amplified by the shop's acoustics. “Don’t tell me it’s not working. It was working fine when you left.”
Kalon set the sword on the counter. The tungsten blade, once a work of understated brutality, now wore a sheath of blackened circuitry and what appeared to be a small propeller near the hilt. The balance was ruined; the edge, in Kalon’s opinion, was less keen than a kitchen spoon.
“It’s not working,” Kalon said.
Nort slid down the ladder, moving more like a spider than a mammal. He landed on the balls of his feet and, in the same motion, plucked the sword from the counter.
“Impossible,” Nort said. “I tested it myself. It's called the Aegis Blade. See here—” As both of them look to face the sword, Kalon could only notice his tungsten sword turned into a piece of shit. Kalon was understandably frustrated, but Nort’s expression didn’t waver.
“Innovation,” he said. “All innovation is born in failure.” He set the sword down, fingers already twitching for a hammer. “I’ll get you the next build. Double discount for repeat customers.”
Kalon placed both hands on the counter, leaned in so his face was inches from the goblin’s. “I am out of coin,” he said, enunciating each syllable as if speaking to a malfunctioning automaton. “You took only the last thirty. And now the sword cuts less than my patience.”
Nort shrugged with a philosopher’s detachment. “You paid for an upgrade. You received one. Value is in the journey, not the destination.”
Kalon considered throttling him. Then he realized he didn’t have the energy, or the legal standing, to commit homicide in a city where every dead body owed rent.
He straightened, fuming. “Where,” he said, “can a man make money in this dump, besides rolling drunks or selling his kidneys?”
Nort didn’t have to think. “Fighting pits,” he said. “East side. Payouts are up this week. You got muscle, you got a way to walk out rich. Or not walk out at all.”
Kalon closed his eyes. The fighting pits were one step up from suicide and two down from organized crime. But he had muscle, and even with the ‘Aegis Blade’ in its current state, he could probably last a round or two.
“Fine,” he said. “What’s the house cut?”
Nort grinned, showing off a row of sharpened teeth. “House cuts twenty, but the crowd will bet extra if you look good getting hit. Bleed a little. Scream if you can. They love it.”
Kalon nodded, more to himself than to Nort. “Thanks for the help.”
“You’re welcome, human,” Nort said, already turning back to the twitching machinery. “East side. Don’t get lost.”
Kalon left without looking back. He made it five paces before realizing the east side was behind him. He pivoted, squared his shoulders, and walked the other way, head down.
Behind him, Nort’s cackling followed him into the street. “That’s west, you idiot! East! The other side! No wonder you’re broke, and stupid—can’t even tell left from right!”
Kalon didn’t answer. He just kept walking, letting the fog and the crowd swallow him. At least, he thought, things couldn’t get any dumber.
He would be proven wrong, but not tonight.
The east side of Guillemot was a city within a city: leaner, meaner, more invested in the bodily arts of hustle and violence. Every corner had its own rules, which were subject to immediate revision by whoever was holding the sharper knife or the heavier purse that evening. Even the air was competitive, fighting over which stench got there first—the salt, the butcher’s runoff, or the bitter reek of last night’s arson.
Kalon moved through it the way a hunted animal moves through brush: quickly, low, and unpredictably. The faster he walked, the more the street tried to trip him—overripe fruit smashed underfoot, chains strung at shin-level for reasons no one would explain, drunken brawlers in mid-pummel sprawling into the road without regard for innocent passersby. He had to vault over a collapsed fishmonger’s cart (the fish now primarily acting as obstacles themselves) and duck a thrown bottle that, from the sound it made, was mainly full of its intended contents.
He didn’t slow down. He couldn’t afford to, not with the way hunger burned in his guts, not with the memory of Nort’s cackling ricocheting in his skull. Ahead, the alleys narrowed, and the buildings hunched inwards, pinching the street to a slot barely wider than Kalon’s shoulders. This was territory for the city’s actual apex predators—pickpockets, leg-breakers, and those that trafficked in rarer, more perishable goods.
He was halfway through the first corridor when he felt the brush of fingers on his coat. Instinct took over: he caught the hand, twisted, and spun the body it belonged to up against the nearest wall. The kid-no—no older than twelve, face streaked with soot, teeth like scattered tombstones—smirked even as he struggled.
“Fast hands,” the kid said, not sounding winded.
“Wrong target,” Kalon replied. He let go. The kid melted into the shadows, and Kalon found his expression curving into something approximating a smile.
It didn’t last. Kalon took three more steps and collided, full-body, with a woman rounding the corner at an equally reckless pace. They bounced apart—neither fell, both caught their balance with the flat reflex of trained killers. Kalon blinked in surprise; she was of average height, her hair styled in a medium bob that framed her rounded face, the ends brushing just above her shoulders, and eyes like the hour before dawn: black, cold, promising nothing.
“Excuse you,” she said, voice low and frictionless.
Kalon nodded, mumbling, “Sorry,” already calculating how much damage she could do if she wanted to. He’d seen eyes like that before, usually over the business end of a blade.
She glanced him up and down. “You’re new,” she said.
He shrugged. “Just passing through.”
“Wrong side of town to ‘pass through’,” she replied, brushing past him, but not before one hand patted his coat in a mock search for valuables. Finding nothing, she made a noise of disappointment and drifted away.
He didn’t look back. There was no point. She’d follow if she wanted to, and if she didn’t, someone else would.
The fighting pits were farther than he remembered. They used to be a set of low stone rings by the shore, but that had been before Davos’s last visit and before the city realized how much money could be made in formalized violence. Now, the arena was a half-legitimate coliseum, cut into the rock, seating for two thousand, the pits themselves ringed with reinforced iron. The only way in before dusk was through the back, where a pair of ex-gladiators guarded the doors.
Kalon arrived to find the place shuttered, silent. The arena’s bouncers leaned against the wall, chatting idly, not bothering to stop the stray cats from weaving between their feet. Kalon set his jaw and waited, arms folded. His stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since the day before, and he ran a mental calculation of how much blood loss he could afford before the world got fuzzy.
Minutes dragged. Kalon heard footsteps behind him—a scrape, a whisper, then a single word, spoken too close to his ear.
“Idiot.”
It was the woman from before, the one with the predatory eyes.
He tensed, ready for a knife, but she just stepped beside him, matching his posture, her gaze fixed on the arena doors.
“They’re not open yet,” she said.
“I can see that.”
She watched him, silent for a beat. “You planning to fight?”
He shrugged. “If it pays.”
“It pays,” she said. “Not well, but enough to kill the next day’s headache. Assuming you don’t get killed instead.”
He glanced sidelong at her. “Is it that bad?”
She smiled, a quick upturn of the lips that looked more like muscle memory than actual amusement. “No, it’s worse. They’re trying out new talent tonight. Special guests, rumor says. The house always wants a spectacle.”
Kalon looked down at his modified, useless sword, then back at the arena. “Does it matter what I use?”
“No weapons. House rules.” Her eyes flickered to the ‘upgraded’ tungsten blade at his side. “Yours wouldn’t help much anyway.”
He grunted, then caught the hint of a smirk. “You fighting?”
She shook her head. “I came to watch. Sometimes it’s instructive to see how people lose.”
Kalon resisted the urge to laugh. He settled for, “Well, stick around. You might learn something.”
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t leave either.
When the doors finally creaked open, the crowd started to gather—men, women, all shades and sizes, hungry for spectacle. Kalon felt the city shift, its attention focusing on the pits, much like a beast focuses on its prey.
He took a seat on the low stone bench by the entrance. The woman drifted a few meters away, then sat too, arms crossed, waiting for the show.
He wondered, absently, whether he’d be the main event or just another casualty. Either way, the odds were better than trusting a goblin with a sword.
He waited for dusk. He waited for the call.
The city waited with him, patient and bloodthirsty as ever.
When the doors opened, the arena filled in less than an hour, first with the hopeful, then with the hopeless, and finally with those who came for the spectacle of suffering. The interior was a maze of ticket windows, betting kiosks, and concessions stands selling things that might once have been food. Every surface was sticky or stained; even the air felt reused, exhaled by generations of gamblers before him.
At the center of it all, beneath a banner reading BLOODSPORTS UNLIMITED: TONIGHT ONLY, stood a sign-up table staffed by what could only be described as a skeleton in a bespoke double-breasted suit. The eye sockets glowed faintly blue; the jaw was fixed in a permanent rictus of boredom. As Kalon approached, the skeleton raised a bony finger, signaling patience. At the same time, it finished registering the current contestant—a man with two black eyes and the demeanor of a livestock animal led to slaughter.
When the man shuffled away, the skeleton tapped a pen against the ledger and looked up. “Next.”
Kalon stepped forward. The skeleton’s gaze traveled up, then down, cataloguing him in the methodical way of bureaucrats everywhere.
“Name,” it said.
“Kalon.”
“Last name?”
He thought about it. “Just Kalon.”
The skeleton’s pen hovered, then scribbled. “Event?”
“Whatever pays.”
The skeleton paused, as if accessing a database in its calcified brain. “We have Iron Gauntlet, House Rules, and Free-For-All. Or you can be a ringer for the crowd if you survive the first round.” It rattled the page for emphasis. “Which?”
“All of them,” Kalon said.
The skeleton’s phalanges clicked as it rolled to a new sheet. “That’s highly unusual, Mr. Kalon. Are you sure?”
Kalon shrugged. “Better odds.”
The skeleton started to write, then hesitated. “I am required to inform you that most participants sign up for one event, at most two. Historically, multiple entries have a mortality rate exceeding ninety-eight percent.”
“I’ll take those odds,” Kalon replied.
From the gallery, Brianne watched, arms folded, head tilted. She’d seen the type before—overconfident, under-brained, desperate enough to think themselves invincible. They usually didn’t last. But there was something about this one. Maybe it was the lack of fear, perhaps the weird serenity with which he filled every blank on the form with ‘KALON’ and then drew a lopsided smiley face in the comments box.
The skeleton finished writing. “Weapons are not permitted inside the ring. Do you require medical paperwork for your next of kin?”
“No,” Kalon said.
The skeleton stared at him for a moment, as if recalibrating. “Very well. You will be called when ready. Green room is to your left, refreshments to your right.” It slid the ledger across the desk for Kalon’s review.
Kalon signed his name—nothing more, nothing less. The skeleton took back the sheet, filed it with the others, and waved him on with a motion that said, You’re already dead to me.
Brianne tracked him as he made his way to the green room. He didn’t limp or fidget or crack his knuckles the way most fighters did; he moved like someone with nowhere better to be. She filed the detail away. Perhaps he was a trained killer; maybe he was just too stupid to be scared. Either way, she had a job to do.
She waited until he was out of sight, then slipped past the desk, using a forged betting slip as cover.
The skeleton noticed her anyway. “You look familiar,” it said.
Brianne smiled, showing teeth. “I come here often.”
“Of course.” The skeleton didn’t smile back—couldn’t—but the sockets narrowed. “The House always likes a return customer.”
She nodded, then drifted into the crowd, vanishing behind a cluster of merchants arguing over the odds for the next match.
In the green room, Kalon sat on a bench, alone except for an older man dozing in the corner. The older man’s face was a roadmap of scar tissue, his nose having collapsed and re-formed more times than biology allowed. Kalon glanced at him, then at the ring through the slatted gate.
He was ready. He’d fought worse things for worse reasons.
Still, something about the emptiness of the room made him uneasy. There were no warm-up dummies, no coaches, no hangers-on. Just the sound of the crowd swelling as the hour approached.
From the entry, the older man cracked open one eye. “Are you the new blood?”
Kalon nodded. “Looks that way.”
“Don’t get fancy,” the man said. “They’ll eat you alive.”
Kalon almost laughed. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
The man closed his eye again. “Just don’t make ‘em chew.”
He sat back and waited for the call to come.
Across the arena, Brianne settled into the shadow of a column, a clear line of sight to the pit and the green room entrance. She didn’t know what she was hoping for. But she suspected the idiot was going to surprise her—one way or another.
It was always the quiet ones. Or, in this case, the ones dumb enough to sign up for their execution.
The green room’s hush didn’t endure. After a few minutes, the door scraped open and the first of the replacements arrived—a woman scarce taller than Kalon’s shoulder, head cropped close, face corded with old scar tissue and new bruises. She carried herself the way a stray dog does between alleyways, back to the wall, hands balled in loose fists, constantly assessing. The cloth wrapping her knuckles was stained brown and black, and Kalon noted the way the marks traveled up her forearm, trailing beneath the sleeve of her shirt. She didn’t meet his eyes, nor the older man’s, but dropped onto the far bench and began a slow, methodical flexing of her fingers, as if warming each joint for the violence to come.
The next was a bulkier specimen—male, his arms like hocks of meat, neck thick as a dock rope. He wore the remnants of a merchant’s smock, now two sizes too small, the top button straining beneath the pressure of his chest. He entered with a short, nervous bark of a laugh, which died the instant he saw the other two already seated. The man hesitated, caught between fleeing and feigning confidence, then chose the latter, sinking onto the opposite bench so heavily that the old wood groaned beneath him. He wiped his brow with a trembling hand, leaving a wet sheen over his entire face. His eyes flicked to the woman, then to Kalon, then to the old-timer in the corner, calibrating the odds and finding them unfavorable.
No one spoke. The only sound was the swelling throng beyond the wall, the cadence of a hundred voices rising and falling as opening matches worked the crowd into a lather. Occasionally, a bell rang, sharp and mechanical, and a chorus of cheers, then, abruptly, the silence of consequence, the interval between a fight and the announcement of the winner.
The only other door in the green room led to the tunnel, a steel-plate corridor that funneled fighters up into the pit. The older man rolled his head to eye the newcomers, then huffed, unimpressed. The tall man responded with a sideways glance, but looked away quickly. The woman ignored them both.
Kalon wondered idly about their stories. He knew his oath—misfortune by way of stupidity and necessity—but suspected theirs were not so different. The city mined desperate people the way it mined salt: they all ended up here, ground down, sold for a spectacle. He doubted anyone in the room had signed up for glory, least of all himself.
The time ticked down. Somewhere above, a bell clanged, as if struck by a drunken apprentice. A muffled announcement echoed through the stone—” Fight Card One, to staging”—then footsteps thundered through the corridor. A pair of handlers in patched House uniforms burst in, neither sparing a glance at the seated fighters. They grabbed a gurney from the wall and disappeared up the tunnel, leaving a trail of red drops in their wake. No one in the waiting room reacted.
The man with the thick neck coughed once, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. “How many matches tonight?” he asked, addressing no one in particular.
The older man shrugged. “Don’t matter to us. We’re in the first.”
Kalon raised an eyebrow. “Who’s the house favorite?”
The older man grinned, showing what looked like splinters of old ivory. “Heard it’s the girl.” He jerked his chin towards the woman on the bench.
She didn’t acknowledge the comment, but her hands stopped flexing. In profile, Kalon could see the edge of a smile, predatory and calm.
“Great,” the merchant muttered, “just fucking great.”
They fell back into silence, each communing with their fight ritual. Kalon closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, slowing the tremor in his hands. He felt the War Essence stirring, eager for action, but he kept it caged. There’d be time for that soon enough.
A junior official in House livery entered, a clipboard wedged under one arm, the other holding a sloshing cup of what was probably coffee but looked like melted rust. She cleared her throat and launched into a speech that sounded well-rehearsed and even better ignored.
“Welcome, participants, to the inaugural cycle of tonight’s events. A reminder of the rules: One, no weapons of any kind—your own, the House’s, or smuggled in by friends and family. Two, no excessive maiming or death in the first five minutes. Three, any attempt to forfeit or escape will be met with immediate disqualification and the possibility of public shaming.”
She paused to take a sip, then surveyed the three of them over the rim of her cup. “Questions?”
The barrel-chested man raised a hand. “What if the other guy cheats?”
The official shrugged. “Cheat better.”
The woman with the wrapped hands grunted. “What’s the payout if we live?”
“Depends on the odds.” The official pointed the tip of her pen at Kalon. “For you, sir, I imagine they’re not great.”
Kalon shrugged. “I’m not here for the odds.”
“Suit yourself.” The official ticked boxes on her sheet, then left, calling over her shoulder: “First match in ten. If you die, please do so in the center of the ring.”
Silence returned. The woman began stretching her fingers, and the man picked at his teeth. Kalon just sat, breathing evenly, letting his mind wander to the places it always went before violence.—A blank, humming space. No fear, just focus.
On the other side of the wall, the noise of the crowd was building: shouts, the clatter of mugs, the thump of drums, and the shrillness of vuvuzelas smuggled in from the last war. The tension wasn’t just sport—it was ritual, the kind of bloodletting a city needed to keep from combusting on its corruption.
Word traveled fast. By the time Kalon’s name was called, there were already side bets circulating about how many minutes he’d last, how many bones he’d lose, whether he’d scream or just gurgle.
He stood when summoned, and the older man in the corner raised a hand as if to stop him. “No glory in this, you know. Just mess and pain.”
Kalon nodded. “I’ve seen worse.”
The older man’s eyes flickered, as if catching a scent. “You sure about that?”
Kalon didn’t answer.
The woman and the barrel-man watched him go with a mixture of relief and mild disappointment. No one liked to follow a suicidal act.
Down the corridor, Kalon passed a group of arena workers outfitted in matching House jackets. They looked him over, smirked, and muttered. “That’s the one? Looks like he’d blow away in a stiff breeze.”
“He signed for everything. Idiot’s going to be fertilizer by the end of it.”
“Five says he doesn’t make the second round.”
Kalon let it slide off him. He’d seen the faces of men about to die, and none of these workers wore the right kind of fear.
He reached the iron gate, where the skeleton from sign-up waited, clipboard in hand. “You’re up, Mr. Kalon.”
He nodded.
“Any final words? For the crowd, perhaps?”
Kalon considered it, then shook his head. “Just open the gate.”
The skeleton obliged, and the noise hit him like a physical thing—a blast of roiling, hungry attention. He stepped into the light and took in the space: the fighting floor dusted with crushed bones, the higher tiers full of spectators, the first few rows lined with the kind of gamblers who tracked loss as a tax-deductible event.
He stretched, rolled his shoulders, and waited for his opponent.
In the stands, Brianne blended with the crowd. She listened to the running commentary:
“Dead man walking.”
“Heard he was a ringer for the House—set up to lose, take a fall.”
“Heard he’s never even been in the ring.”
Brianne snorted. She had followed him through three wards, watched him handle the alley kid, watched him brush off her ombush with the indifference of a man stepping around a puddle. Either he was an idiot, or something else entirely.
She leaned forward, eyes fixed on the gate across from Kalon. The whole arena was about to find out.
Kalon cracked his neck, exhaled, and waited for the bell.
The master of ceremonies was a showman in the old mold: thin, tall, dressed in a jacket of gold lamé, and with a voice that could flay meat from the bone. He bounded onto the sand, arms flung wide, and waited for the crowd to settle.
“LADIES AND DEGENERATES!” he bellowed. TONIGHT—A BOUT LIKE NO OTHER! ALL ENTRANTS HAVE BEEN REMOVED, BOUGHT OUT, OR OTHERWISE—UNAVAILABLE!” He let the word hang, and the audience tittered. “THERE IS ONLY ONE NAME ON THE LIST TONIGHT—ONE! OUR BRAVE, FOOLISH, AND CERTIFIABLY INSANE CONTESTANT—KALON!”
The reaction was a cone of confusion, then amusement, followed by a wave of anticipation as everyone realized what this meant—all the slots—every round—filled with just one man’s name. No breaks. No easy outs.
Kalon stepped into the ring. He didn’t raise his fists or play to the crowd, just sized up the space and waited. The only thing that stood out was the faintest gleam of anticipation at the corners of his eyes.
“FIRST ROUND!” cried the emcee, almost choking on excitement. “THREE TO ONE ODDS! IT’S A CLASSIC—OUR SIGNATURE—THE BONES OF GUILLEMOT!”
A panel in the floor slid open, and three skeletons emerged: not like the bureaucrat at the sign-up desk, but the battle-ready kind, every bone sheathed in battered iron, each holding a rusted sword or mace. The crowd roared its approval.
Kalon relaxed. He’d seen real death before; these, by comparison, were toys with sharp edges. He waited for the bell, then moved.
It was over in twenty seconds.
The first skeleton swung high. Kalon sidestepped, caught its arm, and wrenched it clean out of its socket. The second tried to flank him, so he used the first skeleton’s arm as a club, shattering the second’s jaw and dropping it to the ground. The third lunged—Kalon spun, wrapped it in a headlock, and crushed its skull against his knee.
By the time the fragments stopped rattling, the crowd had shifted from mockery to pure, open-throated joy. They screamed for him.
He rolled his shoulders, took a breath, and waited for the next wave.
From the stands, Brianne watched, first with surprise, then with growing fascination. He hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t showboated, hadn’t even seemed to enjoy it—pure efficiency, wrapped in the body of an idiot.
She leaned forward, fingers drumming on the railing.
“SECOND ROUND!” The emcee’s voice cracked a little, either from excitement or fear. “A LITTLE MAGIC, A LITTLE FIRE—LET’S RAISE THE STAKES!”
From the far gate came the same three skeletons, but this time flanked by two in red robes—the infamous diabolists—and behind them, a skeletal figure wreathed in black smoke: a necromancer, its hands already tracing runes in the dust.
Kalon didn’t smile. He did, however, move faster.
The skeletons came in a wedge, standard phalanx. He ignored them at first, darting left toward the nearest diabolist. It spat a fireball—he ducked, closed, broke its wrist, and used the broken hand to jam the diabolist’s staff through its sternum. The second diabolist tried to circle, but he kicked its kneecap backward, sending it spinning out of control. He didn’t bother to finish it; the crowd would prefer a little suspense.
The necromancer was chanting now, black energy pooling in its cupped hands. The three skeletons reoriented and advanced. Kalon waded in, grabbed the front runner by the ribcage, and used its body as a shield against the necromancer’s first spell—a lashing whip of shadow. The ribcage caught the brunt, and Kalon flung the ruined skeleton into the caster, breaking its concentration.
He stalked forward, picked up the broken staff, and threw it with a snap of the wrist. It caught the necromancer between the eyes, snapping the skull clean off the spine.
The rest was clean-up.
At the bell, Kalon stood alone in the arena, dust settling around him, audience in full-throated frenzy.
The emcee, for once, was at a loss for words. “KALON ADVANCES!” he finally managed. “ONE FOR THE AGES, FOLKS!”
Brianne exhaled, then caught herself. She was smiling.
This was no suicide act. It was a statement.
Below, Kalon took a slow walk around the perimeter of the arena, checking the next gate. The next opponent would be worse, and the one after that unthinkable. But for now, he felt the city’s attention lock onto him.
He let it. He had always preferred a fair fight.
He waited for the next gate to open.
Brianne pressed deeper into the crowd, letting the noise and sweat mask her as she replayed the fights in her mind. Every city on the continent had its share of ex-soldiers and pit-kings, but she had never seen anyone move quite like this Kalon. It was the little things: how he read the attack before it came, the way he used the enemy’s weight, the absence of fear or excess motion. There were only a handful of people in the world who fought that way—and even fewer who survived this long.
She ticked off the possibilities. A former Imperial assassin? No, wrong posture. Some defrocked paladin, hiding under a false name? Maybe, but his style wasn’t holy—if anything, it was a deliberate perversion of sanctified violence.
With each round, her doubts eroded. By the end of the second, as the audience howled for more, she was almost sure.
The Warmonger.
She’d heard rumors. Yharim’s old weapon, once the terror of the southern marches, dead and buried a dozen times over, and yet—here he was, breaking skeletons and bloodless wizards with bare hands, like it was all beneath him.
Brianne wasn’t sure whether to be afraid or impressed.
She glanced at the betting board, did a quick sum in her head, and made a modest wager on Kalon surviving the final round. She knew he would. People like him didn’t die by accident.
She leaned over the rail, eyes locked on the pit below. The city had turned out for a massacre, but she suspected it would leave with something else: a new legend, a different kind of monster.
She smiled to herself, ready for the last act.
The arena’s lamps flared, casting the sand in a golden haze. The emcee, voice hoarse but unbowed, strolled to the center ring and let the silence stretch until even the cats in the rafters were quiet.
“For the final event—an opponent worthy of legend!” he roared. “A creature so rare, the House had to break three laws and a minor international treaty to acquire it! BEHOLD—THE DECREE!”
The reaction was electric. Everyone in the city knew the Decree: the wolf-beast that haunted the north roads, killer of merchants, breaker of bounties. The House had been promised its capture for years, but no one believed it would ever materialize.
Now, a rumble in the ceiling. A giant iron cage, studded with sigils, lowered from above, swaying dangerously on chains. Inside, the Decree waited—eight feet of fur and muscle, its face a mask of scar tissue, its breath visible in the charged air.
Kalon’s lips compressed to a thin line. He watched the cage descend, noted the way the chains groaned under the weight, and the nervous glances between the handlers. The House wanted a show, maybe a tragedy. Fine.
The emcee gestured, and the chains snapped free. The cage slammed into the sand—just missing Kalon by a foot—then burst open with a shower of splinters.
The Decree stepped out, slow and deliberate, its eyes fixed not on the crowd, but on Kalon. It made no noise, just bared its teeth and dropped to a hunter’s crouch.
The bell sounded. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then everything did.
The beast moved faster than physics should allow. It crossed the ring in a blink, claws gouging the sand, jaws snapping for Kalon’s throat. He ducked, rolled, and came up behind it, only to find the creature pivoting mid-air, using its tail as a whip. The tip caught Kalon on the temple, staggering him.
The Decree pressed its advantage, attacking with a flurry of coordinated strikes. Kalon dodged most, but the beast was learning, adapting to his every move. It feinted a high slash, then swept low, knocking his feet from under him. Before he could recover, it pinned him, claws digging into his chest.
He grabbed the wrist and twisted. The Decree yanked him off the ground and hurled him ten feet into the boards. Kalon’s vision went white. He fought to breathe.
The beast advanced, savoring the moment.
That’s when the floor changed.
A layer of frost, conjured by the Decree’s unnatural magic, crept across the arena, locking Kalon’s boots in place. The crowd gasped. The beast stalked forward, slow and sure.
Kalon watched its approach. He counted the steps. Then, with a snap, he wrenched his foot free, losing the boot but gaining precious seconds. He threw the ruined footwear at the beast’s eyes—not to blind it, but to force a flinch.
It worked. The Decree flinched, and Kalon used the opening to slide under its legs, coming up behind it. He vaulted onto the beast’s back and, bracing with his knees, clamped his arms around its throat.
The Decree thrashed, bucking him like a bad memory. It slammed itself into the walls, over and over, but Kalon held on, tightening his grip, forcing the air from the beast’s windpipe.
In desperation, the Decree rolled onto its back, trying to crush him. He let go at the last moment, rolled with the impact, and came up with a length of chain from the shattered cage.
He looped it around the Decree’s neck, twisted it until the beast’s eyes bulged red, then pulled hard. The beast roared, tried to claw him, but the leverage was all Kalon’s. He rode the animal to the sand, then to its knees, then down.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then the Decree shuddered and collapsed, tongue lolling, defeated.
The crowd erupted.
Kalon staggered to his feet, every bone in his body threatening mutiny, and raised both hands.
Even the emcee was stunned. “KALON! VICTORIOUS!” he bellowed, voice cracking. “THE BEAST BOWS TO THE HUMAN!”
In the stands, Brianne stood, unable to suppress the grin spreading across her face. No ordinary man could have pulled that off. She had her answer.
Below, the pit bosses scowled, counting their lost bets. But the House always paid, and when Kalon limped to the payout window, they handed over his winnings with icy courtesy.
He pocketed the coin, nodded at the skeleton clerk, and walked into the night. No crowd, no fanfare. He had what he needed.
The city shifted as the crowds dispersed, their howling quickly replaced by the restless shuffle of bets collected, drinks refilled, minor grudges nursed, and old glories recounted under the flicker of torchlight. Brianne ghosted along the edge of the emptied street, watching with a neutral, almost blank expression as Kalon—barely upright, but moving with a predator's steadiness—limped away from the pit and toward the fractured veins of Guillemot’s nighttime arteries.
She trailed him only as far as the first intersection, then melted into the nearest alley, her boots silent on the stone, her cloak already reacquainting itself with the deeper shadows. Despite her vantage, she took no notes, made no gestures to her unseen informants, did not even reach for the communication glyph hidden in her left cuff. Watching was a habit, but this was different: it wasn’t the warmonger’s violence or victory she sought to catalog, but the way he moved after it—how he scanned the rooftops, checked reflections, trusted every approach even as he anticipated the inevitable ambush. He never once looked over his shoulder. He didn’t have to.
Brianne stared at his receding silhouette a moment longer, cataloguing the possibilities. She’d made her decision the instant the Decree hit the sand, but now she let herself savor the anticipation. Under different circumstances, she might have been hunting him already—she had the talent, and the contract had been in place since long before the ex-warlord took to the pits. But now? Now she wanted something else—maybe a test, perhaps an alliance, maybe just the satisfaction of watching the next phase of disaster unfold.
She allowed herself a rare, genuine smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. Nothing in the universe delighted her quite like the world’s refusal to be tamed; even after the Tyrant’s wars, after all the border terrors and manufactured monsters, there was still room for something unpredictable.
Tomorrow, she would make contact. There was no rush. The real game only started after the curtain call.
For now, she turned away from the emptying square, letting the sounds of the city’s old hungers wash over her as she plotted her next move.
In Guillemot, there was always time.
Chapter 10: Mind of a Warmonger
Chapter Text
The night after the fighting pits belonged to Kalon, though the city tried to claim it for themselves. Guillemot’s celebration bled through stone and steel, every window lit with fever, every alley echoing the last howl of the day’s spectacle. Fireworks blundered across the sky, an archipelago of red and gold blooms that showered flakes onto the canals. From the upper tiers, drunken nobles hurled coppers and vulgarities onto the heads of the desperate below. Somewhere, a pack of children torched a straw effigy of the Decree. The city’s pulse quickened around a single name.
No one in Guillemot had ever seen a man turn a fighting pit into an execution ground, not since the city’s founding. Even the old-timers with branded faces and stitched-shut lips could only mutter and stare when Kalon flung the Decree’s carcass down the stairs like a sack of spent wheat. The crowd outside the grand amphitheater melted into a riot. The instant the hounds started howling, Kalon vanished through a side door and didn’t look back.
He left the city for its celebrations. Down the alleys, through shuttered tunnels slick with thaw and night-sweat, Kalon navigated the strata of Guillemot with a predator’s patience. He wore no mask or battered helmet tonight; the garrison had ripped his trophy plate away during the final charge, and Kalon had seen no reason to retrieve it. His arms were bare, bruises blue-black beneath the healing cuts, blood caked in a line under his left eye where the Decree had landed its only real hit. The bruises would fade by morning. The memory would not.
If Guillemot had saints, Kalon would have invoked them as he limped down the watersteps toward the lowest tier. But saints belonged to softer places, and Kalon had never believed in anything that didn’t answer violence with violence. He kept his focus on the task: Find somewhere the city’s fever couldn’t reach.
He chose the dock facing east, because no one went there at night except the whores and the hopeless, and he could be left alone with his thoughts for as long as he dared. The dock was little more than a plank nailed to pylons, but it held against the tide, and that was enough. Kalon bought a roasted bird from a boy sleeping under an awning, dropped a coin on the counter, and left before the boy could find his tongue.
He sat on the edge, boots dangling over black water. The city sprawled behind him, its tiers outlined in crooked halos of lantern light. The only sound was the hush of brackish waves and the distant, stumbling chorus from the amphitheater above. Kalon tore into the bird with both hands, ignoring the grease and the heat, and let the salt and fat burn through the numbness in his mouth.
He hadn’t tasted food in a day and a half. The organizers of the pits liked to starve their main event, so the hunger showed on the bones so that the audience could salivate for every lunge and roar. Kalon had been through worse. He’d been caged and starved in half a dozen cities before Guillemot, always at the edge of collapse, always given just enough to keep the violence alive.
Tonight was supposed to feel different. The boy had said so, right before the coin hit the counter: You won, sir. You get to be alive now. Kalon couldn’t tell if it was a blessing or a warning.
He finished the bird, licked the juice from his fingers, and then watched the oil spread in rainbow circles over the water. On the dock, the coins from tonight’s haul sat in a neat little mound, glinting cold. Kalon regarded them with the same skepticism he gave to all gifts.
He’d learned that lesson early. Trust nothing that comes easily, especially not praise or coin. The man who raised him had a thousand aphorisms for this: “If you don’t count your fingers after a handshake, you might as well cut them off yourself.” “The world loves you until it needs your skull for mortar.” Kalon heard them all, the old bastard’s voice sharp as a knife in the back of his mind, even years after he put that voice in the ground.
The night’s cold intensified. The dock creaked, the tide growing more aggressive with every passing hour. Kalon tucked his knees to his chest and stared at the horizon, watching for the first hint of gray in the east. He felt the ache in his thigh where the Decree had scored him, the dull throb in his shoulder from the fall. He did not try to silence the pain; it was the only thing that answered back when he spoke to it.
There was a time, long ago, when Kalon would have wandered back into the city, let the celebrations devour him, found a place to sleep it off among the other killers and castoffs. He might have even found someone to share a bottle or a bed. He had people, once. That was the problem with victories—they demanded witnesses, and all his witnesses were dead or gone.
He relished the aloneness. Not because it was pleasant, but because it was honest.
A rat tried to climb a barrel on the far side of the dock. Kalon watched it momentarily, then tossed a bone in its direction. The rat sniffed, then dragged the bone away into the shadow. There was a lesson there, but Kalon let it slide.
The city kept trying to invade his silence. Footsteps overhead, the crackle of firecrackers, a distant brawl that spilled into the water and echoed up the walls. But the dock remained empty, just Kalon, the carcass of his dinner, and the cold silver of the moon.
He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging flakes of blood that had dried at his temple. Red and then black, it crusted beneath his fingernails. He wanted to wash, but the water here was thick with oil and silt, and he had no patience for rituals.
Instead, he tilted his head back and tried to remember the last time he’d been celebrated for anything but murder. It took longer than he cared to admit. Memory resisted, twisting away from the surface. He let it go. Tonight was about emptiness. About the space left behind after the work was done.
The dock groaned again, a warning this time. Kalon shifted his weight and glanced down the boardwalk, checking for movement. Nothing but wind and shadow. He exhaled, the tension evaporating from his shoulders. The city would be drunk and reckless until morning. If anyone came for him, it wouldn’t be until the sun rose and the hangovers set in.
He glanced back at the coin pile. It would be enough to keep him alive for a month if he kept to the docks and didn’t try to buy his way up the tiers. He could leave Guillemot tomorrow, follow the coast to the next city, the next fight, the next pit in need of a monster to throw into the flames.
He flexed his hands, feeling the rawness in his knuckles. Tomorrow, then. Or the day after. He had earned at least a night’s rest.
Kalon lay down on the dock, pillowed his head on his arms, and let the night take him. Alone, but undefeated.
Somewhere far above, another firework split the sky. Kalon didn’t look up. He’d seen enough spectacle for a lifetime.
Sleep didn’t come easily. Not for men like Kalon. Even with the city’s noise muted by the water and the far-off lanterns turning to dying embers, he could not lull his mind to blankness. The cold helped—at first. Then the body adapted, and he was left with the throb in his leg and the slow churn of old ghosts in his stomach.
He closed his eyes and let the night’s residue work through him. The surface thoughts, wounds, and aches gave way to the deeper rot. It always started the same way: a sound, a color, a flicker of something half-remembered. Tonight, it was the ragged clatter of firecrackers, which became in memory the crack of a cane on bare skin, then the clangor of iron gates in winter.
Memory was a traitor. It lets in things you’d paid to forget.
He was eight again, or ten, or some age when fingers were still too small to close around a sword hilt. There was no sword, yet—only the cane, the gate, and the man whose words landed harder than either. If you don’t count your fingers after a handshake, you might as well cut them off yourself. The lesson was about trust, being alone, and the inevitability of betrayal. The lesson was about killing the part of you that ever wanted anything softer.
Kalon’s mind tried to run, but memory kept pace.
Now he was older, in the yard behind the barracks, watching blood freeze on gravel while a dozen other boys shuffled, coughed, and pretended not to stare. One of them—Sandy, the only one who could make Kalon laugh without trying—held out a battered mug, hands shaking, blue at the knuckles. “Warm this?” Sandy had asked, meaning the mug, but Kalon never missed the double meanings.
They shared the drink. The memory wanted to linger there, in the moment before it all turned sour, but Kalon forced it forward.
There were more battles, more betrayals. The worst came at the end, when the tyrant who raised them called in every favor and demanded proof of loyalty. The order had been clear: leave none alive, not even the messengers. Kalon remembered the taste of blood and bile in his mouth as he pressed the sword to Sandy’s heart. Sandy didn’t scream, didn’t plead. Just looked at him and said, “It’s all right. It always was.” Then the blade went through, and Kalon stopped being a person for a long time.
In the present, his hands curled into fists without his knowing. The dock planks creaked beneath him. He felt the single tear slip down the side of his nose and freeze there, suspended until he brushed it away with the back of a wrist.
Kalon exhaled hard, willing the visions back into their cage. The past could torture him all it wanted; it wouldn’t change the end of the story. He was still here, hungry, and the city still hated and needed him in equal measure.
He tore off another piece of meat, chewed it until the flavor drowned out the ghosts, and watched the horizon for the first hint of sunlight.
The city would wake soon. There would be more fights and more names to add to the list. But for now, there was only the ache in his leg and the taste of salt on his tongue.
He preferred it that way.
The bird was nearly gone, and so was the night. Kalon hunched over what was left of the carcass, picking at the brittle skin and letting the world fade to background static. Even with the ache of memory chewing at his insides, his senses kept cataloging everything around him—the vibration of the dock as tides shifted beneath, the subtle pitch of the wind as it funneled between stone, the distant but insistent hush of footsteps trying to be silent.
He was being followed. Not a surprise, not really. Kalon had known since he left the amphitheater, the same way a wolf knows when it’s downwind of the hunt. Maybe it was just a Guild snitch or a bitter gambler come to reclaim a lost wager. He weighed the risks in his head, already prepping for violence, but there was no sharp edge of threat. Just a strange curiosity. That confused him: why would anyone come alone after a night of blood and spectacle?
The footsteps paused at the edge of the boardwalk. Kalon waited, letting the silence stretch. If this were an assassin, it was either very good or idiotic.
He looked up. Saw nothing, at first—just the empty planks and the smudge of smoke rising from the city above. But then, a shadow slipped from behind a rusted winch post. Not a big man. A woman, maybe, slim and fast. She took two steps forward, then stopped.
“Go away,” Kalon said, voice flat as the water. “I don’t share.”
The shadow didn’t move. Then, with a deliberate calm, it detached itself from the post and slid into the edge of the lantern light. Black hair cut to the jaw, eyes dark and sharp as onyx. She wore a battered coat and boots soft enough that he’d barely heard her on the planks.
“I’m not here for the food.” She kept her hands visible, palms up, nothing in them but the tremor of restraint. “You’re Kalon.”
He didn’t answer. Let her talk, see what she wants.
“I saw you tonight. In the pit.” She said it like a confession.
He let the silence answer for him.
She stared at him with open curiosity, not fear. “You killed the Decree,” she said. “No one does that. No one’s ever—” She caught herself, shook her head as if to clear it. “I just wanted to see if you were real.”
He shrugged. “Disappointed?”
The question flickered something behind her eyes. “No,” she said. “But I thought you’d be…bigger. Or at least meaner.”
He snorted, tore another strip of meat from the bone. “I’m off duty.”
She stepped closer, slow and careful, as if not to spook him. “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be—” she gestured at the city’s neon, at the revelry still raging above, “—getting showered in wine and whores, or whatever it is they give to champions?”
Kalon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not thirsty. Not interested.” The truth was, he didn’t trust a celebration he had earned. And after the last time, he doubted he’d ever want to be in a room full of people again.
The woman hesitated. “May I?” She gestured to the planks beside him.
He eyed her, then the path behind. If she were armed, she hid it well. “Suit yourself.”
She sat, keeping a hand’s width of space between them. Her posture was wary but unafraid, like someone who’d survived worse than disappointment. They listened to the lapping water for a while.
“So,” she said finally. “What’s it like?”
He kept his gaze on the black horizon. “What?”
“Killing a legend.”
Kalon considered the question, or at least pretended to. “You don’t feel anything. Not at the time. Just…need.”
“Not satisfaction?”
He shook his head. “No such thing.”
She nodded, as if she’d expected that. “Most people say they want revenge. Or justice. But I think they want a story to tell.” She looked at him, the city’s cold fire reflected in her eyes. “What do you want?”
Kalon thought of Sandy, the old lessons, and how his whole life had been one long slide toward this moment on the dock. “I want to be left alone,” he said, and realized it was true.
She didn’t challenge him. “You’re good at what you do,” she said instead. “But I think you’re better at being alone.”
He wanted to snap back, to wound her with words, but nothing came. She wasn’t mocking him. There was just recognition.
They sat in silence. Eventually, she reached into her coat, drew out a battered flask, uncorked it, and offered it to Kalon. “To the death of legends,” she said.
He took the flask and drank. Bitter, bracing. He passed it back.
She wiped her lip before drinking, then grinned. “I’m Brianne. If you care.”
He didn’t, not really. But he filed it away, the way you memorize the name of a poison just in case it comes back around.
She rose, stretched. “See you in the next life, Kalon.” She gave a little salute, half-sardonic, and walked off into the darkness without another word.
Kalon watched her until she vanished, then returned to the water, the city, the waiting horizon.
He didn’t believe in omens, but for the first time in years, he wondered if maybe he should start.
The city’s fever cooled with the passing hours, but Guillemot never truly slept. Even as torches guttered and celebrants collapsed in the gutter and stairwell, the harbor kept its vigil—boats creaking in the current, lanterns bobbing like orphaned moons. Brianne lingered above the dock, watching Kalon’s shape shrink into silhouette, half-illuminated by the guttering flame of a distant watchtower. Despite the blood, dirt, and battered trappings, she had recognized him the moment he’d entered the pit.
She’d known killers before—studied with them, fought beside them, bled and sometimes even wept with them—but Kalon was different. It wasn’t just the violence. It was the aftermath, the way he’d vanished into the city's underbelly like a ghost desperate for exorcism. She understood that hunger. She’d spent her life running from its mirror.
She could have let him be. By all rights, she should have. She owed nothing to a man whose hands were stained deeper than the canals, a man who, even in victory, seemed perpetually on the verge of dissolving into nothing. But curiosity had always been her one indulgence. The city’s legends were never absolute; when one stumbled out of the shadows, battered and bruised, she needed to see it with her own eyes.
Brianne watched him from a distance, measured her approach, then let him see her. She liked how he didn’t flinch or bristle, just watched her with the same tired wariness she’d seen in every street dog that had survived a winter.
They spoke—if it could be called that. Words weren’t Kalon’s medium, she realized quickly. He communicated in shrugs, silences, and the blunt refusal to be baited by admiration or pity. She admired that, in a way. She’d wasted enough time on men whose greatest fear was refusing to be understood.
After their exchange, Brianne might have left, returned to her rented room, or slept on her preferred rooftop. But she paused at the end of the dock, turned, and found herself unwilling to sever the thread. She walked back and sat again, a little closer this time, sharing in the silence.
Kalon didn’t object. If anything, he seemed to relax fractionally, but enough that she noticed.
The night edged toward dawn. A low fog crept in from the river mouth, diffusing the lanterns and softening the city’s edges. Brianne watched Kalon’s face in profile and saw the way he followed the invisible line of the horizon, jaw set, and gaze unblinking. He looked less like a legend and more like a man who had survived too much.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, not expecting an answer.
He grunted, which Brianne took for assent.
“Was it always like this? Or did you choose it?”
Kalon’s eyes didn’t move, but his fingers tensed around the bones in his lap. “It’s the only thing I was ever good at.”
Brianne let the words sit, then nodded. “I think you’re wrong.”
He glanced at her, not in challenge but with something approaching curiosity.
She shrugged. “You’re good at surviving. The rest is just the story people tell about you.”
He blinked, surprised by the idea, and then looked away. For a while, neither spoke. Brianne listened to the water, the soft squelch of mud beneath the pier, the distant clatter of carts setting up for morning market.
The city’s cold gnawed at her bones, but she didn’t move. She watched the sky grow lighter, the black giving way to bruised indigo, then violet, then the first reluctant smudge of gold above the rooftops. The warmth was subtle, but it began to seep through the fog, casting a pale glow across the dock.
She saw Kalon’s face change, just a little. His eyes softened, and his mouth relaxed its rigid line. She almost missed the moment he started to cry—just a tremor, a single line of salt tracing the scar on his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away; he just let it hang there, raw and exposed.
Brianne looked away, giving him privacy even in proximity. She thought about reaching out, about offering a hand or a word, but instead she sat still, close enough to feel his heat radiate through the cold. She figured he’d had enough people try to fix him.
When the sun finally broke the horizon, painting the city in gold and shadow, Kalon spoke without looking at her.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, voice soft and unsteady.
Brianne thought for a moment, then smiled. “No one does. We pretend.”
He let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. The tear on his cheek glistened in the morning light, quickly drying.
They watched the sunrise together, silent, not needing more.
For a moment, the world was just the sun's warmth, the tide's rhythm, and the knowledge that they were both alive, despite everything.
The sun rose in full, rinsing the harbor in the sunlight. Kalon sat motionless, unaware of the chill seeping through his clothes or the half-eaten bird's greasy aftertaste at his side. The heat from his tears stung his cheeks, a sensation as alien as it was unwelcome. He tried to pull himself together, jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might shatter.
Only when a shadow flickered at the corner of his vision did he remember Brianne. She had moved closer, sitting with knees drawn up to her chest, arms folded for warmth, eyes focused on the water’s restless mirror. She hadn’t said a word during his unraveling. She didn’t even look at him—just shared the moment, held it steady, like a bridge between two crumbling towers.
Kalon’s shame curdled into anger, not at her, but at the years that had taught him to equate feeling with failure. The world could break your bones, rip out your heart, but you were meant to stand up, dry-eyed and indifferent, or else be trampled by the next war machine. He’d lived by that rule for so long that he’d forgotten what it felt like to be witnessed, pitied, or cared for.
He inhaled slowly and shakily and then forced himself upright. Brianne was startled by this movement, but she masked it with a yawn.
“Sorry,” he said. His voice was raw, unfamiliar.
She shrugged. “Nothing to be sorry for.”
He risked a glance at her. The sunrise gave her face a warmth that her words never would. She met his eyes, held the contact a second longer than he expected.
“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.
She smiled, a real one—small and crooked, but real. “You did all the work.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. So he looked down, wiped his eyes with the edge of his sleeve, and tried to muster what his dignity should be,” he said.
Brianne nodded. “You could stay. If you want.”
The offer caught him off guard. He searched her face for mockery and found none. Just the same calm, almost amused patience she’d shown since their first words.
He weighed the options. Stay, risk more softness. Leave, preserve what remained of his armor.
Kalon stood, legs unsteady. He gathered the scattered coins into a pouch, tied it off, and set it on the dock between them.
“Buy breakfast,” he said. “You’ll need it.”
Brianne looked at the pouch, then at him. She didn’t argue.
He turned to go, but she called after him, voice even.
“You’re not what they say.”
Kalon paused, waited for the punchline.
“You’re better,” she finished, almost a whisper.
He swallowed, something like gratitude snagging in his chest. He started walking, not trusting himself to reply.
As he made his way up the water steps, he heard her open the pouch and the soft clinking of the coin. He imagined her eating well that day and maybe even sleeping a few hours without a knife under her pillow. The thought made the world feel fractionally less heavy.
By the time Kalon reached the upper tier, the city was already in motion—merchants haggling, runners shouting, the distant clang of a bell signaling the start of another day. The legend of the Warmonger would survive and probably grow with every retelling, but Kalon found he didn’t care as much. The night on the dock had left its mark, the raw edge of it still lingering like a fresh scar.
He was still a killer, a tool for whoever paid best, but maybe—just maybe—he could be more. He’d seen the proof of it in Brianne’s eyes, the easy way she’d offered kindness with no demand attached. A new kind of hunger gnawed at him differently than all the others.
In the morning light, for the first time in years, Kalon felt the barest flicker of hope, not for redemption. He was past that. But for something else—a chance to be more than what the world had made him.
Below, Brianne remained on the dock, the coin pouch in her lap, watching the city wake up with a soft smile. She’d done her part, even if neither would admit it.
Some things didn’t need to be said. Some silences held more weight than a thousand words.
And as the day unfolded, the memory of that quiet sunrise would anchor them both, separate but tethered, friends in the only way that mattered.
Chapter 11: Reconstruction
Notes:
Finally introducing more characters lol. Still haven't had a lot of time to work on this consistently, but I will keep trying.
Chapter Text
The throne room was dead black, up to its inverted-arch ceiling. By design, the obsidian walls swallowed even the best efforts of the torches, rendering Yharim’s silhouette the only fixed point in the void. He sat alone at the far end of the hall, hands resting atop the arms of the throne, fingers spread like claws just beginning to curl.
He liked the silence at this hour. Not because it soothed, but because it sharpened. Every sound—a distant scrape of iron on stone, the slow drip of condensation down the windows—cut through the emptiness and made it a weapon. His weapon.
Yharim’s mind replayed the sequence from a fortnight past, when the new arrival had been dragged before him. The girl, barely more than a shadow herself, gaunt and fever-eyed, had not pleaded and had not wept. Only stood, the dried blood in her hair a second crown.
She had slaughtered the men who murdered her family. That was the rumor, but rumors came pre-soiled in this palace. His report was cleaner: With nothing but a scream and a gesture, she had erased the lot of them. Nothing was left to bury, just a scorched depression in the ground where the main house had stood. The old banners had burned in the aftermath, their gold filigree reduced to a faint memory in the soot.
He remembered the moment the girl—he did not allow himself her old name; she would be Calamitas and nothing else—was hauled upright by the guards. He saw how she met his gaze: not with challenge, but with an absence so pure it was almost holy. Her hands trembled, but her spine did not bend. That was how Yharim measured worth. He remembered the look on Permafrost’s face and the way he appraised her not as a person but as an equation.
In another world, perhaps, he’d have found it in himself to pity the girl. But the court did not run on pity, and neither did he.
He had thought long on what set Calamitas apart from the last Warmonger. Kalon, though effective, had been hamstrung by the relics of empathy—by his need to believe in something, even if it was only his pain. Yharim had spent years beating it out of him, deploying him across every corner of the empire in hopes that the accumulation of atrocities would eventually do what the lash could not. It never fully worked. Kalon served, but never loved it.
Calamitas, though. She was born in fire, and the fire had left nothing to salvage. He was almost grateful to Permafrost for recognizing it and for offering to turn her rage into something useful.
“Do you miss him?” The question came from the dark, as if the obsidian itself had learned to speak. Yharim ignored it. The voice was his own, and he did not grant it the dignity of an answer.
Of Kalon, there were only rumors now.
The epic battle with the desert scourge, the intense showdown against Jensen, the fierce confrontation with the grand harpy, and the upheaval Kalon caused in Guillemot and its fighting pits—all painted in the same broad strokes: a man so thoroughly erased from the world he’d left only impact craters where his soul had once been. Yharim found the stories amusing, but he also believed them. You could never kill a legend; you only grind it down until it is useful or irrelevant.
He’d chosen to believe Kalon was dead. It made things simpler.
His focus returned to Calamitas, to whether Permafrost had succeeded. The first tests were promising. She was not merely destructive but surgical, as if her magic had learned to differentiate between flesh and intent. The archivists said that in her first assignment, she had dismembered a council of traitors, leaving their assistants and bystanders unscathed except for the permanent stain of the memory. Yharim appreciated the restraint. In his experience, the best tools were the ones that could choose to cut only when required.
He allowed himself a smile. It was ugly, just a flattening of the lips and a narrowing of the eyes. He did not enjoy pleasure, not in the ordinary sense. But he did enjoy the feeling of inevitability, the moment when the pieces all fell into place.
There was a lesson: Every weapon was a liability until it was honed correctly.
Yharim would not tolerate another mistake. Kalon had been an indulgence, an experiment to see whether brute force and rage could be made to serve his empire. But this girl—Calamitas—was something else entirely. She would burn the world if told, and never look back to see if the ashes spelled her name.
He glanced at the torch nearest the throne and watched how its light struggled against the obsidian, losing more ground with every flicker. He waited for the next arrival, already knowing it would be Permafrost, probably with Calamitas in tow. He wanted to see the work for himself, not just in reports or anecdotes.
He straightened and noted that the guards should bring better seating next time. Permafrost had the posture of a man born allergic to comfort. As for Calamitas, she would not require comfort at all.
Yharim ran a hand along the armrest, feeling for the divot he’d carved last year when the council tried to stage a vote in his absence. The mark was still there, sharp-edged and satisfying. Every imperfection in the throne room was a record of a past failure, and a reminder that nothing in the world lasted unless he willed it.
He looked forward to adding more.
They arrived precisely on time.
First, the sweep of Permafrost’s blue-white mantle, trailing mist like breath in winter. Then the figure beside him—a woman in fresh-forged finery, every detail of her robe radiating the new allegiance. She wore crimson, with accents of gold at collar and sleeve, and where the cloth touched her skin, the old scars had already begun to fade. Calamitas kept her gaze down, hands folded in front, the picture of compliance.
Yharim did not rise, but let the torchlight do its work. The gold filaments on her sleeves caught and reflected, drawing a bloodline from wrist to shoulder. He’d seen her before, but never so completely transformed. The last memory—a hollow-eyed child in a torn shift, blood matting her face—felt almost irrelevant next to this precision instrument.
“Approach,” Yharim said. His voice did not echo; the obsidian ate sound as greedily as light.
Permafrost led, stopping at the base of the dais. He gave a shallow bow. Calamitas mirrored it, but her eyes stayed locked to the marble veins of the floor.
“You are improved,” Yharim observed. “Do you agree?”
Calamitas hesitated, a full breath and a half, then nodded. Yharim did not permit himself a smile this time. He waited, giving her another chance to speak, but she did not.
He turned his attention to Permafrost, fixing him with a gaze the old mage surely recognized. “Was Calamitas always this silent?”
Permafrost looked like he might sweat, if that were physically possible. “She’s… adjusting, Majesty. To the new protocols.” He paused, then said, “Her performance will not suffer.”
Yharim, for a second, studied the two of them, weighing their dynamic. He wondered if Calamitas’s reticence was the byproduct of raw trauma or a clever adaptation to the palace’s rules. Either way, it didn’t matter, so long as she performed.
He leaned forward and laced his fingers. “Let us test that.”
He looked directly at Calamitas. “You know why you’re here.”
She didn’t flinch, but still said nothing.
“Correct,” Yharim said. “But that answer is incomplete.” He waited, letting the silence draw blood from the air. “You are to outdo every predecessor. There are none left but you, now. Is that clear?”
Calamitas had still not said a word.
He shifted his gaze to Permafrost. “Why does she not speak?”
Permafrost’s eyes flicked, pale as moonlight, and confused, fumbling his words to find a reason for her lack of speech.
That almost brought a smile to Yharim’s lips, but he kept it sheathed. Instead, he gestured to the guards in the shadows. “Leave us.”
Permafrost hesitated, but Calamitas did not. She turned on her heel and followed the command, steps measured and deliberate. Permafrost waited for Yharim’s nod, then trailed after, his mantle gliding over the stone.
Just before he passed the arch, Permafrost stopped and tried a joke out of habit or perhaps nerves. “She’s got cold feet,” he said, tone almost a whisper, “but I suppose that’s my influence.”
The silence that followed did not contain laughter.
Yharim said, “If she ever refuses to speak in my presence again, the consequences will be creative. Make that clear.”
“Understood, Majesty.” Permafrost dipped his head and vanished into the dark.
When the hall was empty again, Yharim let himself breathe. He watched the swirl of torchlight over the stone, the way Calamitas’s new shadow seemed to overlap with the ghost of the Warmonger’s old one. He’d thought himself incapable of sentiment, but perhaps there was room for loyalty to the process, if not the people.
He was pleased. More so than he’d admit.
He noted that he would reward Permafrost with new lab space or fresh test subjects. As for Calamitas, her time would come soon enough.
Yharim flexed his fingers once, felt the tiny healing scabs from yesterday’s council session, and reclined back into the throne. All that remained was to wait and to see whether the next crisis would require a hammer or a scalpel.
For now, he had both.
For nearly an hour, the throne room was unbroken, save for the quiet combustion of torches and the faint hum from the arcane shield woven into the ceiling. Yharim kept his eyes half-lidded, measuring the rhythm of silence, the ebb and pulse of power that vibrated through the palace.
His mind wandered, but not idly. Each new iteration of the court was a problem set: variables to weigh, constants to enforce, equations to rebalance whenever an unexpected solution arose. He considered Calamitas’s debut. The first impression was encouraging, but Yharim never bet on a weapon until it had been used at least once in live conditions.
Still, it was something. It was more than he had a month ago.
He closed his eyes and recalled the spectacle of Astrum Deus’s fall—a memory that played back not as a triumphant conquest but as a ledger entry marked in blue and silver. They’d needed three whole squadrons to drag the corpse into the pit; the Scourge had consumed most of it within the hour, barely slowing as it liquefied the starmetal and rewrote the rest into new musculature.
He allowed himself a rare smile, thinking of the faces of the Celestial clerks as their godling was fed, bite by bite, to the Scourge. There was a lesson there, and Yharim repeated it at every council: Even the stars can be harvested, if one is clever enough to invent the right scythe.
As if summoned by the thought, the room's temperature dropped a full degree. The air shimmered, then tore open in the space just before the throne. The Scourge spilled out, not so much stepping as erupting, its form oscillating between the serpent-thing he remembered and something leaner, faster, spined in glittering alloys of dead gods.
“Report,” Yharim said, no louder than usual, but the word was enough to halt the creature’s forward spiral.
The Scourge’s voice arrived as a layered vibration, like a choir processed through a grist mill. “Target: eradicated. Resistance: non-existent. Secondary objective: essence devoured.”
“Collateral?”
“Acceptable. No persistent phenomena. Area seeded for observation.”
Yharim nodded, slow and measured. “You took liberties with the display.”
The Scourge coiled, then stilled. “Threat matrix required escalation.”
Yharim’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t let it become a habit. You’re not here to prove your hunger.”
The room vibrated. “Noted.”
He rose, took three steps down the dais, and let himself stand nearly at eye level with the beast. He wondered if it understood the performance or only recognized dominance and reward.
“Your next assignment will require discretion,” Yharim said. “Report to Draedon for calibration. I want you upgraded before the next campaign.”
The Scourge recoiled slightly, then bowed. “Compliance.”
Yharim gestured toward the side hall, where the artifact engineers made their lair. “Go. Don’t return until the process is complete.”
With a flicker, the Scourge vanished, the brief stench of ozone the only evidence it had ever existed.
Alone again, Yharim flexed his hands and imagined the palace as a sphere of pressure: every action and inaction radiating to either crack or reinforce his rule. He liked the feeling. He could almost hear the bones of the world shifting beneath his heel.
He made a note—mental, but permanent—to commission Draedon to craft a new armor set for the Scourge—something befitting a weapon that could consume stars and not be sated.
As he climbed back to the throne, Yharim realized he was more alive than he’d been in years. The death of gods, the reshaping of power, the promise of new weapons—these were the things that made him real.
He allowed himself another moment of darkness and then waited for the next day to bring new problems.
He always preferred the problems he made for himself.
Chapter 12: Shell of War
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Three days after his legendary turn in the fighting pits, Kalon is shocked to discover the city of Guillemot is not, in fact, orbiting around his legend. The morning sky spits a lazy, uncommitted drizzle, and the canals drag the week's trash out to sea. No soul offers him a double-take or a half-hearted salute on the upper tiers. Even the pigeons refuse to acknowledge him, content to pick at the remains of last night's street festival.
He should be grateful. For most of his life, anonymity was more precious than sleep. But after the grandstanding, the rivers of blood, and the fever-dream of applause, the sudden cold shoulder is almost insulting. He expected to be hunted. Instead, he is ignored.
The only thing that hasn't abandoned him is the dull, grinding hunger in his stomach, and the increasingly embarrassing problem of his broken sword.
In the brief window between victory and hangover, he had promised himself to visit Guillemot's best blacksmith. He'd even rehearsed a speech—something stoic but laced with a hint of threat, enough to earn a fair price on the rebuild of Zenith. The plan was simple. Unfortunately, like every other plan he'd made since setting foot in Guillemot, it had found new and innovative ways to collapse.
First, he'd discovered that blacksmiths in Guillemot did not advertise, out of fear that someone would blow up their shop for a rival faction. They worked by word of mouth, in whispered directions, and slipped notes under a table. Second, his hands were empty of coin. He'd spent the last of his winnings on a roasted bird the size of a rat, and the rest—gods, he winces at the memory—the rest had gone to Brianne, the silent girl with a smile like a knife wound.
He'd tossed her the pouch on a whim, a gesture he now classified as either a rare spasm of generosity or, more likely, terminal idiocy.
Kalon grimaces, running a thumb over the raw seam at the base of his ruined blade's hilt. He'd kept the hilt tucked inside his battered cloak, not trusting any pawnshop or fence to know what it truly was. The blacksmith would see if he could find him.
He stands in the middle of a deserted street, head tilted like a man listening for the last echo of a joke at his expense. This is not the street from last night, or even the tier; he's gotten himself turned around twice in the maze of Guillemot's lower levels. He has retraced his steps, sniffed every alley for a trace of forge smoke, and still come up empty. He wonders, not for the first time, whether the city is hiding the blacksmith from him out of obscure spite.
He leans against a wall that is equal parts moss and crumbling brick and surveys the narrow road ahead. Maybe if he waits, the world will send someone to laugh in his face and point him in the right direction. It's happened before.
Above him, the second story of the building shudders as someone hurls a chamber pot out the window. The contents land with a splash a few feet from his boot. He doesn't flinch. He's had worse.
He rechecks his coin pouch. Still empty. He checks the inside of his coat for any overlooked treasures. Nothing but lint, a broken toothpick, and a pebble that, for some reason, he cannot bring himself to throw away.
He turns the hilt of Zenith in his hand, feeling the residual warmth from the last battle, and tries to imagine what he'll say to the blacksmith when he finally finds the place.
"I'm broke," he says to himself, voice deadpan. "But my soul is rich in tragic backstory. Maybe I can trade you some trauma for a sword?"
He snorts at that, the noise echoing off the empty walls. He's truly lost it.
He refuses to think about the other night. Brianne's company, her flask, her patient silence. The shame he'd felt at being seen, really seen, by a stranger. The moment he broke, he let the mask fall just a little. No—thinking about it now would only curdle his guts. He'd prefer to face the blacksmith than the raw memory of that sunrise.
Still, he can't help but wonder if she's already spent the coin. He hopes so. No one in Guillemot should die with debts uncollected.
A shadow falls across the road. Kalon tenses, but it's only a ragged cat, limping with one leg and trailing a piece of twine. It sits, scratches itself, and regards him with the disinterest of one who has seen every kind of failure.
"Yeah, me too," he says, and pushes off from the wall.
He decides: He'll walk every street on this tier until he finds the blacksmith or dies of starvation. If he has to beg, he'll beg. So be it if he has to break a window and threaten the smith. He's done worse for less.
As he sets off down the alley, Zenith's hilt tucked under his coat, Kalon tries not to think he might be an idiot.
But as he rounds the corner and the smell of coal smoke finally hits his nose, he wonders if the world is giving him a second chance. Or at the very least, a new way to embarrass himself.
He quickens his pace, ready to barter, beg, or bleed—whatever it takes.
The city doesn't care about his legend, and he likes it that way. All he wants now is to be remembered by the blacksmith who'll rebuild his sword.
Let the rest of Guillemot forget him.
The stench of the lower tiers was an organism unto itself—part sewer gas, part brined fish, part the indefinable signature of Guillemot's slow decay. It was, ironically, the only thing guiding Kalon in the general direction of the blacksmith. Landmarks did nothing for him; every alley was a repetition, every sign a scribble or a crude drawing of something that had never existed. He'd doubled back twice in the last hour and, he was nearly certain, walked past the same dead dog three times.
He keeps his head down, eyes peeled for the faintest hint of smoke or the ring of hammer on anvil. His hand keeps straying to the hilt beneath his coat, out of habit or maybe because it's the only remaining object in his life with a heartbeat.
He doesn't hear Brianne until she's right behind him. Her steps are so light, they might as well be a continuation of the wind. She slides up beside him and, with perfect deadpan, says, "You walk like someone trying to lose a tail and a bet at the same time."
Kalon's body reacts before his brain does. In an instant, he whirls, drawing the hilt with a flick, and brings it up in a backhand arc meant to catch a throat. Brianne is ready—she drops, pivots, and is already half a step behind him by the time the blade would have landed.
Then she stands, puts her hands up in mock surrender, and lets out a peal of laughter so bright it temporarily stuns the gloom around them.
"Oh gods, Kalon, it's not even sharp," she says, nearly wheezing.
He stands there, blinking, the hilt still clutched in his fist. His ears burn red, an involuntary flush that spreads down his neck. He is, for the first time in years, actually embarrassed.
Brianne grins, eyes dancing. "You can put that away. I promise not to assassinate you before noon."
He does, awkwardly, jamming the hilt back inside his coat. "Don't sneak up on me," he mutters, staring at the ground.
She shrugs. "It's a talent. Sorry for almost making you kill me."
He huffs a laugh. "I would have missed."
They stand in silence, the moment stretched taut as a tripwire. The awkwardness is almost palpable. He should apologize, he thinks, but the words feel like foreign currency.
She fills the void instead. "Lost?"
"Yes," he says, too quickly, and it comes out like a confession. "I can't find the blacksmith."
She tilts her head, mock-thoughtful. "You passed it twice. It's got a blue door and smells like burnt cabbage."
He looks at her, suspicion tempered with gratitude. "You know the city?"
Brianne offers a little bow. "Better than I know myself."
He tries not to smile. "Will you show me?"
"Of course. But you owe me another apology if you try to decapitate me again."
She leads the way, weaving through the alleys with the certainty of someone who has made every wrong turn. Kalon follows, hands jammed into his pockets, brain replaying the last thirty seconds on a loop. He wonders if she's really forgiven him or just stockpiling the incident for future mockery.
After a few blocks, the street widens into a courtyard ringed with shuttered shops and leaning apartments. Brianne walks straight up to a battered door that might be held together by force of habit alone.
"This is it," she says, rapping her knuckles twice. "Wayland's forge. You can tell by the smell."
He inhales. She's right—beneath the usual stew of city odors is a sharp, acrid tang that prickles the back of his throat. It's not pleasant, but it's real.
He nods, then glances at her, unsure how to thank her without sounding like an idiot.
She beats him to it. "You look like you want to say something."
"I'm sorry," he says, then immediately winces at the repetition.
She grins. "Accepted. Again."
He stares at the door. "Why are you helping me?"
Brianne leans against the wall, folding her arms. "Because you gave me half your winnings. Because you didn't turn me away on the dock. Because you're not nearly as cold as you pretend to be."
He flinches. "You don't know me."
She shrugs, a small, almost sad gesture. "I know enough."
He lets the silence bloom, searching for something to fill it. "Where did you learn to move like that?"
She quirks a brow. "Professional curiosity?"
He nods. "Something like that."
She looks up at the sky, as if weighing whether to answer. "I was born in Tianxia and smuggled to Eldoria when I was seven. Spent ten years as a thief, five more as a knife for hire, and the rest as whatever the city needed. Guillemot raised me. Now I raise hell for it."
He's impressed despite himself. "Most people would brag about surviving that."
She smiles, not proud but resigned. "Most people didn't survive."
He studies her face, the subtle angles, and the cold clarity in her eyes. She looks like someone forced to say goodbye too many times.
"I'm sorry," he says again, but it's not for the near-decapitation this time.
Brianne shakes her head. "Don't be. The world is what it is."
He looks at her, really looks, and realizes that for all her bravado, she is as tired of loss as he is.
She pushes off from the wall and dusts her hands. "If you ever need a guide, I work cheap. Unless you're planning to stab me again."
He almost smiles. "No promises."
She smirks. "You're getting better at jokes."
He shakes his head, then gestures at the door. "Do you want to—"
"No," she interrupts. "This is your story, Kalon. I just helped turn the page."
He nods and feels the urge to reach out for the first time in a long time. Instead, he just offers a stiff wave.
"Brianne?"
She turns, expectant.
"What's your full name?"
She snorts. "It's long. Are you sure you want it?"
He nods.
"Brianne Bernadine Alice Stoudemire. My enemies call me Bibi. You can pick."
He commits it to memory, just in case.
"Thank you, Bibi."
She smiles, then melts into the shadows with a grace he knows he will never match.
He stands in the courtyard a moment longer, breathing in the chemical sting of the blacksmith's forge, then squares his shoulders and steps inside.
He's ready to make a deal.
Inside, the blacksmith's shop is a museum of bad decisions and leftover violence. The air is thick with the smell of scorched metal and something unidentifiable but probably not legal. The benches are littered with broken swords, cracked mail, and an imposing mound of bottles, each testifying to a night of bold ideas and regrets.
Kalon steps over a heap of chainmail and finds the blacksmith sprawled face-down behind the central worktable, snoring in a reserved register for livestock. The man is built like a cask—round and heavyset, with arms the size of hams and a beard that has gone through at least two existential crises.
Kalon scans the shop for water, finds a barrel near the hearth, and discovers it's nearly boiling from proximity. He shrugs, dips a battered mug, and dumps it straight onto the blacksmith's head.
The result is immediate. The man rockets upright, arms flailing, eyes wild with animal panic.
"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL—" He blinks, takes in the scene, and glares at Kalon as if considering murder, then realizes he is only wearing a filthy undershirt and one boot.
"Were you trying to kill me, son?" the blacksmith shouts, shaking the water from his beard.
"If I wanted you dead," Kalon says, "you'd be dead."
The blacksmith squints, then lets out a hacking laugh. "You've got some stones, I'll give you that." He plants both feet and staggers upright, swiping a rag across his face. "What do you want?"
Kalon pulls the hilt from inside his coat and holds it out. The moment it catches the light, the blacksmith's attitude changes. He leans forward, pupils narrowing. "Well, I'll be damned."
Kalon waits.
"Where'd you get that?" the blacksmith asks, voice lower now, tinged with something like awe.
"Gift from a dead friend," Kalon says.
The man grunts. "Funny, it looks like the blade that was supposed to kill the king a few years back. But that can't be, because the man who held it is supposed to be ashes." He walks around Kalon, circling him, examining the hilt and the man together like two halves of a puzzle.
Kalon doesn't react.
After a moment, the blacksmith shrugs. "Name's Wayland. You're a hard man to misplace in this city."
Kalon sets the hilt on the anvil, letting it ring out. "Can you fix it?"
Wayland runs a thumb along the fractured edge. "This thing's older than Guillemot. The metal is… I don't even have a word for it. Never seen work like this, and I've rebuilt half the royal arsenal. What did you do, sit on it?"
"Long story."
Wayland grunts, then goes to a shelf and retrieves a massive jeweler's loupe, jamming it against his eye. He inspects the hilt, turning it slowly, and occasionally mutters to himself. "Fucking incredible," he says, as if to the room. "There's not a crack in the matrix. It's like it wants to be whole again."
Kalon feels something tighten in his chest, a mix of hope and dread.
Wayland looks up. "You know this is going to cost you?"
"How much?"
He holds up four fingers. "Forty gold. Not the cheap stuff either. And it'll take a month, minimum."
Kalon doesn't have forty copper, let alone gold. He keeps his face blank. "Fine."
Wayland studies him for a beat, then bursts out laughing. "You are full of shit! You don't have two coins to rub together, do you?"
Kalon shrugs. "Does it matter?"
Wayland is still chuckling. "No, not really. I just like seeing who's desperate enough to ask."
He picks up the hilt, feels its weight, and his tone softens a hair. "I'll do it. Not because you can pay, but because I want to see if it can be done. But if you ever get the coin, I want it."
"Deal."
Wayland places the hilt on the anvil like an offering to an angry god. He reaches for a small brush and gently sweeps the dust away, almost reverent. "I'll need some time to source the core. You got anywhere to be?"
"Not really," Kalon says. "But I might have to sign up for a few fights to cover the tab."
Wayland's mouth twists into a sly grin. "Good. The city could use the entertainment. Haven't seen a real swordsman in years."
Kalon nods, then turns to leave. Before he gets to the door, Wayland calls after him. "Hey. I'm keeping the sword if you die before I finish this."
Kalon almost laughs. "Fair."
He steps out into the street, the stink of burnt cabbage now tinged with a faint, impossible hope.
It's a start.
Navigating Guillemot at peak hour is like trying to swim upstream through a river of elbows, curses, and the occasional flying chamber pot. Every avenue chokes with hawkers, drunkards, and children darting between legs like weaponized rats. The upper tiers are no better, packed tight with gamblers and brawlers pre-gaming for the night's entertainment.
Kalon shoulders through the worst of it, grateful for his bulk and reputation. Anyone who recognizes him from the pits gives way, or at least pretends not to notice his presence. He has to dodge two attempted pickpockets and a wandering nun who, for reasons unclear, hurls a bouquet of holy herbs at his chest and calls him "demon-blooded." He ignores her. The rumors aren't all wrong.
It takes him the better part of an hour to reach the fighting pits. The closer he gets, the more the city's energy ramps up—streets are slick with spilled beer, every window flickers with lantern light, and the roar from the main amphitheater swells until it's a physical pressure in the air.
The ticket booth is staffed by the same skeleton in a vest and bowtie, the man's grin so wide it threatens to split his skull in half.
"KALON!" he shrieks, throwing both arms skyward in a mockery of a greeting. "Back for round two?"
Kalon just nods.
The skeleton—he insists on being called "the Organizer," never a real name—leans across the counter, hands steepled. "Tonight's card is stacked, my friend. The crowds are already baying for your blood. Well, not literally your blood, but you know what I mean." He cackles.
Kalon says nothing.
The Organizer slides a roster sheet across the counter, complete with his name already at the top. "You want in? You're in. Hell, I'll sign you for every slot if you want." He pauses, then scribbles a crooked smiley face beside Kalon's entry. "Just a little personal touch."
Kalon grunts. "How much for a win?"
The Organizer bares his teeth. "You're learning the trade! Twenty gold for a standard match, but the purse could triple if you pull off another legend. The nobles are betting their children's futures on you."
Kalon considers this. "And if I lose?"
The Organizer shrugs. "You won't. But if you do, you die. Or wish you had." Another cackle.
He hands Kalon a token, a chunk of bone carved with the pit's sigil. "Show this to the guards. They'll take you straight to the waiting room."
Kalon pockets the token and turns to go, but the Organizer calls after him. "Hey, Kalon?"
He glances back.
"Do us a favor and don't die too soon. You're bad for business but great for the house."
Kalon allows himself a half-smile. "Noted."
The guards at the entrance don't even check the token. They just nod, open the gate, and usher him into the underbelly of the amphitheater. The noise fades, replaced by a steady hum—like a distant swarm of bees, or the premonition of violence.
The waiting room is identical to the last time: stone benches, a washbasin that hasn't seen soap in years, and the faint, comforting reek of blood and sweat. Kalon sits, rolls his shoulders, and tries to focus on the task ahead.
He is, for the moment, the most dangerous man in Guillemot.
The thought doesn't comfort him but makes the hunger in his gut a little more bearable.
He closes his eyes and waits for the first bell.
The waiting room is exactly as Kalon remembers it—windowless, clammy, and painted in the overlapping scents of dried blood, oil, and the acrid topnote of nervous sweat. Only this time, he's alone. No thugs to size up, no caged animals to glance at with pity. The white noise of the crowd outside barely seeps through the stone walls, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts and the occasional drip from a cracked ceiling pipe.
He hates the quiet more than he hates the screaming.
He sits on the cold bench, letting the silence settle. He tries not to think for a long time, but his mind is a mutiny of regret and foregone conclusions. He has convinced himself that the second tour through the pits is just a way to pay for the sword. But if he's honest, there's a darker reason: the violence numbs him. Every swing, every broken bone, drowns out the memories he wishes he could surgically remove. For the length of a fight, there is nothing but the present.
He wonders if this is what passes for healing.
Mostly, he wishes Brianne hadn't seen him like this. He's supposed to be a legend—untouchable, above it all. But what is he now? A sideshow, a house champion, trotted out for the city's amusement. He can't tell if this is better or worse than being forgotten.
The steel door creaks open—a sliver of torchlight lances in, along with the voice of a guard.
"Hey, killer! You up!"
Kalon says nothing.
The guard leans in, peering through the gloom. "You deaf, or just stupid?" He snickers at his wit. "You got two minutes. Then it's showtime."
He slams the door and leaves. Kalon waits and counts the seconds. He tries to recall the last time he fought for something other than coin or survival and draws a blank.
It's out—the truth. No more masks, no more running. The city knows who he is, what he's done.
He wonders if this will make the killing easier or harder.
A horn sounds, muffled but unmistakable. The match is about to begin.
Kalon squares his shoulders, rolls his neck, and heads for the light.
He'll deal with the consequences later.
The amphitheater is a mouth of noise, the crowd packed shoulder to shoulder on risers and balconies that ring the pit like the teeth of a predator. They don't cheer—they howl, a unified, animal sound that vibrates through the stone and rattles Kalon's bones. The Organizer stands center ring, arms upraised, face split by that impossible grin.
"TONIGHT!" he bellows, voice amplified by a runic collar at his throat. "TONIGHT, THE CITY OF GUILLEMOT BEARS WITNESS TO A BLOODSPORT FIRST!"
The crowd roars back, feet stomping the stands in a rhythm that could level walls.
"In this pit," the Organizer says, "there is only one law: SURVIVE. Only one name: WARMONGER!"
The word hits Kalon like a physical blow. He keeps his gaze low and lets the chant wash over him. The shame is acid in his gut, but he can't deny the adrenaline that comes with it. He flexes his hands, fingers itching for a sword that isn't there.
"Tonight," the Organizer shouts, "all bets are off. All fights are forfeited. For there is only ONE MATCH, and it is the match of a LIFETIME!"
The audience goes mad, beer and bodies flying in every direction.
Kalon lets the sound fade, scanning the arena for any hint of his opponent. All he sees is a crew of workers, masked and hunched, rolling out a covered platform to the center of the pit.
The Organizer paces in front of it, drawing out the suspense.
"You've seen him fell the Decree. But tonight, he faces something even hardened warriors could not kill—"
He rips the sheet away.
Beneath it, bolted to a cart, is a skull the size of a wagon. It's forged of steel and bone, eyesockets studded with lenses, jaw lined with serrated fangs. Four armored arms are stacked beside it, each one ending in a different instrument of murder: a spinning saw, a triple-barreled gun, a cluster of spikes, and a clamp the size of a grown man's chest.
The crowd's chant changes to a single, pulsing word: "SKULL! SKULL! SKULL!"
Kalon stares. He's seen constructs before—Draedon's war machines, the emperor's automata—but it looked shoddy. The thing radiates violence. It's not just a machine; it's an executioner.
The workers bolt the arms onto the skull's joint plates, lock each in place with a sickening crunch. The Organizer backs away, hands up.
"And now," he says, trembling with excitement, "let the legend be written in blood!"
He gestures at the platform. Somewhere in the depths, a spark jumps, and the skull's eyes blaze crimson. The jaw creaks open, emitting a sound that's half scream, half engine rev.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you SKELETRON PRIME!"
The crowd loses its mind.
Kalon steps forward, sizing up the arena. No cover, no weapons, just open ground and the thing in the center. He cracks his neck, feeling the heat rise in his blood.
He hears a high and clear voice above the crowd: "Don't die, Warmonger!"
He looks up and spots Brianne in the front row, her face pale but defiant. She holds his gaze, nods once.
The skull's first move is a blur. The saw-arm whips out, cleaving the air where Kalon's head had been an instant before. He rolls, comes up on one knee, and watches the triple-barrel gun rotate to track him.
He thinks: I am fucked.
The skull fires, three shots in rapid succession. The rounds gouge the sand, throwing up clouds of grit. Kalon dives left, feeling the first shot's air pressure graze his shoulder. He lands hard, rolls again, and comes up behind the platform.
The crowd howls for blood.
The spikes-arm snaps out, raining a fistful of steel darts at his feet. Kalon launches himself over the back of the platform, using the momentum to close the distance to the skull. He grabs the edge of the lower jaw and pulls himself up.
The skull shakes, trying to dislodge him. Kalon holds on, driving his heel into one of the fastenings that secures the jaw to the base. The metal dents, but not enough to matter.
The saw whirs to life again. Kalon ducks, lets it pass over his head, then shoves hard against the jaw to swing himself onto the skull's crown.
He stands atop the monster for a moment, looking down at the chaos below. The audience loves this. They scream his name and chant for the kill.
Kalon thinks of Brianne, the blacksmith, and the sword waiting to be rebuilt. He thinks of the past he can't outrun. He makes a decision.
He grabs one of the skull's lenses and rips it loose. The skull bucks, howling. He uses the broken lens as a shiv, jamming it into the seam where the saw-arm meets the head.
There's a burst of sparks. The saw wobbles, then spins out of control, slicing into one of the other arms.
Kalon leaps clear as the whole contraption lurches, tearing itself apart. The skull rolls, crushes a corner of the platform, and rests with two arms hanging limp.
The crowd loses its minds.
Kalon lands in the dirt, and the wind knocks him out. He waits for the other shoe to drop.
It does.
The skull's jaw opens wider than before, and a gout of blue fire erupts deep within. Kalon dives, but the heat singes his back, burning through his shirt and searing the flesh beneath. He stumbles, then drops to one knee, gasping.
He can smell his flesh burning. He grits his teeth and waits for the pain to pass.
The skull rears back, jaw creaking, ready for another blast.
Kalon runs. He zigzags across the pit, using every bit of his speed, trying to close the distance while the thing lines up its next attack.
The jaw opens. Kalon feints left, right, and dives straight at the skull's face. He lands on the lower jaw, grabs the edge, and swings himself into the maw.
The crowd gasps.
He braces himself against the roof of the mouth, grabs a handful of wiring, and yanks. The jaw snaps shut, nearly taking his hands with it.
For a moment, everything is darkness and heat.
Then the skull shudders, goes limp.
Silence.
Then, a single, hesitant cheer. Then another. Then the amphitheater explodes with applause.
Kalon crawls out of the skull's mouth, covered in grease and blood, and stands in the center of the ring.
The Organizer steps forward, hands raised. "YOUR CHAMPION!"
The crowd goes berserk.
Kalon glances up at the stands. Brianne is still there, watching. She nods, lips pressed into a thin line.
Kalon bows his head, then turns and walks out of the pit, the legend of the Warmonger now inescapable.
He wonders if it will ever be enough.
Before the Organizer can even bask in the aftermath, the machine twitches and spasms and then—against every law of mechanics and good sense—powers back on. Now scorched and leaking fluid, the four arms snap back into formation. The skull lifts off its haunches, jets firing in a howling spray of blue flame. It hovers a full five feet off the ground, eyes blazing.
"Hold!" the Organizer tries, waving his hands. "It's over! You're done—"
The machine doesn't recognize the rules of theater. It only knows the calculus of death.
Skeletron Prime spins, lining up a shot with the triple-barrel gun. Kalon barely has time to dive before a trio of steel-jacketed rounds rip through the air, carving divots into the wall behind him.
The crowd screams, unsure if this is still part of the act or things have gone off-script.
Above the pit, in a gilded box draped with purple and gold, King Julius Crandall III stands, flanked by his retinue. His face is flushed, his glass raised, and he relishes every second.
The Organizer, never one to waste a crowd and attempting to save face, snatches up the runic collar and shouts, "Our champion's foe is none other than SKELETRON PRIME, crafted by a master engineer of Draedon and donated to our beloved city by HIS MAJESTY, JULIUS CRANDALL THE THIRD!"
The King raises his glass higher, beaming. "SHOW US THE OLD WAR!"
The crowd picks up a new chant: "CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH!"
Kalon runs, circling the pit with the machine hot on his heels. Skeletron Prime fires a rocket from its right arm, the warhead whistling a heartbeat before impact. Sand and shrapnel erupt where Kalon stood, flaying the legs of a nearby guard who gets too close to the edge.
Brianne is in the front row, eyes wide, one hand clamped over her mouth. She watches as Kalon tries to close the distance, searching for a weak point, but every time he gets near, the skull launches skyward, hovering out of reach.
Skeletron's saw-arm revs, then swings down with terrifying precision. Kalon dodges, but the saw still grazes his shoulder, shredding flesh and sending a spray of blood into the sand. The pain is white-hot, but he bites it back, ducking and rolling under the next attack.
The laser cannon charges, a whine building to a crescendo. Kalon runs, zig-zags, then drops flat as the beam slices through the air. It passes inches above him, melting a stone line from one end of the arena to another.
He's losing. He knows it. The crowd knows it.
From the king's box, Crandall leans forward, grinning. "Is that all you've got, Warmonger? We heard you were the best in the business!"
The word pierces Kalon's focus, just for a second. He risks a glance at the stands, and that's when Skeletron nails him with a backhand from the spike-arm. The impact lifts him off his feet and crashes him into the wall.
He tastes iron and sand. Every bone in his body screams.
The skull advances, floating closer, saw-arm spinning up for the kill.
Kalon tries to stand, but his left leg buckles. The laser cannon charges again.
Brianne screams, voice lost in the din.
Kalon thinks: Not like this.
He drags himself upright, every movement pure agony, and faces the machine. He knows he can't win. But he can buy a little more time.
He watches the sequence of lights in the skull's eyes and tries to predict the timing. As the saw whips toward him, he dives—not away, but forward. He jams his fist into the broken lens he'd torn loose earlier, then shoves with everything he has.
The lens shatters, shards cutting deep into his hand. But the skull lurches, the saw missing him by inches.
The laser cannon fires, point-blank.
Kalon takes the hit in the chest.
The world goes white.
He hears nothing at first—just a deep, ringing silence.
Then, the crowd was stunned to silence—the machine, twitching but inert.
He's on his back, staring at the sky. His shirt is gone, his chest a ruin of scorched flesh. He's alive, but only technically.
A shadow falls across him. Skeletron Prime's head looms above, eyes dead but mouth open in a metal grin.
Kalon coughs and tries to move, but nothing obeys.
A new voice cuts through the air. "Finish it!" Crandall shouts from the box. "I paid for a spectacle!"
Skeletron's jaw ratchets open, and a spike shoots out, aiming straight for Kalon's heart.
He can't move. Can't think. There's no time.
The last thing he sees is the sky, streaked with fire.
For a full five seconds, the city holds its breath.
The pit is a tomb. Not even the Organizer dares break the silence. The crowd, hungry for blood, is now drunk on the idea that they might have watched a legend die.
Brianne sees it before anyone else. Skeletron Prime, battered but intact, shifts its focus away from Kalon's motionless body and toward the stands. The targeting lenses sweep, calibrate, and settle on her.
She doesn't move. She can't. The whole world is slow, thick as resin.
The skull lifts off, blue fire pouring from its jets. The vice-grip arm ratchets back, aiming straight for the box where Brianne stands. It fires.
The arm extends, shattering the wooden rail, sending splinters and nobles tumbling. It moves with perfect, predatory intent.
Brianne's mind finally unfreezes. She tries to leap back, but bodies box her in. The arm is a blur of steel and hatred.
It stops, inches from her chest.
Kalon stands in the pit, arms outstretched, the vice-grip caught in both hands. Blood pours from his mouth, but his eyes are alive, blazing with a light that is not natural, not human.
A voice booms—not from the pit, not from the stands, but from somewhere deep and ancient.
"GET. AWAY. FROM. HER."
He pulls.
The arm shrieks as the metal warps and bends. Hydraulics rupture, and the fluid sprays the sand. Kalon tears the limb free with a wet, catastrophic sound.
Skeletron Prime reels back, firing every weapon it has in blind panic. Rockets explode on the walls. The laser cannon burns a hole through the sky. Kalon ignores it, takes three lurching steps, and leaps—impossibly high, impossibly fast—onto the skull's crown.
He slams the vice-grip like a hammer, again and again, into the skull's plating. Every blow cracks the armor, sending lightning arcs of energy through the machine's frame.
The crowd is no longer silent; they are screaming, running for the exits, a mass of panic and awe. Even the king is on his feet, face white, shouting for his guards.
Skeletron Prime tries to shake Kalon off, but he holds fast, driving the broken limb deeper into the skull's guts. Sparks and fire pour from the seams. The skull opens its jaw, trying for one last attack—
Kalon wedges the vice-grip into the hinge, then wrenches it sideways. The jaw tears off. He jams his fist into the maw and pulls.
The skull splits, right down the middle.
The machine collapses, a storm of shrapnel and steam.
Kalon stands atop the wreckage, barely alive, blood painting every inch of his skin. His eyes are wild, untethered.
He looks up at the stands.
Only Brianne remains, her face a shock of terror and something else—recognition.
Kalon staggers forward, drops to one knee, and slams his fist into the sand.
The earth cracks. A ripple tears through the pit, splitting stone and steel alike.
The rest of the amphitheater empties in seconds, leaving only him, Brianne, and the corpse of a godless machine.
He breathes once, twice, and then collapses.
After the fire, after the screaming, there is nothing but the hiss of molten metal cooling in the cratered sand. Only a heap of slag and scorched bone remains where the skull once squatted. The air ripples above the destruction, smeared with the stench of carbonized flesh and burning oil.
Brianne is still in the stands. She cannot make her legs move, not yet, not after what she saw. The best assassins pride themselves on emotional control, steady hands, and nerves. But she is shaking, her fingers locked in white-knuckled disbelief as she stares at the thing moving in the pit.
It is not a man. Not exactly. The inferno backlights Kalon's silhouette, every movement magnified by the chaos he unleashes. His steps are uneven, each one an argument between willpower and a body that wants nothing more than to collapse.
He doesn't look up at the stands. He doesn't even register the rest of the world. He just staggers forward, away from what he's done.
Brianne wants to call his name and shout something, anything. But her voice is gone, burned away in the same blast that silenced the entire city.
She watches as he limps through the carnage, every inch of his body caked in blood and soot, a living statue chipped from disaster. And for the first time, she feels fear—not for herself, but for him.
Because she sees it in his posture, the way his shoulders hunch: he is not proud, not even triumphant. He is disgusted by his own power.
The word from the crowd spreads faster than the fire: Warmonger. It's not a rumor anymore. It's gospel.
Brianne finally finds her legs and runs to intercept him at the arena's edge. She slips on the melted sand, catches herself, and nearly bowls him over with the force of her relief.
She tries to steady his arm, but he recoils as if her touch is acid. "Don't," he rasps, voice barely more than a thread.
She wants to argue and tell him it's okay, but the words die in her mouth.
He shakes free, eyes wild. "It's never okay," he spits, then turns and stumbles through the ruined gates, out into the charred streets of Guillemot.
Brianne watches him go, a dark shape shrinking against the night. She looks down at her palms, half-expecting to see them burned by whatever force he carries.
He runs. As much as a battered body can run, anyway. The alleys are empty, the city's screams echoing in his skull. He makes it two blocks before he finally collapses, propping himself against a cold stone wall.
For a while, he does nothing but breathe. In. Out. Each breath a little easier, a little more human.
He hates it. He hates how easy it is to lose control. He hates that the thing inside him is stronger than anything outside. Most of all, he hates that for a moment—just a moment—he loved it.
He waits for the shame to pass, but it doesn't.
He sits there until the sky bleeds from black to violet, then forces himself to stand.
He is alone. But in the distance, he hears footsteps—light, measured, familiar.
He doesn't want her to see him like this. But she's the only one who ever has.
He turns to face the sound, bracing for the worst.
Brianne is there, at the end of the alley, still in her blood-stained coat. She doesn't speak. Just looks at him like a person looks at a wounded animal—equal parts fear and compassion.
He expects her to run. Instead, she walks toward him.
She stops a few feet away, silent.
He tries to say something, but his throat rebels. Instead, he just nods once.
She nods back.
They stand like that, in the dawn-chilled silence, two survivors who know precisely what the other is running from.
Later, when the city wakes and rumors begin to ferment, they will move together through the streets: a legend and his last witness, neither willing to let go.
But for now, there is only the hush, the ache, and the hope that he can choose to be something other than a weapon.
But even as he thinks it, he knows: some things are harder to kill than gods.
Notes:
Though I haven’t offered much, if any readers have questions about anything, you are all free to ask.
Chapter 13: What Comes After
Chapter Text
The city is still burning, hours after the spectacle.
Kalon’s last memory of the fighting pits is not of victory or survival, but of the stink—sulfur and roasted flesh, the atomized fragments of bone drifting down like black snow as the crowd stampeded out. He had made it up the steps and into the alley before the first torchbearers arrived, their shouts blending with the animal shrieks from what used to be the king’s box. The city that had once ignored him now screamed his name as a threat and a warning.
He does not go back for Brianne. He cannot. The idea of her seeing what he has become—what he always was—roots him in place, choking off every urge except the need to run.
He runs.
Every street in Guillemot seems changed by what happened in the pit. Windows slam shut at the sound of his boots. Drunks and hawkers vanish from doorways, shadows flicker and converge at the edge of his vision. Even the rats avoid him. By the time he hits the lower tier, the only thing left behind is his blood, marking a red trail through the dust and splinters.
He pushes on, through the docklands where even the water refuses to reflect him. Past the canal district, up the switchback road, through the gate where the guards have already abandoned their posts. The city’s perimeter is a ring of half-collapsed stone and scorched banners, the aftermath of last night’s violence plain in the toppled statues and the zigzag of fresh barricades. Kalon doesn’t hesitate. He climbs the first crumbling parapet and slips out into the wilds before anyone can even think to follow.
He doesn’t slow until the city is gone behind the rise, the glow of fire lost to the fog. Then he staggers. He makes it twenty paces into the thick, dew-heavy grass before his legs fold and he drops, face-first, onto the cold ground.
He lies there, breathing ragged, waiting for the pain to subside. It doesn’t. He doesn’t bother looking at the wounds; the blood in his mouth tells him everything he needs to know. If he were mortal, he’d be dead. But whatever he is now won’t let him rest that easily.
He presses his cheek into the mud, letting the earth leech the heat from his skin. The world is silent, except for the pop of distant embers and his breath's wet, suckling sound.
He stares at nothing and lets his mind open wide.
The memories come in a rush. The skull, the fire, the moment the power took him and would not let go. The feeling of tearing that metal monster apart with his bare hands, like splitting the sky itself. The look on Brianne’s face—pure fear, mingled with something worse: recognition.
He wishes he could hate her for seeing what he is and not turning away from trying to help when all he wants is to be left to rot in peace.
But the truth is, he’s grateful. Even now, with his life measured in inches of spilled blood and the taste of iron on his tongue, the idea that someone might care is enough to keep him alive.
He digs his fingers into the dirt, trying to ground himself and remember what it was like before—before the emperor, before the pit, before he became a legend.
He can’t.
He shudders, once, twice, and then the tears come. They are hot and sticky, burning his skin where they mix with the blood. He lets them fall, unashamed, until the ground beneath him is a ruin of salt and grief.
He rolls onto his back, stares at the blank sky, and laughs. The sound is raw and broken, but it is real.
He’s not a hero. He never was. He’s not even a monster—not in the way the stories say.
He is something worse.
He is what comes after.
*
When the sun finally breaks the horizon, Kalon drags himself to his feet. He wipes his face with a sleeve, smears the mud and blood into a mask that will serve him well wherever he goes next.
He looks back, once, at the city of Guillemot. He wonders if Brianne made it out, if she’ll hate him now, and if she’ll tell the story right when the time comes.
He hopes she does. He hopes the world will never forget what happened here and will never forgive him for it.
He turns, shoulders the weight of his past, and walks into the wilderness without looking backward.
Let the city burn.
He’s already ashes.
Night finds him in the woods. The pain has faded, replaced by the dull echo of adrenaline withdrawal and the old, familiar hunger that creeps in whenever he lets his guard drop.
He is close enough to Ashpine Watch to see the outline of its towers, cold and perfect against the starless sky. The checkpoint is shut tight, and ward lamps paint the treetops with blue light. He could slip past, if he wanted. He could walk into any town in the north, pawn his memories for a week’s food, and lose himself in the churn of people who care less about legends than survival.
But he paces the forest floor, carving a rut into the loam, unable to stop moving. Every time he closes his eyes, the pit comes back—Brianne’s face at the edge of the stands, the smoking ruin of Skeletron Prime, the way the crowd’s chant shifted from awe to fear. He’s heard that chant before. He’s worn the monster label since he was old enough to swing a sword. But this time, it feels final. There’s no coming back.
Each gust of wind drags a fresh memory from the dark. Kalon thinks of Sandy, the boy with the easy laugh and the hands always cold from the winter drafts in Zahrazil. Sandy was the only one who ever treated Kalon like he wasn’t already dead inside. He’d sneak food to the barracks, risk a beating just to bring Kalon a mug of something hot, or a scrap of rumor about the outside world. Sandy is gone now, lost to the same power that Kalon displayed earlier that night. But his ghost lingers, hitching to every lonely hour like a splinter you can’t dig out.
Kalon wants to forget. To erase the city, the girl, the violence, all of it. But he knows what comes next. He’s been the monster at the gates before. Word will travel faster than he ever could. By morning, every city guard in a hundred miles will have their name and face, printed in blood on their wanted lists. Every merchant, every gambler, every cut-rate assassin will be hunting for him, eager to trade his corpse for a few coins and a story to tell.
Worse than that, Brianne will be in danger. Just by knowing him. Just by being seen with him.
He can’t let that happen. He won’t.
He stops pacing, draws a line in the dirt with his heel, and makes the decision he’s been putting off since the pit: He’s leaving. Not just the city, but the whole damn region. He’ll go north, west, or wherever the roads run out. He’ll hide in the ruins, deep woods, or the bottom of the next pit until the world forgets his name.
He wants to believe that this time, he’ll succeed.
He wants to believe that if he can just stay away, no one else will have to die for him.
He doesn’t believe it, but he has to try.
The moon slips behind a cloud, and the trees break the silence. Kalon squares his shoulders, draws a shallow breath, and steps out of the rut he’s made.
Time to run.
Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll never stop.
He doesn’t hear her approach. That’s the first sign he’s lost the edge.
One moment, Kalon is pushing through the brambles with his head full of plans for disappearing, and the next there’s a hand at his shoulder—gentle, cool, unmistakably hers. He freezes, every muscle tight as iron, but he doesn’t turn. He doesn’t want to see the look on her face.
“Don’t,” he says, voice barely above the wind.
Brianne lets her hand rest there. “You’re not bleeding anymore,” she says. “That’s an improvement.”
He shrugs, shakes her off, takes two steps forward, and then just stands. She comes around to face him, those black eyes burning with more anger than fear, more sadness than anger.
“You left me,” she says. It’s not an accusation, just a statement of fact.
Kalon works his jaw. “I had to. The longer you’re around me, the worse it gets. They’ll come for you, not just me.”
She snorts. “You don’t get it, do you?” She moves closer, all the way into his space, and he feels small for the first time in his life. “I saw what you did. I saw you save everyone, including the idiot king, and all you care about is running away?”
He tries to pull back, but her hand is on his chest, pressing him still. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it.”
“I can’t,” he says. “It’s just… I can’t.”
Brianne’s jaw sets. She stands on her toes, wraps her arms around his neck, and pulls him down into a hug that is more wrestling hold than comfort. “Yes, you can,” she whispers, and for a second, he feels her tremble.
The sound she makes next is not a laugh, not a sob, but something between the two. “You are such an idiot,” she mutters and buries her face against his shirt. He feels the wetness of her tears, the rattle of her breath, and he does the only thing he can think of—he sets his hands on her hips, pulls her in, and lets her cry it out.
They stand like that until the chill seeps through their clothes and the silence wraps them up.
She’s the first to break. “Did you think I’d let you go alone?”
He hesitates, then nods.
“Good,” she says, voice thick. “Because that means you’ll have to work twice as hard to get rid of me.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just lets her hold on, listening to the beat of her heart and the strange, soft way she says his name—like a curse, or maybe a prayer.
*
An hour later, they are sitting on a slab of stone overlooking the checkpoint, the blue ward-lamps of Ashpine Watch making strange constellations in the valley below. Brianne leans into him, shoulder to shoulder, arms folded against the cold. He thinks about putting an arm around her, but the idea feels dangerous, like touching a live wire.
Instead, he lets the silence fill up with the things they’re both too tired to say.
Brianne is the first to break the silence, though she doesn’t do it with a confession or a plea for comfort. She lets her gaze wander over the distant tree line, lips slightly parted as if tasting something unfamiliar, and says, “I had a brother once.” The words come out plainly, but they linger in the air like an unspoken question. She pauses, not for dramatic flair, but because the following words cost her something. “We used to stay up late, spinning tales about the people in the house next door. He’d say they were smugglers, or spies, or witches. We’d turn out the lights and watch their shadows dance through the curtains. Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d sneak into his bed and make him promise to protect me.” She brushes her thumb across her sleeve, as if wiping away a fleck of invisible ash. “He always did. No matter what. Even when our surrogate father found out, even when I woke him in the dead of night, he never let me down.”
She pauses, her mind drifting back to the whispers of a distant land she doesn’t remember, Tianxia, where she was sold off from. But in the end, the family she found became her true home.
She pulls her knees tighter to her chest and stares into the cold blue glow of the ward-lamps, as if searching for a patch of sky that isn’t ruined by city light. “He’s dead now. Just like everyone else. I try to remember the last thing he said to me, but everything that came after keeps getting mixed up.” She squints, as though the words might clarify if she stares into the dark long enough. “It wasn’t even a nice thing, I think. He was mad at me for breaking a toy or running off to meet someone I shouldn’t have. I don’t know. I just know it wasn’t goodbye.” She exhales, the breath sharp and uneven, and her fingers curl around the stone beneath her as if she might squeeze memory into reality through sheer force of will. “I keep thinking that if I’d stayed, maybe he’d have lived. Or at least died with someone holding his hand. But I didn’t, and he didn’t.”
She lets the silence build. The sky above them is empty of stars, the clouds swallowing any hint of comfort. She tilts her head, glancing at Kalon sideways, as if searching his eyes for an anchor. “It’s stupid, right? All the things we lose, and that’s what sticks. Not the day you first stole a fruit, or the time you saved him from drowning. Just the last, dumb fight you ever had.”
Her voice gets thin, stripped down to raw sinew. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I know what you’re doing. All the running. All are trying to keep everyone else at arm’s length before something bad happens. I get it.” For a moment, she waits, as if expecting someone to contradict her, but the woods offer nothing back.
She shrugs, and the movement is not a gesture of defeat, but of acceptance. “I just think maybe… if you keep running, the only thing you’ll have left are the things you never said. And the next time someone asks you for a promise, you won’t even remember how to give one.” Her hands fall away from her knees, knuckles white, and she lets her head drop forward until her hair falls in a black curtain over her face.
Kalon listens. He’s never been good at talking, but he is very good at listening.
“I thought I was done with this,” she says. “With caring about people who can’t be saved.”
He nods. “Me too.”
She sighs, then bumps her head against his shoulder. “You ever get tired of losing?”
He considers it. “It’s easier than winning.”
She laughs at that, sharp and bitter. “Sometimes you say things that sound wise, and I almost believe you’re not a complete disaster.”
He looks at her, and she’s smiling—just a little, but it’s real.
“You’re too good for this world,” she says. “That’s the problem.”
He shakes his head. “No. The problem is I’m exactly what this world deserves.”
They sit silently, watching the moon drift through the clouds. A patrol dog barks somewhere down below, and the echo carries up the hill. Kalon wonders if the guards know he’s out here, or if they even care. He wonders if Yharim’s reach is long enough to pull him back, or if he must start running again.
He glances at Brianne. “You don’t have to stay with me,” he says.
She elbows him. “I know. But I will.”
He believes her.
*
They talk about nothing for a while. About the food in Guillemot (terrible), the quality of its alcohol (worse), the way Brianne once stole a merchant’s entire wardrobe just to see if she could get away with it (she could, and did, twice). She tells stories, some true, most not, and he wants to listen to them all, if only to keep her voice in his head a little longer.
At some point, the conversation turns to the pit. Brianne wants to know if Kalon remembered anything while fighting Skeletron and if he felt anything besides rage and pain. He admits that for a moment, he felt nothing—not fear, anger, or even the thrill of survival.
“Is that what you want?” she asks. “To feel nothing?”
He shrugs. “I want to stop hurting people. That’s all.”
She looks at him, eyes dark and searching. “Then you'd better start by not running away from the ones who care about you.”
He says nothing because he doesn’t trust himself to speak.
Instead, he leans back and closes his eyes, letting the cold and her breathing anchor him to the world.
*
As the sky starts to lighten, Kalon opens his eyes to see Brianne watching him, her expression soft and unreadable.
“Thank you,” he says, the words scraping out.
She shakes her head. “No need.”
“Yes, there is,” he says. “You’re the only reason I’m still here. You should have left me to rot in that pit.”
She grins, wry and sharp. “I like fixing broken things. And you’re the most broken thing I’ve ever found.”
He almost laughs. Almost.
She sobers. “Crandall’s already put the bounty out. You’re officially the most wanted man in the city.”
He nods, unsurprised.
She nudges him with her shoulder. “Do you have a plan?”
He shrugs. “Survive. Maybe find a place where people haven’t heard of me yet.”
Brianne raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a plan. That’s a death wish.”
He says nothing.
She sits up, pulls her knees to her chest, and watches the horizon as the first pink sliver of dawn creeps up from the east. “If we’re going to die,” she says, “let’s at least make it interesting.”
He watches the city far below, the banners unfurling along the wall, the distant shimmer of alarm spells ready to trip at the faintest touch.
He glances at her, and for the first time, doesn’t feel the urge to run.
Instead, he just sits. Quiet. Waiting. Watching the world wake up, one heartbeat at a time.
*
They don’t move until the sun is above the hills and the frost has melted from the grass. Even then, they walk slowly, side by side, matching each other’s pace. Neither speaks. There’s nothing left to say.
But as they walk, Kalon finds that—for once—the silence isn’t heavy. It’s not a burden. It’s a promise.
Whatever happens next, at least he won’t face it alone.
**
The obsidian throne is colder than usual. The room is silent but for the metronomic condensation drip falling from somewhere in the upper rafters, each splash echoing forever down the black marble hall.
Yharim sits, eyes half-closed, fingers steepled in front of his lips. He is listening to the rumors again, the ones that come at night and will not leave him in peace.
They say the old Warmonger lives. That he walks the back alleys of Guillemot, that he survived the desert, that he tore a war machine in half with his bare hands, and bled out under the moon like some pagan martyr. They say he is no longer a man or a legend but a living curse.
They say he is coming for Yharim.
He knows better. The Scourge would not lie to him. Not after so many centuries of blood and loyalty. Not after the gifts, the feasts, and the freedom to do what it did best.
But the rumors persist, and so does the itch at the base of his skull. He is not himself these days. He hasn’t been since the Astrum campaign, since the stars themselves fell at his feet and he realized, for the first time, that the world could end not with a bang, but with a whimper and a ledger of unfinished business.
He flexes his hands. The calluses there are old, but never soft. He wants to believe in his power. He wants to know that every weapon he has forged, every monster he has created, will do what it was made to do.
He calls for the Scourge.
It answers instantly, as if it has been lurking just beyond the threshold of the throne room for days, waiting for its turn to grovel. It does not enter as a beast or a shadow, but as a soldier: the new armor Draedon built for it clings to every inch of its scaled hide, each segment bristling with runes and needle-sharp spikes. The helmet is a mockery of a human skull, fused with the remnants of three gods’ faces.
Yharim studies the effect but finds it lacking.
“Explain,” he says, the word as much a command as an accusation.
The Scourge kneels, head bowed. “Majesty,” it whispers, the sound less a voice than a plague wind. “You summoned. I attend.”
Yharim does not allow himself to show weakness, not even in a twitch. “The Warmonger. They say he lives.”
The Scourge does not look up. “I reported as much, Majesty. He escaped the desert, but he is defeated. He is no longer a threat.”
“You told me he was dead.” The words hang, venomous, in the gap between them.
“Majesty, I told you the desert would finish what I could not.”
Yharim rises from the throne, every inch of him radiating power. “Then you lied.”
The Scourge shrinks into the armor, every scale trying to disappear. “Never, Majesty. I would never—”
He raises a finger, and the world pauses. The obsidian tile beneath the Scourge liquefies, crawling around its limbs, pinning it in place.
“Draedon tells me your hunger is sated. That you no longer remember what it means to kill for pleasure. That you are… tamed.”
The Scourge trembles, a real fear flicking through its triple-layered eyes. “I am loyal. Always.”
Yharim laughs. “Loyalty is for pets. You were supposed to be a god.”
He walks down the steps, each footfall deliberate, the sound like a judge’s gavel. “I put you in that desert for a reason. I let you devour the stars for a reason. Yet here you are, still clinging to life when I told you to die.”
The Scourge’s voice is small. “I serve. That is all I know.”
Yharim leans down, eye to eye, with what he once called his finest instrument. “You disappoint me.”
He lets the silence grow, then releases the obsidian grip. The Scourge sags, then crawls backwards, never turning its back on the throne.
“Go,” Yharim says, already bored with the exchange. “If you cannot kill the Warmonger, I will find something that can.”
The Scourge bows, then flees into the dark, trailing shame like a foul odor.
*
Yharim stands alone again, the ache in his head growing worse. He knows the Scourge is a failure now, but he doesn’t care. He has other tools.
He raises a hand and calls for Permafrost.
The old mage appears within seconds, eyes cold and calculating.
“Calamitas is ready,” Yharim says. “Whether you believe it or not.”
Permafrost hesitates. “She is unstable. The tests—”
“The tests mean nothing,” Yharim snaps. “If she can burn down a city, she can burn down the legend of the Warmonger.”
Permafrost bows, but there is caution in his movements. “As you wish, Majesty.”
Yharim waves him away. He does not care about the consequences. He never has.
*
He returns to the throne, sits, and lets his mind spiral through the new possibilities.
He is not afraid of the old Warmonger. He is not scared of the rumors, or of the traitors, or of the slow, creeping rot that threatens every empire. He is afraid only of being forgotten or replaced.
He will not allow it.
If the Scourge cannot finish the job, then Calamitas will.
He will burn the world if that is what it takes to remain king.
He closes his eyes, listens to the steady drip of water, and waits for the first screams to reach his ears.
He hopes they sound like victory.
Chapter 14: The Concept of a Plan
Chapter Text
It's barely noon, but the sun is predatory, chewing at the treeline and grinding the world to a white-hot dazzle. Kalon and Brianne have made it as far as the high copse above Ashpine Watch—two slumping figures in the brittle shade, shoes and hopes equally worn through. There is a lumpy tart stolen from a forager's hut, half a jug of water that tastes like dead leaves, and nothing to do but hide and sweat and try not to be the first to talk.
Brianne loses the standoff. She cracks the tart with a palm and flicks one half at Kalon, who traps it midair with a grunt. He takes a bite, chewing until the sourness is bearable, and waits for her to say whatever is boiling in her skull.
"I thought you'd be quieter," she says, not looking at him. "After last night. Most people with your face want to die in silence."
Kalon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I tried that. Wasn't any good at it."
Brianne shrugs, picks at the crumbling edge of her tart. "So what's the plan now? Wait here until the whole city forgets you killed their best show?"
"They'll remember longer than that tart lasts," he says.
She looks at him, really looks, and for a moment her gaze is so naked he wants to cover his head and vanish. "You want to run, don't you? Actually run."
He doesn't answer because it's not a question.
The silence is thick, suffocating. Kalon leans back against the tree and lets his eyes wander to the sun-shredded canopy. His shoulder throbs where the Skeletron's saw had clipped it, but he makes no sound.
"Fine," Brianne says. "Let's play a game. Favorite food, go."
"Bread," he says, surprised by the quick answer.
She snorts. "That's not a food, that's a category. Be specific."
"Old bread. Crusty, sour, hard enough to break a window."
Brianne cocks her head, amused. "That's the saddest answer I've ever heard."
Kalon shrugs. "It's what they gave us in the barracks. Got used to it."
She considers this. "I like candied ginger. Used to steal it from the markets in the lower tier. Could only afford it once a year, so I'd eat it slowly. A piece a day, hiding it in my cheek like a secret."
He smiles, barely, and the crack in his armor is so brief she almost misses it.
Brianne keeps going. "Worst injury you've ever had?"
He thinks about it, and then, "Rope burn on my wrists. Was twelve, maybe. They tied us together for training, and the bastard leading us dragged the line until it wore through my skin. Still have the scars."
She leans in, curious. "Let me see."
He hesitates, then rolls up his sleeve. There are two dark bands around his wrist, faded but permanent.
Brianne studies them like a scholar. "That's not so bad," she says, but there's something in her voice—soft like a thumb rubbing a bruise.
"Your turn," he says, voice dry.
She pauses. "Once, I fell off a roof chasing a cat. Landed on a fencepost. Broke two ribs, punctured a lung. Hurt like hell, but I didn't let anyone see me cry."
He looks at her, eyebrow raised.
"Okay," she admits, "maybe a little."
He laughs—an actual laugh, not just the noise he's practiced for deflection. It echoes in the grove, and Brianne's grin is all teeth.
She grows serious. "You ever miss it?"
"What?"
"Before all this. Before pits and power and legends. Just being a person."
He doesn't answer. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets the sun filter through his lids, painting red rivers across the inside of his skull.
"I miss Sandy," he says, so softly she almost doesn't hear. "He was the first one who ever made me think I could be more than…" He gestures at himself, vague and helpless. "This."
Brianne nods. "Who was he?"
"My friend. First boy who ever kissed me and didn't laugh about it after."
She is quiet for a long moment. "What happened to him?"
"He's gone," Kalon says. "Left before I could say goodbye."
He leaves out the rest. The blade, the order, the look in Sandy's eyes when Kalon obeyed. He will never tell anyone that story—not even Brianne, who seems to see through everything else.
Kalon says nothing, but the weight between them shifts. It is lighter, not heavier.
Brianne studies his face. "Are you always like this? Stoic, tragic, haunted by dead boys?"
He almost smiles. "Only around you."
She laughs, then. "I'm honored."
They finish the tart and drink the last of the water, passing the jug back and forth. The sun is relentless, baking the grove into a pocket of strange, resinous heat, but neither moves.
Kalon says, "You could leave. It would be safer."
She shakes her head. "For who?"
He tries to say something else, but she talks over him. "You know, most people think I'm a little crazy. I used to take contracts and do jobs for the Guild, but the truth is, I never liked hurting people. I only did it to survive. Maybe that's why I'm not a legend, like you."
"I don't want to be a legend," Kalon says.
"Bullshit. Everybody wants something."
He grits his teeth. "I just want it to stop. The fighting. The running. The way it never ends."
Brianne is silent momentarily, then says, "What if it could? What would you do?"
He opens his mouth, then closes it. The answer is too pathetic, too raw.
Brianne waits, patient as stone.
"I'd find a place where no one knows me," he says. "I'd sleep until I wasn't tired. Maybe learn to cook. Grow old."
She considers this. "That's not so impossible."
He shakes his head. "Not for people like us. We're made to be chased."
She leans in, forehead to forehead. "Maybe we're not."
There's a tremor in the air, a warning that the world is about to split open, but neither of them moves. Kalon can smell the sweat on her skin, the faint tang of blood dried under her fingernails. He wants to ask if she's ever been in love, but the question sticks in his throat.
Brianne solves it for him. "You're not the only one who lost someone," she says. "But you're the first I've met who still believes in something after."
He blinks. "What do I believe in?"
She grins, wicked. "You tell me."
He thinks for a while. "I think… I think if there's even a chance to be better, you have to take it. Even if you don't believe you can."
Brianne nods, like she's heard the secret of the universe.
She stands, wipes the crumbs from her shirt, and offers him a hand. "Come on, bread-boy. Let's see if we can outlast the sun."
They walk together, not because they have a plan, but because anything is better than being still.
The day burns on, relentless.
The view is a punch to the gut when they reach the ridge. The city of Guillemot sprawls in the distance; banners limp in the heat, smoke still rising from last night's violence. Closer, the walls of Ashpine Watch glint with wet light, sentries tiny and oblivious on the battlements.
Brianne sits on a boulder, legs swinging. "If you could kill anyone in that city, who would it be?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Julius Crandall."
She grins. "Good. Because that's the only way either of us is getting out alive."
He laughs, a bitter bark. "I thought you said you hated contracts."
"I do. But this isn't a job. It's a retirement plan."
He lets the silence answer. The city below is a graveyard of dreams, but up here, in the thin, sharp air, anything seems possible.
Brianne nudges him. "Tell me something you've never told anyone."
He sighs, then, "I hate violence."
She snorts. "Liar."
He shakes his head. "I'm not. I hate the way it feels. I hate that I'm good at it. I hate that every time I survive, I lose another part of who I was supposed to be."
She looks at him and sees the truth about it.
"I want to believe you," she says. "But you're the best killer I've ever met."
He shrugs, helpless. "It's all I know."
She puts her hand on his again. "Maybe we can learn something else."
He wants to believe her, but the truth is harder than steel. Still, for the first time in years, he lets himself imagine it—a world where they are not weapons, where the only thing chasing them is time.
He closes his eyes and tries to hold on to the feeling.
They spend the rest of the afternoon mapping out their future with jokes and wild plans. Brianne suggests a bakery in a seaside village, while Kalon insists on a cabin in the woods. They argue about the merits of chickens versus goats, about the proper way to brew tea, and about whether the world will ever allow them to stop fighting.
When the sun finally begins to set, painting the world in orange and red, Brianne turns to him, serious again.
"You ever wish you could go back?" she asks.
He thinks of Sandy. He thinks of the sword, the pit, the endless parade of blood and legend. He thinks of the boy he was, before the world turned him into a monster.
"No," he says. "But I wish I'd run sooner."
She nods. "Me too."
The day ends not with a promise, but with a shared certainty: whatever comes next, they will face it together.
As the sky dims, Kalon leans his head on Brianne's shoulder, and she lets him.
It is enough for now.
**
The night comes on slowly, a lengthening bruise at the world's edge. The moon is a sickle, barely bright enough to show the path back to their patch of dirt, where Kalon and Brianne hunker over the stolen tart crumbs and the now-empty water jug. Neither is tired, though both look like people who want desperately to be asleep.
Kalon lies back, hands behind his head, watching the branches. "You ever wonder what it's like not to care?" he says. "To walk past all this and let the world devour itself?"
Brianne props her chin on her fist. "If I could do that, I wouldn't be here."
He grunts agreement, then silence lapses between them, measured only by the chirr of insects and the odd grunt from a distant bullfrog. The city below is a faint, angry glow, and its noise is mercifully lost to distance.
After a while, Brianne says, "I think we should kill Julius Crandall."
Kalon turns his head, squinting at her as if she's suggested eating a shoe. "Wait, really?"
She shrugs, not meeting his eyes. "You said yourself—he's the one who keeps making our lives hell. Put the bounty out, and announced your name to the whole kingdom. We kill him, the bounty's off. You can get your cabin in the woods. Maybe I'll open that bakery."
Kalon lets out a slow, measured breath, the kind reserved for addressing stubborn animals or small children. "You realize that's a death wish, right? Yharim would send half the empire after us, even if we got to him."
Brianne doesn't blink. "Yharim's a problem for tomorrow. Crandall's a problem for today."
He studies her, trying to decide if she's gone insane in the last hour, or if she's always been this reckless and he just never noticed. "You're serious."
She plucks a grass blade and twirls it between her fingers. "Why not? It's not like we have other options."
Kalon sits up. "You want to march into the city that's actively hunting us, sneak past every guard, and kill the king."
Brianne's lips twist into a half-smile. "Not march. Maybe tiptoe."
He almost laughs, but the look in her eyes—level, bright, terrifyingly certain—kills the urge. "You're not a killer."
She shakes her head. "No. But you are. And if you say yes, I'll make it happen."
He lets the idea hang, examining it from every direction. "You want to do this for the money?"
She shakes her head. "For the silence." Then, softer: "For you."
He looks away, suddenly uncomfortable. "There are easier ways to die."
She shrugs. "But none that get us what we want."
Kalon rubs his face, hands gritty with old blood. "What if I say no?"
Brianne's smile is gentle, but her voice is a knife. "You won't."
He sighs, closes his eyes. He lets himself imagine it for a moment—Crandall gone, the man's voice and face erased from every edict and coin. Maybe it would change things. Perhaps it would just make them next in line for the block.
He opens his eyes. "Let's say I'm in. How?"
Brianne leans in, the fire in her gaze flickering to mischief. "That's the fun part. We plan, we scout, we improvise. And if we fail—well, at least it's a better story than 'ran away and died in a ditch.'"
He laughs then, sharp and hollow. "You're insane."
"Maybe. But you're stuck with me."
He wants to protest, to list the thousand ways this is doomed, but he can't. Not when she's looking at him like that, not when he can feel the old thrill of hope worming its way back into his bones.
"Fine," he says. "We'll kill the king."
Brianne's smile is pure, wild joy. "That's the spirit."
They sit in the dark, plotting murder like it's the only thing left that makes sense. The plan is half-formed, stitched from bravado and desperation, but Kalon doesn't feel like a ghost for the first time in days.
He glances at her, and she's already sketching their future in the air, fingers carving invisible blueprints above the grass.
He shakes his head, but he's smiling now, too.
"You're really something, Brianne."
She looks at him, slyly. "You only just noticed?"
And for a while, the future doesn't seem so impossible.
Not with her beside him.
**
An hour into their "strategy session," Kalon and Brianne have accomplished exactly nothing, save for creating a wider, more bottomless pit to drop their hopes into. They are huddled in the shadows beneath the abandoned bridge west of Ashpine Watch, the night wet and full of moths. The city sits on the horizon like an abscess, the black spire of the king's castle needle-pricking the clouds above.
Brianne has a half-burned stick and is drawing layouts in the mud at their feet. Kalon is lying on his back, one leg bent, hands laced behind his head as if he might nap through the rest of the world. Every so often, he glances at the crude map, then at what remained of the lumpy tart on the ground now covered in ants, closes his eyes, as if it might arrange itself more sensibly if he stops looking.
"We are so, so screwed," Brianne says at last, scowling at her diagram as if it just insulted her.
Kalon grunts. "We're always screwed. Doesn't mean we don't try."
"Sometimes it does," she retorts. She wipes away the mud and draws again. "Listen. We can't get in through the main gate. Not unless you want to fight three garrisons and a bloodhound squadron without sleep."
"Not the gate," Kalon says, eyes closed. "Nobody's that stupid."
"I beg to differ." She looks up, but he's still not paying attention. "How do you want to do this?"
He opens one eye. "Same way we got out. Find the weakest spot. Go through it."
"Crandall's castle isn't like the rest of Guillemot." She slaps the stick against her palm. "The walls are warded. The guards don't take bribes. And every night, the king's entourage sleeps in a different wing to mess with assassins like me."
"So we improvise."
She rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of a smile. "You're the only person I know who thinks improvising is a plan."
"It is a plan." He sits up, stretching. "We get in. We kill him. We get out."
"That's not a plan, that's a suicide note."
He shrugs. "We're already dead. We just have to convince the world."
Brianne sighs, tosses the stick away. "Here's the real problem: you don't know the layout, and my memory is trash beyond the throne room. You want to walk into a trap, that's the fastest way."
"You remember the throne room," he says, squinting at her.
"Yeah. Because he dragged me there last time I failed to kill someone for him."
He nods, as if that's perfectly reasonable. "So we go for the throne room. Make it loud. Draw him out."
She gives him a skeptical look. "He's never alone. The last time he left the throne room solo, he lost a pinky. Now he's always flanked by at least four bodyguards, and I don't mean the ceremonial ones."
Kalon cracks his knuckles. "I can take four."
"With what?" she snaps. "Your good looks and charming wit?"
He opens his mouth, then closes it. The absence of Zenith aches more than any wound he's ever carried. He'd never admit it, but without a sword in his hand, he feels incomplete—like a stone pretending to be an arrow. The fight in the pit was instinct, pure panic. This is different. This is calculated, and it demands more than teeth and fists.
He looks down at his fists, flexes them. "Wayland said a week," he mutters.
Brianne's expression softens. "You know, you took down a war machine with nothing but your hands. That's got to count for something."
He shakes his head. "That was different."
"Was it?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he traces a line in the mud, dragging his finger from the perimeter to the crude rectangle Brianne labeled "throne rm." "We get in, make a mess, draw Crandall's attention. You're fast enough to get behind him. I can clear the guards."
Brianne chews her lip. "You don't even want to wait for the sword to be ready?"
"We don't have time. You said it yourself: the bounty's already out. The longer we wait, the more bodies get in the way."
She studies his face. "Are you actually worried about me? Or just obsessed with dying for a good cause?"
"Does it matter?" He almost grins, but it comes out as a grimace.
Brianne leans back and considers the plan—or the lack thereof. "If we go for the throne room, there's a back entrance, but it's warded. And the wards are keyed to the royal line, which means either we need a miracle or a body part."
He quirks an eyebrow. "What kind of body part?"
She snorts. "Not that kind. Finger, hair, tooth. Anything with blood. Old kings had their bodyguards donate, so the wards wouldn't fry them by mistake."
He thinks. "How hard would it be to get a sample?"
Brianne shrugs. "Hard. But not impossible."
They lapse into silence. The wind soughs through the rushes below the bridge, bringing the scent of water and city rot. Kalon stares at the city, remembering how it felt to be feared and needed in equal measure, how even a pit full of murderers had been more honest than this.
Brianne pulls her knees to her chest, arms locked tight. "Why do you want him dead so badly?" she asks, voice low.
He doesn't answer for a long time. Then: "He's the last one left."
She laughs, sharp and bitter. "That's the dumbest reason I've ever heard."
He doesn't disagree.
She stands, brushing mud off her pants. "Alright. Here's what we do: You rest. I break into the guardhouse tonight to see what weapons I can scrounge. If I don't return, assume I got caught and do something stupid."
He looks at her, really looks. "You don't have to do this."
She shakes her head. "You're right. I don't. But neither do you."
He nods, silent.
She starts to walk away, then turns. "If you're going to die for something, at least make sure it's your idea."
He almost smiles. "You too."
She vanishes into the dark.
Kalon lies back, staring at the city's edge, counting the lights as they wink out one by one. He thinks about the plan, its holes, and its certainty of failure. He thinks about his promise to Brianne—to Sandy, to the ghosts who'd carried him this far.
For the first time, he thinks it's not about winning. It could be about making sure no one forgets they tried.
He closes his eyes and dreams of swords, thrones, and the last war he'll ever fight.
When he wakes, the sky is gray, and Brianne is already back, mud up to her elbows and a grin wide as sunrise.
She holds out two wooden practice swords, their edges blunted and paint chipped.
"I found the armory," she says, tossing one to him with a flourish.
He catches it, turns it over in his hands, and lets out a bark of disbelieving laughter. "The legendary assassin strikes again."
Her grin falters. "What? They were in a weapons rack."
"A training rack." He taps the wood against his palm. "For children."
The plan is still terrible.
But at least now, it's ridiculous.
**
By the time the sun is a whole coin above the trees, Kalon and Brianne have run out of ideas and patience roughly equal measure. The only thing more pointless than staying put is pretending they know where they're going, so they settle on a stretch of packed earth overlooking the valley and try to agree on what to do next.
They get nowhere. Every suggestion meets its natural enemy in the other. Brianne votes for the coast ("No one chases fugitives into the marshlands," she claims; Kalon reminds her of the bounty-hunters who do nothing else). Kalon leans toward the interior—more woods, more places to disappear—but Bibi points out that the only things waiting inland are militia checkpoints and death by exposure. It's less a plan and more a duel of attrition, two tired minds taking turns jabbing at the future.
Eventually, the discussion collapses under its weight. They fall silent. Brianne is stretched out with her hands folded behind her head, and Kalon is seated cross-legged with elbows on his knees. The silence is not uncomfortable, just slightly bruised.
Brianne, predictably, is the one who cracks. "We're idiots," she says, and rolls her head to one side to look at him. "We had a whole night to plan our next move, and all we did was argue about which direction had the best odds of not dying."
Kalon shrugs. "Better than arguing about whether we'll die at all."
She grins, not unkindly. "You're an optimist, then."
"Realist," he says.
"Pessimist."
"Pragmatist."
She laughs, sharp and loud. "Split the difference. You're a masochist."
He almost smiles, which only eggs her on. "So, Kalon," she says, dragging the vowels. "Tell me, in your infinite wisdom, what will we do?"
He opens his mouth, closes it, and considers. "Run until someone stops us, then run some more."
She gives him a slow clap, mocking and sincere all at once. "Bravo. You're a genius."
Kalon leans back, closes his eyes. "You have a better idea?"
"Sure." She squints up at the sky as if the correct answer might be written in the clouds. "We could rob the king's treasury, hire a skyship, and bribe our way into hiding in the north." She counts the steps off on her fingers. "Or, we could double back to the city, find Wayland, and convince him to build us a sword that can kill an empire."
He lets her talk. He likes the sound of her voice, even when it's painting the world in pure fantasy.
She's about to continue when she stops, lips pursed. She props herself up on an elbow, expression suddenly conspiratorial.
"Can I ask you something?"
He shrugs. "You can ask."
She fixes him with a stare. "Why do you keep calling me 'Brianne'?"
He blinks, surprised. "It's your name."
She rolls her eyes, but there's a heat behind the gesture. "You are allowed to call me Bibi," she says, giving it a little flourish, like a stage name, and then studies him. "You are the only one who calls me by my name."
He tries to remember the last time he said her nickname. He comes up empty. "Sorry," he says, awkwardly. "I forgot."
She cocks an eyebrow. "You forgot, or you never knew?"
He hesitates, then admits, "Both, maybe."
She flops back down, laughter bubbling out of her. "Gods, you are hopeless. You do realize you could've been calling me Bibi this whole time and I wouldn't have tried to kill you, right?"
He shrugs, too tired for defensiveness. "I thought it would be disrespectful."
This sends her over the edge. She snorts, then dissolves into giggles that sound just a little too loud for the empty woods. "Disrespectful," she repeats, between fits. "From the man who split the head off a war machine and made it rain fire in the fighting pits." She rolls over, face in the grass, shoulders shaking. "You're adorable, Kalon. I take back every mean thing I ever said about you."
He feels his face heat, hates that it happens, but lets it pass. "You can call me whatever you want."
She pops her head up, hair a wild mess. "Oh, I intend to. But only if you call me Bibi, or I'll know you're trying to be clever."
He nods, a little embarrassed but also relieved. "Deal."
She sits up, wipes the tear from her cheek, and shakes his hand. "Deal," she echoes, solemn.
For a while, neither speaks. It's not the silence of two people with nothing to say; it's the silence of two people who, for the first time in their lives, might be content to sit and do nothing at all. Kalon watches Bibi out of his eye, noting how her profile softens in the morning sun. She looks young, almost, except for the eyes.
She catches him staring. "What?" she says, half-smiling.
He looks away, feigning nonchalance. "Just waiting for the next time you make fun of me."
She grins, wide. "I wouldn't dare. You're much too sensitive."
He snorts. "Says the woman who threatened to strangle me with my entrails last night."
She considers. "That was last night. Today I'm in a better mood."
He shakes his head, but there's no sting in it. "You really are impossible."
Bibi leans back, balancing on her hands. "Wouldn't want to be anything else."
He looks at her, really looks, and wonders when it happened—that the only thing keeping him together is her refusal to let him fall apart. He thinks about saying thank you, or something equally embarrassing, but he knows she'd just laugh and call him a sentimental bastard.
Instead, he says, "If we're going to rob the king's treasury, we'll need a plan."
She perks up, always game. "And matching outfits," she says. "Theatrical, something with capes."
He deadpans, "Do I get to wear a mask?"
She taps her chin, mock-considering. "You don't need one. Your face is already a crime."
He rolls his eyes, but can't help the smile that tugs at his mouth. "You're in a mood today."
She beams. "It's the company."
They lapse back into quiet, but the tension is gone. Bibi lies down, arms spread wide, as if to make herself bigger in the universe. Kalon shifts closer, not touching, just near enough that their shoulders could brush if either of them moved.
Eventually, she speaks. "Did you mean what you said earlier?"
"Which part?"
"That you'd keep running until you couldn't anymore."
He considers it, then nods. "I don't know what else to do."
She turns her head, voice low. "What if you just stopped?"
He tries to process the idea. "Stopped running?"
"Stopped caring about what the world wants from us," she clarifies. "What if you just… existed? No plans, no legends, no more fighting other people's wars."
He thinks about it, and for a second, it feels possible.
"I'd be useless," he admits.
She laughs softly. "You'd be bored."
He smiles, a real one. "Maybe. But I'd be bored with you."
She grins, victorious. "That's the spirit."
A wind stirs through the trees, and the sun climbs a little higher. Kalon feels a familiar ache in his leg, a twinge of old wounds, but it's just a reminder that he's alive for once.
Bibi sits up, dusts herself off. "Alright," she says, serious now. "If we're going to survive the day, we'll need food and a place to hide. I know a spot upriver. It's shit for comfort, but no one will look for us there."
He nods. "Lead the way."
She hesitates, then holds out a hand.
He takes it and lets her pull him upright, surprised by how easy it is. They stand, facing each other for a heartbeat.
Bibi squeezes his hand, just once, then lets go. "Don't get sentimental," she warns, but there's no venom in it.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he lies.
She laughs, turns, and heads into the trees.
He follows, matching her stride, and for the first time in a long time, doesn't look back.
The rest of the day is spent putting distance between themselves and the city—sometimes talking, sometimes not. Bibi leads them through a maze of animal trails, always one step ahead of the pursuit she's certain is coming. They stop only once, to raid a farmer's melon patch and eat until the juice runs down their wrists.
When dusk finds them, they're on the crest of a hill, watching the valley below turn gold and then violet. Bibi sits with her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, face turned to the horizon.
Kalon sits beside her, closer than before. The warmth of her shoulder is the only thing keeping the chill at bay.
She doesn't say anything at first. Just watches the sun die and the stars bleed in behind it.
After a while, she nudges him. "You hungry?"
He shakes his head. "Not for food."
She smirks, but the look in her eyes is soft. "What, then?"
He wants to say "this." He wants to say "you." He wants to say, "I'm tired of being alone."
Instead, he shrugs. "Doesn't matter."
She leans in and rests her head on his shoulder. "Yeah," she says. "It does."
He sits still, afraid the moment might shatter if he breathes too loudly.
But Bibi just sighs, content, and lets her weight settle against him.
They watch the night come on, slow and relentless, and make no plans.
They don't need to.
Tomorrow will be waiting, along with every bad idea and impossible scheme. For tonight, it's enough that they have each other, and that—for once—the world can wait its turn.
Somewhere far behind them, the city still burns. Somewhere far ahead, the future lies in ambush. But right here, on the edge of everything, Kalon thinks he may have something worth fighting for.
He leans into Bibi's warmth and lets himself believe it.
Even legends need something to hold onto.
Chapter 15: Weapon Smithing
Chapter Text
Two days after the pit, Guillemot is still fermenting the legend.
The city always needs something to discuss, and Kalon has become its new favorite ghost story. Everyone remembers the night: the skull machine, the war-mad crowd, the monster in the ring. By noon the first day, every hawker and hustler has a version of the story, and by the second day, the versions breed like rats. Some say Skeletron Prime still twitches in the depths, feeding on the bones of the unworthy. Others claim Kalon is a demon in a man's body, a revenant born from hate and iron.
No one remembers Wayland's name, and that's how he likes it.
The forge is dark, save for a smoldering coal or two. Wayland is slumped on his workbench, his head buried in his arms, and a puddle of drool and regret slowly pools beneath his nose. He wakes with the involuntary jerk of a man whose nightmares are powered by cheap gin and chronic unemployment.
The first thing he sees is the hilt of a sword. Not just any sword—the hilt. The rest is gone, pulverized to stardust or lost to the greed of a city that eats legends for breakfast. He's meant to be working on it, which he has been for two days, but every time he looks at the thing, the hangover doubles.
He props himself upright, blinks until his vision stabilizes, and gives the hilt a desultory poke. The leather wrapping is older than sin, and the pommel is an ugly knot of unknown metal. He doesn't recognize the make, but it scares the piss out of him all the same.
The job is simple: fix the sword, make it better. But nothing about the sword is simple. For one, he can't fix what isn't there. For another, he has no clue what the blade was made of. Wayland is a master at bullshit—he can fake the origin of any weapon, conjure up a fake royal crest or a cursed rune—but this thing defies even his imagination.
The hilt has a name, or at least a label: Zenith. The letters are inscribed so deeply he can feel them in his fingertips when he runs a thumb across the grip.
Wayland burps, wipes his mouth, and sets the hilt on a battered cloth. He's supposed to be thinking. Instead, he thinks about how little he wants to do anything.
He stands, sways, and considers the state of his forge. There are tools everywhere: tongs, hammers, a complete set of files in various states of decay. He finds a copper shortsword in the pile, laughs at it, and drops it on the floor. He can't even remember the last time someone asked for a copper blade. They rust, bend, and are suitable for little more than stirring soup.
But he knows he needs more. He remembers something from one of his rare sober spells, a rumor about how to reforge an actual blade: you need more than iron. You need relics. Legendary steel. Names that don't belong in the same sentence as someone like Wayland are Terra Blade, Influx Waver, Star's Wrath, and Meowmere. Each one is a fable. Each one is somewhere else. He owns a single, pathetic copper shortsword and half a bottle of rotgut.
He does not have the hands for this job. Or the brain. Or, most crucially, the anvil.
His anvil is a joke. Most of the time, it's fine—he's not making royal armaments or divine artifacts, just patching up blades for drunks and mercenaries. But for a real job like this, he needs a real anvil. Mythril or Orichalcum, if the stories are true. His is plain old iron, and it's cracked, at that.
He picks up a hammer, tests its weight, and feels the tendon in his elbow pop in protest. His hands used to be the envy of the guild: precise, tireless, each finger able to sense a flaw no eye could see. Now they tremble, just a little, when he tightens his grip.
Wayland looks down at the sword hilt, then at his hands. He can feel the shame crawling up his arms like a fungus.
There's no point in pretending. He couldn't pull this off without the right tools and materials. He's too old. Too tired. He's not even sure why he agreed to try.
He knows the answer, of course. It's the same reason he agrees to anything: he is afraid to say no, stop moving, and face what waits in the silence after the last customer leaves.
He sits back down, the stool creaking under his weight. He stares at Zenith, willing it to offer a solution. Instead, it just stares back, empty and patient.
He is a fraud—a has-been.
He thinks about his old friend, the barkeep. Bruce. The only man in the city who remembers Wayland's real name is the only man who ever lets him drink without paying first. He thinks about Bruce's hands, steady as steel, pouring another round without spilling a drop. He envies that steadiness, that lack of doubt.
Wayland stands, rubs the sleep from his face, and grabs the hilt. He tucks it inside his coat, where it juts awkwardly against his ribs. He fumbles around until he finds a clean-enough rag, wipes the sweat from his forehead, and heads for the door.
He needs air, Bruce, and he needs to forget for just one hour that he is supposed to save the legend of the Warmonger.
He steps out into the chill morning, head pounding, hilt heavy against his side.
He locks the door behind him and starts down the street, toward the only place left that doesn't ask him to be anything but himself.
**
The tavern is almost empty when Wayland pushes inside. The sun is barely past its zenith, and the only patrons are the kind who never leave—an ancient woman asleep at her table, and a boy with the vacant look of someone three drinks deep before lunch.
Bruce is behind the counter, cleaning a glass that's already clean. He sees Wayland and grins, wide and toothy, the kind of smile you give a man who has disappointed you so many times, and it's almost funny.
"Morning, Steel," Bruce says. "You look like hammered shit."
"Feel like it too." Wayland slides onto a stool. His body protests, but the relief is immediate. It's easier to be hungover in public—there's a kind of dignity in communal misery.
Bruce pours something brown and firm, sets it in front of him. "You hear about the night before last?" he asks.
Wayland shakes his head. "Don't care, either."
Bruce laughs, low and knowing. "That's a lie. You always care. You're just afraid the story will make you look old."
Wayland drinks. The liquor bites down, then slithers a wet tongue through his veins. He grimaces, but in a grateful way.
Bruce leans in, drops his voice to a confidential rumble. "The city's still talking about the pit. About what happened with that skull-thing."
Wayland grunts. "Some automaton, right? Probably built in the royal foundry. All those things are the same—dangerous till they break, then someone sweeps up the pieces."
"That's what you think," Bruce says. "But this one broke the city. The crowd damn near trampled the king's box trying to get away. They're saying it wasn't just a machine. Said it was haunted."
Wayland snorts. "People will say anything to sell tickets."
Bruce shakes his head, serious for once. "It's not about tickets. It's about what that man did. The way he tore the thing apart: no sword, no shield—just his hands. Never seen anything like it. Makes you wonder what else is out there, walking the streets and waiting for a reason to lose control."
Wayland listens, but only with half an ear. He knows the barkeep's game: Bruce likes to talk in riddles, to wrap his real meaning in two layers of bullshit and one of sentimentality. Wayland isn't in the mood.
He sets down his glass and wipes his mouth. "That's all?"
Bruce laughs again, softer. "You're not even curious about who it was? His bounty?"
"I'm not." Wayland looks him dead in the eye.
Bruce shrugs, pours another, and slides it down the bar. "Suit yourself."
For a while, the only sound is the distant clatter of dishes from the back room—the ancient woman snores, her breath a reedy whistle. The boy stares into his mug, unblinking.
Wayland tries to lose himself in the drink, but the story sticks. It burrows. He keeps picturing the skull machine, its gears and pistons, and the man in the ring. He wonders what kind of idiot gets into a fight with a deathtrap like that, and why.
Bruce clears his throat. "So. You got any projects these days? I hear work's slow."
Wayland shrugs. "There's always something. Swords are to be patched, and armor is to be undented. Nothing interesting."
"That so?" Bruce raises a brow. "I thought I saw a customer leave your shop the other day. Big guy, kind of… I don't know, haunted. Said he had a job for you."
Wayland freezes. He remembers the hilt, the impossible job. Remembers the look in Kalon's eyes—steady, cold, but hiding something that made Wayland want to run the other way.
Bruce watches him, then grins again. "Guess the rumors are true. That was him, wasn't it?"
Wayland doesn't answer. He drinks, letting the silence fill up the space between them.
Bruce lowers his voice, barely above a whisper. "They're saying he was the one who killed the skull machine. He said he went crazy in the pit and tore it apart with his bare hands. Said he was a monster, or maybe something worse."
Wayland lets out a slow breath. "He's just a man," he says, but he doesn't believe it.
Bruce leans closer, voice soft as old velvet. "You know what I think?"
"Not really."
"I think people like that—people who can do the impossible—don't come around often. And when they do, it's because something big is about to happen."
Wayland grunts. "He's still just a man. He came to me for a sword."
Bruce nods, like that's the answer he expected. "You going to make it for him?"
Wayland shakes his head, regret heavy in his gut. "Can't. The hilt's all that's left. The rest… I don't even know what it was. I don't have the metal, the anvil, or the skill."
Bruce raises his eyebrows. "I've seen you fix worse. Remember when the King's idiot son snapped his saber in half and you put it back together with spit and hope?"
Wayland almost laughs. "This isn't the same. This isn't even close."
Bruce shrugs. "You could always ask for help."
Wayland stiffens. "Who?"
Bruce looks away and pretends to polish a glass. "There's always Arin."
Wayland's jaw tightens. "Arin's not a blacksmith. Never was."
Bruce's eyes are distant, somewhere behind the rows of bottles. "He apprenticed with you, didn't he?"
"He watched. He never had the hands for it." Wayland drinks, the memory sour. "Besides, he left. Said he wanted his path."
Bruce nods, like he's heard it all before. "Maybe the world taught him something. Maybe he'd help you if you asked."
Wayland slams his glass down, harder than necessary. "No."
Bruce holds up both hands in surrender. "All right, Steel. No need to get dramatic."
Wayland softens a little. He looks at the bar, the hilt hidden inside his coat, and feels the old guilt worm its way back in. He should never have taken the job. Should never have said yes.
Bruce senses the shift, changes tack. "What are you going to do?"
Wayland sighs, bone-deep. "I don't know. Tell the truth, I guess. Tell him it can't be fixed."
Bruce smiles, sad and knowing. "Might be the hardest thing you've ever done."
Wayland shrugs. "Maybe."
He stands, drops a coin on the bar, and heads for the door. At the threshold, he looks back.
"Thanks, Bruce."
The barkeep grins, warm and unbreakable. "Anytime."
Outside, the city is buzzing. Kids run through the streets, merchants holler, and a fight breaks out in the alley, and no one bothers to stop it. The world keeps spinning, as always.
Wayland pulls the hilt from his coat and feels its cold weight in his hand. He stares at the letters etched deep in the leather, the name that means nothing to anyone but the man who carried it.
He thinks about Kalon, about the pit, about what comes next.
He squares his shoulders and sets off to do what has to be done.
***
The study is always cold. Not the crispness of a cell or the calculated chill of a proper laboratory, but the deathly, sinking cold of too much air and too little life. Calamitas sits at a desk the size of a war altar, stacked shoulder-high with books. Most are written in a hand she will never be able to mimic, their spines warped with annotations, paper grained and stiff from exposure to raw magic. She reads, and re-reads, and pretends to understand. She absorbs a concept or two on her best days before the headache splits her skull. On the bad days, she stares at the ink until the words bleed together, forming shapes that remind her of home, or of the screams she can't forget.
She's had more bad days lately.
At first, the others in the tower—junior researchers, servants, the faceless driftwood that clutters an empire—kept their distance out of fear. After a month and several demonstrations of Yharim's displeasure, they keep away because it's the only way to survive. Calamitas doesn't miss them. She has the books, her nightmares, and the sourceless, coiling flame always just behind her eyes.
She is still learning to be a witch. This is the joke she tells herself every morning. A girl who burned down her own house and then got promoted to head arsonist. Permafrost, her so-called master, says nothing of this when he arrives for the day's session. He just sweeps in, trailing mist and frost, eyes glittering with a shade of contempt reserved for people who waste his time.
"You're reading the wrong volume," he says. He doesn't bother with a greeting.
"I've read all of them," Calamitas replies, not looking up. It's almost true. She's turned every page, at least.
"You've read nothing. You've consumed words." He moves behind her, the frost trailing from his mantle cooling the desk another five degrees. She shivers but doesn't show it. "Knowledge is not digestion. It is assimilation."
"I know what the word means," she says.
He regards her as flat as lake ice. "Do you know what you are?"
She puts the book down. She doesn't want to play the riddle game, but experience has taught her there's no winning, only escape. "A tool," she says. "A weapon. A liability if you're not careful." She recites these as a catechism; it's what the palace guards call her when they think she can't hear.
He is momentarily silent, meaning she's either failed the test or passed it too well. "Come with me," he says.
She does.
He leads her down the main corridor, past locked doors, past the cells where the failed projects are left to fester and moan. The air grows colder as they descend, though not because of Permafrost's influence. They enter a side chamber where the ceiling is so high it disappears into blackness. In the center, a ring of blue fire burns atop a marble dais. He gestures for her to come forward.
"Show me what you've learned."
She doesn't ask what to do. She knows the drill. She steps into the ring and lets the brimstone rise to the surface. The air thickens instantly, the fire guttering into red, then violet, then the color of a wound. Her body vibrates, heat in her hands, the world slowing to syrup. She lifts a palm and focuses on a crystal perched atop a spike at the far end of the dais.
Her job is to shatter the crystal and nothing else.
The first time she tried this, the entire dais cracked in half, and Permafrost spent a week reconstructing it. She missed the crystal the second time and almost set herself on fire. This time, she channeled the flame more carefully, feeding it through the focusing gesture Permafrost drilled into her until the heat became almost tangible and living.
She snaps her fingers. The crystal shatters, no collateral. The ring of fire pulses once and then subsides.
He nods, but does not praise.
"Again," he says. "This time, split the flame."
She does, and this time, two crystals shatter. A third attempt, and she manages four. The strain leaves her weaker each time, but she bites her tongue and keeps her face neutral. She will not show pain, not in front of him.
"Good enough," Permafrost says, which is the closest he ever comes to approval. "Now, control it."
She extinguishes the flame, drawing the heat back into herself. She feels the echo for several seconds, like the taste of metal on her tongue. She is learning, she tells herself. The control is getting easier.
But the exhaustion is getting worse.
In the study, he sets a glass of something clear and vicious-smelling in front of her. "You must build tolerance," he says, as if she's a livestock animal being prepped for winter. "If you can't endure the drain, you'll burn out before you're even in range of a target."
She drinks because it's easier than arguing. The liquid scours her throat, but after a few swallows, her hands stop shaking.
"Why does he want me?" Calamitas asks, after a silence that stretches the length of the tower's shadow.
"You're an asset," Permafrost says. "Yharim prefers assets that can erase their own mistakes."
"He doesn't care if I live, does he?"
Permafrost finally looks her in the eyes. "He does not."
This is not news. But hearing it spoken aloud settles something in her, a weightless relief.
They sit in silence for a while. Calamitas watches frost form on the edge of her glass and wonders how much Permafrost is human anymore. He never seems to eat, sleep, or do anything but monitor, correct, and chide.
"Have you ever failed a mission?" she asks.
"Once."
"What happened?"
He considers. "The mission was redefined. Success, in the end, but at a greater cost."
She nods. That is how things are here.
He stands, stretching his fingers. The air around him crackles with cold. "The summons will come soon," he says. "Be ready."
It comes that night. A page knocks, stammers out the message, and runs before she can reply.
Yharim wants her. Now.
She dresses in the uniform they left her—blood-red with gold trim, the cut precise but unforgiving. The sleeves are too long, but she dares not alter them. The first time she tried, the tailor reported her, and she spent a day in the cellars to "think about responsibility." She does not make that mistake again.
She finds Permafrost waiting in the entryway. His robes are immaculate, as always, but he has foregone the usual ornamental staff. Tonight is not about ceremony. It is about function.
They walk the halls together, every footstep echoing. The guards don't look at her but don't move aside. Permafrost glides around them, and she follows in his slipstream.
The throne room is as she remembers: endless and black, a wound in the world shaped like ambition. Yharim is waiting at the far end, upright and motionless, the torches guttering as if in mourning. At his feet, the Scourge coils, unmoving. Calamitas feels its attention skewer her as soon as she enters.
She does not blink.
Permafrost leads her to the base of the dais, then bows, formal to the last. "Majesty," he intones, "we are here as summoned."
Yharim does not acknowledge him; he only flicks his gaze to Calamitas. "You are the fire," he says. "It is time to prove it."
He gestures, and the Scourge uncoils, slithering to the side. Yharim's voice is soft but sounds like thunder in this space. "Your mission is Kalon. He moves north by west, accompanied by an asset of uncertain loyalty. I want both erased."
Permafrost steps forward, not quite blocking her, but nearly. "Majesty, she is not ready. I beg for more time. The consequences—"
Yharim cuts him off with a smile. It is the kind of smile that only the truly indifferent can master. "I am not interested in consequences. I am interested in results."
He stands, his smooth movement almost a trick of the light. "Do not return until the task is done," he says. You have what you need."
He sits again, the matter already forgotten.
Permafrost bows, lips pressed thin, and then turns on his heel. Calamitas follows, but not before she feels the weight of the Scourge's gaze again, lingering on her like a prophecy.
They return to the study, the world outside shrinking to a blur. Calamitas sits. She expects Permafrost to start the usual drills, but instead, he just paces, muttering under his breath. For a moment, he looks less like the archmage and more like a man afraid to say something dangerous.
At last, he stops. "He will kill you," Permafrost says. "If you're lucky, he'll do it quickly."
She shrugs. "I know."
He sits, slumping in the chair opposite. "You should run."
She laughs. "You know I can't."
"No," he agrees, "you can't."
They are quiet for a long time.
"I can help you prepare," he says finally. "But that is all I can do."
She nods and waits for him to begin.
The following two days are nothing but drills. The exercises become harder and crueler. He sets impossible tasks and then shames her for failing. She knows why he does this. He is trying to prepare her for pain, for defeat. She allows herself to hate him for it, which makes the work easier.
On the morning of the third day, he brings her a cup of black tea, sits beside her, and for once says nothing.
She drinks and wonders what it would feel like to survive.
When the hour arrives, Permafrost helps her into her cloak and fastens it with trembling fingers. "Do not hesitate," he says. If you see him, strike. If you miss, run."
She looks at him. "Would you run?"
He meets her gaze. "I would do what was required."
She nods and calls him by his actual name for the first time. "Thank you, Glacius."
He bows his head.
She leaves, the brimstone burning in her chest, and does not look back.
Glacius Permafrost stands alone in the study, watching the frost creep up the window, wondering whether his guilt or loyalty will finish him first.
Chapter 16: A Plan Foiled
Notes:
It took me longer to work on this chapter, and I have had little time to work on it as much as I've wanted to. Enjoy :)
Chapter Text
The plan, in its entirety, is scrawled on a discarded pastry carton:
1. Don't get killed.
2. Kill Crandall.
3. Don't get killed.
That's it. There's not even a step three, and Kalon suspects Bibi only wrote it twice because she liked symmetry. She insists it's called a "redundant failsafe." He thinks it's called being doomed.
They loiter on the threshold between Ashpine Watch and Guillemot's sprawl, hunkered in a collapsed toll shed that used to police the border until the world got tired and stopped pretending it could control anything. In the daylight, the structure is just a heap of rain-soaked planks and some battered signage warning of the consequences for "Unauthorized Passage." At night, it's a wind tunnel with enough overhang to make two fugitives believe they aren't being watched.
It is not night. It is the kind of midmorning that hates everyone equally—heavy air, as if the clouds are sulking, and a persistent mist that refuses to escalate into proper rain. It makes everything taste like old pennies and rot. Kalon props his boots on a mossy plank, arms folded tight, and waits for Bibi to finish her recon, though "recon" means climbing to the top of a rotten post and scoping the city with a rusty spyglass. She looks ridiculous, but at least she isn't talking.
After a few minutes, she slithers down, hands slick with algae, and lands beside him with a grunt.
"Still there," she says, breathing hard. "No change. Two guards on every gate, four on the inner doors. Lots of new flags. And I think Crandall's replaced the roof."
He doesn't look up. "You're obsessed with that roof."
"Because it was blue. Now it's gold."
"Maybe it's a sign," he says, dry.
She snorts. "It's a sign he's got more money than sense. The whole city's sick and dying, and the man's up there retiling with imported gold-leaf."
Kalon shrugs, eyes on the grass. "Why not? He won't live to enjoy it."
Bibi tilts her head, observing him. "You really think we're going to die in there?"
"I think we'll die somewhere," he says. "Maybe today. Maybe in the next three minutes, if you keep talking."
She punches his arm, lightly. "Relax. You've survived worse."
He can't argue that. He's survived everything the world has thrown at him, even the things designed to erase legends like a grease stain from a plate. But this feels different. This feels like walking into a furnace with the hope that maybe, if you scream loud enough, the flames will be polite about it.
He clears his throat. "What's our window?"
Bibi shrugs. "There's a gap in the patrol at shift change, about half an hour before dusk. If we hug the wall and go over the aqueduct, we might reach the outer keep without being spotted."
"And then what?"
She considers. "We improvise."
He closes his eyes, as if that might squeeze out a better plan.
"You know the last time someone improvised in Guillemot?" he says. "They turned the canal red. The city banned fish for a year."
Bibi laughs. "That was me."
He stares at her.
She grins, pleased. "Long story."
Kalon's stomach twists, but not from the memory. The hunger is back. He hasn't eaten since yesterday, when they split a handful of dried beans and a heel of bread scavenged from a dead man's pack. He wonders if Crandall will even recognize him, who is so changed and thin. He wonders if it matters.
He glances at the sky. "Weather's turning," he says.
Bibi shrugs. "More cover for us. Rain means the guards won't want to chase."
"You hope."
She folds herself next to him, knees up, arms wrapped tight. "You have a better idea?"
He thinks, but the cupboard of his brain is empty. Even if he wanted to run, there's nowhere to go. The bounty has doubled in the last day—eighty gold coins for his head, half that if you bring him in alive. More if you also bring Bibi, though he's pretty sure most people in this city would rather pay to see her kept out of their hair for good.
He watches the fog settle over the city, the haze blurring every sharp edge. It's beautiful, in a way—how the rot, mud, and violence can all be disguised, for a moment, by a thin layer of nothing.
He almost tells Bibi this, but she's picking at a thread on her sleeve.
"You ever wonder why we're doing this?" he asks.
She doesn't answer right away. "You said it yourself," she says finally. "There's nowhere else to go."
He nods. "Still."
She looks at him, eyes bright despite the gloom. "You want to call it off?"
He shakes his head. "No. Just—wanted to hear you say it."
She seems to get it. They sit silently, rain pattering softly against the shed's broken roof.
After a while, Bibi fishes the pastry carton out of her coat and unfolds it, smoothing the greasy creases. She adds a fourth line with a charcoal stub:
4. ?
She taps it. "For luck," she says.
He wants to say no such thing, but lets her have it.
The rain intensifies, and a cold wind whips up the slope, sending both of them shivering.
"You ever wish you could go back?" Bibi asks, his voice so quiet that he almost misses it.
"To what?"
"Before all this. Before being chased. Before fighting in the pits. Before—" she gestures vaguely, encompassing the world.
He thinks of Sandy, Triactis, and the old lives before everything went to hell. He shakes his head.
"I only ever wanted forward," he says.
She looks sad, then covers it with a joke. "That's why you always run into things headfirst?"
He snorts. "It's never killed me."
"Yet."
They both laugh, a sound that doesn't belong in this dead place but refuses to die anyway.
Kalon feels something shift inside him, a click of gears he hasn't known in a long time. Maybe hope, or perhaps just inertia, is pushing him onward because nothing else will.
He stands, brushes the moss and grit from his coat. "If we're going, we should move."
Bibi nods. "Right after the rain stops. It'll be miserable climbing wet walls."
He almost says there's no point in waiting, but then he sees her, shivering just a little, and decides to let her have this comfort.
He sits back down, closer than before, and waits for the clouds to spend themselves.
In the city below, the first bells of the afternoon ring out, muted by the weather.
In the broken shed, two legends wait for their cue.
When the rain finally lets up, Kalon looks at Bibi. "Ready?"
She grins, teeth bright. "Not even close."
He grins back, and for a moment, they are not fugitives, assassins, or monsters.
They are just two people, bracing for the last run of their lives.
Then they shoulder their packs, slip into the fog, and become legends again.
**
The weather mirrors their mood: variable, aggressive, and intent on making everyone miserable. A crosswind comes up the canal and nearly knocks Bibi off the crumbling parapet where she's balancing. She spits into the gale and lets it carry the loathing straight back at the city.
They haven't moved more than two hundred yards since the rain; in that time, the rain has come and gone five times. The only constant is the stench—damp stone, cheap spirits, and the faintest burnt sweetness from the charred shops downwind.
Kalon watches Bibi stalk the perimeter, counting paces with every step, lips moving as she tracks the rotation of the guards. She's a predator today, all wound-up nerves and violent calculation. He finds it endearing, which is reason enough to keep his mouth shut.
She hops down from the parapet and lands in a squat, stretching the tension from her calves. "They've upped the shift change. Every two hours now, and I'm betting it's even less on the inside."
He nods. "Crandall's afraid."
She smiles, all teeth. "He should be."
They sit in the half-collapsed shadow of a temple entrance, sheltered from the worst of the rain. The view of the castle is nearly perfect: a line of new banners, some fresh scaffold marks, and a few clever cordons to keep the rabble out. The outer gate is twice as thick as Kalon remembers.
"Throne room?" Bibi asks.
Kalon considers. "It's never the throne room. Crandall's too smart for that."
"Private office, then. Or maybe his wine cellar. Guy has a thing for fancy alcohol."
He shakes his head. "Higher. Always higher."
She snorts. "You think he's up there right now, watching us?"
"Wouldn't be surprised."
Bibi chews her lip, then pats her coat as if searching for something. She comes up empty, frowns, and searches again, this time with both hands.
Kalon notices. "Lose something?"
"Tiger Climbing Gear," she says, voice level but tight. "Was in my kit bag. I must've left it. Or—" She stops, and then, softer: "No, I know where I left it."
He grins. "You want to scale a castle wall in this weather? Impressive."
She shoves him hard enough to let him know she could do worse. "It's fine. I'll get it."
He grins harder. "You going to put on a disguise?"
"Wasn't planning on it."
"Just walk in and out?"
She raises an eyebrow. "You got a better idea?"
He doesn't. "At least try to keep your face out of sight. Bounty's not going to get smaller."
She cocks her head, mock-thoughtful. "Maybe I'll double back and grab a scarf. Or borrow one off a corpse."
He nods, satisfied. "That's more like it."
They sit in silence, watching the guards cycle through their paces. The wind picks up, tossing rain into their faces. Kalon doesn't bother to wipe it away.
Bibi stands, stretches, and looks at him. "I'll be back in thirty."
He glances at the sky. "Or never."
She grins, then gives him a look—something between trust and a threat. "Don't get sentimental."
He deadpans, "Wouldn't dream of it," but his eyes linger on her face a half-second too long, and he has to force his jaw to unclench after she turns away.
She's gone before the next gust of wind can take her, moving fast and low along the crumbled walls. He loses sight of her at the first bend.
Kalon watches the point where she disappeared, then leans back and waits. The cold finds his bones quickly, but he doesn't care. If she gets caught, it will be because she wants to be.
He turns his attention to the castle. In the new light, it looks more like a prison than a palace. The parapets bristle with the silhouettes of archers, all watching the horizon for threats already slipping past.
He pulls the soggy map of Guillemot from his coat and unfolds it across his knee. The ink bleeds at the corners where raindrops strike. His finger traces the castle's western approach, pausing at the juncture where the old garrison wall meets the new fortifications.
The parchment tears slightly under his touch. Suppose you risk the thirty-foot drop onto those jagged stones, three routes up, maybe four. He refolds the map, tucks it away, and stares at the wall again. Bibi will choose the most dangerous path, he knows. Always does.
**
Bibi expects trouble when she sneaks back into Guillemot, but finds only silence. Even the guttersnipes and drunken pickpockets have vanished, forced inside by a storm that chews at every open window and tears banners from the eaves. She moves like a memory—quick, light, unchallenged—past the deserted amphitheater, across the marketplace littered with broken crates and upturned stalls.
The lack of eyes is almost worse than the alternative. It makes the city feel hollow, every sound amplified, every movement a threat. Her footfalls echo down the lane, crisp and certain, but she hates the noise and herself for making it.
She cuts through a back alley and nearly loses her footing on a patch of slime. The rain is relentless here, pooling in every dip and crevice. When she finally reaches the old shed, she pauses, checks all directions, then slips inside.
The interior is dank, walls buckling under the weight of neglect. Her gear is stashed behind a pile of mildewed tarpaulins, just where she left it. She checks the Muramasa first, fingers lingering on the hilt. It's cold, hungry, but at least it's real. She wraps it in the strip of cloth and tucks it inside her coat. The Tiger Climbing Gear goes over her shoulder.
She lingers for a second. She wants to believe she's just being thorough, but doesn't want to go back outside—not yet. She thinks about Kalon, waiting in the ruins, and wonders if he'll even be there when she returns.
He will, she decides. He's too stubborn to quit now.
She steels herself, checks the alley, and runs the route in reverse—faster this time, eager to be away from the dead city and its ghosts.
Kalon sits hunched under the lip of a ruined arch, a piece of scavenged parchment plastered to the wet ground before him. It's supposed to be a map of Guillemot, but the ink is smudged and half the streets are missing. He's weighted the corners with stones to keep it from blowing away, and spends half his energy keeping the wind from flipping it over.
Every time he glances at the wall, he counts another guard on patrol. He thinks there won't be a single inch of the castle unguarded by dusk at this rate.
He presses a stone down on the final corner, just as the wind catches the edge and tries to roll it up. He curses, pins it harder, and then looks up when the light suddenly dims.
A shadow sweeps over him. Not a guard, not a cloud. Something larger. Kalon squints into the rain and sees, for a split second, a massive silhouette against the sky—wingspan longer than a merchant's skiff, feathers flickering blue-black in the storm. It's a Grand Thunder Bird, the kind that's supposed to nest in the high deserts, hundreds of leagues away.
It disappears as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into the shroud of weather over the city.
Kalon stares, wondering if he imagined it. He's seen a lot of impossible things, but this feels like an omen. Or a warning.
He folds the map, weighs it with the stones, and thinks about Bibi. About how easy it would be to let her climb beside him and risk everything for a plan that isn't hers. About how much he doesn't want to see her die.
He doesn't want to be alone, but wants to be responsible for her even less.
When she returns, he'll tell her. He'll make her wait at the base, or better yet, ask her to run—find a place in the city, wait out the chaos, live through the day if nothing else.
He sits back against the arch and waits for her, the echo of wings still burning behind his eyes.
Bibi moves faster than before, crossing the open square in a dozen heartbeats. The guards are too busy cursing the weather to notice her, and she returns to the temple ruins without incident.
She finds Kalon where she left him, looking even more miserable.
He doesn't smile at her arrival, but she can see the relief in his posture.
She tosses the Tiger Climbing Gear at his feet. "Got it. Even got my sword."
He nods. "Good."
She sits next to him, shoulder to shoulder. "You look like you saw a ghost."
He hesitates, then says, "Thunder Bird. Just now. Over the wall."
She laughs, not unkindly. "Maybe it's a sign."
He shakes his head. "Or a distraction."
They sit in silence, the storm pounding the stone overhead.
Kalon glances at her, then away. "I want you to wait."
She blinks. "What?"
"When I climb," he says. "You stay here. Or in the city, if you have to."
She stares at him, and a protest is starting.
He cuts her off. "I'll do better alone."
She folds her arms, jaw tight. "You're full of shit."
He almost smiles. "Probably. But I don't want to see you hurt."
She wants to argue, but the look on his face makes her stop.
She nods once and doesn't say anything more.
They sit together, waiting for the hour to come.
Outside, the rain slows, the city sharpens its focus, and the sky waits for someone to make the first move.
**
By the time Bibi returned, the storm has abated, leaving the world slick and gleaming as if freshly minted. Her hair is plastered to her forehead, streaked with grime, and her eyes are sharper than ever. She dumps the Tiger Climbing Gear at Kalon's feet, then leans against the wall with exaggerated exhaustion.
"Your turn," she says, grinning through her heavy breaths.
Kalon shrugs. "You make it look easy."
"Maybe it is. For people who plan."
She watches him, waiting for a retort. He has none. He feels slow and heavy, and the morning's resolve is bleeding out with the storm.
He notices the Muramasa at her hip, the hilt glinting red in the afterlight. "Thought I said you weren't coming," he says.
She shrugs, not meeting his gaze. "Thought you might need it."
He takes this in and then bends to inspect the climbing gear. It's in perfect condition, with every strap and hook cleaned and tested. She's already done the hard work.
He fastens the harness around his chest, double-checks the buckles. "If I reach the window, I'll toss it back down. You'll need it if you have to bail."
Bibi shakes her head. "I'm not going anywhere."
He ignores this and scans the castle wall for the best line. There's only one window with a light burning behind it, high and east-facing, well out of reach for anyone without serious equipment.
"Crandall's up there," Kalon says.
She nods. "He's a coward, but a predictable one."
Kalon grins. "That's why you like him."
She snorts, then turns serious. "You sure you want to do this alone?"
He doesn't answer directly. "You ever seen a Grand Thunder Bird outside the desert?"
She blinks. "No. Why?"
"Just did. Before you got back."
She processes this, lips pressed tight. "That's not good."
"No."
They both stare at the window, silent.
Finally, Bibi stands and moves close. "If you die, I'm going to be really pissed."
He almost laughs. "You'll have to get in line."
She looks down, then at him, eyes shining but hard as flint. "You're really going to make me stay here."
He nods. "I don't want to drag you up there. You deserve better."
She puts a hand on his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. "You deserve better, too."
He doesn't reply. Instead, he picks up the climbing gear and tests its weight in his hands.
She shifts awkwardly, then pulls the Muramasa free and holds it out to him. The blade is narrow, perfectly balanced, and impossibly sharp. "Take it," she says, voice steady. "I want you armed."
Kalon takes the sword, tests its grip, then shakes his head. "It's not my style."
She stares at him, a thousand protests dying on her lips.
He presses the blade back into her hand. "Keep it safe for me."
She clutches it to her chest, knuckles white.
He turns, faces the wall, and readies the first line.
Bibi speaks, voice thin as glass: "Come back."
He nods, once, then drives the hook into the mortar and starts to climb.
She watches him, every muscle tense, sword cradled tight. He doesn't look back.
When he disappears over the first ledge, she lets herself breathe, slow and shaky.
She wipes her eyes, then sets her jaw. If he fails, she'll have to finish the job herself.
But for now, she waits.
**
The climb is worse than Kalon expects. The wind is a live thing, claws raking his hands raw. The stones are slick, seams of green moss slithering under his boots. Twice, he nearly loses his grip; once, he does, but the hook catches, the harness snaps his fall, and he dangles for thirty seconds while cursing everything that led him to this moment.
When he reaches the illuminated window, his arms are jelly and his mouth tastes like pennies. He wedges himself onto the tiny ledge, presses his back flat, and risks a glance inside.
It's a museum, or maybe a joke about museums. The walls are hung with weaponry—longswords, axes, polearms—each displayed with an almost religious devotion. But even in the dim, Kalon sees the truth: they're all fakes. Excalibur gleams gold and blue, but its edge is dull, the runes stenciled on. The Night's Edge is too bright, the colors too garish, like a child's sword drawing. Even the Biome Blade is a cheap knockoff, its handle wrapped in mismatched leather strips.
At the far end, above a fireplace roaring with enough heat to dry a corpse, is a single blade that does not look like a toy. The Terra Blade. He recognizes it from the old stories—a living edge, humming with its own light, blade shifting between green and cobalt as if the air is breathing.
He checks the room for guards but finds none. He waits a full minute, his heartbeat loud as a bell, then swings inside.
The warmth is shocking after the climb. He lands in a crouch, arms ready, but nothing stirs. No alarms, no shouts. Just the hiss of the fireplace in the center of the room.
He moves to the Terra Blade and inspects the mount. It's hung on a pair of iron hooks, blade resting on a rack just above a carpet. There's a pressure plate under the rug—classic, but effective. He lifts the carpet with his foot, tests the plate, then draws the sword in one smooth motion and leaps clear.
The weight is perfect. The blade vibrates, as if hungry.
A grinding sound starts overhead. He looks up just in time to see a section of the ceiling fall—a boulder crashes into where he stood.
He rolls, comes up ready, and then everything goes still again.
He tucks the blade against his arm, ducks behind the nearest display, and waits.
Above him, a scream splits the air. Not human—something avian, massive, full of agony. The whole castle shudders, dust drifting from the rafters. Something heavy slams into the roof, hard enough to send cracks spiderwebbing down the walls.
He peeks out the window. The rain has returned, slicing the world into fragments. For a moment, he sees a blue-black wing, the size of a fishing net, flapping wildly above the parapet.
The Grand Thunder Bird. It's landed—crashed—on the castle roof.
Kalon doesn't know if it's a sign, a trap, or both. But Crandall isn't in this room, and the noise will draw every guard in the city to the upper floors.
He slips the Terra Blade into the climbing harness, then re-hooks himself to the window frame. The wind tears at his coat as he hauls himself outside.
He looks up at the roofline, three stories above, and sees flashes of movement—feathers, maybe, or the silhouettes of men.
There's only one way to find out.
He starts to climb.
**
Kalon reaches the top of the keep at midnight, or what passes for dawn in a sky carved open by storm. Rain knives sideways across the ancient stones, shredding the flags to ribbons and scraping ice off every exposed edge. He hauls himself onto the slanted roof, boots scraping for purchase, and for a moment just stands there—arms wide for balance, head down, like a penitent forced to weather the elements as punishment.
The wind threatens to unmake him. It's no exaggeration: the gusts here are not normal, not even for a castle built by the mad. They sound like a hundred animal throats in chorus, each singing a different hymn of pain. The rain is so cold it numbs his face inside a minute, but at least it scours the blood from his arms. When he looks up, blinking salt and ice from his eyes, he finds the roof already populated.
Not by the living, at first. A Grand Thunder Bird, dead for less than a moment, sprawls across the parapet like a downed ship. It's a horror even in death: a vulture the size of a carriage, wings shredded to cords, talons curling around the broken finials. Its eyes are gone, pecked out or simply dissolved by the weather. Lightning has burned a ragged hole through its chest, and every few seconds the cavity lights up with blue flame—leftover charge or some bastard miracle of muscle memory. The smell is thunder and rot, and Kalon nearly gags before the wind snatches it away.
But something else is atop the keep, perched behind the broken bird, hunched against the scouring rain.
It takes Kalon a moment to process. The shape is human but wrong—tall, too narrow at the waist, every limb built for aerodynamics and violence. It moves with a jerk, then huddles lower, as if making itself a target is against its programming. He recognizes the silhouette with a flood of bad memories.
The Grand Harpy, Jensen.
She's in worse shape than he is. One wing is half-torn, feathers soaked and crusted with blood. Her hands flex on the stone, knuckles raw. She must have been here all night, hiding or staking out the corpse for a reason only harpies understood. She's not looking at him—yet.
Kalon thinks about calling out and announcing himself, but the wind and rain kill that idea. Instead, he moves in slow, careful steps, circling the bird's corpse, hands open and empty. He's not here for a fight; even if he was, the footing is garbage.
He's halfway across the roof before Jensen reacts. Her head snaps up, predator eyes fixing on his chest. Even at this distance, he can see the twitch in her jaw. She doesn't yet bare her teeth, but her hands curl into claws and her stance shifts from cringing to ready. The harpy's entire body seems to vibrate, hungry for a reason.
He stops outside arm's reach, leaning into the wind so the gale doesn't topple him.
She stares, eyes unblinking. "You," she says, and the word is thick with phlegm and hatred. "Why are you here?"
Kalon shrugs, not trusting his voice against the elements. "Same as you, probably. Nowhere else to go."
Jensen sneers. "Bullshit. The monster always returns to the scene." She glances past him, scanning for backup. "I figured you'd be dead. Or hiding behind your whore."
He keeps his expression flat. "I'm not here for you. I want Crandall." This is half-true, but it's all he's willing to offer.
She spits, a long rope that whips away before it lands. "He's not coming up. He's holed up with the real warriors, and you can't get to him." She shifts her weight, testing the ruined wing, and winces. "I should kill you now. Save the world the trouble."
He snorts, but makes no move. "You could try."
Jensen's eyes glitter. She flexes, tensing for a leap, but instead she starts talking—voice rising over the wind, every word serrated. "You know what they call you, up in Winterfloat? The eater. The thing that can't be sated. Doesn't matter if you kill a hundred, or a thousand, you'll keep chewing until there's nothing left."
He lets her talk. The storm does most of the work—still, the words sting.
She keeps going, a litany of old wounds and new insults: "You're not even a legend—just a dog with the taste for blood. I heard about you in the arena. Heard you rip the skull open and claw your way out of death like it was nothing. They talk about it, you know. How you don't care about anyone, how you left your own bitch to die because she slowed you down."
Kalon's teeth grind together. "Repeat her name," he says, too quiet for her to hear, or maybe just for himself.
Jensen laughs, high and ugly. "What, the whore? Brianne, right? Thought she could fix you?"
He steps forward, just a fraction, but Jensen moves first. She's fast, even with a torn wing. The harpy launches off the corpse of the Grand Thunder Bird, using the roof's slope for leverage. Her claws catch his jacket, raking across his ribs, and he's forced back, heels skidding on wet tile. She tries to drive him to the edge, but he spins, plants a hand on her shoulder, and shoves.
Jensen almost loses her grip, but hooks a talon into his thigh. The pain is white-hot, an electric shock up the leg. Kalon raises his fist in a tight, controlled arc, catching her in the chin. The impact cracks, dull and wet, but the harpy doesn't let go.
She hisses, her breath steaming, and slams her forehead into his. There's a crunch of cartilage, and for a moment, both of them are stunned, noses leaking blood in the rain.
Kalon shakes it off first. He claws at her wrist, finds the pulse, and squeezes. She tries to rake his eyes, but he jerks his head away just in time. Her free hand grabs his climbing harness—the Tiger Climbing Gear—and rips it loose, sending it spiraling over the roof's edge.
For a moment, the balance shifts. Still clinging to his leg, Jensen tries to drag him down with her. She uses the weight to spin her body, bringing both talons into play. The first one rips through his coat, the second gouges his side, just below the ribs. He grunts, more in surprise than pain.
She's stronger than last time. Desperation has given her an edge.
He lets himself fall with her momentum, rolling them both onto the back of the dead bird. The Grand Thunder Bird's feathers are slick with oil and blood, offering enough friction for Kalon to get a knee under Jensen's sternum.
He pins her, both hands wrapped around her throat.
She laughs, a sound made of glass and poison. "Go ahead. Squeeze. You know you want to. That's what you do, isn't it?"
He doesn't squeeze. Instead, he loosens his grip, just enough for her to speak.
Jensen spits blood at his face. "She'll never forgive you. She'll leave you, like they all do. You're not a man. You're just a monster in a man's skin."
He wants to say something. Intends to argue. But there's nothing left.
Jensen goes for the kill, raking her claws across his exposed belly. The pain is real this time, a fire that cuts through the rain, cold, and numbness. She tries to twist free, but he reacts on instinct.
He raises his left arm, jamming the elbow under her chin. She bites at the flesh, teeth sinking deep, but he doesn't flinch. With his right hand, he draws the Terra Blade.
It comes free in a single motion—silent, seamless, as if the sword had been waiting for this. The blade hums, alive and hungry, refracting the storm-light into bands of blue and green.
Jensen's eyes go wide.
Kalon doesn't hesitate. He drives the blade through her midsection, all the way to the hilt. The edge is so sharp it barely resists. Her body goes rigid, then slack.
But she's not done yet. Even as the blood bubbles up in her throat, Jensen claws at his face, her talons cutting grooves into his cheeks, his brow, his lips. She's screaming, but the wind takes it all away.
He twists the sword, just a fraction, and pulls it out.
Jensen's body spasms, folding in the middle. Kalon lifts her torso, one arm around her neck, and for a moment holds her like a broken child.
Then he crushes her throat, all the way, until every bone is powder.
He drops the body onto the bird's corpse. It makes a sick, wet sound, and for a second, he wonders if Jensen's soul will cling to the dead vulture or just ride the next storm out.
Kalon stands up, wipes the blood from his mouth, and looks at the ruin he's made.
It's not satisfying. It's not even a relief.
He's bleeding from half a dozen places, his coat is in rags, and the Tiger Climbing Gear is gone—probably smashed against the castle's foundation by now.
He looks at the sky, rain stinging his face, and thinks of Bibi.
She'll ask about the wounds, he knows. She'll fuss and scold and maybe even patch him up.
He wonders how he'll explain the rest.
Kalon leaves the bodies for the scavengers and starts the climb down, careful to avoid the slickest tiles. The rain washes most of the blood away before he reaches the parapet. By the time he's halfway to the ground, he feels nothing.
But the thought of Bibi—her voice, anger, stubborn insistence that he's worth something—keeps him moving.
He doesn't know what comes next. He doesn't care.
All that matters is that he's still here, still moving, still proving everyone wrong.
He'll deal with the rest when he gets there. Head first.
***
The Bone Sea is a nothingness so complete it feels like a verdict. If you stand on a dune at dawn, you can see five days in every direction, all the color of old ivory and disappointment. Most people who get this far are either running from a debt, running from a death, or, in Davos's case, running a balance sheet for his own trading empire.
He keeps his tent low, pitched not in the dune's crest but in its shadow, where the wind is less likely to sandblast the flesh from your bones. Everything is ordered and immaculate: ledgers stacked in precise columns, bolts of cloth sealed against the crawling dust, bottles wrapped in rags for insulation and silence. The only luxury is a little iron stove, charred inside and out, which smokes like a dying man's cough every night but keeps the chill from setting in his joints. In front of the stove, Davos sits cross-legged, bare feet warmed on a salvaged carpet, a pyramid of coins arrayed at his knees.
He works the coins with speed and care, thumbing each one for the raised stamp of the mint, then stacking them by metal and value. It is more meditation than necessity; Davos knows the exact count by memory, but sorting soothes him in a way nothing else does. Sometimes he imagines the coins as tiny, compliant subjects, each waiting to be placed in its proper slot in the great machine of commerce. He likes that about money: It asks only to be moved, not judged.
The quiet is interrupted by a single, deliberate bootstep on the sand outside the tent. Davos does not look up. The next footfall is louder, less a sound than a declaration. The tent flap rips aside a moment later, and a man walks in like he's buying the place.
He is a wall of human—six-four, easy, and nearly as broad in the shoulder as Hall. The beard is trimmed with military precision, and the mustache is a striking handlebar that splits his upper lip. His gear is half patchwork, half relic: a battered duster bleached near-white by sun and wind, leathers scuffed raw at the seams, a belt heavy with ammunition that says "I do not fire warning shots." In one gloved hand is a revolver the size of a dog's leg; in the other, a sheet of cheap, blue-grey paper, folded once.
Davos shows off by finishing his coin stack before looking up. "You're early," he says, as if greeting an old friend who's habitually late.
The man does not smile. He sets the paper on the rug between them and kneels with a controlled slowness that turns the simple act into a warning. He does not take his eyes off Davos or even brush the sand from his boots.
The merchant lets the silence tick for a beat, then says, "Can I offer you tea, or is this more of a shoot-first situation?"
The man considers, then holsters the revolver without ever letting go. "I'll take the tea," he says, voice low and even, with just a trace of southern drawl. "Less fuss that way."
Davos produces a battered tin from his kit, measures out two spoonfuls, and pours hot water from a kettle nested atop the stove. He sets both cups on the rug, then unfolds the paper.
As he expected, it is a wanted poster. The etching is crude, but the bone structure and mouth set are unmistakable.
Kalon, alive.
Davos sips his tea, lets the bitterness settle, and then looks at the man. "Arin Beauregard," he says. "The Divine Marksman. Didn't think they'd send you this far east."
Arin shrugs, the movement as deliberate as his walk. "I go where the contract is. And there's good money on this one."
"Is there ever bad money?" Davos asks, not really joking.
Arin grins, but only for the fraction it takes to show all the teeth. "If there is, I haven't found it."
They drink in silence for a moment, the only sound the soft hiss of the stove and the faint, arrhythmic pulse of wind against the canvas.
Arin is the first to break. "They say you saw him. The Warmonger."
Davos's fingers pause on a silver coin. He glances up, weighing the lie and discarding it. "Caught the northbound passage to Guillemot with my caravan. Barely spoke ten words the whole journey until we hit Ashpine Watch." His voice drops. "Harpy attack. An important-looking harpy, it seemed. Would've lost everything if he hadn't..." He trails off, rotating the coin between his fingers. "Never asked for payment. Never explained himself."
Arin does not react. "He's alone?"
"Not sure," Davos says. "But he draws trouble like a lantern draws flies. You'll have to move fast."
The bounty hunter scratches at his jaw, then produces a coin from his pocket—a bright, new-mint gold, embossed with the twin scales of Apollonia. He spins it across his knuckles, eyes never leaving Davos's face. "You know what he did to get this kind of price?"
"I've heard stories," Davos says. "But stories are all I trade in, these days."
Arin leans forward, revolver resting casually across his knee. "Indulge me."
Davos sighs. "They say he tore through the pits like a man possessed. Not that I saw it myself, you understand. Word travels. The Skeletron Prime—that mechanical monstrosity Crandall was so proud of—came apart at the seams. Witnesses claim Kalon didn't even look back as the flames took hold. Just walked away. Left the arena to burn." He shrugs, palms up. "At least, that's the version that reached me out here. Who knows what really happened?"
When he finishes, Arin is silent for a long time. The bounty hunter's face is impassive, but Davos notes the microtwitch at the corner of his left eye, the way his fingers drum against the revolver's grip.
"You believe he's a monster," Arin says, finally.
"I believe he's a man who's tired of being used," Davos replies. "That makes him dangerous. But not irredeemable."
Arin grunts, noncommittal. "If he's so tired of being used, why hasn't he vanished? A legend could crawl into a dozen holes in the world and never be found."
Davos shrugs. "Maybe he's looking for a reason not to disappear."
Arin tips his head, as if acknowledging a point in chess. "Maybe. Or maybe he's just waiting for a better offer."
He stands, draining the last of his tea in one swallow, and sets the cup back on the rug with precise care. "Appreciate the hospitality," he says, though his tone is neutral. "And the information."
Davos nods. "Next time, knock."
Arin's mouth quirks, just enough to signal that next time, he might. He pulls the tent flap aside, steps into the blinding light, and is gone.
Davos sits for a while, savoring the residual warmth of the stove and the oddly satisfying hum of the encounter. He counts the coins again, resets the stacks, and then takes the wanted poster, folds it, and tucks it into the seam of his ledger. It would be worth something, someday, to someone. Everything was, in the end.
Outside, Arin squints into the white-hot daylight, eyes adjusting instantly. He scans the horizon—nothing but dunes and the distant mirage of the trade outpost, but he knows how the world works. If Kalon is out there, he won't be alone for long.
He checks his revolver, verifies the cylinder, then tucks the gun away. For a moment, he just stands, letting the wind whip his duster against his boots. Then, with the slow inevitability of a man who has never once lost the scent, he turns toward the north and starts walking.
There is no such thing as a perfect hunt. There is only the waiting, the watching, the certainty that, sooner or later, every legend comes due.
Arin whistles a single, flat note, then disappears into the heat haze, the sun already erasing his tracks before the sand has time to remember them.
The city of Guillemot simmers far ahead of him, waiting for the next story.
And somewhere ahead, Kalon walks his own road, the price on his head growing larger by the hour.
The world keeps moving, as it always does.
And the only currency that ever mattered was time.
Chapter 17: Foiled Twice
Chapter Text
A week crawls by, dragging Kalon and Bibi with it, one miserable hour at a time. They make their den just beyond the worst of Guillemot’s patrols, in a tangle of caves above the Bleached Flats, the only shelter the Bone Sea offers. Each sunrise is a dare from the world to keep living; each sunset, a dare to stop.
Kalon usually doesn’t move until Bibi throws something at his head. Today it’s a crust of bread, rock-hard and half-moldy, but he still catches it with the lazy reflex of a man who once dodged arrows for breakfast.
She stomps in, hair windblown, cheeks striped with mud and dried blood that’s probably not hers. Her arms cradle a battered basket full of random loot—half a rabbit, a bottle of red goo, several unlabeled vials, and what looks like a zombie’s arm.
He doesn’t ask. He’s learned not to.
Instead, he gnaws the crust and waits for the usual inventory speech.
Bibi dumps the basket on a flat rock, rummages, and holds up a red potion. “This one’s better than the last batch. It doesn’t even taste like shit.” She uncorks it, sniffs, recoils, then shrugs and hands it to him. “Drink.”
He does. It tastes exactly like shit, with an aftershock of licorice and slime. For a moment, his insides sizzle, then the heat blooms up his chest and out his fingers, sealing over the worst of the wounds of Jensen’s claws.
He wipes his mouth and hands back the bottle. “I don’t think you’re supposed to chug these.”
Bibi sets her jaw. “You can’t overdose on healing. Not unless you’re a zombie.” She shakes the zombie arm for emphasis, then tosses it into the basket. “You want to be a zombie?”
Kalon shrugs. “Might be easier.”
“Not for me.” She sits, stretches her legs, and pops a knuckle with grim efficiency. “You were out of it for six hours this time. I almost had to cauterize your side with the sword.”
“You could have used firewood,” he says.
She looks at him, flat. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
He nods, because it isn’t really a joke. She’s the only reason he’s still breathing.
They sit together in the cold. Bibi counts her coins, palming each one with the brisk movement of a street dealer. Kalon tries not to watch her hands, but he’s fascinated anyway. The way she flips, weighs, and even stacks them into precise towers is a ritual, a way to pretend the world is ordered.
He wonders what she’s counting up to, or if she just likes the sound.
She finishes, satisfied. “You’re stable enough. We should talk about the plan.”
He looks away. “The plan failed.”
“So we make a new one.” She picks a beetle out of the bread and flicks it away. “We won’t get another shot at the king if we keep waiting.”
He stays silent, grinding the crust between his teeth.
She sighs, leans forward. “You going to do the silent martyr thing all week? Or will you help me figure out how to get us both out of this alive?”
He wants to tell her there’s no such thing. Not for people like them. But he can’t say it, so he lets her talk.
“Crandall’s still in the city,” she says. “The bounty’s over doubled, and I heard a rumor that a harpy tried to eat the body off the roof but died from the poison in the king’s blood.” She grins, sharp. “You’re not the only monster around.”
He almost smiles.
She drops the smile, sudden and surgical. “I don’t care if you want to die, Kalon. I just want to know if you plan to drag me down when it happens.”
He looks at her, really looks. She’s thinner, not by much, than when they met, face hollowed out, but eyes still burning like the first time he saw them across the pit. He wants to say something comforting, but it won’t come.
He settles for honesty. “I thought you’d leave.”
She blinks, surprised. “I’m not the one who tried to run off in the middle of the night.”
He shakes his head. “You’re stubborn.”
“So are you.” She snatches the bottle, refills it with rainwater from a gutter bucket, and sets it back in the basket. “That’s why we work. Now, will you help me plan, or will I have to go in there alone and get my head torn off?”
He stares at the cave roof, counting the lines where old water flows left their mark. “I failed. I got us nothing. I left you behind.”
She’s quiet for a second, then: “You killed Jensen.”
He frowns. “That wasn’t the job.”
She snorts. "Well, you still managed to kill something. Guess that counts for half credit in the Kalon Handbook of Failed Missions."
He closes his eyes and tries remembering what it felt like to have a purpose beyond survival. “I can try again.”
She nods, accepting the offer without ceremony. “We’ll try again. But this time, we do it my way.”
He glances at her, skeptical.
She points at him with the zombie arm. “No more solo acts. No more martyr routine. If you even think about leaving me again, I’ll break your other leg.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You broke my leg?”
She grins, unrepentant. “Had to keep you still somehow. You’re a terrible patient.”
He almost laughs, but it comes out as a cough.
She hands him a strip of dried rabbit, then tears off a piece for herself. They chew in silence, partners in misery and bad ideas.
After a while, Bibi leans back and looks at the sky. “You ever get tired of this?”
“What?”
“The running. The fighting. The way it never ends.”
He thinks about it. “Not tired. Just...numb.”
She nods, as if this is an acceptable answer.
He wonders, not for the first time, if she ever regrets not killing him in the pit. If she wished, she’d just taken the contract and moved on.
As if reading his mind, she says, “You’re the only thing in this world that’s ever made sense to me. Doesn’t matter if it’s a good idea or not.”
He feels the words in his chest, more effective than any potion.
They finish the meal. She counts her coins again. He sharpens a stick into a crude knife, just in case. The sun sets, and the world goes cold.
He closes his eyes, and for a moment, imagines a future where they’re not running, where they can sit by a fire and just exist.
It’s a nice thought.
But when he opens his eyes, the only thing waiting is another day, another desperate plan, and the woman who refuses to let him go.
It’ll have to be enough.
**
A week of dull healing becomes two. By the fourteenth day, even Kalon can no longer find new wounds to justify lying in the cave, hiding from the world’s demands. The gashes have closed, the bruises yellowed, even the rage is starting to scab over.
Bibi spends the morning in a frenzy—she bakes the last of their scavenged bread, boils a liter of mysterious stew, and washes the bloodstains from Kalon’s coat with such force that she nearly tears the seams. When done, she hurls the coat at his face, a ceremonial slap to the ego.
“You’re fit,” she says. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”
He tries, half-heartedly. “My ribs still hurt.”
“They should. I set them with a tent stake.” She dusts her hands, inspects the stew, and then turns on him with all the heat of a midday sun. “You know what hurts more than broken ribs?”
He waits.
“Being left alone to finish the job.” Her voice doesn’t waver, but her jaw is tight enough to crack a bottle.
He swallows the urge to argue. “You wouldn’t have liked it up there.”
She walks over and plants herself in front of him. “I wouldn’t have liked dying in on top of some idiot’s castle either, but at least then I’d have company.”
He has no retort.
She softens, just a little. “Don’t ever do that again.”
He wants to promise, but knows better than to offer anything so fragile.
“Okay,” he says.
She glares a second longer, then, without warning, pulls him into a hug. It is not gentle, not careful—it is a full-body tackle that used to leave him breathless when Sandy tried it. He stands there, arms pinned at his side, as she squeezes every molecule of air from his lungs.
Eventually, she lets go, and he stumbles, blinking.
“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he manages.
She grins, wolf-bright. “I’ve been saving it.”
He picks up the coat and runs his thumb along the mended seams. “Thank you,” he says, too quiet to speak.
She waves it off. “Just returning the favor for all those times you kept me from bleeding out.”
He slips the coat on and inspects the fit. It’s a bit snug in the shoulders, but he’s learned not to complain.
She sits, ladles out two steaming bowls of stew, and hands him the bigger one. “We need to talk about the plan,” she says, as if nothing else has happened.
He nods, eats, and tries not to think about how much he’d missed real food.
“We go tonight,” she says. “They’ve doubled the guard, but only on the main roads. You still remember the aqueduct run?”
He closes his eyes, recalls every stone and every blind spot. “Yeah.”
“We stick together, move fast. I’ll handle the locks; you handle anyone who gets in the way. No solo heroics.”
He smirks. “You sure you can keep up?”
She snorts. “Last time, I beat you to the wall by three minutes.”
He can’t argue with that.
She spoons more stew, then leans forward, voice dropping. “They put a five-platinum bounty on us. Not just you. Me, too.”
He blinks. “You?”
She shrugs. “They must have figured out I was the only one smart enough to pull you out of the castle roof alive.”
The thought unsettles him. For all his sins, he never wanted to drag anyone else into the same hole. He tries to imagine what Bibi would look like on a wanted poster, but all he sees is her eyes—too alive, too knowing, too stubborn to ever sit still on a piece of paper.
“They’re making a mistake,” he says.
She nods, solemn. “They always do.”
He finishes his stew and sets the bowl aside. “What about the sword?” he asks.
She gestures at the basket, where the Terra Blade sits wrapped in oilcloth. “I cleaned it. Sharpened, too. It’s ready.”
He reaches for it, hands reverent. The blade hums in his palm, hungry for the blood it was made to spill.
She watches him, unreadable. “You ever wonder if it’s worth it?” she says.
He doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know how.
She stands, dusts off her pants, and grabs her pack. “Maybe we’ll find out today,” she says.
He stands too, slinging the Terra Blade over his shoulder. It feels heavier than he remembers.
As they leave the cave, she stops him at the entrance. “If you try to die again,” she says, “I’ll kill you myself.”
He almost smiles, and this time, it nearly hurts.
“Deal,” he says.
She bumps her shoulder against his as they walk, and for a second, the world feels less like a trap and more like a dare.
They move down the ridge, shadows blending, hearts ticking double-time.
Today, they finish the job.
**
Arin Jude Beauregard IV, renowned among the Bounty Guilds as the Divine Marksman, spends his seventh day in Guillemot exactly the way he’d spent the first six: being ignored, lied to, and very occasionally threatened by people half his size.
He hates this city. Hates its stink, its smug sense of danger, hates how its criminals hold court with the same smugness as the so-called “legitimate” authorities. Most of all, he hates that, for all his reputation, nobody here cares about who he is.
“Go back to Athenia, poser,” spits the latest informant, a kid with too many teeth and a face that looks like it’s been rearranged by malice and bad luck. “We don’t talk to lawdogs here.”
Arin shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He palms the silver coin he’d been offering and flicks it into the nearest sewer grate.
The kid’s eyes follow the coin down, then narrow as if blaming Arin for the laws of gravity.
He leaves the informant to his misery and moves on, boots squelching in the city’s perpetual stew of mud and shit and old wine. The next stop is the arena ruins, where the Organizer is said to keep court even after the fighting pits collapsed. Arin doesn’t believe in ghosts but in tenacity, so he follows the rumors and soon finds the skeleton businessman leaning against a blackened column, counting something only skeletons can count.
Arin approaches, hands in the open. “Looking for someone,” he says. “Guy by the name of Kalon.”
The Organizer doesn’t turn, but a ripple goes through the bones—an acknowledgement, or maybe just a chill. “You’re the fourth today,” it says. “Try the docks.”
Arin snorts. “Been. He’s not there. You see him, or not?”
The Organizer rattles, which Arin decides is probably a laugh. “Saw him in the pit. After that, nothing. That’s how it is with legends. Here, then gone.”
He wants to argue, but arguing with the dead feels like tempting fate. He leaves the ruins, mood darker than before.
By dusk, he’s at the only place in Guillemot where he feels remotely comfortable: the Tavern, a bar so disreputable that even the rats come armed. He finds a spot at the counter, plants his elbows, and orders two shots of whatever passes for whiskey.
The barkeep, a slab-faced man with a balding head and a smile too broad to be genuine, pours the drinks and slides them over. “First one’s on the house,” he says. “You look like you need it.”
Arin downs the shot in one go, lets it burn away the day’s frustration. “You ever see a guy called Kalon come through?” he asks.
The barkeep eyes him, then leans in. “You’re not a local, are you?”
Arin shrugs. “Does it matter?”
The man’s smile shrinks, just a little. “Names Bruce. I remember most of those who came through here, especially those who asked too many questions.” He pours the second shot and slides it over. “But you, I remember from somewhere else. Wayland’s apprentice, back in the day?”
Arin blinks, taken aback. “That was years ago.”
Bruce’s smile warms a degree. “Wayland’s still around. Says you’re the only apprentice he’s ever had who broke more blades than you forged. Used to come in here and complain about it all night.”
Arin grins, against his will. “He hated me. Always said I was wasting his time.”
Bruce pours himself a shot, tosses it back. “He hates everyone. Means you left an impression.” He sets the bottle down, face serious. “Wayland’s been talking about a guy who needed a sword fixed. Some kind of legend. Sounds like your mark.”
Arin’s stomach sinks. “You think he knows where Kalon is?”
Bruce shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just happy to have company. Either way, it’s a place to start.”
Arin hesitates, then shakes his head. “If I show up, he’ll slam the door in my face. He hates bounty hunters more than anyone.”
Bruce laughs. “Then go as a smith. You still got the hands for it?”
Arin looks at his fingers, thick and callused, scarred from years in the forge. “Maybe.”
Bruce wipes a mug with a rag, then leans in. “Look, pal. If it’s really that important, you do what you have to. The world’s full of people looking for Kalon right now, but only a few are looking for you. Don’t waste it.”
Arin nods, finishes his drink, and stands. “Thanks,” he says, voice thick.
Bruce grins, back to his old self. “Next one’s half price.”
Arin steps outside into the freezing night, breath fogging in the air. He thinks about seeing Wayland, but the idea curdles his stomach. Instead, he walks the city for an hour, then two, letting the rhythm of his steps calm him.
By midnight, he’s circling the castle. The guards are doubled, every window is lit, and the roof is still scorched from the fire that killed the harpy and the Thunder Bird. Arin stares at the battlements, wondering what kind of power could kill two of the world’s most dangerous creatures in a single night.
He pulls the poster from his coat—Kalon’s face, black ink on grey paper, eyes like a razor's edge. He doesn’t hate the guy. Hell, he barely knows him. But a job is a job.
He folds the poster, stuffs it in his pocket, and turns toward the castle’s side entrance, which only smiths and servants use.
He’s not a smith anymore, not really. But maybe, for tonight, he can pretend.
He squares his shoulders, walks up to the gate, and knocks.
Somewhere inside, a legend is waiting to be caught.
And Arin’s ready to meet him, failure or not.
**
The day after, the city is alive in a way that feels like a trap. Every street is jammed with people—hawkers, thieves, pious men with their heads down, and mothers dragging sticky children by the wrist. For once, Kalon’s face isn’t the most wanted thing on the street. It’s just another hungry, half-healed shadow in a world made of them.
He and Bibi weave through the market, letting the press of bodies hide their urgency. There’s a pulse to the crowd, a throb of tension as news of the doubled bounty leaks from mouth to ear to eye. More than one pair of eyes lingers on them, but nobody is brave enough to test the rumor.
Still, the pace is glacial. Every corner is a bottleneck, every alley clogged with the detritus of the city’s need to feel alive. Kalon’s nerves fray by the minute. The urge to just start running, to cut a path through the crush, gnaws at him like a fever.
Bibi senses it, pulls him back whenever he drifts too close to a clear avenue. “Last time you rushed, you got a harpy on your head,” she mutters.
He grunts, but lets her steer. She’s right. She usually is.
When the crowd finally thins, they find themselves on the old ironwork street, where the foundries and forges cluster like tumors against the castle wall. The stench of slag and fire is so thick it feels like wearing a wet rag over your face. Most shops are closed, shutters chained from the inside, but a few diehards hammer away in the ruins of their ambition.
Wayland’s shop is the last on the lane, a squat brick hut with a sign that once read “Fine Steel” but now says only “ine eel.” Wayland himself is outside, sitting on a barrel, face flushed and eyes red. He’s drunk, but not so far gone that he overlooks Kalon and Bibi the moment they pass.
“Kalon!” he slurs, trying to rise, nearly tripping over the hem of his leather apron. “You—hrrk—you got the sword?”
Bibi freezes, half a step ahead. Kalon contemplates ignoring Wayland, but there’s no point. The man is loud enough to raise the dead.
He turns, forces a polite nod. “Wayland.”
Wayland blinks, then squints at Bibi. “You’re the girl from the bar. The one with the, uh—” he waves his hand, as if this will conjure the memory “—the knives.”
Bibi smiles, thin and sharp. “Good to see you upright, old man.”
Wayland beams, then looks back at Kalon. “Listen, I, uh, I owe you an apology. Tried to fix your blade, but it’s beyond me. Couldn’t even fuse the pieces. Not with what I got.” His voice cracks. “I thought, maybe, if I got you something else, you’d—” He stops, suddenly aware that he’s talking too much.
Kalon grunts. “It’s fine.”
Wayland’s face falls. “No, it’s not. You deserve better. You were—” He glances at Bibi, then lowers his voice. “You were the best fighter I ever saw. Don’t see many legends these days.”
Kalon wants to scream, or run, or both. Instead, he nods and turns to go.
But Wayland steps into his path, hand heavy on his arm. “You going to the castle?”
Kalon doesn’t answer.
Wayland’s eyes, suddenly clear, dart to Bibi, then back to Kalon. “Be careful in there. The guards, they—” He hesitates, then leans in, breath thick with cheap beer. “They’re not all human, you know. Some of them come in at night. Don’t eat, don’t sleep. Just wait.”
Bibi’s eyes narrow. “What kind?”
Wayland shudders. “The kind that walk through walls. Don’t trust the doors.”
Kalon nods, files it away. “Thanks.”
He tries again to move, but Wayland won’t let go. “You got someone with you, right? Don’t go alone.” He grins, awkward. “Even the monsters bring friends these days.”
Bibi snorts, but there’s no humor in it.
Wayland finally lets go, staggering back to his barrel. He sits, head in hands, and mutters something neither of them catches.
They move on, but the delay has cost them. The street is emptier now, every window an eye, every shadow a threat.
They’re nearly to the castle gate when a familiar voice cuts through the haze.
“Well, well,” says Arin, stepping from an alley with the grace of a man who’s been waiting all his life for this moment. “Didn’t think you’d show your faces in daylight.”
Kalon sizes him up. Broad, barrel-chested, arms like bridge cables. The kind of man who makes a career out of hurting people, but is too bright to show it unless necessary.
Arin grins, all teeth. “Don’t bother running. I already told the guards you were coming.”
Bibi’s hand drops to her belt, but Arin doesn’t flinch.
“I’m not here to fight,” Arin says. “Just want a word. Three, actually.”
Kalon waits.
“Five platinum coins,” Arin says, holding up a hand. “That’s what they’re offering. Each.”
Kalon nods. “You want to split it?”
Arin laughs, delighted. “I like you.”
Bibi, deadpan: “He’s not as funny as he thinks.”
Arin ignores her, stepping closer. “Look. We can do this the hard way or the easy way. But I’d rather not waste bullets on legends.”
Kalon glances at Bibi, then back at Arin. “You really think you can take us?”
Arin shrugs. “Don’t have to. Just have to keep you busy until the guards arrive.”
Bibi sighs. “You’re an idiot.”
Arin grins, but there’s no cruelty in it. “Maybe. But I’m a paid idiot.”
Wayland, from his barrel: “Let them go, Beauregard. Nobody needs more blood tonight.”
Arin doesn’t look back. “You owe me, Wayland. Remember?”
Wayland spits. “I owe you a kick in the teeth, is what I owe.”
Kalon shakes his head. “Can we get this over with?”
Arin nods, steps aside. “Ladies first.”
Kalon steps forward, but Wayland lurches from his barrel, stumbling between them and the castle. His face is flushed crimson, sweat beading on his forehead despite the evening chill.
"No, you can't—" he slurs, planting his feet wide to block their path. "Didn't tell you 'bout the sewers yet. They're using the sewers." He grabs Arin's sleeve with blackened fingers. "Tell 'em what you saw down there, Beauregard."
Arin's jaw tightens. "Move, old man."
"Not till you listen!" Wayland's voice cracks, drawing glances from the few remaining passersby. "Got more to say. Important things. Vital things."
Bibi shoots Kalon a look that could curdle milk. The castle looms above them, windows glowing amber against the darkening sky, but for now, they're anchored to this drunken blacksmith and his desperate need to be heard.
None of them wants to be there.
None of them has a choice.
And all of them know it’s going to end badly.
**
The hour with Wayland drains every last spark of patience from Kalon, and Bibi’s eyes are half-lidded with sleep when he finally says, “We really have to be somewhere.” Having just spent sixty minutes in the company of a man he considers both a genius and a coward, Arin would gladly follow anyone if it got him away from the blacksmith’s barrel and his endless supply of stories about “the old days.”
Arin jogs to catch up. “Where are you headed?”
Kalon doesn’t slow. “Castle. King’s got business with us.”
Arin fakes surprise. “He summoned you?”
Bibi, without missing a beat: “We’re just that important.”
Arin almost laughs. “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”
They move through the back streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares where the guards are thickest. Not that it matters; the closer they get to the castle, the fewer guards they see. There’s a tension in the air, a hush that feels less like peace and more like anticipation.
Bibi notices first. “Where is everyone?”
Arin shrugs, playing casually. “Maybe the king’s cleaning house. Heard there was a party last night.”
Kalon grunts, not interested in small talk. He’s hyperfocused, shoulders hunched, gaze scanning every shadow and rooftop for threats.
The castle gate looms, twice as tall as the city’s outer wall, flanked by marble statues of forgotten heroes. The doors are wide open, guards nowhere in sight.
They pause at the threshold, uncertain.
Arin breaks the silence. “Suppose they’re expecting us?”
Bibi grins, and for a moment, the old assassin glimmers through. “I like a party where no one’s left to clean up.”
Kalon nods. “Let’s go.”
***
The throne room is a mausoleum.
Arin stands at the threshold, hand pressed against the old brass, expecting—hoping, really—for the usual gaudy excess: the stink of incense, the click of courtiers, the muffled bickering of politicians convinced of their own immortality. Instead, there is only a silence so complete it hovers like a trap. The chamber beyond is pitch black, the torches along the walls guttered out, and the only light is a watery gray leaking from the high clerestory windows.
He waits for the echo of a challenge, a guard’s bark, but nothing stirs. The door’s hinges squeal as he pushes further. He is halfway across the threshold before he realizes he has stopped breathing.
Behind him, Bibi hisses, “What’s the hold-up?”
Arin doesn’t answer. Instead, he fumbles a glowstick from his coat and strikes it on his nail, the chemical flash sparking a weak, sickly blue. He raises it overhead, squints through the gloom.
The room is crowded, not with the living.
There are two dozen bodies, maybe more, each arranged at their customary seat in the court: the master of coin slumped forward onto his ledgers, two diplomats collapsed in a lover’s knot, Crandall’s jester still grinning, lips peeled back to reveal the tidy cut that parted his throat. There is no sign of a struggle. No one appears to have even risen from their chairs.
Arin staggers back, wind knocked out of him by the sheer wrongness. His heel catches the rug, and he lands hard, one hand instinctively reaching for a gun he didn’t bother to load this morning. He breathes in, coughs, and nearly vomits. The stink is new, not the meat rot, but something sharp, like ammonia.
Bibi crouches beside him, her hands quick on his collar. “Get up. Now.” She tugs, almost drags him out of the open.
He shakes his head, mutely points.
She peers around the edge, squinting. Her face doesn’t change, but her voice goes glassy. “Well, shit.”
It takes a full minute before Kalon appears in the corridor, moving with the smooth, predatory ease of someone for whom the idea of a massacre is neither new nor frightening. He takes in the tableau with a single, clinical sweep.
"We're leaving. Now." Bibi's voice cuts through the silence. Her hand is already on her blade's hilt, knuckles white. Her eyes dart between the bodies and the exits, calculating odds that worsen with each passing second.
Kalon ignores her. He steps into the throne room, boots silent on the threadbare carpet. The light from Arin’s glowstick throws mad shadows across the walls, flickering over the faces of the dead. He inspects the kill work as if checking someone else’s math: no signs of panic, no defensive wounds, just the precision of a blade slipping into flesh with surgical detachment.
He circles the long table, pausing at each body. “This wasn’t poison,” he mutters, voice oddly gentle. “This was personal. Each one—“ He points, “—cut right at the pulse point. They didn’t even see it coming.”
Bibi hovers near the doorway, half-turned to run. “You ever seen anything like this?”
Kalon doesn’t answer. He’s at the room's far end, staring at the raised dais. The king is there, slumped over the arm of the throne. A faint gold line runs across his throat, so thin it could be mistaken for a crease in the flesh. His eyes are open, the color washed out in the dim light.
Arin climbs shakily to his feet, using the table for leverage. “This wasn’t a siege,” he says. “No alarms, no panic in the city. How the hell—?”
Kalon looks over his shoulder, voice low. “Someone let them in.”
As if summoned, a side door on the left wall swings open with a heavy, deliberate clang. The man who steps through is robed in arctic blue, the fabric stitched with lines of frosted silver that catch and fracture the thin light. His beard is long, wax-white, and his hands are pale to the point of translucence, as if he is made of ice and will melt if touched.
He sees them, stops dead, and his face spasms through a half-dozen expressions before settling on polite shock. “I…was not expecting company,” he says.
Kalon turns, expression unreadable. “You always show up to clean up the mess?”
Permafrost—there’s no question who he is, even without the signature marks—smooths his beard, forces a brittle smile. “I was expecting to find a room of corpses, yes. Not…visitors.”
Arin stares at him, gun still loose in his grip. “You're the one who did this?”
Permafrost raises both hands, palms out, as if calming an angry child. “I am an observer. My talents are unsuited to this kind of bluntness.”
Bibi is scanning the walls, probably searching for a way out, but she keeps her tone light. “So who’s the artist?”
Before Permafrost can answer, the room temperature drops. Every window clouds with frost, the glass twisting with feathered rime. A wind pushes through the cracks, dragging the last air out of the space.
The air splits with a sound like tearing silk, and from the wound emerges a column of flame that twists itself into human form, burning away to reveal a new presence in the chamber.
She is young, but only in the way an open flame is young—restless, always on the edge of consuming itself. Her skin is the gray of damp ash, her hair a bleached white that catches the torchlight and multiplies it. Two small but sharp horns protrude from her brow, like a warning. She wears no armor, just a long coat of red so deep it borders on black, and in her left hand is a spear crafted of some shadowy, crimson alloy—the hues of blood along its length pulse with a steady, heart-like glow.
She looks at Kalon, and the tilt of her head is almost affectionate. “You made good time,” she says.
“Who are you?” Kalon replies, neutral to the point of confusion.
She grins. “I was hoping you’d know.”
Arin stares at the woman, trying to place her. Something in her stance—the casual confidence, the way she holds herself at the head of the table with arms relaxed and weight on her heel—reminds him of duelists he's known, the ones who never rush the first move. The horns and ashen skin mark her as something other, but it's the control that unnerves him most. Whatever new terror Yharim has unleashed on the world, she carries herself like she's been practicing for this moment her entire life.
Permafrost steps to the side, careful not to cross her path. “You were not supposed to linger,” he says, almost petulant. “You risk the entire operation—“
Calamitas raises a hand. "They were already dead when I got here," she says, her eyes lingering a beat too long on the frozen court. "The old bastard had it coming, but he died so fast he never even..." she pauses, tapping her bloodless fingertips against her thigh, "...pissed himself." She giggles, the sound practiced and hollow. "I like the scared ones."
Arin takes a step back, unwilling to meet Bibi's gaze. Bibi simply folds her arms, as if to say, "Get on with it."
Kalon doesn’t move. “You’re going to frame us for this,” he says.
Calamitas shrugs. “Not exactly frame. More like…give them a legend to chase.”
Bibi snorts. “You think the world needs more legends right now?”
Calamitas ignores her. “I heard of you, Kalon,” she says, voice dropping to an intimate register. “Yharim’s favorite weapon. You made the world bleed. I’ve spent years dreaming about how to live up to a legend like you.”
He just watches her, face like hammered stone.
She twirls the spear in her fingers, then flips it end over end so fast it seems to vanish, only to reappear aimed at his chest. “You want to be a monster?” she says, her voice dancing between affection and contempt. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”
The javelin launches across the room, a streak of red that hums through the air with a sound like boiling blood. Kalon twists, and the tip grazes his collarbone, cutting through fabric and flesh without resistance. He hisses, then steadies himself, blood soaking into his shirt.
Bibi hurls herself at Calamitas, a black flash of motion, but the witch flicks a finger and Bibi slams into the wall, pinned by some invisible force.
Arin fires his revolver. The bullet strikes Calamitas square in the chest—and then falls, spent, to the floor, as if she is made of something the world refuses to wound.
Calamitas laughs, low and warm. “Cute.”
She draws another spear from thin air, which is bigger and more serrated. She sights down its length at Bibi, then at Arin, then back to Kalon.
"Stop." Permafrost is suddenly between her and the others, arms spread wide, frost crystallizing in the air around his fingertips. His eyes narrow as he studies the tremor in her weapon hand, the way the edges of her form flicker and smolder. "You're losing control again," he says, voice low enough that only she can hear. Then louder: "You've made your point. The world will see what it needs to see."
Calamitas’s face darkens. “Don’t test me, old man.”
Permafrost straightens, his tone shifting to that practiced cadence of exasperated authority. "Calamitas," he says, enunciating each syllable as if it were a separate reprimand, "control yourself. Yharim was quite clear about the parameters of your assignment." He raises a single eyebrow. "Or perhaps you'd prefer I include your... improvisation in my report? Remember what happened last time you disregarded instructions."
For a moment, Arin thinks she will do it anyway. But Calamitas only scowls, shoves the spear into the stone at her feet, and turns her back on them.
“Fine,” she says. “Next time, then.”
Permafrost reaches into his robe and draws out a globe of sky blue crystal. He mutters a word, and the orb flares, illuminating every dead body in the room with a sickly, oceanic glow.
“You should leave,” he says to Kalon, and for the first time, his voice has something like respect.
Kalon nods, then pulls Bibi from the wall. She is dazed but alive, and clings to his sleeve with blood-slick fingers.
Arin watches Calamitas and Permafrost shimmer, then collapse into a single, swirling eddy of mist. The spell is over in a second, but the cold remains.
He follows the others out, stumbling into the corridor. Behind them, the throne room is a charnel house, the legend now written in two dozen dead faces.
They make it to the street before anyone speaks.
Bibi is first. “That was the worst plan I’ve ever heard.”
Arin gags, bends over, then spits onto the cobbles. “What now?” he says.
Kalon wipes the blood from his neck, examining the crimson smear across his palm before flicking it away. His eyes find Arin's, and the corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Looks like you lost your bounty," he says, the humor in his voice brittle as glass. Then all levity vanishes. "Now," he says, "we run."
Bibi glares. “From what, exactly?”
He looks back at the castle, the spire still shining in the morning sun. “From the future,” he says. “From what’s coming.”
Arin is about to ask what he means, but then he sees it: the first runners from the castle, guards bellowing, the city already coming to life with the sound of alarm bells. The story will be out within seconds, and a new hunt will begin.
He grins because it is the only thing left to do.
They disappear into the crowd, just three more ghosts on the run.
Above them, in the tallest window of the keep, the white-haired witch stands alone, her face unreadable as she watches them go.
In the end, legends are just stories.
And stories, Arin thinks, are always worth the price.
Chapter 18: Eastward Ho!
Chapter Text
If you want to know the price of your own head, walk through the city at dawn.
Kalon does not actually walk; he loiters, shadow to shadow, counting the new posters pasted on the walls and lamp poles. Each is a crude etching—his face, angular and empty of mirth; Bibi, mid-laugh but with knife in hand; Arin, eyes sunken, chin defiant. The reward script is larger than their names, and the sum is ridiculous: ten platinum coins for each, thirty if you bring them alive and breathing. For a city like Guillemot, that's enough to buy a manor, three wives, and a private militia.
Bibi critiques the art as they walk. "You look like you swallowed a lemon," she tells Kalon, flicking a piece of bread at the sign. "I know you're not a model, but do you have to scowl for the artist?"
He shrugs. "Maybe it's the only face I have left."
Arin walks a step behind, his mustache twitching at each poster. He counts them as they pass, almost hopeful that the number might change if he blinks. It doesn't. He hates how it feels, being watched by a thousand paper versions of himself, each with the same sentence beneath: "Wanted for Regicide, Conspiracy, and Other Crimes Against the Light." As if those were the worst of his sins.
He says nothing as they wind through the alleys, but every step is a new weight. Every glare from a vendor, every side-eye from a beggar, is another tally on the ledger he's carried since childhood.
This morning, the city feels different—airless, the usual stink of fish and blood smothered by the anticipation of violence. Kalon senses it, the way he always does before something breaks. He tests the city's tension by moving faster, cutting corners, and listening for the shuffle of boots behind them.
Bibi notices too. "We're being followed," she says, just loud enough for the other two.
"Three tails," Kalon agrees. "One at the east end, two behind."
Arin starts to sweat, though it's colder than a corpse. "If we split, we lose them. I know these streets."
Kalon studies him. "You know them as a hunter. Different now that you're prey."
Bibi smiles, but there's no warmth. "Relax, Beauregard. The only thing that can catch us is our own stupidity."
They duck into a side passage and climb a rickety fire ladder that shakes with every step. On the rooftop, the city sprawls below, ugly and honest in the new light. They can see the market crowd forming, the first cluster of bounty-hunters, laughing as they compare their posters.
Bibi rips a handful from a nearby wall and flicks them at Arin's chest. "Congratulations, you're famous."
He doesn't laugh. "This isn't possible. They can't offer that much coin. No one's worth that much."
She shrugs. "Maybe you've been undervaluing yourself."
Kalon watches the bounty hunters and marks the familiar faces—half of them failed swords-for-hire, and the other half sadists without loyalty to any cause. All dangerous, but none clever.
He does the math. "We have maybe an hour before they realize we're still in the city."
Arin bristles. "We could leave right now. Take the tunnels. Or—"
"We tried that," Bibi interrupts, flicking her knife between her fingers. "Those tunnels will be crawling with every half-wit with a sword by now. The bounty on our heads would buy a small kingdom—you think they haven't posted guards at every rat hole in this city?"
Kalon points to the dockside. "There's only one safe way out. Through the lower city, then across the river. The bridges will be watched, but I know a path."
Bibi grins, wicked. "You always know a path."
They climb down, stick to the shadows, and cross three districts before the first tail shows himself—a street kid no older than twelve, hair matted, hands jittery with hunger. He whistles when he sees them, then bolts down a side street.
Arin tenses. "Do we chase?"
Kalon shakes his head. "They'll know soon enough."
They keep moving, but the city is waking up now, and so are the hunters.
The bar is empty except for the three of them and the barkeep, Bruce, whose loyalty is for sale to the highest bidder, but whose patience for drama is microscopic. He polishes glasses with the same motion he uses to swat flies, and stares at them with the expression of a man who's seen too many legends die in his establishment.
"You want food or a place to bleed out?" he asks, not even trying for charm.
Kalon takes a stool and signals for a bottle. "Neither. Just need the back room."
Bruce sizes him up, then the others. "You're the most wanted people in the world right now. I should sell you for the reward and retire."
Bibi smiles. "You'd be bored inside a week."
Bruce grunts, pours three drinks, and sets them down with a clink. "Don't get attached to the furniture. I'll have to burn it after."
They drink, but no one relaxes.
Arin is first to speak, voice low and urgent. "We can't stay here. The posters are everywhere. Someone will recognize us."
Bibi slumps against the bar, picking at a splinter in the wood. "Half the city's already seen our faces. The other half's been telling stories about us since Crandall's was found." She flicks the splinter away. "They know exactly who we are."
"That doesn't matter to bounty-hunters," Kalon says. "Or to the empire."
Bruce leans in, his voice suddenly soft. "I saw the news. Thirty platinum, dead or alive. Even the cook is thinking about turning you in."
Arin finishes his drink in one gulp. "We need to leave. Now."
Kalon thinks, running the odds in his head. "We have to wait until night. If we move now, we walk into a net."
Arin slams his hand on the bar. "If we wait, we'll be surrounded. This is suicide."
Bibi shrugs, picks at her fingernails. "Everything is suicide. Might as well pick the one that feels least like dying."
Bruce shakes his head and pours another round. "You have maybe two hours, tops. After that, I can't help you."
Kalon stands, grabs the bottle, and nods. "Thank you."
They move to the back room, just a broom closet with a table and three mismatched chairs. Bibi plops down, feet on the table. Arin paces. Kalon closes the door, then speaks in a whisper.
"They'll be coming from the west, through the market. If we time it right, we can cut through the laundry alleys and hit the old tunnel by the salt house."
Bibi cocks her head. "And after that?"
He glances at Arin. "You ever been to the Great Mire?"
Arin stops pacing, hands frozen mid-gesture. "That corruption? No. Have you?"
"Never," Kalon says, the corner of his mouth twitching. "But I hear it's nice this time of year."
Arin's face hardens. "This isn't a joke, Kalon. We need a real plan."
"I am serious," Kalon says, leaning forward. "We go east, beyond the river.
"They expect us to flee Guillemot—that's the obvious move. But east? Into the Great Mire?" Kalon's eyes gleam with dark calculation. "Even the most desperate bounty hunter would think twice before wading into those corrupted waters."
Bibi laughs, delighted. "You're insane."
Arin stares at Kalon, as if seeing him for the first time. "You want to run into the swamp."
Kalon nods. "It's the last place they'll look."
Bibi raises a glass. "To insanity."
They drink, and for a moment, the world is just three people with nothing left to lose.
The plan lasts exactly twelve minutes.
The pounding starts soft, then builds—first a polite tap, then the drumbeat of fists and boots. Someone shouts a warning from the alley. Bruce's voice cuts through: "You have company."
Kalon motions Bibi and Arin to the back exit, but before they can reach it, the outer door explodes inward, showering the room with splinters. The first bounty-hunter through is a woman with a crossbow and the dead eyes of someone who's spent their whole life waiting for a payday. She fires, misses Bibi by a whisker, and reloads in a blur.
Arin draws his revolver and fires twice. The first shot grazes the woman's ear; the second drops her to the floor. Behind her, five more spill in—two with machetes, three with clubs. They're amateurs, but desperate—the worst kind.
Bibi moves first, flipping the table and slamming it into the first attacker. He crumples, blood spraying from his nose. Kalon is on the second before he even finishes his swing, twisting the machete arm until it snaps and then driving the man's face into the wall.
Arin backs up, firing once, twice more—misses the first, wings the second. The bar erupts in chaos. Glass shatters. Bruce shouts, "Watch the liquor, you animals!"
The crowd at the door doubles. Someone shouts Kalon's name, loud enough to echo down the block.
Kalon scans the room, sees a window, and nods at Bibi. She grins, vaults onto the bar, and plants a boot in the face of the next hunter through the door.
Arin throws a chair and buys them a second.
Kalon clears the window in one kick, glass spraying the alley outside. He hauls Bibi through, then Arin, who lands hard and curses the city and every idiot in it.
They run. The alley is dead, but Kalon scales the gutter pipe and pulls the others up after him. They scramble across a rooftop, then down a balcony into the chaos of the market.
The market is alive with rumors, and the fight news is already racing ahead of them. Children shout, "There! There they go!" Every half-drunk citizen in the square turns to see them sprinting for the north quarter.
Arin is gasping now, but keeps pace. "We're not going to make it. They'll have the streets locked down."
Kalon doesn't slow. "We're not going through the streets."
He takes a sharp left, ducking into a tailor's shop. The tailor tries to block the door, but Bibi shoves him aside with a polite, "Excuse me, sir." In the back room, Kalon finds the trapdoor, lifts it, and they drop one by one into the darkness below.
It's an old smuggler's tunnel—damp, stinking of saltpeter and rat urine, but it runs beneath the wall and opens near the river.
Bibi lights a match, leading the way. "You sure this goes all the way?"
Kalon's face is unreadable in the dim light. "No," he says flatly, then after a beat: "Just seemed like the right way to go."
Arin mutters, "This is not what I signed up for," but he follows, revolver still drawn.
They move fast, the sound of the city muffled above. Kalon chooses without hesitation at every branch. After ten minutes, the air sharpens, and the tunnel opens onto a sewer grate overlooking the river.
They climb out, careful not to silhouette themselves against the skyline. The city lamps flicker and dance on the far bank, reflected in the black water.
Bibi breathes in the open air. "I thought you were lying about this place."
Kalon's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Maybe," he admits, running a hand through his hair. "I had no idea if that tunnel went anywhere. Just seemed like the kind of city with an escape route."
Arin glances back at the city, then at the wanted posters still clutched in his fist. "That's all well and good for someone who likes gambling with their life," he says, crumpling the paper slightly. His eyes narrow against the wind coming off the river. "Where do we go from here?"
Bibi shrugs. "Anywhere. Everywhere. Nowhere."
Kalon scans the horizon, eyes hard. "We go east," he says. "We find out what's worth dying for."
They stand on the world's edge, momentarily fugitives bound together by bad luck and worse choices.
Bibi breaks the silence. "Anyone else hungry?" They all laugh a little—three sharp exhalations that hang in the night air before dissolving into sighs. Then they turn eastward, shoulders squared against the darkness, and begin walking toward the Great Mire.
Behind them, Guillemot's bells ring louder than before, as if the whole city is announcing their escape.
But the world is wide open, ahead, and the next legend is waiting to be written.
***
Orlaith Noctis is the first to arrive. Always.
She sits with a cat's patience in the echoing black marble of Leonida's makeshift throne room, the kind of room designed to intimidate visitors while making them wish they'd been shot before getting this far. Today, even the bats have fled. The room is deathly still, the only sound is the faint click of her tongue against sharp teeth as she studies the paper in her hand.
It is a wanted poster—a real one, not the half-assed kind scrawled on tavern walls by sadistic romanticists. This one is on thick, watermarked parchment, the bounty spelled out in ink so heavy it would kill a lesser scribe to write it. The wanted man's likeness is accurate, but so cold and alert that Orlaith suspects whoever etched it had seen him in person.
She turns it over. On the reverse, a spidery script: names, codenames, bounty values, last known locations. At the bottom is the Light's seal. Below that, the telltale dot of a blood marker.
She doesn't touch that part.
Orlaith's mind is a ledger. She recalls every job, every corpse, every tiny betrayal that keeps her ahead of the grave. Her last assignment had been to verify a rumor from the Bone Sea—some fool with a death wish was impersonating the Warmonger, which was both hilarious and dangerous in equal measure. Orlaith, having survived both the Eldoria coup and the "soft" genocide of her own guild, knew perfectly well that legends didn't come back. She'd filed it under "Petty Banditry" and expected to close the book within a week.
But then Davos's letter came. That got her attention. Davos didn't traffic in fantasy; he was too fond of money and scared of Leonida's war council ever to fabricate a lead. The first time Orlaith brought a rumor to Leonida without triple verification, she'd spent two days in the moat, tied to a moonstone that burned like acid whenever the clouds passed. The second time, she got promoted. The difference between serving Leonida and every other power in Atlatia was that you either brought her certainty or your tongue.
Now she has certainty. The poster is proof. And for once, it isn't her own life in question.
She slides the paper back into her sleeve, wipes the invisible sweat from her palms, and listens for Leonida's footsteps.
She hears them before anyone else. The Queen of Artemisia is not delicate in her home. She is a hurricane with the self-control of a chess master and the patience of a bomb. Today, she's in high form, yelling even before the doors are fully thrown open.
"—and if that coward thinks a one-mile advance is a victory, someone should educate her in the mathematics of land war!" Leonida storms in, trailed by a pair of aides who look like they'd rather be anywhere else, even the front line. Her hair is wet, streaked silver, and plastered to her neck; her uniform is half-open, the breastplate lopsided and splattered with mud. She smells like battle, blood, and ozone, with the faint metallic tang of lunar quicksilver that never comes out in the wash.
She rounds the table, grabs a crystal decanter, and pours herself a fistful of clear liquid, not bothering with a glass. She downs half in one tilt, then slams it onto the nearest hard surface, which happens to be a war map already creased and sticky with spilled alcohol.
Orlaith does not rise. She watches Leonida take stock of her kingdom—such as it is. The room is lined with banners of every defeated city, each stitched with silver thread and hung just low enough to graze the eyes of anyone approaching the dais. Behind the throne is a mural, old as the jungle itself, of the Moon Lord in his final, radiant agony. Leonida keeps it not out of reverence, but as a reminder that even gods can die in a blaze of humiliation.
Only once the aides have left does Orlaith stand, rolling her neck to unstick the damp hair from her collar. She doesn't speak. She knows the drill.
Leonida sprawls on the throne, one leg slung over an armrest, the picture of exhausted triumph. "You're early," she says, voice hoarse from hours of shouting, or maybe from screaming at the walls when her armies don't perform.
Orlaith bows with a grace that is pure muscle memory. "Had a feeling you'd want this in person."
"Unless you're about to tell me that you-know-who finally wrote back, I don't want to hear it." Leonida's fingers drummed against the armrest, her eyes flicking briefly to the empty letter tray beside her throne. "Amanda's silence is the only thing I care about right now." Leonida waves the decanter in Orlaith's direction, as if to say: Look, I can barely hold my own liquor; what makes you think I want bad news?
Orlaith is ready. "Not her," she says. "Though there is news from the other side."
Leonida's eyebrow cocks. "If we scared off another merchant caravan with trader temper tantrums, I want to hear about it after I've had a shower and at least five hours of sleep." She leans forward, eyes narrowing. "Is it from the east? Athenia? Or Scheherazade?"
"Neither," Orlaith says. She steps to the side and, with all the ceremony of a street vendor unloading rotten fish, slaps the bounty poster down on the table, right into the puddle of spilled vodka.
Leonida glances at it, then does a double-take. She plucks the page up, ignores the wet, and silently reads. For a moment, the only sound was the condensation dripping from the ceiling, and the ancient pipes were still refusing to do their job.
When Leonida looks up, her eyes have gone hard. "This is a joke," she says. "Someone on this planet thinks I need reminding of ghosts or lies."
"Not a joke, or a lie," Orlaith says. "Davos himself verified. And the Light posts the bounty, not Guillemot's criminals."
Leonida considers this. She rereads the poster, slower, then tosses it onto the table as if it's radioactive. She stands, crosses to the mural, and stares up at the painted corpse of her people's old god.
"He died," she says, her voice flat. "He died in the desert. Even the rumors say so."
Orlaith shrugs. "That's what I thought. Until the rumors became a market commodity." She gestures at the poster. "Kalon is alive. And so is the woman from the pits. The hunter, too, but he's not our problem. Yet."
Leonida's lips thin. She speaks without turning. "I told you not to bring me lies."
Orlaith doesn't flinch. "I've never brought you lies, my Queen. Not once." Her voice drops, urgent but controlled. "And this can't wait—he's gathering allies."
Leonida laughs, a sound like breaking glass wrapped in silk. She turns, her fingers tracing the edge of the mural as if checking for dust.
"Why are you really here, Noctis?" The war-queen's voice carries none of its usual iron.
Orlaith meets her gaze. "Because the desert couldn't kill him after all. He's running now, and there's blood in his wake. Someone's hunting him—someone with resources. He's gone dark—vanished from every network I can access. My best informants can't tell me if he's still alive."
Something flickers behind Leonida's eyes—not disappointment, but a distant, private relief she quickly masks. "Running, is he?" She snatches the bottle, pours a new shot, and this time offers Orlaith the glass. "And I suppose you want resources to track his escape route?"
Orlaith takes the drink, downs it in one, and sets it back with a clink. "I've arranged for more eyes in the Eldoria. The war can wait. If you want him found—"
"Found," Leonida interrupts, the word hanging between them. Not captured and not killed. Just found.
"I need access to your personal informants," Orlaith finishes.
Leonida's face softens, but only by degrees. "What happens if you waste my resources on false leads?"
Orlaith nods. "Same as last time. You can try," she says, her voice softening despite herself, "but we both know you'd never actually do it."
Leonida's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "I like you, Noctis. But Apollonia won't wait while we chase shadows."
"Then let me chase them for you," Orlaith says. "The seers, the old cultists, the ones you keep in the Moon Crypt."
Leonida studies her, then glances at the empty letter tray. "You know they're mad," she says, but there's no conviction in it.
"Mad is sometimes all it takes to find someone who doesn't want to be found," Orlaith replies.
Leonida weighs the request, then nods. "Take what you need. Call on any ally who might reach him first." She pauses. "Before someone else does."
Orlaith bows, all courtly, catching the unspoken command. "I won't fail you."
Leonida pours herself another drink, then slumps back on the throne. "If you see him," she says, "tell him I've improved. I've learned how to win without being a dick about it." She says it like a joke, but the air chills.
Orlaith knows this is the cue to leave. She turns, steps into the hall, and is gone before the Queen changes her mind.
Alone, Leonida stares at the mural of the dying god. She sips the vodka and traces the outline of the poster with her fingertip. Kalon's face is thinner now, older, but those eyes—the same eyes that had looked up at her from across the breakfast table in Triactis, before Yharim's officials had dragged him away. "You'll be a hero," they'd told him. She'd been fourteen; he'd been twelve. Not her blood, but her brother in every way that mattered.
She pulls the poster closer. The bounty calls him "warmonger" and "murderer." The same boy who'd hidden behind her skirts during thunderstorms. The same boy that the desert supposedly swallowed years ago.
"Come home," she whispers to the paper. The words hang in the air like a prayer she's repeated too many times to count.
She downs the drink and rises. Tomorrow's battle won't wait, and neither will the generals who expect her to lead them. But tonight, she allows herself this moment of hope—that somewhere beyond her reach, Kalon is alive, finding his way back to her.
In the corridor, Orlaith speeds her steps. She slips past the guards, past the twin doors of the war council, into the outer cloister where the night air slaps the sweat from her neck. She breathes deep, and the cold brings her back to herself.
She studies the poster one last time in the moonlight, then tears it to pieces, the fragments drifting down to join the ash and silver dust of all the plans that came before.
Let the Queen have her victories. Orlaith knows the only thing that ever changes is the cost.
She pulls her hood over her face and vanishes, a shadow among shadows, heading for the crypt that only madwomen and desperate assassins ever dare visit.
She has work to do.
And she will not fail her again.
Chapter 19: The Meaning to Serve
Chapter Text
The throne room is colder than the grave, and even the echo of footsteps has given up trying to warm the air for the last hour.
Permafrost stands at his assigned place near the dais, hands folded so the trembling never shows. His breath clouds on the intake but is snatched away by the draft before it can fog his glasses. He reviews the courtly geometry of the chamber, the perfect lines of marble and ice, and the mathematically correct placement of the torch and pillar. After centuries of power and more, the jungle tyrant still prefers to decorate with reminders that time is never on your side. Permafrost finds it calming.
Across the black glass expanse, the girl waits. Not a girl, he knows—she has not been a girl since Yharim took her from the fire—but her shoulders are still too narrow for the robes, and her boots are the wrong size, and she stands with the hunched, fidgeting tension of a child at her own execution.
She is not afraid. He wishes she were.
They do not speak, because there is nothing left to say, and because every sound is a risk in a room like this. Even the breathing is negotiated, as if each draws from a different air supply. Now and then, Permafrost hears the faintest crackle from Calamitas's sleeves: a dry, papery friction, not quite audible, but he is a man who listens for such things. He knows it's the sleeve, and not her skin, only because she has not yet begun the trick of flickering in and out of focus as Yharim sometimes does.
She is angry, of course. He knew she would be. But her posture is different from yesterday; less the rage of a child denied, more the tight-lipped hatred of a conspirator with nowhere to go. She glances at him, just once, and the eyes are too bright for the dim: red and gold, twin pinpoints of thermal decay, patient as a time bomb.
He should say something. Instead, he clears his throat, which is as close as he'll ever get to an apology.
It is hard to know what she wants from him. A teacher, perhaps. Or a rival. Maybe even a parent. He is none of these things; he is a tool, as Yharim designed, and so is she, only newer, sharper, and with more beautiful edges. He envies her as much as he pities her.
She is also smarter than he, making this all the more pointless.
He replays the mission in his mind, the way he has done a thousand times since returning to the palace.
The kill was perfect. Calamitas arrived on time, bypassed every security measure, and eliminated Crandall's entire court in less than eight minutes, including cleanup and redecoration. The only flaw—if it could be called that—was the presence of Kalon and his accomplices. Not even a flaw, Permafrost tells himself; an unavoidable complication. He is almost sure that Yharim will not notice the omission. Almost.
He glances at Calamitas again and knows that she will notice. She always does.
He wonders if she can hear his thoughts, or if the tension is just that visible. He decides it does not matter. The important thing is that she did not kill Kalon.
That was his doing. He regrets nothing.
Calamitas shifts her weight from foot to foot, impatient. The room smells faintly of charred flesh, a trick of the mind, but she enjoys it anyway. Her arms are folded, but it is not a defensive gesture; more like a dare. She wants Permafrost to speak. She wants him to admit what he did, to say it aloud, so she can have a reason to hate him openly.
She is still new to this. She still believes in hating people as a way to make herself stronger. In this, too, she is better than he.
She is not afraid of Yharim, or of what comes next. She is scared of nothing. Even when Yharim gave her the order—the proper order, the one about the Warmonger—she felt excitement, the pure focus of her spear mid-flight. The kill was supposed to be hers. It was always considered to be hers.
But Permafrost denied her. Her own teacher. The one who is supposed to shape her into the perfect tool.
She decides then and there that he is not a teacher at all—just a coward, a soft-touch trying to save himself by saving her.
She will remember this.
She looks past him, at the throne itself: cold, empty, and waiting. She wonders if Yharim will come back in a good mood. She wonders if Yharim ever comes back in a good mood.
She waits.
Time is a wet rag here, sopping up everything and leaving only stains behind. Permafrost studies the lines of the floor, counting them, reminding himself that order is not only possible but also inevitable.
He thinks of the girl—of Calamitas—less as a person, more as a proof. Yharim wanted a new breed of weapon that could adapt and endure, and he built it perfectly. Too perfectly. Even Permafrost, who once believed himself the best of the best, cannot keep up with her sometimes. He is a relic, and he knows it.
But he also knows that she will burn out spectacularly if she can do as she wishes. Like all of Yharim's favorite toys, she is built for a single purpose and will be discarded when she stops working. Permafrost wonders if he is projecting. He wonders if it matters.
He will tell Yharim the truth about the mission, minus one detail—a simple omission, a trivial sin—not even a lie, not really. And yet, he cannot stop replaying the moment he intervened, when he told Calamitas to let the Warmonger go.
She looked at him, and for the first time, he saw not the eyes of a child but the cold calculation of someone who knew she had just been betrayed.
He will never forget that look.
Calamitas hums, almost too softly to hear, but it reverberates in Permafrost's skull anyway. The notes are sharp and atonal, with more noise than music. It is a deliberate annoyance, and Permafrost is too proud to acknowledge it.
She watches him through her lashes, curious. For all his talk of discipline, he is not so different from the others. He fears Yharim. He fears her. He fears even Kalon, though he would never say so.
She cannot decide if she wants to kill him or not. On the one hand, it would be easy—permafrost is not built for hand-to-hand use anymore. But Yharim would be upset and call it a waste.
And Calamitas hates waste.
She returns to humming, content for now to let the pressure build.
The minutes become hours—neither moves. The ice on the walls slowly migrates down, encasing the throne's base in a blue and white filigree. The torches gutter, but never go out. The design is too perfect for error.
Permafrost wonders if Calamitas is getting bored. He hopes so. Boredom is the enemy of ambition, and ambition is what killed the last iteration of this job. He wonders if she knows about the failures. He suspects she does.
He is thinking about how to tell her, when the space beside him shimmers.
Yharim is coming.
Calamitas feels the temperature spike, as if the room's atmosphere is being torn open by a white-hot blade. She grins, teeth bared, and waits for the rush of air as Yharim steps through the dimensional scar.
She wonders if he will be angry.
She hopes so.
***
The rift opens above the dais with a noise like bones ground together and spat through a furnace. Reality buckles, bends, then splits down its long axis, vomiting a figure wreathed in dissonant light. The temperature in the throne room spikes from arctic to inferno and back again, the pressure slamming Permafrost to his knees and sending ripples of vertigo through even Calamitas.
Yharim steps out.
He is taller than memory, but still the same, draped in auric-gold armor that reflects nothing but absorbs all. His mask is impassive: no eye holes, no mouth, just a single slit that glows the blue of a star one breath from collapse. Behind him, a cape of blue and gold billows, the plume atop his mask stained with the pigment of something that died believing itself immortal. He takes the center of the chamber, and the world seems to realign around him.
Permafrost barely registers the pain in his knees. He bows, but not all the way—Yharim once explained that no man should humble himself more than the floor can accept. He keeps his eyes up, watching for the smallest gesture.
Calamitas remains upright. She does not bow. The oversight is deliberate.
For a moment, Yharim does not move. He simply stands there, radiating a heat that should cook the room but leaves it frozen. When he speaks, the sound is perfect—smooth, warm, but hollow, the voice of a man who long ago learned to gut every word of meaning before he let it out.
"Permafrost. Calamitas. I see you have not killed each other." The mask cants, barely. "Report."
Permafrost answers first, as always. His words are crisp, shorn of anything but the meat. "Mission executed as planned. Crandall and his entire court were eliminated. Minimal collateral. The city is already in shock." He pauses, eyes flicking to the auric plating at Yharim's shoulders. "Your armor—Draedon's modifications are flawless. The resonance patterns along the pauldrons... perfection."
Yharim's mask doesn't shift at the mention of his armor. He waits, as if Permafrost's flattery was nothing but dead air, then turns the expressionless face toward Calamitas. "Was it clean?"
Calamitas meets the blank gaze. "It was surgical," she says. Her own voice is thin, but the tremor is not fear. "They never saw it coming. I made sure."
"Good," Yharim says. He lets the word bleed into the stone. "There was an anomaly?"
Permafrost answers too quickly. "A minor one. The Warmonger, as predicted, appeared. He did not interfere with the primary objective."
"And yet he is still alive," Yharim says. The voice is softer, the accusation absolute.
Permafrost stiffens, lips already forming the lie he practiced all morning. "He was not a priority, Majesty. The witch was given the order to avoid escalation. Your earlier directives—"
He never finishes—yharim gestures with one gauntlet, and the air around Permafrost contracts like a throat. The old mage doubles over, every vertebrae threatening to shatter, but manages to keep his hands at his sides. He does not gasp. Yharim hates gasping.
Calamitas does not flinch. She waits.
Yharim lets Permafrost hang in the air, then releases him. "You do not decide my priorities, Permafrost. You were instructed to produce results. Not opinions." He walks a single, slow circuit around the room, each footstep a metronome. "I do not recall ordering you to spare the traitor."
Permafrost bows his head, voice scraping. "My mistake, Majesty."
Yharim ignores him. "Calamitas," he says, softer now, as if talking to a child or a loaded gun, "is there something you wish to add?"
She hesitates, and for the first time, Permafrost sees her uncertainty. It is like watching a flame decide whether to burn or starve.
Yharim does not like hesitation. He advances, his presence compressing the space between them until the air cannot find its way around his frame. "Speak," he says.
Calamitas looks past Permafrost, still folded over himself, and says, "I was denied my kill, Majesty."
Permafrost cannot help it: his jaw tics, and he looks up. The girl has never ratted him out before, not directly. He wonders if this is what betrayal feels like when it comes from something you helped build.
Yharim does not react, at least not visibly. But the room grows colder.
"Denied?" he says, the single syllable floating in the frost.
Calamitas sets her jaw. "Permafrost intervened. He said you needed me operational, not... spent."
Permafrost tries to recover and salvage something. "Majesty, her power is immense. But it is raw. She is not ready to face—"
Yharim raises a finger. Permafrost's windpipe closes, the soft tissue compressing until only the tiniest vibration can escape. Yharim doesn't need to look at him. "You will speak when told," he says, and Permafrost can only nod.
Yharim turns to Calamitas. "Do you feel unfinished?"
She shakes her head. "No, Majesty."
"Do you feel weak?"
She says nothing.
"Answer."
"No, Majesty."
He lets the silence stretch, then: "Permafrost, do you feel weak?"
Permafrost cannot speak, so he shakes his head, too.
Yharim releases him. Permafrost falls to the floor, catches himself before he can break his face on the glass. His hands are shaking now, and he is almost sure Yharim knows.
"Calamitas," Yharim says, "what is your purpose?"
She answers without thought. "To serve."
Yharim's mask glows brighter, the slit a wound in the dark. "To serve how?"
"By destroying your enemies," she says.
"And your enemies' enemies?"
She hesitates. "Whatever you command, Majesty."
Yharim seems satisfied. He looks at Permafrost, who is just starting to pull himself upright. "You will continue her training. No more mistakes. No more personal opinions. She must surpass even you if she is to be the weapon I require. Is that clear?"
Permafrost bows his head, which is as close as he will ever get to surrender. "Yes, Majesty."
Yharim doesn't look away. "And if you fail—"
"I will not fail," Permafrost says. It is a lie, but a beautiful one.
Yharim nods. "Then you may leave. Both of you."
Calamitas turns on her heel and walks out without a glance. Permafrost follows, but more slowly, every movement measured to avoid provoking the thing on the throne aurther.
In the corridor outside, Calamitas waits. She stares at the opposite wall, arms crossed, every line of her body set to kill.
"You hate me now," Permafrost says. He tries to keep it neutral, but there is something like grief behind the syllables.
Calamitas does not answer.
"I was trying to protect you," he says. "He will use you until there is nothing left. You know that."
She uncrosses her arms, finally, and for a second, he thinks she might strike him.
"You sound like him," she says. "But you're weaker."
She turns and leaves.
Permafrost stands alone in the corridor, watching the afterimage of her hair vanish down the long, cold passage. He presses his hands together, as if in prayer, though he knows no god will hear it.
He wonders if she is right. He wonders if it matters.
He will train her, as Yharim commands. He will make her the best there is.
But he will also do whatever it takes to ensure she does not end up like him.
Yharim watches the empty room for a long time after they leave. He listens to the last echoes of their footsteps, the way the cold reclaims the space. He is not angry, not really. He has never believed in anger. Only in results.
Permafrost will serve, or he will be replaced. The witch will become what she must.
He sits, alone, and thinks of the other weapons he has tried to make, the failures and the near-misses, and of the world that still does not fear him quite enough.
He smiles, though no one can see it behind the mask.
"One more try," he says, to no one.
And the throne room, empty as a promise, agrees.
Chapter 20: Journey to Nowhere
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
At sunrise, the Eldorian hillside is pure gold and stubbornly cold. Mist clings to the grass like a siege, refusing to retreat until the sun threatens to burn it off by sheer force of will. In a bald spot on the slope—a place scraped bare by wind and maybe bad luck—Kalon, Bibi, and Arin have made a camp that is not a camp, just three bodies arranged at maximum distance without losing sight of each other.
Arin, who claims he never needs sleep, is already up. He stands at the edge of the clearing, hands on his hips, studying the valley with the critical eye of a man assessing a crime scene for missed evidence.
He glances over his shoulder at Kalon, stretched out in the grass, boots still on, hands pillowed behind his head. "Daylight's burning, gents and ladies," Arin says, voice bright as a new coin. "Less than a week and the world's gonna be crawling through the Mire to find us. You wanna beat the sunrise, you gotta move before the dew dries."
Kalon grunts, not bothering to open his eyes. "You wanna climb the Mire before noon, you can do it solo."
"You volunteering to be the rear guard?" Arin's mustache bristles with the effort of his grin. "Never thought I'd see the day."
"I'm volunteering to wait until there's a good reason to move," Kalon says.
Arin makes a show of checking the horizon, as if an army of bounty-hunters might rise from the fog at any moment. "Fine by me. More time to enjoy the view."
Bibi doesn't contribute. She's curled under the battered remains of a cloak, back to the others, breathing even and shallow. Anyone watching would assume she's asleep, but her eyes are open, fixed on the grainy light filtering through the threadbare cloth.
She runs the last week on loop, dissecting every move, every missed chance, every humiliating second in the throne room. It was one thing to fail at killing a tyrant. It was another to be made helpless by someone like Calamitas, who radiated contempt so thick you could smell it like death.
She'd never seen Kalon hesitate, not once, even when he was supposed to be dead. But in the moment before the spear flew, he'd looked at her—really looked, for the first time in months—and Bibi had felt her knees turn to pulp. He was ready to die, but she wasn't prepared to let him.
She'd meant to ask him about it later. She still might. But now, on this hillside, there are no words. Just the ache in her shoulders and the sour taste of fear that refuses to burn off with the sunrise.
She closes her eyes, just for a second. Not to sleep. Never to sleep.
Arin clears his throat, louder this time. "I'll repeat it for the folks in the cheap seats. If we wait, we're done. They'll cut us off at the ridgeline, and then it's just a matter of who wants to collect our heads first."
"You said that already," Kalon replies.
"Yeah, well, I'm the only one with an actual plan. No offense to your nihilism, but it's not getting us anywhere."
Kalon cracks an eyelid. "The plan is to hide in the Mire, correct?"
Arin nods, enthusiastic. "Right you are. The Mire's full of monsters, but monsters don't post bounties."
"They just eat you," Kalon says.
"Exactly! Predictable. Simple." Arin's face goes momentarily serious. "Better than the alternative."
Kalon stares at the sky. "I can think of alternatives."
Arin doesn't take the bait. He sits on a flat rock, pulls a flask from his belt, and uncaps it with his teeth. "Your move, Warmonger."
The silence is dense, packed with unspoken animosity that builds up when three people have spent too much time running for their lives and not sleeping enough. Even the wind skirts the clearing rather than getting involved.
Kalon sits up and props his elbows on his knees. "You ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?"
Arin swigs, wipes his mouth. "Not yet, but I've only had to do it because you won't."
Kalon's lips twitch. "Maybe you're afraid of silence."
Arin leans forward. "Maybe I'm afraid of dying because my partners can't get their shit together."
A sharp exhale from Kalon. "You think that's my fault?"
"I think you enjoy the drama," Arin says. "Always with the martyr routine. If you wanted to be dead, you could have picked an easier way than dragging us through half of Eldoria."
Kalon's voice drops. "I didn't drag you. You followed."
Arin nods, mock-solemn. "That's true. I was hired to. Then I stuck around because you're the only legend who gets things done."
Bibi snorts, half-asleep. "If either of you could do more than argue, maybe we'd already be there." She's surprised to hear her voice; it comes out brittle, scraping the inside of her skull.
Kalon glances at her, and for a moment, his posture softens. "You okay?"
She thinks about lying, then says, "No."
Arin whistles, low. "Honesty. I like it."
Bibi sits up, hair a wild mess, eyes rimmed with red. "I want to sleep. I want food. And I want to not die in the Mire. But mostly, I want both of you to shut up."
She rolls over, tugs the cloak tighter, and is asleep in a minute.
The men watch her, then each other.
"Point for her," Kalon admits.
Arin lifts the flask in salute. "It's not about points. It's about survival. I say we move in the hour."
Kalon shrugs but doesn't argue. He watches the light creep down the valley and listens to the grass hissing in the wind. It should be beautiful, but all he can think about is how every step takes them further from a world that makes sense, even in its brutality.
He almost misses the city. At least in Guillemot, you knew where the danger was.
As promised, they move after the hour, though Arin's version of "in the hour" means at least an hour and a half. Bibi wakes up cranky and hungry, but she doesn't complain again. The sun is high enough to burn off the mist, but the chill lingers, seeping into boots and fingers.
The group falls into their default formation: Kalon at point, Bibi just behind, Arin flanking with a habit of veering off to investigate anything that looks remotely suspicious.
They make good time, but the air is thick with the buzz of insects and the occasional shriek of something dying in the distant brush. It's not until midday that they stop again, this time on a ridge overlooking the first outcropping of the Mire.
Arin studies the terrain with a professional squint. "There's a route, but it'll take us through the shallow pools. Less cover, more risk, but faster."
Kalon doesn't look up. "What's the risk?"
"Things that live in the pools," Arin says, matter-of-fact. "And things that don't want us to reach the far side."
Bibi stretches her arms overhead, joints cracking. "We don't have a choice."
Arin grins. "That's the spirit."
Kalon sits and folds his arms. "You sound almost excited."
Arin shrugs. "It's better than waiting to be picked off by the next pack of bounty-hunters."
He's not wrong. The number of hunters in the last city had doubled every day. If they weren't careful, they would only have a tooth and a story.
They eat in silence. Kalon picks at a strip of dried meat, not tasting it. Bibi's eyes drift again, lost in the space between them. Arin methodically disassembles and cleans his revolver, then checks the sight on his crossbow.
Kalon breaks the silence. "You ever feel like you're just repeating yourself?"
Arin glances at him. "If you're trying to say something, say it."
Kalon shakes his head. "It's nothing. Just… feels like no matter how far we go, we're always right back where we started."
Bibi's voice is muffled, but sharp. "Maybe that's because you never wanted to leave in the first place."
Kalon looks at her. "You think I wanted this?"
She shrugs. "You act like you deserve it."
He doesn't respond.
Arin stows his revolver, stands. "All right, let's get moving before one of you dies of existential dread."
They pack up and descend toward the Mire, the ground turning soft underfoot, every step a little heavier.
It's late afternoon when they stop again because the argument is back.
For all his talk of efficiency, Arin can't go more than a mile without starting something. This time it's about the route, whether to cut west and risk a longer trek or go straight through the bog and save hours.
Kalon votes west; Arin says straight is better. Bibi, caught in the crossfire, says nothing and keeps walking.
The debate escalates, and soon they're back where they started, neither willing to give an inch.
"You always have to be in charge, don't you?" Arin says.
"I just don't want to die in a pit," Kalon replies.
"Maybe if you listened to someone else for once—"
"Maybe if you had better ideas—"
And on, and on.
Bibi, exhausted, sits on a log and closes her eyes, tuning them out. She can't stop thinking about Calamitas—the way she'd smiled and made Bibi feel like nothing. She wonders if Kalon even noticed. Wonders if he cares.
The sound of the argument fades, replaced by the steady hum of insects and the distant caw of something large and feathered overhead.
When she opens her eyes again, it's nearly sunset. Arin and Kalon are squared off, a few feet apart, breathing hard.
She stands, shakes the sleep from her arms, and walks between them.
"You idiots done yet?"
They both look at her, startled.
Bibi sighs. "Next time you want to have a contest, do it somewhere that isn't crawling with things that want to eat us."
She pushes past them, heading toward the Mire.
The men stare after her, then at each other.
"She's right," Kalon says.
"Yeah," Arin admits. "She usually is."
They follow.
Above them, the sky darkens, the first stars poking through the bruised twilight.
Tomorrow, they would have to be smarter, faster, better.
But for tonight, all they had to do was survive each other.
They find a dry patch of earth and set up camp. No one speaks for a long time.
Eventually, Kalon pokes the fire and mutters, "You ever think it'll end?"
Arin, lying flat on his back, considers. "If it does, what then?"
Kalon shrugs. "We find something else to argue about."
Arin grins, eyes closed. "Probably."
Bibi sits with her knees to her chest, staring into the flames.
She doesn't say it out loud, but hopes they're right.
Because if this is all there is, she wants it to last a little longer.
Just until she figures out who she is, when she's not running from or toward the next legend.
She closes her eyes, lets the fire warm her face, and listens to the quiet.
It's almost enough.
It will have to be.
**
Bibi wakes to the sound of shouting, two voices laid over each other like a badly cut duet. For half a second, she's sure she's dreaming, until the next volley shakes her teeth and something whizzes past her ear—a clump of mud, expertly shaped for maximum splatter.
She sits up, a scream already in her chest, and sees Kalon and Arin nose to nose, fists clenched, eyes bugged. Kalon's coat is streaked with fresh dirt, and Arin's mustache is spiked in six directions from the effort of snarling. Bibi stands, dizzy, and walks straight into the space between them.
"What in the sweet, unholy shit are you two doing?" she yells, hands up like a referee at a pit fight.
Both men freeze. The moment hangs, a perfect cartoon of violence suspended mid-air.
Arin breaks first, his upper lip peeling back in a sneer. "Tell him to quit being an ass, and maybe I will."
"Tell him to quit yapping and maybe I won't," Kalon fires back.
They glare. Bibi smacks both with an open palm, left hand to Arin's shoulder, right to Kalon's. Not hard enough to hurt, just to break the spell.
"You idiots realize it's almost sunset? Did either of you think to wake me?" Bibi's voice climbs, an octave for each word. "How long was I out?"
Kalon looks away, shamefaced. "Couple hours," he mumbles.
"More like five," Arin says, triumphant. "He just let you snore. Said you needed your rest."
Bibi turns on Kalon, eyes blazing. "You left me to sleep while you two—what, did you just stand here waiting for me to absorb the argument by osmosis magically?"
Kalon blinks, a child caught with a bloody nose and no excuse. "You looked tired."
Bibi lets the silence fill with venom. "You looked tired," she mimics, a sharp, nasal parody. "You do realize we're running for our lives, right? That the Mire is a full day's walk, and that every minute we're here, someone else is getting closer to tracking us every minute we're here?"
Arin, watching, folds his arms, barely containing a smirk.
"And you!" Bibi jabs a finger at Arin's chest. "You're no better. What kind of grown man picks a fight with a guy whose only hobby is crushing skulls?"
Arin's smile doesn't fade. "You act like he's actually scary."
Bibi whirls back to Kalon, not done. "If you wanted to kill him, you should have done it before I had to break up your sandbox slap-fight."
"Wasn't going to kill him," Kalon mutters.
"Could've fooled me."
Kalon makes a face. "Just wanted him to stop talking."
"Well, now you can both stop. Talking. Right now." Bibi glares, daring them to make a sound.
They don't.
Bibi paces a tight loop, boots grinding up the last of the grass between her and the Mire below. The words keep coming. "This is what you two do? Just stand here, screaming, while the world closes in? You realize how dumb that is? I could have died in my sleep while you argued about which direction to piss."
Arin bursts out laughing, the force of it bending him in half.
Kalon, despite himself, starts to chuckle.
Bibi rounds on both. "It's not funny!"
"It's a little funny," Arin says, gasping for air.
"You're both children," she hisses. "And not even the clever kind. Just loud and sticky and always, always, always making everything about you."
She stops, chest heaving. It feels good, getting it out. It always does.
There's a beat of silence, then Kalon shrugs, almost apologetic. "You done?"
Bibi glares. "You want me to be done? Fine. But next time you two want to butt heads, do it somewhere that isn't painted with my blood, or else I'll start swinging for real."
Kalon grins, that half-smile that means he thinks she's impressive even when she's pissed. "You swing better than both of us."
She cocks her head. "Glad you noticed."
Arin, dusting himself off, stands straight. "All right, truce. But now what? We wasted the day, we're still no closer to the Mire, and our food's gone. Anybody got an idea, or should we just keep yelling until the wolves eat us?"
Bibi eyes the horizon, calculating. "If we move now, we can reach the river before dawn. If we move fast and don't get sidetracked by every dumb rock along the way."
Kalon nods, instantly in sync. "Agreed."
"Hard part's going to be avoiding the patrols," Arin adds. "Those bounties are worth more than the whole village."
Bibi turns on him. "What village?"
Arin blinks, as if she's missed something obvious. "Bismuth."
Kalon frowns. "What the hell is Bismuth?"
Arin's jaw drops. "It's my village. You know, where I live?"
Kalon shakes his head. "Never heard of it."
Bibi, arms crossed, studies Arin's face. "Are you making this up?"
Arin looks wounded. "It's a real place! I founded it. It's the best-kept secret in all of Eldoria—nobody goes there because nobody knows how to find it. We could lie low, regroup, and eat something that isn't weeks-old garbage."
Kalon narrows his eyes. "You expect us to follow you to some hidden village when we've known you—what, five days?"
Arin's smile doesn't waver. "Six, actually. Feels longer, doesn't it?"
Bibi crosses her arms. "Not in a good way."
"Look," Arin says, voice dropping its usual showmanship, "I get it. Trust isn't exactly flowing between us. But right now, we need somewhere to lay low, and Bismuth is the only place I'm certain Yharim's scouts won't find us."
Kalon and Bibi exchange glances, years of silent communication passing between them.
Bibi sighs, weighing her options. "Fine. We'll go to your imaginary village. But if it turns out you're leading us into a bounty-hunter trap, I'll gut you myself."
Arin grins. "Deal."
Kalon looks at Bibi, and the question is unspoken: "Are you sure?"
She nods, all business. "Either it's a trap, or we finally get some sleep. I'll take my chances."
Arin claps his hands. "Perfect. We'll leave at first light."
Bibi doesn't argue. She drops back to the ground, wraps herself in her cloak, and this time, when she closes her eyes, she's asleep in seconds.
Kalon sits beside her, hands folded. Arin stares at the sky, lost in his own head.
For a moment, the camp is peaceful.
But only for a moment.
At midnight, Kalon wakes to the sound of muffled giggles. He opens one eye and sees Arin sitting by the dying fire, rocking back and forth with laughter.
"What?" Kalon growls.
Arin covers his mouth. "You two are hilarious. Like a married couple, except with more knives."
Kalon throws a pebble at him, misses by a mile. "Go to sleep."
Arin quiets, but the smile never leaves his face.
When morning comes, they break camp without words. The route to Bismuth is unknown, but Arin leads with the certainty of a man who has never once doubted himself.
Kalon follows, and Bibi raises the rear, eyes sharp, hands never far from her blades.
They move fast, driven by hunger and the vague promise of safety. The Mire fades behind them, replaced by the rolling hills and secret trails that only someone like Arin could love.
Bibi doesn't know what she's expecting at the journey's end. She's not sure she cares.
For the first time in weeks, she feels almost alive.
Maybe it's the arguing.
Maybe it's the hope.
Or maybe it's just the knowledge that tomorrow is another chance to tell these idiots exactly how wrong they are.
She likes that idea.
She likes it a lot.
***
The following sunrise is a whiplash that suggests either fate is taunting them or the world just wants a better look at the inevitable disaster. Kalon, Bibi, and Arin are already on the move, pushing through the green rippling hills and half-wild woods that run up to the spine of Eldoria.
They move like a proper unit now—Kalon leading with the wariness of a man who expects an ambush in every shadow, Bibi pacing him on the left, eyes wide and attentive, Arin on the right, hand always hovering near his revolver and his mouth running a steady commentary on everything that comes into view.
The countryside is mercifully empty. No hunters, no patrols, just the occasional farmhouse ruined by time or the ambitious but failed attempts of a thousand generations to master the land.
They follow the path, such as it is, marked by trampled grass and the long-ago bones of travelers who thought themselves clever. Kalon kicks at the bones as they go, half-hoping they'll animate and give him something simple to kill.
His wish is granted faster than he expects.
A zombie emerges from the tall grass with the laziness of a bad actor, its jaw flapping open before the rest of it remembers what it's supposed to be doing. But instead of lunging forward, it turns away from them, skeletal hands raised against the harsh morning light as though shielding itself from the sun's judgment. Bibi skewers it through the mouth anyway, flicks the blade sideways with a practiced twist, and wipes the tip on the grass without breaking stride. The creature collapses, denied even the dignity of a proper attack.
Arin tips an imaginary hat. "Nice form."
Bibi grins. "It's the small victories."
Ten minutes later, a clutch of slimes in green, blue, and an alarming shade of orange erupts from the shadow of a boulder. The trio dispatches them in less time than it takes for the slimes to resolve into proper shapes.
Arin inspects the remnants, poking at the goo with a stick. "You ever wonder what they eat?"
Kalon shrugs. "Everything."
Arin squints, considering the answer. "Respect."
Bibi rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. She likes days like this—days where the only problems are the ones she can solve with a blade or a good insult.
But the tension never leaves. Kalon feels it in the base of his skull, that prickle of being watched. He doesn't voice it yet—no need to panic the group unless he's sure.
Bibi notices him scanning the sky more than usual. "Expecting rain?"
"Expecting something," Kalon says, voice low.
She accepts this, falling into step beside him.
They march, and the landscape shifts: the hills soften into a rolling field, the trees thin, the horizon grows flatter and more exposed. The air tastes of clover and wet stone, and it almost feels like a good day to be alive for a moment.
Then Arin spots the harpy.
It circles high, wings pale blue against the bright. Not the usual gray-brown garbage collectors they've seen before. Arin squints up, shading his eyes. "That's new," he says. "Sky blue. You ever see one like that?"
Kalon shakes his head.
Bibi shrugs. "Maybe it's rare."
Arin frowns. "Or maybe it's not a harpy."
Kalon wants to laugh, but the feeling in his neck says otherwise. "Keep moving."
They do, but the harpy—or whatever it is—shadows them, spiraling overhead with the patience of a storm cloud.
Arin mutters, "If it's a scout, we're done for."
Kalon nods, eyes never leaving the circling shape above. "We'll deal with it if it lands," he says, then gestures toward the distant tree line. "For now, we keep moving. Standing still makes us easier targets."
Bibi looks up and studies the bird's slow, looping path. "Or if it calls for help."
Arin's lips twitch. "Hate when that happens."
For the next hour, the thing never leaves their sight. Sometimes it dips closer, sometimes it soars so high it almost disappears, but it never lets them go.
They keep moving.
By midmorning, they've left the fields behind, climbing into a patchwork of forest and bog. The path grows treacherous, but that doesn't slow them. Instead, it sharpens their focus—every step is a risk, every shadow a possible ambush.
Kalon is the first to notice the second tail, a glint of gold and blue in the trees. He points, and Arin snorts. "Definitely not a harpy."
Bibi is already moving, angling away from the glint with the natural grace of someone who's spent her life dodging trouble.
A dozen paces, and the ambush comes: a trio of slimes, this time black as ink, leap from a rotten log. Arin nails one with a knife throw, Bibi dances past the second, but the third lands squarely on Kalon's boots. He stomps it out, then wipes the muck on the grass with a sound of pure disgust.
Arin cackles. "You were right. They eat everything."
Kalon grunts, wipes his hands, and scans the tree line.
The gold-and-blue glint is gone.
"Let's move," Kalon says.
They press on, faster now, the mood turning from easy to urgent. The land rises, then drops into a shallow basin where a stream cuts through the earth in a lazy S.
On the far side of the stream, a Pinky slimes its way across a log, moving with the determined innocence of a thing with zero natural predators.
Bibi laughs, points. "Look at that. Never seen one outside a swamp."
Kalon glances at Arin, who shrugs. "I'll be damned."
For a second, the tension breaks. Even Kalon allows himself a smile, watching the Pinky wobble.
Then the world explodes.
A single feather—long, razor-thin, the color of cobalt glass—arcs from the sky and impales the Pinky. It bursts like a melon, pink goo spraying the air.
Bibi recoils, instinctively ducking behind Kalon.
A second feather lands at Arin's feet, quivering in the dirt.
The blue-winged harpy lands on a branch directly above them, and for the first time, they see it clearly.
Not a harpy. Not at all.
It's a woman, maybe twenty, maybe ageless, with wings that shimmer electric blue and skin marked with gold glyphs. Her eyes are as white as marble; she has no pupil or iris, just blank and judging.
She speaks, her voice cutting. "Kalon of the Bone Sea. Brianne of Guilllemot. Arin Jude Beauregard the Fourth."
Bibi's mouth drops open.
Arin blinks. "I'm not even on the posters yet."
The woman smiles, a small, cold thing. "You are now."
Behind her, two more blue-winged seraphs materialize, each armed with an identical set of feather-blade javelins.
Kalon steps forward, unafraid. "You here to collect, or to kill?"
The lead seraph cocks her head. "Why choose? Surrender, and we will take you to Athenia for trial. Resist, and you die here. Either way, the Light gets what it wants."
Arin whispers, "That's a bit dramatic."
Bibi hisses, "Shut up."
Kalon sizes up the odds—three to three, but only if you don't count the wingspan. He glances at Bibi and Arin, and with the slightest movement, signals: Go.
Bibi is first, darting left, a knife already in her hand. Arin drops behind the nearest tree, drawing his revolver with a practiced snap.
Kalon charges straight ahead.
The lead seraph moves to intercept, wings flaring so wide they block half the sky. Kalon ducks her first strike, plants a fist in her stomach, and spins away, leaving her gasping.
Bibi's knife catches the second seraph in the thigh. The blade sticks, but the seraph barely flinches—she just grabs Bibi by the arm and flings her into a tree.
Arin fires his revolver. The shot is perfect, hitting the third seraph dead center in the chest. The force knocks her back, but instead of blood, a blue light oozes from the wound. She stays standing, eyes now glowing with fury.
Kalon grapples with the lead, trading blows in a tight spiral of violence. The seraph is strong, but Kalon's rage gives him an edge. He twists her wing, hears the bone crack, and hurls her to the ground.
Bibi, recovering, rips her knife free and slashes at the second seraph's arm—this time, blood—real, red, and wet—spurts across the bark. The seraph hisses and lashes out, catching Bibi in the ribs with a savage elbow.
Arin fires again, but the third seraph has learned. She ducks, rolls, and comes up behind him, a feather-blade at his throat.
The fight stalls, and the three seraphs now ringed around the trio.
The leader, holding her wing, spits blood. "Last chance. Surrender."
Kalon wipes his mouth. "No."
The leader smiles, a thin crack of amusement. She produces a whistle, a pale and polished whistle, and blows.
The sound is so high it's almost painful.
From above, a shadow falls.
The Sky Wyvern is bigger than any harpy, bigger than any bird Kalon has ever seen. Its scales shine like stained glass, its eyes burn with gold fire, and its mouth is a nightmare of bone and teeth.
It lands, slams the earth with its tail, and roars. The sound rattles the trees, shakes dirt loose, and pins every thought in Kalon's head.
The lead seraph points at Arin. "Him first."
The Wyvern launches.
Arin doesn't run. He stands, levels his revolver, and fires.
The bullet ricochets off the Wyvern's jaw, leaving only a scratch.
Bibi throws her knife, aiming for the eye. It hits, but bounces, barely a fleck.
Kalon, seeing the inevitable, steps forward, arms raised. "Enough!"
The Wyvern halts, jaws inches from Arin's face. The seraph leader lowers her whistle.
Kalon turns and looks at Bibi and Arin. "We're done."
Bibi starts to argue, but he shakes his head.
Arin, pale but defiant, lowers his revolver.
The seraph leader gestures, and her squad swarms in, binding Kalon's hands with a silver cord. The other two do the same to Bibi and Arin, tying them with the speed and skill of lifelong jailers.
The leader leans in, her breath frost on Kalon's skin. "Wise choice, legend."
Kalon doesn't reply.
The seraphs haul them up, three prisoners in a world that had once belonged to men like them.
As they are marched away, Kalon glances at Bibi. She's hurt, but alive, her eyes still burning with the old, familiar fire.
He nods, just once.
She nods back.
Arin, behind them, is humming a tune, low and discordant.
The Sky Wyvern takes flight, and the trio follows in its shadow, led by their captors, toward whatever awaits them in Athenia.
*
The Sky Wyvern's shadow stretches long across the forest floor as it carries its prisoners toward Athenia. In its wake, only silence remains—the broken branch where Bibi had stood, a single blue feather stuck in mud, and Arin's bullet casing glinting in the dying light. The wind shifts, carrying away their scent, voices, and fate unknown.
Notes:
I have had no time to work on this chapter or anything else until now. My place of work gave me ten days straight of work, and I've been exhausted. I am satisfied with this chapter, and I hope you guys like it.
Guest124 (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sun 28 Sep 2025 12:36AM UTC
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SuperMonkey19639 on Chapter 1 Thu 09 Oct 2025 02:36PM UTC
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Si3L on Chapter 1 Tue 07 Oct 2025 05:43PM UTC
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SuperMonkey19639 on Chapter 1 Thu 09 Oct 2025 02:36PM UTC
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