Descendant of Gallus

Ovid stood with Rupuruv on the platform in the heart of Fuffmum, the great Faffer city carved deep beneath the mist. The stone beneath his boots hummed with a low, constant vibration, alive with the same pale-blue light that ran through every one of the faffers’ contraptions.

Rupuruv stood beside him like a living fortress—encased head to toe in steel-plated armor, a heavy, round shield strapped to one arm, and a spear clutched in the other. Its shaft gleamed with cold-forged steel, but the tip was the fang of a mistfang, black and jagged, taken from the creature Rupuruv had slain during his ceremonial hunt. For a Faffer, a weapon forged from prey was more than a tool—it was identity, proof that you belonged as a warrior of the mist.

And now, after nearly a year among them—learning their language, eating their food, earning their trust—Ovid was to claim his place. But he would not hunt a mere mistfang. Not when he was something more than flesh and blood now.

His veins hummed with Cruxium. Even with the diluted air underground, he felt it in every breath, every twitch of his muscles, every bead of sweat that rolled down his temple. The mist itself bent to him, eager to feed him. It was more than an ally—it worshipped him.

The Faffers whispered that he was the chosen of their prophecy, the one Crux had marked to wield the Staff and stand against Externus. Whether he believed it or not didn’t matter. He felt it. The mist was his domain, and a simple fang or claw would never be enough to crown his strength.

He and Rupuruv would hunt a titan.

Farmofip, the elder, raised his tentacles high at the platform’s edge, his lime skin glimmering in the bioluminescent light. “Ovip. Fef froro preoo,” he intoned. His gaze shifted to Rupuruv, heavy with pride. “Fef rop, Rupuruv.”

Rupuruv raised his shield in salute, then held out his glowing card to the platform. 

“Pi ro,” Farmofip said with a knod.

Blue light surged beneath them, and the platform shuddered before gliding upward in a steady, smooth ascent.

“Paef muru,” Ovid replied in the Faffer tongue, bowing his head in respect.

“Mura,” Rupuruv corrected with a snicker.

Ovid smirked and punched him lightly in the arm. “Yeah? You’re lucky I’m not grading your Aenean.”

“I peak you earf fime,” Rupuruv teased, his accent thick.

“You peak earf just great,” Ovid shot back, mocking the cadence.

They both laughed, their voices echoing as the platform carried them higher.

They rose toward the ceiling and into the light. Bioluminescent vines swayed gently overhead, their bulbs pulsing in waves, casting a dreamlike glow across their faces. Ovid tilted his head back, eyes closed, inhaling the thickening mist as if it were incense. A warmth spread through his chest as his body drank in the Cruxium, every breath stoking the embers inside him.

“I’ve been waiting for this, Rup,” he said, voice low and hungry. “I need something real. A test worthy of what I’ve become.”

“Ferrumer mivv bap,” Rupuruv answered.

“Where did Perop say he saw the ferrumer?”

“Morf, by Fiafopro’f roupe.”

“That’s close.”

The platform eased into place within the cylindrical tunnel. The chamber they entered was exactly how it was when Ovid had first stumbled through it a year ago: polished stone walls, faint glyphs glowing with Faffer light, a stairway locked away until summoned by the tap of Rupuruv’s card. He triggered them, and the spiral stairs unfurled, leading up into the ruins above as the massive disc slowly revealed the exit.

The ruins were their disguise, their shell against the world. Broken walls and toppled arches, old stone swallowed by mist and time. To outsiders, it was a graveyard. To the Faffers, it was a sanctuary.

Ovid pulled down his hood and inhaled. The Cruxium in the open mist hit him like a fine wine, rich and intoxicating. His veins burned as the glow crept beneath his skin, faint pink tracing his arteries like rivers of fire. His pupils thinned; the world sharpened. He could hear the distant groan of leviathans, the scraping claws of scavengers, the wings of creatures beating far overhead. A thousand voices in the fog, and he could pick them apart like notes in a song.

The mist carried scents too: damp stone, rot, blood, iron, musk. Traces of every mistian that crossed through those ruins. And beneath it all, faint but certain—the ferrumer. A beast of weight and hunger.

“It was here,” Ovid muttered. “Days ago, maybe. Before Perop.”

“Mo far bem,” Rupuruv said. “We fimb foom.”

They followed the trail. Ovid’s robes dragged in the mist, his steps slow and deliberate. The glow in his veins brightened as his body processed the Cruxium-rich air, each breath feeding his illusion of divinity. The mist didn’t just surround him. It bowed to him.

Once, the snarls and roars of unseen mistians would have frozen his blood. Now he welcomed them. He saw them as worshippers greeting their god.

Then, an approaching thunder came as a rumble beneath his feet. Heavy steps pounding against broken stone. Four legs, short and powerful. A guttural snort, hot breath pushing the mist aside.

Ovid smiled before he even saw it.

The triklos crashed into view—a slab of muscle and bone. Tusks curved wide from the sides of its jaw and a third jutting forward from the center of its skull like a lance. Its body rippled with bulk, its stubby legs moving with terrifying speed. Foam frothed from its maw as it barreled toward them, eyes wild with bloodlust.

Rupuruv shifted, shield raising instinctively.

“Stay back,” Ovid said, crouching low, fingers clawing into the bones on the ground. His grin widened as his veins burned bright. “I’ll take care of this.”

The triklos didn’t slow. It barreled toward them—two tons of muscle, tusk, and fury. Hunger drove it, blind to anything but fresh meat.

Ovid’s lips curled into a crooked grin. He broke into a sprint, boots pounding against the wet earth. Just before the collision, he launched himself into the air, twisting mid-leap, and landed hard across the beast’s broad back.

His fingers clamped around one of its horns. He wrenched it, muscles screaming—and with a sharp, wet crack, the horn snapped free like brittle wood.

The triklos bellowed, veering wildly, but Ovid was already driving the horn into its side.

It stumbled, crying out, tusks thrashing for him, but he stayed close—too close for it to swing wide. He ripped the horn free and plunged it again, and again, and again, each blow fueled with brutal precision until the beast collapsed in a twitching heap.

Its final breath rattled in its chest, then faded. The mist swallowed the sound.

Ovid leapt and stood over the corpse, blood dripping from his hands. He stared at the horn in his fist—still warm, still wet. “Could make a decent spearhead,” he muttered, tossing it lazily to Rupuruv. “But I’m going after something better.”

Rupuruv dropped his spear and caught it, eyes narrowing. He tucked it into his belt, retrieved his fallen spear, and shook his head with a low growl. “Foe preoo.”

“You know what I mean,” Ovid said, already scanning the horizon. “I’m hunting the ferrumer.”

Rupuruv placed a heavy hand on Ovid’s shoulder. “Yo fuum firf fef for ferrumer. Yo forp.”

Ovid just smirked. “It’s close. I can feel it.”

The ferrumer announced itself first with sound—a dry, rapid click-click-click of twelve legs stabbing bone-strewn ground. Its limbs were pure bone, thick and curved like greatswords, every edge honed by evolution to cut flesh to ribbons.

Its serpentine body stretched long and lean, a row of jagged spines along its back like a crown of death.

And it was running. It knew.

Ovid crouched low, stalking through the haze, eyes straining until the creature’s silhouette bled out of the darkness.

“I see it,” he whispered.

“We ro?” Rupuruv asked quietly.

“No,” Ovid said. His voice was a growl. “Stay here. I’ll end it myself.”

He climbed the bone mound and slid down, loose remains clattering in his wake. He hit the ground running.

The ferrumer darted, fast, but Ovid lunged after it—low, primal, both hands clawing at the earth as he propelled himself forward like a beast.

He inhaled deep, and something unnatural pulsed under his skin. His veins bulged and glowed, sickly pink through his flesh.

The ferrumer stopped running. It turned, hissing, rising high on six of its bladed legs like a tower of bone.

Ovid’s nails elongated into claws; his muscles swelled, robes pulling tight over a body no longer fully human. His glow throbbed with his heartbeat, a violent pulse that lit the mist in dying bursts.

He roared and charged. The ferrumer’s upper leg scythed down, splitting the mist like a guillotine.

Ovid leapt, landing on the descending blade, using its weight to hurl himself upward. He caught the opposite leg mid-fall and scaled fast, climbing its body like a demon.

The ferrumer rolled, spines grinding through bone and gore as it tried to crush him off. Ovid hung on, teeth gritted, until he found a spine, planted his feet, and pulled.

Bone cracked like thunder.

The ferrumer shrieked, tensing in agony as Ovid tore the jagged spike free, holding it like a ballista bolt.

The beast slammed against the ground. The world lurched. Ovid flew into the air—then landed hard atop its back, driving the bone spike deep into its armored hide.

It convulsed, curling in on itself. Its pincers shot out, grabbed him, and flung him like trash. He slammed into the ground, breath bursting from his chest.

Before he could rise, a bladed leg plunged through his torso. It pinned him to the ground, bolting him to the earth.

Ovid choked on blood, vision blackening, while the ferrumer writhed away, its own wound leaking ichor into the mist.

Rupuruv’s war cry cut through the silence. He barreled down the slope, spear thrusting through an ambrog’s chest before smashing another’s skull with his shield.

They came in a frenzy—drawn by blood and death. Rupuruv spun his spear in a vicious arc, snarling, holding the line over Ovid’s limp body.

Then—BOOM!

A concussive blast of mist erupted outward as Ovid slammed his palms together. The shockwave hurled the ambrogs like ragdolls.

But victory cost him. As he tried to turn and stand, he coughed, blood pouring from his mouth, before he collapsed face-first into the dirt.

“Ovip!” Rupuruv dropped to his knees.

The light in Ovid’s eyes flickered—then froze.

Pain. Betrayal.

He looked down to see the cold steel spike of a rifle lodged through his gut. His gaze followed it upward—past the hands gripping it—to the face of Julius.

Blood bubbled at Ovid’s lips as he gasped, air giving way to the mist creeping in through his torn suit. His flesh began to melt, burning cold.

Behind Julius stood Brutus, silent, watching, eyes unreadable.

Julius tore the spike free, and Ovid fell to his knees, the world spinning.

“I’m sorry,” Julius whispered, not meeting his eyes. And then he turned his back.

Darkness swallowed Ovid whole.

He woke screaming.

A deep, ragged breath of Cruxium filled his lungs as Rupuruv’s frantic hands shook him awake.

“Yo Croo! Ovip!”

Ovid sat up, coughing hard, clutching at his abdomen as the hole sealed shut with sickly light.

“I saw it,” he rasped. “I saw my death.”

“Yo rop?” Rupuruv frowned.

“No,” Ovid hissed. “The death. The one that made me. My brothers—my friends—they killed me.”

“Fef farp?”

“Farmofip told me I couldn’t remember. That Crux took them, to make me the chosen one. But I saw it. Just a glimpse—but I have to know.”

“Fef fo frum forp feef pipf. Croo foe afob.”

“I don’t care.” Ovid tried to stand, pain ripping through his body. He fell to one knee. “Fiafopro is near. Someone there has to be able to. I’ll tear the truth out of Crux if I have to.”

Rupuruv’s tentacles tensed. He pulled Ovid’s arm over his shoulder and hauled him to his feet.

“Wo boff ro Fuffmum.”

“No.” Ovid’s voice was a growl. “Not yet.”

And so they walked—slow, agonizing steps through the choking fog. Ovid’s glow pulsed faintly with every labored breath, a sickly beacon that rolled through the mist like a heartbeat. Predators stalked the edges of that light but never crossed it. Even the hungriest of mistians knew the truth: only death waited inside that glow.

Still, Ovid leaned heavily on Rupuruv. The smaller Faffer strained beneath the weight of his companion’s monstrous body, legs trembling, boots crunching bone and grit. Ovid’s size and strength had become more curse than gift; without Rupuruv’s stubborn resolve, he might have collapsed long before.

But the mist itself answered him. Each deep breath Ovid took drew its poison into his ruined body. It seeped through his veins, knitting flesh, closing holes, dulling the agony that had crippled him. His steps steadied. His shoulders straightened. By the time kilometers had passed, he could stand on his own again, though his aura still pulsed weak and uneven.

The landscape changed as they pressed on. The fog slowly revealed a valley carpeted in bones—shattered ribs, skulls with hollow eyes, femurs and tusks broken into jagged cairns. No sound, not even the whisper of wings. It was wrong. Too quiet.

Then, the ground answered before Ovid could. A tremor rumbled beneath their boots. The bone field shifted. Ovid staggered, clutching at the half-healed wound in his abdomen, dropping to one knee.

Rupuruv stood firm, shield low, legs braced as if he were preparing to hold the world on his back.

The quake grew. Then—with a shriek of stone grinding against stone—the bones split apart. A structure surged upward, tearing itself from the underfloor: a cylindrical tower of stone and steel, rising into the mist. A layer of bones and ash still clung to its surface atop. A reminder of what it was buried beneath.

The tower screeched to a halt, dust raining down around it. At the front, a massive steel gate hissed open.

What poured out was not mistians nor Faffers. It was twelve hornets the size of wolves, wings churning the fog to madness, their stingers glistening with venom thick enough to drop an elephant. They formed a circle above, weapons angled at the intruders.

Rupuruv raised his shield hand high. A metallic card gleamed between his fingers, glowing icy blue. The sigil of Fuffmum burned across his shield—one Faffer surrounded by many.

The hornets’ formation loosened. Their buzzing dropped from a war-drum to a warning hum. Then, with rigid discipline, they landed in unison.

From the gate, something greater emerged.

A mantis as tall as Ovid, its green exoskeleton polished like lacquered armor, blades for arms clicking as it strode forward. Its bulging yellow-green eyes fixed on Rupuruv with predatory scrutiny.

“Fufma fa fef ma ree? Fef ura Fuffmum?” The voice was dry, hissing, mandibles flexing with each syllable.

Rupuruv lowered his head slightly. “Yo frief weobo frayforf ee mef babpf. Veep,” he pleaded, the desperation in his twenty-four eyes piercing through his helmet’s eyeholes.

The mantis’s head tilted, gaze slipping past Rupuruv to Ovid, who was still hunched and pale, one hand pressed to his wound. “Feef frief fi hoomum?”

“Hoomum for Croo,” Rupuruv answered sharply. “Afob ap fray ee peob. Foe—hero.”

Ovid staggered closer, trying to force strength into his posture. His voice cracked with pain: “Rup—what’s he want?”

“He cam’p berieve you hoomum.”

The mantis’ eyes narrowed. “Fef wuft hoomum?”

“Yo wuft Faffer rop,” Ovid rasped, voice hoarse but defiant. His knees buckled. He nearly fell, saved only by Rupuruv’s steadying grip.

Rupuruv looked up, twenty-four eyes locking on the mantis. “Veep Babf.” It was not a request but a desperate demand.

The mantis’s blades lifted with terrifying swiftness. He pointed one toward Ovid. “Babf Hoomum!”

At once, four hornets darted forward. They seized Ovid by his arms and legs, lifting him like prey caught in a net. He groaned, his half-healed wound tearing anew as they pulled him taut and horizontal.

The rest of the hornets closed ranks around them. The mantis followed, Rupuruv at his side. Together they entered the tower.

The gate slammed down, sealing with a final metallic thud. The tower began its descent, sinking back beneath the bone field, the graveyard sealing behind them.

Darkness pressed close until the tower halted again. A second gate opened, and torchlight revealed a chamber of polished stone bricks, runes etched into the floor like veins of fire.

The hornets carried Ovid to the circle at its center. The mantis lifted his own card, identical to Rupuruv’s but carved with Fiafopro’s insignia. The runes blazed with icy light, and the circle began to sink.

Down, down, into the underworld of Fiafopro.

The tunnel opened into a cavern vast as a city. Fiafopro sprawled before them—raw and alien. The stone ground was riddled with holes like a honeycomb, each burrow crawling with life.

The hive was a labyrinth of burrows and chambers, walls smoothed and reinforced with a resin that glistened like amber in the low glow of bioluminescent fungi. Tunnels wove in every direction, but the traffic of the insectoid people known as Fuffer’s, flowed with purpose. Large hunters with weapons of sharpened bone and chitin strode past carrying the corpses of freshly felled mistians. Smaller ant drones hurried about with woven baskets of fungi, roots, and bundled moss. Beetles, scarred and plated with hardened shells, stood guard at intersections, their many eyes scanning with quiet discipline.

No one lashed out. No one killed their own. They moved with a clicking harmony, like an orchestra. 

Unlike Fuffmum’s erected buildings and typical order, this was controlled chaos made habitable. Light vines glowed faintly from the cavern ceiling, painting everything in shades of green and amber. No trees, no plants, no fields—only the shifting, crawling bodies of insect-folk.

The hornets took off with Ovid as soon as they could. Dropping him at the entryway of a nearby group of healers. Several grasshoppers residing in a large tunnel beneath the cavern’s ground. They whisked him away, his groans echoing as they carried him deeper into the hive. The hornets then peeled off toward the barracks dug into the stone to meet up with the others.

The mantis remained with Rupuruv on the platform.

“Yo mum Caruv,” he said at last, voice dry but steady.

“Rupuruv,” came the reply.

“Fufma fi hoomum for Croo webobo frayfor ee fray?”

Rupuruv’s many eyes flickered as he turned to take in Fiafopro—the porous stone, the swarming insectoid bodies, the cavern alive with clicking, buzzing, gnashing. This was no city with homes of brick and stone. This was primal, animalistic, yet efficient and effective.

He exhaled through his mouth, blowing his tentacles outward. “Ovip urvpo for weobo firf hoomumf. For Croo.”

They bumped and rattled along the carved stone corridors until the stretcher stopped in a room, and Ovid was dumped onto a narrow bed with the soft thud of practiced hands. The room smelled of warm resin and crushed herbs; a low hum ran in the walls, like a mechanical heartbeat. Light came from veins of bioluminescent fungi set into the brick—cool and disciplined, not the unsettingly warm, deathly haze of the mist outside.

Around him the healers moved with machine-like calm. Grasshoppers in white clothes clicked quietly as they worked; a broad, flat cockroach in a black leather apron unfolded a box of instruments with the efficiency of someone who’d performed the same set of motions thousands of times. Their voices rattled fast in Faffer—sharp, layered syllables that sounded chaotically organized. No panic, only efficient ordering.

“Yo mef fray,” Ovid croaked to the nearest grasshopper, teeth flashing in a half-smile.

“Fef mef emof,” the grasshopper answered, then barked commands up and down the row: “Vopu, brear, pi!”

They increased their pace. One flew to a cabinet, unlatched it with a flick of forelegs, and brought out glass canisters, clacking hot-metal instruments, woven masks. A pair of smaller ants set up a table of woven fiber lined with cooling resin while another grasshopper unlocked a rack of bottles—full of water glowing with mist-saturation.

They rolled him, turned him, checked every part of his body with strange devices that buzzed in electromagnetic tones. The cockroach pressed a flat scanner to his skin; a screen blossomed with pulsing lines and glyphic readouts. 

He flinched when a soft bottle with a rubber nipple was shoved under his mouth. It was meant to help—hydration with a touch of Cruxium—but his muscles spasmed. The phantom pain flared like a brand.

He snatched the bottle, sent the would-be giver a look that cut through the language barrier, tore the nipple free with one hand, and downed the contents in a single, ugly gulp.

The room froze for a single beat, then the chorus resumed—only now their movements were even more deliberate, respectful. They understood him a little better now.

One of the grasshoppers called out sharp and returned behind him with a wheeled cart of canisters. They strapped a mask to his face and turned a valve; mist-rich air washed over him, thick and sweet. Warmth threaded through his veins; the sickly pink light flared in his eyes, steadying the tremors that had eaten at his limbs.

Relief came, but it was an imperfect thing—an anesthetic on a memory that throbbed under the skin. His wound was closed; the flesh knit clean, but the pain lingered like an echo. The healers murmured, consulted, and shook their heads at a problem they could not see. They poked at him with gloved mandibles, pressed aromatic leaves to his brow, dabbed cooling resin across his belly; none of it chased the ache away.

When Rupuruv arrived, his weapons and armor left behind at the platform, he carried the quiet gravity of someone who had seen too much but couldn’t let it show. He stood at the threshold and took in the room, twenty-four eyes tracking every motion. His tentacles drooped just enough to show his exhaustion.

“Ovip, fufma fi opf. Yo frief, fufma fi ferrumer maff?” he asked in a low rush.

Ovid pulled the mask away and breathed thin air—less mist, less repair, more stabbing pain. Pain that flared, hot and bright. He forced a guarded smile. “Thank Crux you’re here. I need—help.”

Rupuruv’s voice was one level lower than the rest of the hum: “Whap?”

“The pain’s not physical,” Ovid said, words ragged. “It’s… deeper. It’s in the place I shouldn’t remember. I need you to trust me.”

Rupuruv’s eyes tightened. “Ovip, whap?”

“Leave the mask off. Let me lose the glow. Then—then you stab me where I was stabbed by the ferrumer. Let me die for a breath. Put the mask back on in a minute. I’ll come back.” Pain clenched his face as he spoke; the request was monstrous but measured. “I need that. I need to see.”

Rupuruv looked back to the entrance at Caruv—at the mantis who had shepherded them here—then back at Ovid, searching his expression like an animal tracking scent. The mantis’s head cocked; his blades clicked. Then, he stepped in.

“Ih fi Ovip’f brear?” Caruv asked quietly.

“Ovip mef fef yahow vofir. Vof peob. Veep. Babpf mopa ee Ovip peob. Fopro,” Rupuruv explained fast.

The mantis listened without alarm. To him he saw it for what it was. This was not madness; it was a calculated risk.

Ovid’s voice dropped to a whisper: “Veep. Yahow.” He tapped the spot at the center of his belly. The room sucked in air.

Caruv did not hesitate. He stepped forward and plunged his arm into Ovid’s midsection—slow, surgical, deliberate. The healers screamed. Rupuruv stood between them and the mantis. He shouted over them, trying to explain the situation.

Ovid’s skin parted like the seam of a well-used cloak. Blood warmed his lips. Breath hitched. He coughed. The world narrowed to the edge of Caruv’s chitin and the sound of his own heart.

Ovid’s eyes rolled back. The room blurred and then fell away.

For a moment, nothing—then the distant breath of the healers, the clack of Caruv’s legs as he walked away. The last thing he registered was Rupuruv’s face, close, full of grief, before the darkness closed in.

And then: silence, aside from the soft wet rasp of his final exhale as consciousness slid away like a stone sinking through dark water.

Their ship sank into the deep, past the sun-pierced layers of the Great Gas Sea. The light above dwindled until it was nothing but a dull shimmer, then vanished altogether. Only the ship’s lights and the faint glow of the ship’s dials cut the dark. The hull groaned as the pressure mounted.

Inside, Ovid, Brutus, Julius, and Rollo moved with the easy rhythm of soldiers who had done this a hundred times before. Ovid checked his gear first, as always: the clasps on his submistial suit, the seals at his wrists, the breathing tubes that hissed with regulated air. He slid his short sword into its sheath, then turned his attention to his revolving rifle, popping the chamber open, counting each round, then clicking it shut again.

Across from him, Brutus slung a sash of shotgun shells over his chest. He cracked open the double barrel of his shotgun, fed it two fat cartridges, and snapped it closed with a casual flick before sheathing a dagger into his boot. His face was calm—too calm.

Julius sat sharpening the spike fixed to the barrel of his rifle. The rasp of the whetstone sang in the cramped cabin, metal on stone, again and again, until the edge caught light with a cold glimmer. He polished it with the patience of a ritual.

At the helm, Rollo kept the ship steady. His pistol rested at his hip, but his hands stayed on the controls, eyes flicking from dial to dial. He was the anchor, the one who would be ready to pull them out if something went wrong. Or so Ovid thought.

When the ship finally landed, the landing gear crunched into something soft and brittle. The sound was wrong—like walking on bones. Ovid felt the jolt in his knees as he leaned on the wall.

He stood at the door and turned to face his crew. The mist pressed against the portholes like a living thing, eager to pour in.

“Alright,” Ovid said, voice steady through the respirator. “Routine sweep. Just a check on the current mistian populations. We scout, mark what we find. Engage only if necessary. Avoid conflict when possible. We’ve got six hours of air—let’s make them count.”

Brutus nodded once. Julius said nothing, only slid the whetstone back into his pack. Rollo kept his eyes forward, unreadable.

The door unlatched with a hiss, and the abyss swallowed them whole. The mist pressed in from all directions, thick, suffocating, endless. Ovid led the way, rifle raised, movements sharp and deliberate. Each step sank with a crunch into the grisly ground. Shapes loomed in the fog—piles of carcasses, mounds of bone—but nothing stirred. No movement, no sound but the faint hum of the ship’s engines behind them.

Ovid exhaled and lowered his rifle slightly, scanning the nothingness. The silence was heavier than any battlefield he had known.

“What’s going on?” he muttered.

“Area was cleared earlier,” Brutus said, voice flat through his mask.

Ovid turned, confusion tightening his brow. “What?”

He didn’t have time for the answer.

Julius lunged, the spike of his rifle punching through Ovid’s abdomen with a wet crack. The steel tore through chainmail, fabric, flesh, and sealant alike, and Ovid’s breath caught in his throat. He dropped his rifle, fingers clawing at the weapon lodged in his body.

The spike slid out with a sickening rip, and blood—dark and thick in the mist—spilled down his suit. Ovid collapsed to his knees, the weight of the world suddenly on his shoulders. His hands pressed against the wound, but nothing could stop the warm flood.

“I’m sorry, Ovid,” Julius said, voice trembling just enough to betray that he meant it. He turned without looking back.

“No hard feelings, friend. Just business,” Brutus added. He bent down, scooped up Ovid’s fallen rifle, and slung it over his shoulder like a prize. His heavy boots crunched as he walked back toward the ship.

Rollo never moved from the helm. He didn’t even look towards the door. The engines thrummed, patient, as if nothing had changed.

Ovid tried to call out, but all that came was a wet choke. His body convulsed. The mist, leaking into his ruptured suit, seared him alive. His lungs filled with fire as Cruxium kissed his insides, melting the fragile tissue with each breath. His throat blistered. His skin bubbled. The glow of his veins turned wild and wrong as the element devoured him.

He writhed on the bone-strewn ground, vision narrowing to a tunnel. Above him, the outlines of his brothers blurred into the mist as they walked away. No one looked back.

The last thing he remembered was the sound of their footsteps fading and the taste of iron in his mouth, before nothing but searing pain. Then the abyss claimed him, silent and merciless, leaving him alone in agony, abandoned in the belly of the Great Gas Sea.

Ovid gasped, dragging the mist into his lungs. What once scalded him from the inside now flowed like balm. It cooled his throat, stitched torn muscle, and filled marrow with fire. His body thrummed with something greater than blood. Exemplary.

As he took his mask off, the healers swarmed, speaking in Faffer, their mandibles clattering as hands pressed against his skin, forcing a mask back over his face. He ripped it free, staggering upright. The wound from Caruv still punctured his flesh, but the knife-edge agony had dulled to a faint ache. His body was finishing the repair.

Rupuruv scuttled forward, words tumbling out too fast for Ovid to decipher. “Fef faroo rio! Fef fa away!”

He lunged in for an embrace, but Ovid shoved him back, chest heaving, instincts snarling.

“Sorry, Rup. I… I just need a moment.”

The healers pressed close again. Hands and instruments flickered in and out of his sight, voices rising in a dozen pitches. Ovid’s breath shortened. It wasn’t care he saw in their gestures—it was feeding frenzy. Arms darting, like mistians tearing into carcass. His gut tightened.

“ENOUGH!” His arm lashed out. The force sent several Fuffers sprawling across the burrow floor.

Silence fell. Wide insect eyes stared at him, antennas twitching with fear. Shame pricked him, but his body was already moving. On all fours, he bolted up the tunnel, his glowing veins dimming with each pulse. He fell once, scraping his face along the stone, but staggered on until he found refuge: an empty nursery.

The chamber smelled of earth and resin. Rows of alien cribs lined the walls, carved from root and chitin. It should have been a place of comfort and safety. Instead, the dim light and hollow quiet wrapped him like a shroud. He collapsed in a corner, rocking, muttering.

“C’mon, get it together.” He smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. Tears pricked but refused release.

Footsteps skittered down the tunnel. Ovid forced himself still, wiping his face.

Rupuruv entered slowly. “Ovip?” His voice was soft, careful.

Ovid forced a smile, a broken mask. “I’m fine, Rup. Just… too much all at once.”

“Ovip, we ro fo Fuffmum mow. We fee Farmofip.”

Ovid kept his eyes forward. His voice dropped to a whisper. “They betrayed me.” He turned slowly. “My brothers. The ones I trusted with my life. They killed me. For business?”

“Ovip…”

He barked a hollow laugh. “Business. That’s all I was worth?”

“Hey mo maffer. Your fife im Fuffmum mow.”

“I need to know why,” Ovid snarled. “What business? What was worth more than me?”

“Ovip, we meeb fo ro—”

“I don’t need to see Farmofip!” His shout cracked the air. For a moment his eyes flared, veins lighting with sickly pink.

Rupuruv crouched, palms up. “Opay. Whap you meeb, Ovip?”

“Answers,” he said after a brief pause.

Ovid’s voice grew quieter, but harder, a vein pulsing at his temple. “Farmofip lied. Said I could never have my memories back, that Crux forbade it. But I can. I did. My body needed me to. And you… you want to drag me back to him?”

“Ovip. Yo frief, yo babpf fef. Wo perk babpf ree.” Rupuruv’s words faltered, his tone pleading.

The glow in Ovid’s veins spread again, crawling up his throat, his eyes searing like embers. He stood and loomed over the Faffer, each step pushing Rupuruv backward into the rows of cribs.

“You’re not my friend,” Ovid hissed. His fist tightened, veins bulging.

He lunged—and the world shattered with pain. A stinger punched through his back, venom flooding his nerves. His body convulsed, legs giving out beneath him. He crashed sideways, smashing through a crib, limbs twitching uselessly.

Rupuruv shrieked and stumbled back as Ovid clawed the floor with fingers that no longer answered. His chest heaved, eyes wide, every breath a thunderclap of panic.

The hornet soldier withdrew its stinger, stepping aside as the mantis strode in, mandibles clicking.

“Mofu, Rupuruv. Ovip fi vuvyvir. Vof mef ro Fuffmum mopa.”

The words blurred as the toxin dragged him down. He tried to curse, to scream, to demand answers, but only breath and blinking remained. The glow in his veins dimmed, fading into nothing.

Darkness folded him in.

“No hard feelings, friend. Just business.”

The next thing Ovid knew, he was staring at stone. The ceiling above him—grey, veined with faint cracks—was the same one he had looked at his first night in Farmofip’s home. For a long moment, he simply laid there, eyes tracing the lines, trying to decide if he had truly woken or if this was another dream.

His body felt both drained and thrumming with some strange vitality. He curled his hands into fists. The strength was there, but it was muted, uncertain, like his mind was awake but his body was still asleep. He pushed himself up slowly, every muscle sluggish but obedient. His feet hit the floor, tingling as if blood had only just returned to them. When he stood, he swayed, catching himself on the bedpost before shuffling toward the door.

The staircase seemed longer than he remembered. His hand dragged along the railing, knuckles whitening as he gripped each post for balance. At the bottom, a warmth struck him—spice, smoke, roasted meat. The air was thick with it, the scents clinging to his throat.

He paused in the threshold of the parlor. The table was already set, spread with platters of baked mistian meat, roasted Faffer vegetables, and bowls of stewed roots dusted with alien spice. Steam curled into the air like mist. It was enough food for a dozen Faffers, yet the table stood empty, waiting for him alone.

“Ovip!” Farmofip’s voice carried from the kitchen, warm and booming. A moment later the ancient Faffer appeared, wiping his hands on a woven cloth. His tentacles twitched at the sight of Ovid on his feet. “You muff eap. Foo rong wifoup foof.”

“Farmofip?” Ovid’s voice cracked with confusion. “What’s… what’s going on?”

Farmofip crossed to him with surprising speed for his old appearance, a heavy hand guiding Ovid toward the chair. “Eap, ven fock.”

Before Ovid could resist, the elder vanished back into the kitchen, returning with plates balanced in his arms. He laid them down—one after another until the table nearly groaned beneath the feast.

Ovid sat, staring at the abundance, his stomach turning. “Farmofip, I… I was in Fiafopro. How am I here?”

“Eap,” Farmofip said again, firmer this time, tentacles curling as though warding off the question.

“No.” Ovid’s voice sharpened. “What is going on?”

“You roff comror. Vey fook you home.”

Ovid blinked. “Where’s Rupuruv?”

Farmofip hesitated, tentacles squelching softly. “He ouf. Mo mow where. Mo fay.”

Ovid’s gaze dropped to the food, but the more he looked at it, the more it revolted him. 

“I saw it, Farmofip.” His voice lowered, hoarse. “I saw my death.”

The elder’s tentacles twitched. “Vey fay you go berferk.”

“I relived it. Every heartbeat. Every bit of the excruciating pain. As I died, I woke back up like it wasn’t real. But it was. It was. Like I jumped through time itself. You told me I couldn’t regain my memories, but Crux gave them back.”

“Croo recomfider vem.”

Ovid’s chest burned. “Then I need to find the rest.”

Farmofip exhaled slowly, an old sound that might have been weariness or disappointment. “Vey mo maffer. You foven by Croo. You fave earf. You rebuib Faff of Croo.”

“I will,” Ovid snapped. “But I need my memories.”

“Eap,” Farmofip repeated, already turning toward the kitchen. “We fock rarrer.”

The dismissal cut deeper than a blade. Ovid pushed back from the table, the legs of the chair scraping the floor. He stood there for a moment, staring at the untouched feast, then let out a long, furious sigh. Without another word, he strode to the door, flung it open, and marched into the streets of Fuffmum.

Outside, the town was alive with the usual hum of activity: Faffer children darting through the city, workers carrying baskets of vegetables and roots, the faint hum of electric bikes racing through the streets. But as Ovid stepped out, conversations seemed to dip. Countless eyes turned toward him. He felt the weight of each stare following his every move.

For the first time since he arrived, the familiar streets of Fuffmum felt foreign.

Ovid threw his hood up, tugging it low to shadow his face, and walked with his head down. The bustle of Fuffmum surrounded him, but it all felt like background noise, as if the whole city was pretending not to watch him.

“Ovip!”

The voice cut through the din. He froze, turning to see Rupuruv barreling down the street, arms flailing, tentacles bouncing wildly with each step. He reached Ovid, panting, but his words came out in a rush.

“Yo perk Faffer opf frum babpf!”

Ovid blinked. His throat tightened. “With… my memories?”

Rupuruv nodded so quickly his tentacles swayed with the motion. “Fuh!”

Before Ovid could ask anything else, Rupuruv seized his hand with surprising strength and dragged him down the street. “Vof fi faroo breip!”

They cut through the crowds, deeper into the city, until Rupuruv yanked him into a narrow alley between two towering stone-brick buildings. The walls were damp, stained with moss. On their left stood a steel door with a square of glass at eye level.

Rupuruv grunted, heaving it open. The door groaned on its hinges before slamming shut behind them, sealing the alley’s light away. A dim corridor stretched ahead, lined with heavy doors. Pipes rattled overhead, dripping condensation.

“Where are we?” Ovid muttered, unease gnawing at him.

Rupuruv didn’t answer. He hauled Ovid forward, turned right at a fork, and stopped at the second door. Without hesitation, he pushed it open.

The room beyond was cramped and cluttered, the ceiling only a meter above their heads. Wires dangled like vines, tubes snaked across the floor, and glass vats bubbled with pale liquid. The air was thick with burnt chemicals and metal.

At the far end stood a pale blue Faffer in a scarlet jacket, goggles secured tight over his eyes—twenty-four in all. Sparks shot from a contraption on his worktable as the scientist cursed, then spun around at the sound of their footsteps.

“Ahhh rio!” he shrieked. “Rupuruv! Opf fi hoomum for Croo?”

Rupuruv started to answer, but Ovid cut him off, stepping forward. “Fuh, yo mum fi Ovid. Fef frum babpf firf yo memome?”

The scientist froze. “Fef wuft Faffer?”

Ovid nodded. “Yo wuft Faffer. Yo rep yo memome. Foe farp away fray. Frum fef babpf?”

The scientist tilted his head, considering. “Fuh. Yo frum babpf. Fef farp auf?”

“Fuh,” Ovid confirmed.

“Ih?”

“Yo… yo yah.”

The scientist’s eyes narrowed. “Fufma?”

“Yo frum yah ee fuum away mura firf fray.”

The Faffer looked at him as though weighing madness against possibility. Ovid felt heat rise in his face. But Rupuruv chimed in, eager, desperate: “Fuh, Ovip hoomum firf peorpo.”

The scientist’s eyes narrowed in on Ovid. Finally, he straightened, tentacles curling with decision. “Ovip, yo mum Vio. Fuum firf yo.”

He gestured toward a chair in the center of the room, stitched from ambrog leather and bolted to the floor. Ovid hesitated, then sat, every nerve on edge. Vio moved with startling speed, dragging hoses from a vat, clamping wires to Ovid’s chest, fastening a mask to his face. Mist hissed into the chamber around him, sharp and acrid.

“This guy knows what he’s doing, right, Rup?” Ovid muttered through the mask, already doubting.

“Brief roro,” Rupuruv said, too quickly. His tentacles twitched nervously.

“Fee yah frum foro fef farp, yo yahow rop.” Vio scurried to a massive switch, sparks dancing at its base. He looked back once, his goggle lenses gleaming. “Eeaf?”

Ovid sucked in a deep breath of Cruxium through the mask. It burned, then cooled. He gave a weak thumbs-up.

Vio yanked the lever.

Agony lanced through Ovid’s chest. Electricity seared his heart, rattling his bones, forcing his body into violent spasms. His vision exploded with white, then colors—images, fragments—before collapsing back into black. He arched against the chair, teeth grinding until his jaw nearly cracked.

Then, as suddenly as it began, Vio released the lever. The current stopped.

Ovid sagged, limp, the mask hissing against his slack mouth. His eyes fluttered once, then closed.

Niamh, the family’s longtime servant, guided Ovid into the dining hall. “Your son, my lord,” she announced with a bow before slipping toward the kitchens.

The hall was cavernous, lit by chandeliers of gold that shimmered with a soft glow. The long oak table stretched nearly the length of the room, already laid with steaming platters. Niamh soon returned, carrying a silver tray piled high with Oman crawfish, chicken sausages slick with herbs, and a colorful spread of steamed vegetables glistening with butter. The meal was fit for dozens of people, enough to feed his entire Decan for a week.

Ophelia and Darius wasted no time filling their plates, laughter mingling with the clink of cutlery and the glug of poured wine. Ovid, though, lingered, his eyes darting between the dishes as though they were foreign artifacts. He took only modest portions, nibbling more than eating.

Ophelia caught the hesitation. “Is this not to your taste? We asked the kitchens to prepare your favorites, but we can always have them make something else.”

 He shook his head lightly. “No, the food’s fine. I’ve just been eating dried meat and fruit these past few years. Hot meals feel… strange.”

Darius barked a laugh through a mouthful of sausage. “That slop they serve? Treat you like Coloni while you’re out there risking your life. Bastards. But that’s done now. You’re home. You’ll eat proper food again—fresh, hearty, and plenty of it.”

Ovid smiled faintly. “Fresh food and a warm bed. That’s more than I’ve had in a long while.”

Darius leaned forward, chalice in hand, his tone shifting from jovial to commanding. “And you’ll never live like that again. Tomorrow, we’ll get you settled at Monstrum. It’s time you embrace your bloodline, Ovid. You’re a descendant of Gallus. It’s your destiny to carry the company forward.”

The words landed like a chain across Ovid’s shoulders. He glanced down at his wine, its sweetness sharp compared to the bitter ales he’d grown used to. It tasted foreign, indulgent, and somehow hollow.

Darius stabbed at a zucchini, chewing before continuing. “Now, tell me—who are these men you’ve chosen for your hunting team?”

Ovid straightened slightly. “Julius of Carta. He’ll be here before the end of December. Marksman. He can take a harpy’s head clean off at eighty meters with nothing but a pistol. A shot like that could save us in the western sea.”

Darius raised his brows. “A Cartan? Fierce stock. Good choice.”

“And Rollo of Vanaia. He was our ship’s mechanic. Saved us more than once when the burners failed under fire. He’s got a daughter—nine now. Hasn’t seen her since she was a baby. Wants to reconnect with his family before coming to Ivrea.”

“Smart lad,” Darius said, lifting his chalice in approval. “Without mechanics, you drown in the mist. And the third?”

Ovid broke open a crawfish shell, dipped the meat in sauce, and chewed before replying. “Brutus of Grus. Born for the mist. He and I ran mistian ambushes together. He’s got a nose for open air. His father already hunts for Monstrum—Brennius of Oma.”

“Brennius, eh?” Darius pointed his fork like a general marking orders. “I’ll see him promoted. Niamh!”

The servant was already at the door, quick as ever.

“Note that Brennius of Oma is to be advanced within Monstrum.”

“Yes, my lord.” She vanished again.

Darius leaned back, satisfied. “Good. And no others? I expected you’d have five or six at least.”

“I’d rather have three men I trust with my life than fill a roster with names. They carried me through war. They’ll carry me through the mist.”

Darius’s lip curled in faint disapproval, though he let it pass. “Very well. Four men it is. We’ll see if you’re all enough.”

The tension coiled in Ovid’s chest like a spring, his fist tightening in his lap. Before the silence could harden, Ophelia interjected, “Enough of business at the table. Ovid has only just come home. Tomorrow is soon enough for the docks.”

Darius rolled his eyes but relented with a grunt.

Ophelia leaned toward her son, her voice soft. “Tell me, what have you missed most of all?”

Ovid allowed himself a small smile. “Icarus. Is he still in the stables?”

Ophelia’s eyes brightened. “Of course. Your little bird has missed you fiercely. Every time the stable boy takes him out, he flies searching for you. It’s as though he knew you’d return.”

The smile widened. “Then I should see him. He’s waited long enough.” He rose, bowing his head slightly to his father. “Tomorrow, four o’clock at the docks?”

“Four sharp,” Darius said, already reaching for another slice of meat.

Ovid nodded. “Yes, sir.”

As he left the hall, the clatter of silver and clanking of glass faded behind him. For the first time that night, his steps felt light. Somewhere in the dark stables, Icarus was waiting.

Ovid’s body arched as the surge ripped through him. He gasped back to life with a ragged cry, lungs burning, heart hammering. His hands clawed at the mask strapped to his face until he tore it free, slamming it onto the floor. He doubled over, heaving, every breath scraping his throat raw.

Rupuruv approached with careful steps, his tentacles twitching nervously. “Ovip?”

Ovid lifted his head, sweat slick across his brow, his skin pale as bone and his eyes ringed with shadows. For a moment he looked half-dead still, a man caught between two worlds. Then he forced a smile through the pain.

“I’m fine this time, Rup,” he rasped, his voice broken by a cough.

Rupuruv didn’t look convinced. He picked up the mask and put it over Ovid’s face again. Ovid took a few deep breaths as Rupuruv hovered close, ready to steady him if he collapsed.

Ovid leaned back in the chair, trembling as his body adjusted. The death and return left a deep ache in his bones, as if pieces of him hadn’t quite come back. Yet beneath the exhaustion, a fragile light burned in his expression.

“It worked,” he whispered, peeling the mask off just enough to speak. “I saw something. My first day home. Dinner with my parents. My father filling his plate, my mother drinking too much wine…” He gave a dry, bitter laugh that caught in his chest. “I told them I wanted to hunt with my three friends from the war. I said I trusted them with my life.”

The laugh faded into silence. His eyes darkened as the weight of those words pressed down on him. Trusted.

For a moment, Rupuruv reached out, one hand hovering just above Ovid’s shoulder, as if touch alone might anchor him. But Ovid pushed forward, turning his face toward Vio.

“Mura,” he said firmly, sliding the mask back in place with trembling hands.

Vio adjusted the machines, his movements precise, almost detached. He checked the gauges, flicked a switch, and grasped the lever again.

Rupuruv hesitated, his tentacles curling in protest. “Ovip, maybe reff—”

Ovid cut him off with a single look. Determination blazed through the exhaustion, fragile but unbreakable.

Vio gave no more warning. The lever came down, and lightning seized Ovid’s body once again.

Ovid woke with a violent start, chest heaving, the phantom roar of cannons still ringing in his ears. His hands trembled as if still clamped around the stock of his rifle, the recoil of killing men fresh in his bones. The dream clung to him—blood pooling on the ship floor, screams swallowed by the mist, the sickening silence afterward.

Nightmares had dogged him ever since his first naval battle at nineteen, and no matter how many years passed, they never lost their bite. If there was one small mercy, it was that waking in panic always forced him out of bed quicker than any servant could.

He dressed quickly, the cold sweat drying against his skin, and left his room before the walls of the estate could close in on him. The stables smelled of hay, seeds, and feather dander—familiar, grounding scents that pulled him back from the war.

Icarus greeted him with a piercing screech, wings beating the air in joy. The great bird’s eyes gleamed with recognition, his feathers rippling like firelight as he pressed his beak toward Ovid.

Ovid buried his hand in the thick plumage of his neck, scratching deep in the spot that always made him chirp. Icarus cooed like a child reunited with his parent, and for the first time that morning Ovid’s lips curved into a real smile.

“I missed you too, boy.” His voice was soft, almost breaking. He pressed his forehead against the bird’s beak, closing his eyes for a moment of peace.

When he pulled away, he reached for the saddle. “You ready to go?”

Icarus shifted restlessly, his wings stretching wide, eager for the sky. Ovid saddled him in practiced motions, swung onto his back, and with a single cry of “Let’s go!” the two burst from the stables.

The runway thundered beneath Icarus’s talons as he sprinted. His wings snapped open, the wind catching them like sails, and with one bounding leap they were airborne. The mist rolled beneath them, the island shrinking below, and Ovid inhaled the crisp air with a freedom that no battlefield could steal.

Time blurred. By the time his pocket watch struck four, they touched down at the Monstrum docks. His father was already waiting, overseeing a crew of hunters dragging the carcass of a slain mistian from the hold of an airship. The stink of blood clung to the dock, but Darius looked untouched, drinking it in like a man surveying profits rather than death.

Ovid dismounted, and before he could speak his father’s voice cut him.

“Took you long enough.” The disdain in his tone stung more than the words.

“You said four o’clock. It’s exactly four,” Ovid countered, brushing dust from his pants.

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Darius’s gaze was sharp as a blade. “If you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late. You cannot afford to keep aristocrats waiting when you carry the Gallus name.”

Ovid rolled his eyes, muttering, “Is this how you wanted to start my first day back?”

“Discipline begins in the details,” Darius said flatly, before turning and clapping a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “But I’ll move on. Come. There’s something I want to show you.”

He led Ovid into the cavernous hangar. The space echoed with the hiss of steam and the metallic tang of oil. Workers in leather aprons scurried about, their tools clanging against steel. And in the center, resting on her landing struts, was the ship.

Ovid stopped in his tracks. Even smaller than a decan vessel, the Grusian half-decan was a marvel of design—sleek hull reinforced with iron ribs, engines humming with restrained power, her bow fitted with an ARR gun like a predator baring its fangs. Harpoons jutted from the flanks, gleaming wickedly under the lights.

“She’s outfitted with Vertad burners and Huric turbines,” Darius explained, pride slipping into his voice. “Light, fast, but powerful enough to bring down leviathans. Four men can crew her without strain.”

Ovid circled the vessel, his boots echoing against the hangar floor. His hand trailed the smooth steel plating, heart quickening. Even after years aboard military craft, this ship stirred something in him—something dangerously close to hope.

“Well?” Darius asked at last, crossing his arms. “What do you think?”

Ovid met his gaze, unable to keep the awe from his voice. “It’s beautiful. More than I could ask for.”

His father’s mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. “Then she’s yours. Treat her well, and she’ll carry the Gallus name as far as you’re willing to take it.”

As he was torn out of the past and slammed back into the present, Ovid’s body betrayed him. His chest heaved as though he had been drowning, and even the dim bulbs on the wall stabbed at his eyes like sunlight off steel. He winced, lids fluttering.

Everything was muffled at first—the kind of silence born of too much noise. His ears screamed with a high, shrill ring, drowning out the room. The shape of Rupuruv hovered above him, tentacles twitching with words Ovid couldn’t yet hear. The movements seemed frantic, almost desperate.

Ovid’s breaths came in ragged pulls, fogging the inside of the Cruxium mask clamped to his face. The vapor burned down his throat but slowly, agonizingly, it worked. First came clarity to his vision, the haze giving way to blurred forms, then edges, then the faint glimmer of light catching the slick sheen on Rupuruv’s glistening flesh.

Rupuruv leaned close, all of his eyes fixed on him, tentacles pulsing as though repeating a question.

Ovid blinked rapidly, then squeezed his eyes shut until it hurt. When he opened them again, the ringing receded, leaving behind the low drone of his own heartbeat hammering in his skull.

“Ovip?” Rupuruv’s voice finally broke through, low and tight with concern.

Ovid tugged the mask down, gulping stale air as sweat poured down his face, soaking his shirt until it clung to his chest. His head sagged forward, neck trembling with the effort of holding it upright.

“I’m fine, Rup,” he muttered, voice hoarse, though his trembling hands betrayed the lie.

Vio’s voice cut through next. “Fef mef mura?”

Ovid forced himself to focus on the words, the rhythm of the language familiar through long hours of practice. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Mura.” His voice cracked. He dragged the mask back over his mouth and nose, pulling in another harsh breath of Cruxium, eyes shutting tight.

“Ovip! Veep foe,” Rupuruv begged, voice rising, tentacles knotting together with agitation.

Ovid peeled the mask away again with sudden, jerking strength. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, locked on Rupuruv. “I just need a few minutes in between, you hear me? Don’t—” He coughed, catching his breath. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” His gaze shifted to Vio, hard and resigned, the kind of look that needed no words.

Vio hesitated, fingers hovering over the switch.

“Do it,” Ovid rasped.

The lever slammed forward.

A crack of lightning surged into Ovid’s body, searing through flesh and bone. His back arched off the chair, every muscle taut, teeth clenched so hard blood leaked from his gums. His heart shuddered, then stilled. The room filled with the acrid tang of burnt sweat and blood.

And once again, Ovid sank into a lethal sleep.

After three brutal days of stalking, harpooning, and nearly being dragged into the Great Gas Sea themselves, Ovid and his crew finally brought down their first leviathan. Its massive corpse had been hauled back to Grus, the carcass butchered, and the oil siphoned off in steaming vats. When the pay came through—20,000 senecs in cold, hard cash—it hardly felt real.

Flush with victory and paper, the four men set their course south to Oma, to Mantua—the city every Grusian hunter dreamed of during long hunts at sea. Mantua had been carved into the rocky southern coast generations ago, a supply outpost turned playground for hunters with money to burn. Bright lights lined its crooked streets, market stalls hawked skewered meats and spiced rums, and every corner rattled with the laughter and curses of men who’d stared death in the eye and came back grinning.

Their boots eventually carried them to a tavern with a weather-beaten sign that read simply: Scurvy. The place was everything they wanted it to be—rickety wood planks, floor sticky with spilled drink, walls tattooed with years of knife marks. The air was thick with blood, booze, and sweat. For Grusian hunters, it wasn’t filth. It was home.

Ovid pushed through the crowd, leading Brutus, Rollo, and Julius until they found an opening at the bar. The four of them collapsed onto the stools, leaning heavy on their elbows, shoulders brushing.

Ovid raised his hand to catch the eye of the bartender, a wiry Ioan boy with tired eyes who was polishing a glass. The young man crossed over, trying not to look intimidated.

“Hey. Name’s Daniel,” he said, voice friendly but edged with nerves. “What can I get you?”

“A round of grog,” Ovid answered, tossing a crisp fifty-senec bill onto the counter like it was nothing.

Daniel blinked, then hustled away and returned with four wooden steins brimming with froth. “Alright, here ya go. You want your change?”

Ovid waved him off with a subtle shake of his head.

Daniel’s face softened. “Thanks,” he said quickly before turning back to his pile of dirty glasses.

Rollo grabbed his stein with a grin wide enough to split his face. “So it’s really gonna be like this every time we bag a leviathan?”

Ovid smirked and took his first gulp. The grog was bitter, cheap, and perfect. “My father pays premium for our leviathan kills. As long as you’re with me, you’ll be making more than you’ll know what to do with.”

Brutus clapped Ovid hard on the back, nearly spilling his drink. “Almost double what my old man makes in a hunt. Guess it pays to drink with the heir of Monstrum.” He chuckled, though there was an edge of envy buried in the sound.

Daniel’s voice cut in, hesitant. “Sorry—did I hear that right? You’re the heir to Monstrum? Like… the Monstrum?”

Ovid set his stein down with a dull thunk. He smirked, letting the question hang before giving a small bow of his head. “Formally? I’m Ovid of Grus, Descendant of Gallus.” He extended a hand across the bar.

Daniel hesitated only a moment before shaking it. “Daniel Bellamy. Of Ioan?”

Ovid cocked his head. “Bellamy… as in Henry Bellamy? The Pirate King?”

Daniel laughed and shrugged. “Afraid not. Pretty sure the Pirate King left no heirs—at least none that dared keep his name. Maybe we’re distant kin, maybe it’s just coincidence.”

Ovid leaned in, genuinely curious now. “So what’s a Bellamy doing in a hole like this?”

Daniel’s smile faltered. “Debt. My father got deep into it back home. Figured the fastest way out was to become a hunter. He moved us here while he worked out of Grus.”

“Does he work for Monstrum?” Ovid asked.

Daniel’s hands tightened around the rag. “He did. Ship went down on his third trip.”

The words landed heavy. Ovid lowered his head in respect. “I’m sorry.”

Brutus, never one for silence, lifted his stein high. “To a fallen hunter.”

The others followed, voices low and rough as they echoed: “To a fallen hunter.”

They drank deep, grog spilling down their chins, and slammed the steins against the bar. Around them, the tavern roared on—hunters singing, laughing, brawling—but for a moment, the four of them sat in the eye of it, tasting the thin line between fortune and ruin.

Ovid awoke in the lab again, slumped in the chair of mistian hide. His lungs dragged in Cruxium like a drowning man. His skin was chalk-pale, his veins standing out darkly, sweat soaking through every stitch of fabric.

The memory he’d left behind lingered like an aftertaste—warm, alive, human. He could almost still feel the weight of the stein in his hand, the laughter of his crew echoing in his ears. For one fleeting moment, he had belonged to a world that wasn’t this. And then it was torn from him.

The return was worse each time. His stomach churned violently, bile rising in his throat. The electricity clung to him in ghostly aftershocks, his muscles twitching as though they were begging not to be dragged through it again.

But the sickness didn’t matter. The pain didn’t matter. Only the memories mattered.

He lifted his head, every joint screaming in protest. Rupuruv’s twenty-four eyes blinked at him with a pity that made Ovid want to snarl. He didn’t need pity. He needed truth.

He snapped his gaze to Vio. The mask muffled his breath, his words, but the hunger in his tone carried through. “Mura…” It came out a whisper, but his eyes made it a command.

“Ovip, foe!” Rupuruv stepped forward, tentacles writhing. “Fop viff! You rip feff aparf!”

Ovid peeled the mask from his mouth long enough to rasp out, “I’m already torn apart, Rup.” His cracked lips twisted into something halfway between a smile and a grimace. “I need to know. I need it.”

The words were fevered, desperate, an addict begging for another taste of the thing killing him.

Rupuruv froze, stricken.

Ovid slid the mask back over his face and fixed Vio with a final look—sharp, unyielding.

Vio obeyed.

The lever slammed down. Current screamed through Ovid’s body, twisting his frame into a grotesque silhouette of agony. He convulsed hard enough to make the chair creak, jaw locked tight, blood flecking his lips. But through the horror, his expression was almost serene—like a man being burned alive while smiling at the flame.

And then he went limp, gone again, surrendering himself willingly to the dark that promised him another memory.

“Danny!” Ovid shouted as he and his crew shouldered through the tavern doors.

Daniel looked up from wiping the counter and tossed a bottle of whiskey through the air. Ovid caught it one-handed and popped the cork with his teeth, taking a long pull before thudding the bottle onto the bar. His men crowded the stools beside him.

Daniel came over with four glasses. “You boys were gone awhile. Leviathans giving you trouble?”

“Nah, bossman had us doin’ submistial work,” Brutus said, propping an elbow on the bar. “Some research stations for the civilians.”

“My father wants to ‘diversify my expertise,’” Ovid muttered, rolling his eyes.

Rollo poured himself a glass from the bottle. “Easy money though. I’m not complaining.”

“Felt a lot safer too,” Julius said, taking the whiskey next.

From the back room came the thump of barrels and a grunt of effort. Ovid cocked a brow. “What’s all that?”

“Delivery,” Daniel said without looking up. “Sabia Ennisi Brewery sent us too much stock. You want a barrel for your ship? On the house.”

Ovid pushed the bottle aside. “Nah, I’ll pay for it proper.”

Daniel snorted. “Its not out of my pocket. Take the barrel.”

Instead Ovid dug out a thick wad of senecs and pressed it into Daniel’s hand with a wink. “Then take it for yourself and I’ll buy it off you.”

Daniel laughed. “By Crux, with the senecs you’ve thrown at me lately, I could quit and call myself a hunter.”

“I’d take you if you could.”

“Believe me, I’d trade half my life to chase mistians.” Daniel nodded toward the back. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Ovid gestured to Julius and followed Daniel through the narrow passage lined with barrels. At the far end, a back door hung open to the delivery cart outside. A Scuran man lugged a barrel off the wagon, sweat beading his brow.

“You can leave one out there,” Daniel told him. “My friends’ll take it off your hands.”

The man grinned in relief. “Fine by me.”

Daniel stayed behind chatting, leaving Ovid and Julius to step into the sunlight.

Eight boars snorted before the cart, most of the load already stacked inside. Julius set his hand on a barrel near the edge—only to freeze when a sharp voice cut across the yard.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Ovid turned. His chest went tight.

A girl stood at the wagon’s side, arms crossed, posture defiant. Sunlight caught her red curls and turned them copper. Her green eyes locked on him with a force that nearly made him forget his own name.

Julius shot Ovid a look, waiting.

Ovid cleared his throat. “Uh—Daniel said it was fine. We’re just taking one barrel.”

Her brow lifted. “Of course he did. And I bet Conar didn’t object either? Lazy bastard never turns down a shortcut.”

Ovid chuckled nervously. “That sounds about right.” He managed to find his voice again. “I’m Ovid. This is Julius.”

“Innis,” she said, with a flick of her wrist toward the cart. “Take your ale.”

Julius hoisted the barrel without further comment, leaving Ovid stranded under the weight of her gaze.

“So… Innis. You work for Sabia Ennisi?”

“Yes. And since we’re listing obvious facts: I’m Scuran, and a woman. Did you want me to keep going?”

Heat rose in Ovid’s cheeks. “Sorry. I just meant… what’s it like, brewery work?”

“I wouldn’t know. Conar and I only deliver.” She patted the rump of one boar. “I drive, he unloads. Easier than most Coloni get.”

“You’re—”

“Coloni?” she cut in, a smile tugging her lips. “What, you thought a Scuran living on Oma was a citizen?” She laughed softly. “I’ll take that as flattery, hunter.”

Ovid blinked. “How’d you know I was a hunter?”

She smirked. “You’re strong, broad-shouldered, sunburnt, and smell faintly of burned mistian oil. Not hard to guess.”

“You think I’m strong?” The words escaped before he could stop them.

Innis stepped forward, reached up, and squished his cheeks together between her fingers. “You’re cute. But go on back inside, big man. Let me finish working.”

She released him and turned to check the barrels. Ovid stood rooted, heart hammering.

“Wait,” he blurted. “When you’re done… would you have a drink with me?”

She glanced back, one brow arched. “Bold.” Her smile widened, mischievous. “I don’t drink with Aeneans on the clock. But—” she tapped the cart with her knuckles—“stop by the brewery sometime. Maybe then I’ll let you buy me one.”

And before Ovid could reply, she turned and walked back to her work, curls catching the sunlight as though daring him to follow through.

Ovid was ripped from the dark by hands shaking him violently, Rupuruv’s claws bunching his collar like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

“Ovip!” the Faffer cried, all twenty-four eyes wide, wet, and frantic.

Ovid’s chest hitched. His vision swam. With a trembling hand, he tore the mask off his face and sucked air like a man dragging breath through broken lungs. His skull throbbed with pain, every beat of his heart an anvil strike.

Behind him, Vio set down an empty syringe on a tray. His tentacles twitched in agitation as he muttered, voice guttural, thick:

“Yo foe yah mura…”

Ovid groaned, his head lolling to one side as he tried to orient himself. Nothing felt real anymore—time collapsed, memory bled into flesh. Past and present tangled like barbed wire in his skull. But through the haze, one thought burned clear.

“No!” His voice cracked, a rasp dragged over raw vocal cords. He forced his body upright, meeting Rupuruv’s quivering gaze. “Rup… tell him… keep going. Mura…Yahow yo mura.”

Rupuruv’s tentacles tensed, his hands shaking as he tried to steady Ovid. “Ovip, mo more. You bie foo muff. You gemming foo weap.”

“I don’t care.” Ovid’s words came out broken, jagged, but his eyes flared with a mad resolve. “I need him to keep going. Just keep killing me. I’ll come back. I always come back.”

Rupuruv looked helplessly at Vio, but Vio only lowered his head, his tendrils limp as he shook it.

Vio’s voice was thick with warning. “Vof frum foe peob yah mura.”

Ovid’s body trembled with rage and desperation. His eye twitched. “Then I’ll take my chances in the mist.” He coughed, spat a thin ribbon of blood, and kept going. “If you don’t help me… I’ll walk out there. I’ll find them myself. Either way—I get them back.”

Silence gripped the lab, heavy and suffocating.

“Ovip, preaf…” Rupuruv’s voice cracked, all twenty-four eyes brimming with tears. “Mo more. You breaf apar.”

“One more,” Ovid whispered. His hand trembled as he dragged the mask back over his mouth, strapping himself into damnation with a will made of iron and madness. “Just… one more time…”

Rupuruv turned to Vio, shaking his head in desperate refusal. But Vio only sighed, a long, guttural hiss, before creeping back to the lever. His tentacles tensed as his hand hesitated on the handle, curling like reluctant fingers over a blade.

“Foe! Vio! Foe!” Rupuruv screamed, voice breaking, as Vio’s head sank lower—then snapped the lever down.

Electricity ripped through Ovid like fire given teeth. His back arched, his jaw split in a soundless scream. His body writhed and convulsed grotesquely, pale skin now nearly translucent, each jolt stripping away the man and leaving something hollower in his place. His flesh twitched like a puppet’s on broken strings, his eyes rolling back as another piece of him burned away.

Then all at once, the electricity stopped again. Ovid slumped forward, the life in his body void as his soul transcended time.

Ovid and Innis sat beneath the great oak, its thick roots like old bones pressing through the earth, its canopy sheltering them from the rays above. They had spent countless evenings there, watching the sun sink into the horizon, where the pink and orange hues bled into deep purple and then into black. Ovid’s arm was wrapped around her waist, and he held her tightly as though the world itself might try to pull her away.

Innis let out a long, weary sigh, resting her head against his chest. “I wish I could stay here all night. But I have to be up before dawn. Conar needs me on a delivery across town.”

Ovid tilted his head down toward her hair, inhaling the faint scent of malt and oak clinging to her from the brewery warehouse. His chest tightened. “What if you didn’t have to? What if you never had to again?”

She shifted, lifting her chin to meet his eyes. Her expression was curious, cautious. “What are you saying?”

Ovid’s voice trembled with urgency. “What if I gave you the money to be free of this life? To be done with the Coloni chain forever. You wouldn’t have to work another day. You’d have me—and we could go wherever we wanted.”

Her green eyes softened, but her lips pressed into a thin line. She sat up straighter, disentangling herself from his arm. “Ovid…” she sighed. “It’s sweet. Truly. But I don’t need your handouts. Being Coloni isn’t just a job I can quit. It’s who I am. It’s the skin I wear every time I step into the street. Money won’t change the way people look at me, or the way the law treats me. Coloni or not, I’m still Scuran.”

He leaned toward her, desperate, unwilling to let go of the dream he was spinning. “Then we can run. Leave all of it behind. We’ll go somewhere far from Grus, from Oma, from the Empire itself. I’ve got more money than we’ll ever need. We could disappear into a place where none of this matters. Where it’s just you and me.”

For a long moment she just looked at him, her face unreadable in the fading light. Then, slowly, she smiled—a sad smile, as if she loved the thought but couldn’t believe it. “Maybe one day,” she whispered. “But not today, my love.”

She rose gracefully to her feet and offered him her hand. Ovid hesitated before taking it, her fingers warm in his palm. She pulled him up, brushing the grass from his coat.

“Today,” she said softly, “I need to rest so I can do my job. So I can keep a roof over my head and hot meals on my table. That’s the life I know. That’s the life I can depend on.” She tilted her head, green eyes searching his. “When will I see you again?”

The question gutted him. He dropped his gaze to the roots beneath them. “We’re leaving tonight for Ivrea. My father is naming me the heir to Monstrum in five days. It’ll be a spectacle—a whole ceremony, weeks of planning… I want you there. At my side.” His voice cracked on the words, the plea hidden under a thin veil of pride.

She pressed herself against him suddenly, hugging him so tightly it hurt. She kissed him quick, as if she feared a longer one might break her resolve. “I wish I could. Truly. But this is your world, Ovid. I can’t step into it. At least not yet.”

He clung to her, unwilling to let go, but she pulled away gently.

“Will you come back afterwards?” she asked.

He forced a smile, though his chest ached. “Another hunt waits for me after the ceremony. But when it’s done, I’ll come here first thing. You’ll be the first person I see.”

Innis smiled faintly and touched his cheek with her palm. “Then I’ll be waiting under this tree.”

As the last light of the sun gave way to night, Ovid memorized the sight of her standing there in the shadow of the oak—the girl he would chase to the ends of the Empire, even if she never asked him to.

Ovid felt his body before he felt the world—raw muscle trembling, nerves firing wrong, his veins buzzing as if they carried lightning instead of blood. The mist in his mask kept him tethered, though just barely. Each breath of Cruxium burned down his throat and clung to his lungs like smoke in a furnace.

His body convulsed in violent tremors, his head lolling, eyes fluttering open and shut. He could taste the bitterness of iron on his tongue, mingled with the acrid sting of Cruxium. His senses were frayed—sight gone dark, hearing muted, his skin numb. He was alive but hollow.

Still, he breathed. Steady, slow, purposeful breaths. The Cruxium coursed through him, feeding his will. His only compass now was obsession: the memories. The fragments of his old life. He would tear himself apart to reclaim them.

Gradually, the haze parted. His vision seeped back in, fuzzy outlines sharpening until he saw Rupuruv pacing, his tentacles twitching in panic. He heard the slap of boots on the stone floor, the uneven gasp of his friend’s labored breaths.

“Ovip! Veep!” Rupuruv cried out, tears streaming from all twenty-four eyes. His tentacles quivered, then dropped heavily into Ovid’s lap as he collapsed to his knees, sobbing. “Ovip, veep eca. Fef fa yo brief frief, veep. Fef foe peob. Peorpo foe babpf. Veep foe yah. Veep.”

Ovid’s eyes locked onto him, though they were dull, stripped of warmth. He couldn’t understand Rupuruv’s broken words anymore—forgotten language, slipping through his mind like water through cracked hands. He only knew their tone, the rhythm of desperation, the plea to stop.

He reached out a shaking hand and patted Rupuruv’s slick head, a hollow gesture of comfort. His other hand clutched the mask tight, dragging deep breaths of Cruxium that faintly rekindled his dimming glow.

Rupuruv stilled, his sobbing turning to shuddering whimpers. He rose with difficulty, wiping tears from his whole face, tentacles swaying in grief.

Vio stepped forward then, reaching for the wires on Ovid’s chest.

Ovid’s hand shot up, gripping Vio’s wrist with startling strength. “No,” he rasped beneath the mask. “Do it again.”

Rupuruv lunged, prying Vio’s hand free, shouting in anguish: “Ovip! Foe! Mo! You bum here! Mo more!”

Vio shook his head sharply, his tentacles swaying with fury. “Foe, fef mef ro,” he hissed.

But Ovid was already rising. His body screamed rebellion, muscles seizing, vision tilting, legs shaking like softened metal. Still, he stood. Still, he moved. Every faltering step was forced into existence by sheer will, each one pulling him closer to the lever.

Vio intercepted, placing himself in Ovid’s path. Ovid’s response was instinctual, brutal—he shoved him with sudden strength, sending the smaller figure crashing into a machine. Metal screeched and dented. Vio slumped to the floor with a groan, his goggles skidding across the lab.

“Ovip!” Rupuruv roared, a guttural cry of anger and grief. He threw his arms around Ovid’s waist, pulling back with all his strength. “Mo! Mo!”

Ovid’s hands gripped Rupuruv’s arms, prying them apart with merciless determination. His strength was unnatural, drawn from obsession, from the mist burning inside him. He tore free and shoved Rupuruv down, his friend sprawling helplessly on the floor.

The lever loomed before him like salvation.

“Mo! Ovip!” Rupuruv screamed, his twenty-four eyes wide with horror as he scrambled forward.

He dove after Ovid, trying to tackle him to the ground, but Ovid’s hand was already on the lever. His knuckles whitened as he yanked it down.

The room erupted with electricity. The light consumed him again—another death, another piece of the past.

“Absolutely not!” Darius roared, slamming the heavy oak door to his study so hard the shelves rattled.

But before the echoes faded, Ovid shoved the door back open and stormed inside, his eyes blazing.

“I wasn’t asking permission,” Ovid snapped, his voice shaking with anger and conviction. He stood chest to chest with his father, close enough to feel the heat of Darius’s breath. For a moment, the Patriarch of Monstrum looked stunned—not by his son’s words, but by his audacity.

“I love her,” Ovid continued, fists clenched. “And she’s carrying my child. I’m leaving this family, leaving this company, and I’m going to marry her. We’ll find a place that accepts us, and I’ll make a life with my own two hands.”

Darius’s jaw tightened. He turned deliberately, his back to Ovid, and walked to his desk, each step slow and controlled, like a man approaching a battlefield. “That’s not a luxury you have, boy. You’re a Descendant of Gallus. The bloodline is sacred. The name Monstrum is more than a company—it’s an empire, and you’re its heir.”

“I don’t care about this empire!” Ovid shot back. “I don’t have to inherit anything!”

Darius froze mid-step, then pivoted sharply, moving closer until his face was centimeters from Ovid’s. His voice dropped low, venomous. “Listen to me. Every firstborn son has carried this legacy. You think I wanted this life? You think your grandfather did? The blood chooses us, Ovid. Not the other way around. It’s not about what you want—it’s about duty. About survival.”

But Ovid didn’t flinch. His voice rang with fury. “Then let it die with you. I’m going to marry Innis. You can keep your wealth, your name, your poisoned legacy. I only want her. I only want my child. Rescind my heirdom—I don’t care. I choose them over this family.” He turned toward the door.

“Wait.”

The single word cracked through the air like a whip. Ovid hesitated, his hand hovering near the doorframe. Slowly, he turned back.

Darius’s expression had shifted. As he walked to his desk, there was a glimmer of something softer—memory, or maybe regret—but his voice still carried weight like stone. “I fell in love with a Coloni once too. In Falecrine. A Tarkhanian woman. Her name was Akila.” His eyes drifted upward, lost in memory. “Every time I traveled to Hoepria for pro-oil conferences, I’d go to her. Years passed that way. I told myself she was just a distraction, but Crux help me—I loved her.”

Ovid’s eyes narrowed, wary but listening.

“One day, she told me she was pregnant. And it was mine.” Darius’s tone darkened. “For four days, I lived in that dream. For four days, I let myself believe I could have both love and duty. Then I woke up. I never returned. That child was not mine—it was a mirage meant to tempt me, to corrupt my purpose. A mutt. Tarnished blood.” His gaze sharpened, boring into Ovid. “We are Aenean. Pure. You think it didn’t pain me? You think it didn’t break me? But I did what had to be done, and so will you.”

The room went silent, thick with the weight of his confession.

Ovid’s face burned red, his voice trembling with rage. “My child is not tarnished blood!” He slammed his hand on the desk, rattling the inkwells and papers. “I will not abandon them. I will not be you. I’m leaving tonight.”

Darius’s lips curled into a smirk. “With what money, Ovid? Everything you own, every senec in your pocket, belongs to Monstrum. Without me, you have nothing.”

“I’ll find a way.” Ovid turned sharply, ready to storm out again.

Darius’s voice cut through the air once more. “This cannot be loud.”

Ovid stopped. Slowly, he turned his head. “What?”

Darius leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his chest. “You want to throw away your future for a Coloni? Fine. But you will not drag this family’s name through the mud while you do it. Step down quietly. Work as a hunter. Earn your own pay. Save your money. And when your bastard is born, make your decision public—but make it look like fear drove you. That you were too weak to risk your life and left the company out of cowardice. Your brother will take your place. The legacy will remain unbroken.”

Ovid stared at him, chest heaving. His fists trembled. “If that’s what it takes, fine. I’ll play your game. But when my child is born, I will not hide in the shadows. Neither will they.”

For the first time that night, Darius’s smirk faltered. His eyes gleamed with something colder than anger. Calculation.

“Then may Crux have mercy on you, son.”

Ovid woke to the familiar, piercing headache that had become his cruel companion in the “real” reality. But something was different this time. No electricity seared through him as a forced revival. No mask sealed over his face. He was simply… awake.

Alive, but wrong.

His body pulsed, swollen with muscle that tore his clothes and his hands now claws. His veins burned with unnatural fire, his skin taut, his thoughts splintered into jagged shards that slipped away when he tried to hold them. He staggered to his feet, the floor cracking beneath his weight.

Movement caught his eye. Vio was crouched under a worktable, his little body quivering, one arm twisted and broken. His wide eyes stared at Ovid with naked terror.

Then he saw Rupuruv.

The boy laid face down on the floor, close to where Ovid had collapsed. His skin carried the acrid scent of char and smoke. His body was limp, too still. With his heightened senses, Ovid listened for breath, for heartbeat—anything.

There was nothing.

“Rup?” Two voices came from Ovid’s mouth at once—one his own, broken and raw, the other a guttural, monstrous echo.

He reached out with a claw, nudging the Faffer gently. Nothing.

The tears came hot and fast. His nose twitched, his throat closed, and then the grief tore its way out of him in a roar so thunderous the building trembled. Walls cracked. Tools rattled from shelves. Vio did his best to cover his ear holes and curled tighter into himself.

Ovid’s body moved before his mind could catch up. He smashed through the wall in a spray of stone and steel splinters, bursting into the open cavern.

On all fours, he thundered through the streets of Fuffmum. Faffers scattered before him—some frozen in horrified silence, others screaming as the beast descended upon them. Windows shattered from the force of his passage. The city shook with each strike of his claws against the road.

And through it all, the fractured voices in his head screamed and whispered, man and mistian twisting together:

Go back. Run forward. Save them. Destroy everything. Innis. My Child. Gallus. Tarnished blood. Chosen. Monster.

A whole life—nearly a year of it—crumbled in his mind like ash. The long nights. The laughter. The fragile hope of belonging. All of it revealed for what it was: a fragile facade. A fantasy to hide from pain. From responsibility.

That year had left his child fatherless. Innis, a widow. And if his “friends” had betrayed him, then his family wasn’t safe either.

His roar echoed again as he barreled through the streets of Fuffmum, scattering Faffers like insects. The only truth left to him was forward.

The elevator to the mist rose in the distance, jutting up like a pillar into the heavens. Home was above. The surface. Innis. His child. His blood.

Farmofip’s manipulations. Rupuruv’s lifeless body. Vio’s terror. It all fell behind him.

He had no reason left but one: get back. Get back before everything was lost.

He climbed up the tall pillar that ascended to the heavens, racing against the platform before it sealed the hole above. He hoisted himself onto the elevator as the walls closed around it until it stopped flush with the floor above.

He tore through the returning soldiers, knocking them over as he climbed up the staircase, through the closing disc, and into the mist. His claws carving trenches in the bone floor as he bounded toward the open expanse of the Great Gas Sea. The mist howled as if it recognized him.

But he was not Crux’s Chosen.

He was Ovid of Grus, Descendant of Gallus.

And that blood carried a price no one else could pay.