Guilty Envy

The ambrog stood alone in the mist.

He gnawed on the corpse of a man who’d once been his friend—a survivor of a Grusian airship crash, though “survivor” was generous. While most died on impact, bones turned to splinters, he survived until his air ran out. By then, the mist had claimed the others, reshaping their ruin into something new. Something hungry.

The ambrog who found his corpse tore the man’s arm off and sucked the flesh through the sleeve like meat from a crab leg. The sound echoed wetly through the fog.

Then came footsteps.

Slow at first—soft, uneven—but growing faster. Closer. The ambrog froze, lifting his bloodstained face toward the gloom. A faint light pulsed through the fog ahead. Human-shaped. Moving on all fours.

The ambrog opened his jaws to roar, but the sound never came. The figure slammed into him at impossible speed, claws raking through bone and sinew. In a blink, the creature had him hoisted high, stretched between both hands.

A single pull—and the ambrog split open.

The beast’s mouth unhinged, devouring the spilling entrails as if they were rain. When the last drop fell, he tossed the empty shell aside and moved on, a shadow vanishing into thick mist.

For Ovid, time had ceased to exist.

Hours, days, months—all dissolved into the haze. He didn’t know how long he had been on his rampage, nor did he care.

His body was enormous now, grotesquely overgrown, his tattered robes hanging like spider silk over swollen muscle. The mist clung to him like worship, coiling around his limbs, pulsing with the rhythm of his heartbeat.

He was not man. Not Mistian.

He was something in between—an abomination born of grief and Cruxium.

His eyes burned with pale pink light, the pupils gone, replaced with the cold, glassy sheen of a shark’s. His veins glowed from beneath his skin like molten rivers, brighter than any Eternal Flame, and the mistians that sensed him kept their distance.

The Faffers had whispered that Ovid was chosen by Crux. And if the mistians were Crux’s followers, then the Beast that stalked among them was their god.

A spiteful god. A god of rage and ruin.

He killed endlessly—devouring everything that crossed his path. Even the legendary Ferrumer, the titan that once brought him to the edge of death, lay in shredded heaps of meat and bone somewhere beneath the Great Gas Sea.

Every new kill fed the madness. Every scream buried his humanity deeper.

And yet, somewhere in the endless fog, the faint echo of Ovid remained.

Buried. Watching. Powerless.

The Beast bounded through the Great Gas Sea, using his powers to create slabs of hardened mist, launching himself forward—leap after leap, kilometer after kilometer, a blur of muscle and light tearing through the fog.

When he finally struck the ground again, the impact cracked the earth, throwing bones and debris high into the air. He didn’t even pause. He just ran.

He was hunger made flesh. A storm in the shape of a man.

Then—light.

Not the subtle pulse of an Eternal Flame, but harsh, white, artificial light cutting through the fog. The scent hit next—oil, hot metal, human stench.

Ovid’s nostrils flared. The Beast didn’t recognize it, but something deep within him—the Descendant of Gallus—did.

A ship.

A Grusian ship.

A Monstrum ship.

The insignia on the hull gleamed faintly through the fog: a faded pink “M” bordered in gold, its three barbed points shaped like harpoons. The mark of his father’s empire.

The airship’s searchlights swept the fog, then fixed on him. The beam burned against his glowing flesh.

He heard the men above through the haze of static and distance.

“Target spotted. New mistian—hulking, glowing, humanoid. Over.”

A pause, then another voice crackled back through the radio.

“Pacify and retrieve. Send it to Melia for autopsy. Over.”

“Copy that.”

Ovid’s claws tore deep furrows into the gruesome floor, the ground trembling beneath him.

A growl rippled up from his chest—low at first, then breaking into a feral snarl that echoed across the sea. The airship loomed above. Its engine roared like a beast of its own, the hum of power thrumming through the sky.

Figures in submistial suits clambered along the deck, their glass visors flashing with reflected light. Four took their posts at the ARR guns—sleek, black, and hungry.

Then came the thunder.

A storm of metal screamed from the barrels, tearing through the mist. The fog itself seemed to ripple under the barrage. The first bullets punched into Ovid’s chest and shoulders, splattering blood all over. He roared, staggering backward as sparks and smoke erupted around him.

But then, instinct took hold.

The mist around him thickened, drawn by his will alone—moving, swirling, solidifying. In an instant, an opaque dome sealed around him. The storm became muffled, only the dull thud-thud-thud of lead embedding into the shield. His body shuddered, every wound knitting shut as bullets were forced out, clinking onto the ground.

“It’s got mist manipulation!” someone shouted over comms, the voice crackling with static.

“Maintain fire! It’ll break!”

Ovid’s breath came ragged. His vision pulsed red. Each bullet strike sent vibrations up his arms as he held the shield firm. The spent shells outside piled high—hundreds of them, glinting gold in the spotlight.

He couldn’t hold back the barrage any longer.

With a roar that split the mist, Ovid reshaped the dome into a massive slab in front of him and hurled it like a catapulted wall. 

“Maneuver! Maneuver!” one of the men atop barked at the captain, but it was already too late.

It slammed into the airship’s side with an explosive crunch. The impact tore open a ragged wound along the hull. Flames licked through the ruptured metal.

The airship tilted violently. Two of the gunners screamed as they tumbled overboard, their suits flashing once before vanishing into the mist sea below.

Ovid was already moving—bounding forward, launching himself up on mist-forged platforms that appeared underfoot. The air hissed with each step, his body a blur of motion and rage. He crashed through the hole in the hull and landed inside the ship, his weight cracking the floorplates.

The interior was chaos—smoke, strobed lights, men shouting. Four hunters sprawled on the ground, dazed from the impact. Two stood opposite him, weapons trembling in their hands. The others scrambled to their feet, drawing steel and firearms.

Ovid rose to full height, his silhouette monstrous in the flickering light.

“Open fire!”

The nearest hunter lunged first, blade drawn. Ovid caught his wrist mid-swing, claws curling around the man’s arm like iron bands. With a brutal twist, he flung him through the jagged opening in the hull. The man’s scream cut short in the mist below.

Gunfire erupted—deafening inside the metal walls. Ovid raised an arm to block as bullets tore through him, shredding flesh, ricocheting off bone. He felt none of it.

“Keep firing! Don’t stop!”

Ovid looked up—a bullet struck him square between the eyes, flattening against his forehead before dropping to the floor. He smiled with a ghastly grin.

The air reeked of burnt metal and gunpowder. The ship groaned, tilting under the strain.

“Get us down! Land her!” one of the hunters yelled to the captain. 

He gripped the controls as warning lights flashed.

The hatch above clanged open—two more hunters slid down the ladder, their boots slamming against the deck. Seven against one.

The man with a revolving rifle kept firing until his gun clicked dry. Smoke curled from the barrel as he fumbled to reload. Ovid watched the motion closely—the small, panicked movements of prey.

Then he struck.

He lunged through the hail of fire, bullets tearing through his shoulders and thighs. His claws ripped through armor and flesh alike. Two hunters went down screaming; another was hurled across the cabin like a rag doll. The rest backed away, firing wildly.

Blood sprayed across the walls, painting them in streaks of red. The floor ran slick with oil and gore. The airship tilted again—engines sputtering under the internal damage.

Ovid staggered, then fell to one knee, body twitching under the endless barrage. He raised both arms to shield his face as the final wave of shotgun blasts tore into him. The force lifted him off his feet, hurling him backward.

Through the hole he fell.

Twenty meters down, through mist and smoke, before smashing into the earth below. The impact sent a shockwave through the blood and bones of the floor, throwing dust and debris high into the air. When it cleared, a crater marked where he had landed—and in its center, Ovid stirred, his body already beginning to heal.

Screeches cut through the smoke—sharp, feral, echoing from the mist.

A black cloud of wings rose in the distance, harpies drawn to the gunfire and blood like sharks to chum. Their shrieks drowned out the hum of the ship’s engines.

Above, the airship hung unsteady, floating low—maybe ten meters off the ground. The three surviving hunters took positions along the fractured hull, firing down into the crater where Ovid had fallen.

Ovid’s head snapped upward. He could smell the iron in the air. Hear the metallic rattle of shell casings hitting the ship’s floor.

He moved.

In a blur of motion, he sprinted beneath the ship. Then, he leapt, driving his talons deep into the hull. The metal groaned under his weight as he began to climb, tearing fist-sized holes with every movement.

A boot stepped too close to the edge above. Ovid lunged up, seized the hunter by the leg, and ripped him off the deck. The man hit the ground with a crack of breaking bones, screaming as Ovid swung back into the climb.

By the time the fallen hunter staggered upright, two shadows swooped in behind him.

Harpies.

Their talons dug into his arms—one on each side—wings beating violently as they tore him upward. His scream was muffled by his mask as they pulled, flesh tearing, sinew stretching until his arms came off in their claws. The harpies shrieked victoriously, fighting over the scraps as his mangled body tumbled, only to be engulfed by the swarm below. Flesh and fabric vanished under tearing claws and snapping jaws.

Above, Ovid hauled himself over the edge. The two remaining hunters backed away, weapons trembling. Behind them, the captain turned from the helm, revolver already drawn.

Then the harpies hit.

They crashed into the ship in a wave of fangs and claws, slamming into the balloon, slicing it open with their talons. The helium hissed out in a deafening scream. The ship lurched violently and began to descend. 

Then it hit the ground hard—BOOM!—dust and debris exploding outward. Metal screamed. Everyone went tumbling.

Before anyone could recover, harpies poured through the gaping hole in the hull.

The air turned into a blender of motion—wings, talons, blades, gunfire.

The two hunters drew their swords and slashed desperately, blades cutting arcs through the chaos. The captain fired blindly with one hand and swung his saber with the other. Ovid was in the middle of it all, swiping down any harpy that flew too close. His roar drowned out the sound of gunfire.

They were his prey, not theirs.

He carved through a harpy with one arm, spun, and smashed another into the wall. Blood spattered across the deck. Flesh stuck to his claws.

That brief distraction gave one of the hunters his opening. He charged through the storm, screaming, and drove his short sword deep into Ovid’s side.

Ovid’s snarl turned into a guttural, inhuman scream. He grabbed the hunter by the throat, lifted him off the ground, and squeezed until the mask cracked and the man’s legs kicked helplessly.

The captain froze—watching, calculating. Then, grimly, he made his choice.

He turned his revolver toward the wounded hunter’s air tank.

Bang!

The explosion tore through the ship.

The tank ignited first—then the ammunition on board.

A blossom of fire engulfed the cabin. The blast was deafening.

The world vanished into flame and smoke.

The harpies screeched as they burned alive, wings disintegrating in the firestorm. The hunters were gone in an instant. The captain was thrown through the viewport, smashing through it in a spray of glass shards.

Ovid was hurled backward, slamming into the hull so hard the steel buckled. His body burst through the wall, tumbling into open air before crashing hard into the ground.

Silence followed—broken only by the crackle of burning wreckage and the fading shrieks of retreating harpies.

Ovid laid still for a moment. His flesh blackened and split. Bones snapped and twisted beneath the skin. Smoke curled from his body as faint light pulsed through his veins—the last remnants of power still alive within him.

Then he moved.

Slowly, painfully, he rolled onto his side. His bones realigned with sharp, audible cracks. He rose to one knee, then to his feet, swaying in the haze of firelight.

The captain was nearby—crawling, gasping. His visor was cracked, his air tank leaking in thin hisses. He reached for his fallen sword, dragging himself forward centimeter by centimeter.

Ovid staggered toward him.

The captain looked behind just as Ovid’s shadow fell over him. He scrambled for his weapon, but Ovid’s claws wrapped around his leg, dragging him back across the floor.

“C-come on then, you fuck,” the captain taunted, voice trembling, breath ragged through his cracked mask.

Ovid crouched over him, pinning his arms down. His breath fogged the cracked visor—a steady rhythm of heat and fury.

Then his jaws opened.

He bit down, teeth piercing the seal of the suit, into flesh. The man’s scream gurgled as Ovid tore into his throat, blood erupting in hot bursts that splattered across the ground.

Ovid crested the hill just as the sun began to sink, its dying light spilling gold across the grass. The wind rolled through the meadow, carrying the scent of apples and soil.

Under the old oak tree, she waited.

Innis.

Her red curls caught the light like fire, dancing with every gust of wind. She hadn’t seen him yet—her eyes were fixed on the horizon, where the sky burned in shades of pink and amber. A blanket was spread neatly at her feet, a small basket beside it. She was waiting. Hoping that this would be the day he came home.

When she finally heard the crunch of his boots through the grass, she turned—disbelief flashing across her face before joy overtook it.

“Ovid!”

She ran to him, feet barely touching the earth, and leapt into his arms. He caught her easily, spinning her once before pressing his lips to hers.

He laughed softly against her mouth. “I missed you,” he said, still holding her close.

She kissed him again. “And of course I missed you.”

He set her down gently and lifted the bottle in his hand, grinning. “I was in Hoepria these past few days,” he said. “And I remembered you’d never had mead before. So I brought you the best bottle of Aurum they had—straight from the meadery itself.”

Her smile wavered, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. She took the bottle with both hands, tracing the label with her thumb. “It looks beautiful,” she said softly. “But… I can’t drink this.”

Ovid tilted his head, still smiling. “Why not?”

She hesitated—her lips parting, then closing again. For a heartbeat, she just stared at him, eyes glistening in the fading light.

“There’s something I’ve been waiting to tell you since you left.”

His grin faltered. “What is it?”

She stepped closer, placing his hand on her stomach. Her voice was quiet but sure. “I’m carrying your child, my love.”

Ovid froze. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The world seemed to stop around him—the wind, the rustle of the leaves, the cry of distant birds.

Then a slow, stunned smile spread across his face. “I’m gonna be a father?”

She nodded, tears brimming in her eyes.

He let out a laugh that was half a sob, scooping her up and spinning her in the air. “We’re gonna have a family,” he whispered, the words trembling with joy.

When he set her down, he kissed her again—slower this time, softer—as if afraid that if he let go, the dream might fade.

The sky behind them deepened into red. The light lingered on their faces for one last moment before slipping away.

The human blood burned like acid in his throat. He gagged, staggering backward, spitting it out in thick crimson ropes that steamed in the mist. His body convulsed. A violent tremor ran through him as if the very taste of humanity was poison to the monster he’d become.

Then came the pain.

His chest tightened, his vision pulsed red and black. His head split with a migraine so sharp it felt as though his skull were fracturing. He doubled over, vomiting bile that hissed on the morbid earth.

The glow in his veins flickered, fading like a dying ember. His eyes lost their predatory gleam. For the first time in a long time, Ovid blinked—and the Descendant of Gallus saw.

The Beast screamed within him, clawing, gnashing, trying to keep control. But Ovid—the man, the soldier, the lover, the father—was fighting back.

He dropped to his knees, spasms wracking his body, hands trembling as they clawed at the ground bones. Then instinct—or maybe desperation—took over. He lunged toward the captain’s corpse and tore the cracked mask from his face, pressing it to his own.

A hiss of air filled his lungs.

He breathed in greedily until the filter gave nothing more.

The Beast fought back once more, hacking, coughing, trying to reject the air that wasn’t thick with Cruxium. Ovid fell forward, catching himself on his hands, his body heaving like a wounded animal.

Then, slowly, the trembling stopped.

His claws softened into hands, his skin lost its luminescent veins. The monstrous mass of his body shrank down, bones creaking as they reset, flesh tightening around his frame.

Silence. Only his ragged breathing remained.

Ovid lifted his head, eyes half-lidded, dazed. The hunger was gone. The rage—quiet. What filled the void instead was memory: Innis under the tree, her laugh, her warmth, her words.

He pressed a hand to his chest. His heart still beat.

He was still alive.

And that meant he could still find them.

Though exhaustion clawed at every muscle, he forced himself upright. The world swayed around him, blurred by fatigue, but he stayed standing. The airship wreck burned quietly behind him, pieces of hull still glowing orange through the haze.

He limped toward it. The balloon was shredded beyond repair, the hull split open like a ribcage. The power systems were dead—no light, no hum—just cold, twisted steel.

But Ovid remembered. Every Grusian airship had an emergency beacon: a transmitter built to survive even the worst crashes. It would be somewhere near the navigation console—sealed in a steel lockbox.

He waited until the metal cooled enough to touch, sitting by the wreckage as smoke drifted past him. For a while, he just breathed. Each exhale felt heavier than the last, but he was no longer trembling. His hands were his again.

When the heat finally faded, he climbed inside.

The console was smashed, but the small steel box was wedged beneath a beam. He pried it free, thumbed open the latch, and pulled out the transmitter. A single grey button waited in the center.

He pressed it.

The light began to blink red—slow, steady, alive.

Relief washed through him, but it didn’t last. He looked down at himself: his clothes were ruined, burned to tatters. His skin was marred with fresh scars, but healing fast. It felt obscene to be human again—to wear a body that remembered how to feel.

He turned to the captain’s corpse lying face-down nearby. The mask was gone, the eyes blank and glassy. Ovid stared for a long moment before finally kneeling beside him.

“Forgive me,” he muttered—though whether to the captain or himself, he didn’t know.

He stripped the dead man of his clothes and pulled them on. They didn’t fit well—too tight across the shoulders, too short at the wrists—but they covered enough. It was something human to wear.

Then he sat at the edge of the wreck, the transmitter pulsing red beside him, and watched the misty horizon.

They’d come.

They’d come for the Beast.

And he’d be waiting.

Ovid dozed off against the wreckage, the blinking transmitter still pulsing faintly in his hand. His body ached with exhaustion, every muscle trembling from overuse. For the first time in what felt like ages, he slept—not peacefully, but like a corpse.

The sound of an engine woke him.

A low, mechanical growl, distant at first, then swelling until it filled the mist. His eyes snapped open. The mist above glowed with the sweep of searchlights. The rescue ship had come.

Ovid scrambled, quick but quiet. He snatched a half-functioning gas mask and a dented air tank from the wreckage, strapping them to his body. Then he pressed himself flat against the ground, transmitter clutched in his outstretched hand, playing dead among the scattered bones and twisted metal.

The ship’s spotlights danced across the ruin before locking on the ruins. The roar of engines deepened as it descended, and cables unspooled from its side. Two hunters grappled down through the haze, armored head to toe, rifles raised.

Their boots crunched against charred steel. They moved in sync—efficient, professional. They swept the wreckage in silence, scanning for movement. Finding none, one of them raised a hand.

“All clear to land,” came the voice through the comm.

The ship descended with a hydraulic hiss. Landing gear extended, crushing ribs and skulls beneath its weight. Six more hunters emerged—four forming a perimeter with the others, rifles ready, and two medics lugging a stretcher.

They moved fast, disciplined. When one spotted the blinking red light, both medics sprinted toward Ovid’s body.

“I think we got something!” one shouted.

They flipped him onto his side. Ovid groaned faintly, his voice slurred behind the mask—just enough to sell it. The medics exchanged relieved glances and hauled him onto the stretcher, rushing him inside.

The quarantine door sealed behind them with a metallic thud. Fans screamed to life, sucking the mist from the chamber. When the inner door opened, they pushed through straight to the medical bay.

Inside, bright lights and clean metal. The hum of the engines overhead. One medic checked his tank; the other began his examination.

“His air’s empty,” said the first. “He’s one lucky son of a bitch.”

“Heartbeat’s steady,” said the other, listening with a stethoscope.

He leaned in with an ophthalmoscope, gently pulling Ovid’s eyelid open.

Ovid’s eyes shot open.

His hand clamped around the medic’s throat.

The man’s feet kicked against the floor, choking out a strangled cry. The other medic turned, shouting something unintelligible—but Ovid was already moving. He hurled the suffocating man across the room, slamming him into his partner. Both crumpled.

He was on them before they could recover. A scalpel glinted in his hand—then one clean, efficient motion. A slit throat. Another heartbeat—then a second. No wasted motion. No roar or fury—just precision.

Blood ran across the tile, forming small rivulets that touched his bare feet. His breathing was calm, his heartbeat steady.

Then he heard the squeal of the door’s wheel turning.

“I heard some commotion—”

The voice never finished.

Ovid grabbed the man as he entered, twisting him into a chokehold, one arm under the chin. The man’s mask fell away as he struggled, gasping for air. Ovid’s forearm flexed; the neck snapped with a dry pop. He let the body drop softly to the floor.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t think. Just moved.

He took the fallen hunter’s sword from its sheathe and pressed himself against the wall. The corridor beyond was clear. He slipped into the main cabin, crouching low.

The captain sat alone at the helm—armor made of steel dipped in bronze gleaming faintly under the console lights. His air tank rested beside him, his fingers gripping the controls. The engines hummed, the radio crackled.

“Rescued one survivor so far,” the captain said. “Medics are stabilizing him now. I’ll report back when the rest of the team returns. Over.”

“Copy that. Good work,” came the distant voice from Grus. “Over and out.”

The moment the captain set the microphone back, Ovid struck.

The blade slid through the back of his neck, out through his throat. A wet gurgle. His hands clawed weakly at the air, then dropped. Ovid pulled the sword free with quiet precision, watching as the man slumped forward onto the console.

He wiped the blade on the captain’s sleeve, threw it on the ground, and sat in his place. The body dropped to the floor with a thud.

Outside, the remaining hunters looked up in confusion as the ship’s engines surged. One shouted into his comm. Another tried to wave it down.

Ovid didn’t look back. He pushed the throttle forward.

As the ship rose into the mist, the hunters’ cries faded beneath the roar of the engines—swallowed by the fog that would bury them.

Ovid breathed.

Quiet. Controlled. Human again.

He surfaced into light like a man waking from a long, bad dream and into another. From a hell full of monsters into a new one of traitors and scoundrels shrouded in a veil of formalities and false brotherhood.

The viewport threw a hard, honest sun across his face and for a breath he simply drank it in—warm on skin that had forgotten warmth. 

Mantua was a smudge on the horizon. He made his way to the edge of the island and dropped from the deck, rolled onto Oman earth and stood, dizzy but steady. The air smelled of fruit, mist, and something unbearably familiar.

Before he disembarked, he cut the helium pumps on the balloon. Ovid turned and watched it sag while the airship sunk, drawing the mist back around its hull. Then he ran—not with the thrumming, animal gait that had carried him across the Great Gas Sea, but with hobbling, human strides that burned the breath in his chest. He ran through the orchard, toward the wooden house where she lived.

He barreled through the door and the room stilled. A pot hissed on the hearth, spoons thudded on bowls, a child’s laughter stopped mid-echo. All eyes turned to him at once—five, ten, fifteen faces creased with suspicion and fear. He smelled smoke and stew and the heavy, sweet tang of grief before the words hit him.

Conar stood up from the table before the others. 

“You’re alive?” Conar’s voice was a knife, half relief, half accusation.

Ovid didn’t answer. He shoved forward, planted both hands on the table, stared at every face until they shrank from him. “Where’s Innis? Where’s my child?” His voice broke around the last syllable.

Conar’s hand found his chest and pushed him back two steps. It was a small, trembling push but it felt like a verdict. “She’s dead.” The words fell like stones.

For a second the world went thin and high—words sounded like they were coming through water. “What?” The word was small, ridiculous.

Conar didn’t move. His eyes went wet and hot. “She thought you were dead. She couldn’t—” He swallowed hard. “She hung herself under the oak.”

The room blurred. Someone clapped their hands over a little one’s ears. A bowl slipped and shattered on the floor. Ovid’s knees went soft and he almost fell, but his feet remembered how to hold him up. He pictured the oak: Innis waiting under it, the way she’d laughed when he’d lift her, the feeling of his hand on her swelling belly. He reached for those memories like a drowning man reaching for a branch—and it ripped away.

Conar stepped forward, grief sharpening into accusation. He jabbed a finger in Ovid’s chest so hard it hurt. “You killed her! You left! He told us you were dead and she—” his voice broke. He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Ovid’s throat worked. He heard how thin his voice sounded. “No. I—” The word didn’t hold. “No, she was waiting. She was waiting for me.”

Conar shoved him. It was enough to make Ovid stumble. “Get the fuck out of here!” Conar’s rage was a wound. “GO!”

He clattered out, hands scrabbling at the door, through the yard, across the broken stone path. The little village blurred around him: faces turned away, whispers like flies.

The oak was worse than silence. Beneath its boughs, stones were stacked neat and small—a cairn where a body had been taken. There was no blanket, no basket, only the neat, accusing geometry of stones.

Ovid sank to his knees as if the ground were a hand pulling him down. He reached out and touched the top stone. It was cool and solid, unyielding. He tore at his own hair, fingers clawing through red curls that weren’t there, looking for a proof that would undo everything.

“No.” The word flailed and failed. He banged his fists into the dirt—once, twice, until his knuckles bled in the soil. “No. NO!” The sound was a raw, animalistic thing that shredded the air. He raised his hands to the sky, fingers curled and splayed, as if he could rip the sun down and stuff the world back together again. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!” he screamed, voice ragged, raw. “I’LL KILL ALL OF YOU!”

He did not move like the Beast then. There was no measured cruelty, no clinical precision. Rage had lost its shape and become something trembling and human: the desperate, animal howl of a man who had nothing left to lose.

For a long time he pounded the earth, each slam shaking the roots of the tree. When he could no longer, he collapsed forward, forehead pressed to the place where a body had lain. Tears ran in hot lines through grit. His breath came in ragged sobs.

He begged—to Crux, to the sky, to whatever god would listen. He cursed the traitors who followed him into the mist. He cursed the men who’d taken his trust and used it. He whispered Innis’s name until it was a prayer and a litany. He repeated the memory of her laugh like an incantation, trying to conjure life from the hollow air.

The world narrowed to sound: the creak of the branches above, the distant chirps of birds, the occasional thud of apples hitting the ground. At last his sobs slowed, not because grief had softened but because grief had exhausted him.

He passed out there, forehead against stone, a puddle of tears cooling on his cheek, the oak’s shadow folding over him like a blanket.

The wind carried the smell of grass and crushed apples from the nearby orchards, and the lantern light between them swayed like a heartbeat. Ovid sat on the blanket, his clothes still dusted with mist residue, his gloves tossed aside on the grass nearby. He looked worn—older than his twenty-five years—but his eyes still softened when he looked at her.

Innis sat next to him, her hand resting absently on her small but growing belly. Her red curls caught the firelight, flickering in the embers.

Ovid sighed, staring at the ground. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “Without my father’s money, I need to make as much as I can before the baby comes.”

“But I need you here, Ovid. You’ve already made enough for us to leave this place. It’s only been a few months.” She turned her whole body toward him, her voice trembling. “Please. Stop taking so many hunts.”

He met her eyes for only a second before looking away. “It’s not enough,” he muttered. “You know it’s not. The way the Empire’s run… I can pay your Coloni debts, get us off Oma. But what then?” His hands clenched. “How will we pay for a home? For food? I don’t even know what I’ll do after this. No job pays half of what I make down there. And—”

“Ovid!” Innis’s voice cracked through the night like a whip.

He froze.

She moved the lantern and scooted closer, tears shining in her eyes. “That’s enough.” She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’ve seen you all but nine days since I told you I was pregnant. Nine days.” She shook her head and laughed bitterly. “That was four months ago.”

He started to speak, but she cut him off. “You’re going to wind up dead if you keep this up. Every time you go out there, I could be saying goodbye to you for the last time.” Her lip quivered. “What good is all that money if you’re not here to raise our child? To hold them? To hold me?”

He looked down, shame washing over him. “My crew’s doing the same,” he said weakly. “We’re all saving what we can before we hang it up for good.”

Innis stared at him for a long moment—long enough that he couldn’t bear to look up. Then she sighed and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him.

“I’m sorry,” Ovid whispered, his chin resting on her shoulder. “I just need to know we’ll be okay.”

She nodded against him, her voice soft and trembling. “We will be,” she said. “But I need you here to see it.”

He pulled away and looked at her, at the freckles on her cheeks and the faint exhaustion in her eyes, and something inside him cracked. “I’ll slow down,” he promised. “After this next sweep tomorrow. One more, and I’ll take fewer hunts.”

Innis searched his face, as if she could see whether he meant it. She pulled him back in and kissed him passionately, tongues twirling together. Then, as quickly as she began, she pulled away and smiled faintly. “Then I’ll wait for your return.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Wait?”

“You heard me.” She leaned closer, a teasing glint in her eye despite the redness around them. “It’ll give me something to look forward to.”

Ovid chuckled under his breath, the tension finally easing. “You’re terrible at waiting.”

“Then don’t make me wait too long,” she said, and kissed him.

He put his hands under her armpits and leapt up, lifting her off her feet, spinning her as she laughed with a grin that reached her eyes. Their laughter carried through the orchard, bright and full of life, drifting up into the quiet night air.

He woke to the sound of boots on packed earth. For a moment the world was still a fog of dreams and pain; then Conar’s shadow fell across the cairn and a warm, rough hand dropped an apple into Ovid’s lap.

“Figured you could use the energy.” The cheer in his voice was thin and a little broken.

Ovid took the apple, thumbed its skin, but he didn’t bite. He stared past Conar—not at the village, not at the tree; somewhere empty and far where memory and loss sat like the stones next to him.

Conar lingered, forcing a smile that didn’t match his eyes. “Listen… about yesterday. I—” He stopped himself, swallowed. “I didn’t hear your side of it. I didn’t… I didn’t understand.”

Ovid didn’t answer. He sat in his deafening silence. Still consumed in his thoughts.

Conar hesitated, then held out a familiar weight: a bottle wrapped in cloth.

Ovid turned it in his hands. The label caught the sun and the name felt like a promise. Aurum. He had given her this bottle once—a small, ridiculous pledge in a world that had no patience for promises. Tears came and blurred the print. He said nothing.

Conar took a breath. The line of his jaw was tight. “She came home the night you gave it to her,” he offered, as if the story itself could stitch something together. “She walked the yard raving about how excited she was to taste it. To share the bottle with you. We all wondered why you were both waiting. Then she told us about the baby,” his voice cracked; he’d practiced the speech and the ending kept changing. “I had never seen her so happy. Her love for you was above anything I had witnessed. She couldn’t wait to drink that bottle with you, which is why I kept it when she—” he choked. “I kept the bottle because… I thought maybe one day you’d both come back for it.”

The words hung heavy. Ovid’s mouth made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. He swallowed bile. The taste of the captain’s blood still burned in his mouth like a memory.

“What happened that night?” he rasped at last. 

Conar looked down, shame rotting his face. He knelt and settled beside Ovid, hands pressed so hard into his knees his fingers whitened. “Your friend. He came looking for her. Said he needed to talk to her alone. She went with him out by the tree. He returned without her.” Conar’s voice broke and he covered his face. “He said you’d been attacked on a job. That you didn’t make it back. He told us she asked for a minute to herself. After awhile, I went to look and—”

He couldn’t finish. He choked on the rest of the sentence, on the horror of finding what he did.

Conar’s head shook. “I should have checked sooner. I should have—” He hit his palm into the dirt once, twice, helpless anger and grief turned on himself. “I could have—”

“Don’t,” Ovid cut him off. His voice was flat now, a blade gone dull by use but still able to cut. “There was nothing you could have done. Who told you I was dead?”

“Brutus,” Conar said bluntly.

The sound of the name was a match to tinder. Ovid’s hands clenched, veins standing on his knuckles. For a long second the world consolidated into a single point of heat and hate. He tasted the word like iron.

“Then he’ll be the first to die,” Ovid said, and the promise slid from him without theatrics—not a vow so much as a mapping of the quickest route to payback.

Conar flinched. “What—what do you mean?”

Ovid pushed himself up. Each movement felt like pulling a rope tied to a stone; his joints complained and yet his resolve was steady. The Beast had receded for the moment, leaving a man who could feel—who could want and make hard, terrible choices. “They betrayed me,” he said. “My crew. They tried to kill me at the bottom of the sea. But I survived. They took the woman I loved after they thought I was dead. So now I’ve come back for them.”

Conar’s eyes searched Ovid’s face, finding not the ragged animal he’d feared but a cold, contained fury that was worse in its quiet.

“You must not tell anyone I’m alive,” Ovid snapped. His voice was a dry, hard thing. “It’s the last kindness you can give Innis. Keep her memory safe. Don’t hand me to men who’d slash her name from the world to keep their own.”

Conar bristled. “I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t.” Ovid’s answer was immediate. He flattened his palm against Conar’s chest. “I can’t pay your debts.”

“Fuck them. I’ll just leave.” His words struck like a man with nothing to lose.

“If you do that, they’ll hunt you down. And me by proxy.”

Conar’s face set. For a breath there was more anger than anything. “She was my cousin. My little sister. I won’t bury her and do nothing.”

Ovid looked at him, really looked—at the rawness around his eyes, the way his hands shook not with fear but with wanting to act. He slid the bottle of Aurum back into Conar’s hands like an offering and an order. “Keep this,” he said. “Keep it hidden. Tell no one you saw me. Tell them all inside to do the same. When the time comes I will return. I swear to you. I will return and we will drink it together and share memories of the woman we loved.”

Conar’s throat bobbed. He blinked once, hard. Then he nodded, as if the nod could turn promise into plan. “I’ll keep your name quiet. I’ll make sure your secret’s safe. Make his death slow,” Conar added, the words bared like a blade.

Ovid stared for a long moment and then, finally, the smallest of smiles ghosted his mouth—an echo of the man he’d remembered. “Believe me,” he said softly, “I intend to.”

He walked away then. Conar watched him go, the bottle clutched to his chest like a relic, eyes burning with promises of their own.

When Ovid disappeared into the orchard he left behind a silence that felt like the moment before a storm.

The dormitory smelled of polish—that sharp blend of brass and floor wax that seemed to cling to every corner of South Alsium’s Naval Academy. The ceiling fans turned slow, pushing the heat around without much relief. Outside, gulls screamed over the docks, and the distant hum of airships rose and fell like a tide.

Ovid dropped his small canvas bag on the lower bunk. It was all he was allowed to bring—a few clothes, a comb, a family photograph. The folded cadet uniform laid out on the mattress stared back at him. The maroon and gold trim shimmered faintly in the afternoon light. It was the colors of the Empire, of lineages. Of inevitability.

He ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed. He was only fifteen, freshly torn from home and on the path every Aenean son was expected to walk: war, honor, legacy. He was supposed to feel proud. Instead, he felt small.

“Never really been a fan of the dark red,” came a voice from the next bunk over.

Ovid turned. The boy sitting there had a mess of brown hair, suntanned skin, and a grin that carried too much confidence for someone so young. “I think pink goes better with gold,” the boy added, flicking the edge of his uniform collar he just put on.

“Like Monstrum?” Ovid asked, half-curious, half-defensive.

The boy’s grin widened. “You know Monstrum? My dad’s a hunter for them. One of the best.”

“Really?” Ovid said, amused. “What’s his name?”

“Brennius.” The name was delivered with the kind of pride only a son can have.

Ovid nodded thoughtfully. “I wonder if my father knows him. He runs Monstrum.”

The boy blinked. “Your father?” His tone turned wary. “You mean Darius of Grus, Descendant of Gallus?”

Ovid gave a small smile. “That’s him.”

The boy’s brows furrowed. “You’re lying.”

“Nope.” Ovid smirked, leaning back on the bunk. “Ovid of Grus, Descendant of Gallus, Heir to Monstrum. At your service.”

The other cadet’s eyes darted over him, taking in the ordinary shirt, the unremarkable boots. His skepticism crumbled. “Oh my Crux,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Ovid waved it off, grinning. “Don’t worry about it. I appreciate you keeping an eye out for impostors. Hard to know who’s genuine in a place like this.”

The boy laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I should’ve known. You’ve got the look.”

“What’s your name?” Ovid asked.

“Brutus.” The name came out like a challenge.

“Well, Brutus, it’s good to meet another Grusian here. Thought I’d be surrounded by soft Aeneans who’ve never even heard of a hunt.”

Brutus puffed up slightly. “Oh, I’ve been on plenty. My dad took me out on the Great Gas Sea all the time.”

Ovid’s eyebrows lifted. “Is that right?”

“Sure,” Brutus lied smoothly. “Leviathan hunts, cargo escorts—you name it.”

Ovid smiled, impressed and unknowing. “No kidding. My father’s been sending me on hunts since I was ten. Never met another kid aboard. Would’ve been good to have company.”

Brutus blinked, realizing he’d been outdone even in his own lie, but recovered quickly with a grin. “Guess it’s good we finally met, then.”

Ovid laughed—bright, genuine. “Guess so.” He offered his hand. “To Grus.”

Brutus clasped it firmly. “To Grus,” he echoed.

For a moment, they were just two boys—proud, hungry, and blind to the long shadow of the future waiting beyond South Alsium.

The black hood covered his eyes, the cape shrouding the rest of him like a shadow trying to pass for a man. Ovid crossed the stone street toward Scurvy, the tavern where his happiest lies once lived.

When he pushed the door open, the smell hit him first—cheap booze, sweat, damp wood. Sticky floorboards clung to his boots like the building itself wanted to keep him there.

Inside, life moved on without him.

Grusian hunters crowded tables, laughing with bellies full of stew and grog. Dice clattered. Arms slammed down in wrestling matches. Steins crashed together in celebration of fresh kills. Scurvy had always been a comforting kind of chaos. Tonight it felt like he was walking through a hallucination—wrong, distorted, almost hostile.

He lowered his head and approached the bar. The bartender on shift, a young Aenean girl in a grey dress and black apron, glanced over.

“What can I get yuh?”

“I’m looking for Bellamy,” he muttered.

“Daniel? He’s not in today.”

“Do you know where I can find him? Still living upstairs?”

She nodded. “Uh—yeah. Go around the back and up the stairs. First door on the right.”

“Thank you.”

He stepped back into the cool Oman air and circled behind the tavern. The wooden stairs creaked under his weight as he climbed to the small landing with three doors. He knocked on Daniel’s.

A metallic crash sounded inside.

“One minute!” Daniel’s voice called.

Footsteps scurried to the door. A shadow pressed up to the peephole. “Who is it?”

Ovid kept his head down. “Danny… open up. We’ll talk inside.”

“Yeah right. So you can rob me blind? No thanks.”

Ovid sighed and lifted his hood just enough to show his face. “It’s me.”

A beat of stunned silence. The latch clicked. The door cracked open—Daniel’s face pale, eyes wide—and then his expression froze. His pupils dilated. His lips parted but no sound emerged.

“Danny?” Ovid said, already recognizing the vacant stare.

Daniel’s head twitched. His knees buckled. Ovid lunged forward just in time to catch him before he collapsed.

Ovid lowered him gently to the wooden landing, turning him on his side as Daniel’s body snapped rigid. His back arched. His jaw clenched tight. Then came violent, rhythmic jerking. His heels hammered against the deck; his arms flailed like tangled ropes, slapping against the boards. His head thudded back again and again, forcing Ovid to cradle it in his hands.

“Easy… Danny… I’ve got you,” Ovid murmured, though Daniel heard none of it.

His limbs tensed, then stretched unnaturally long for a breathless moment. His eyes rolled up into the corner. Drool spilled from his mouth.

The shaking slowed… slowed… then stopped.

Ovid rolled him fully onto his side as Daniel laid limp, unconscious, breath hitching in quiet gasps.

“I’m sorry,” Ovid whispered, wiping drool from Daniel’s cheek with his thumb. “Didn’t think seeing my face would set you off.”

Daniel didn’t respond. Just breathed—shallow, uneven—the familiar haze pulling him under.

A minute passed before Daniel finally stirred. His eyelids fluttered.

“Huh?” he mumbled.

Ovid gently pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Hey. You had a seizure. Just breathe. How are you feeling?”

“Tired…” Daniel whispered, barely above a breath.

“How about we get you to bed and talk when you wake up?”

Daniel nodded weakly.

Ovid hooked Daniel’s arm around his shoulders and lifted him up. The man’s weight sagged heavily, but Ovid held him firmly, guiding him inside.

The apartment was barely more than a glorified storage shed. Boxes stacked to the ceiling. Hardware scattered across the floor. A toolbox lay overturned, screws glittering like metal confetti. Dirty bowls piled on the dining table, the crusted remains of tavern stew dried in streaks.

“Crux…” Ovid muttered under his breath.

He guided Daniel into the tiny bedroom—just a cot, a nightstand, and a bottle of potassium bromide resting on its side. The cap was loose, half the pills spilled across the wood.

He laid Daniel down, pulled a blanket over him, and adjusted the pillow beneath his head.

Daniel was already drifting. “Ovid…?” he whispered, not fully conscious.

“I’m here,” Ovid said quietly. “Rest.”

He turned, slid down the wall until he sat on the floorboards, and let out a long, shaking breath.

For the first time in a long time… the Beast felt far away. The weight of humanity—grief, guilt, exhaustion—returned like a heavy stone on his shoulders.

He closed his eyes. Let his head rest back against the wall. And waited for Daniel to wake.

“Okay, okay—what about a glassback?” Ovid asked, pointing the neck of the rum bottle at Daniel like a challenge. Julius leaned against him on one side, Brutus on the other, all three swaying in their stools as the tavern’s warmth seeped into their bones.

“Think he knows it?” Julius hiccuped.

Brutus scoffed, lifting his stein. “He’s gotten ‘em right every damned time. Voting against Danny’s just gonna destroy my liver at this point.”

“I’m with Brutus,” Julius muttered. “If I take another shot, I’m gonna forget my own name.”

Ovid arched an eyebrow, theatrically offended. “Fine, cowards. I’ll be the opposing vote, then. No way he gets this one. Absolutely no way.”

Daniel smirked—a lopsided, smug grin—as he plucked a shot glass from the counter and poured Ovid a measure of the cheapest rum they carried. “You sure about that?”

Ovid crossed his arms. “Hit me.”

Daniel tapped the bar, then spoke like a savant delivering a lecture:

“Long serpent. Translucent skin. Brittle spikes along the spine—they shatter when it whips its tail, the shards stick into the bastard it’s fighting. Hurts like hell coming out.”

Brutus slapped Ovid’s chest with the back of his hand hard enough to rattle bone. “KID knows his shit!”

Ovid burst out laughing and tossed the shot back, wincing at the burn but relishing the moment. “Crux, Danny—seriously, why’d you never become a hunter?”

Daniel turned away as he wiped the counter, and for a brief moment the tavern’s warm light caught something softer in his expression—nostalgia, maybe longing.

“Always wanted to,” he admitted. “Kinda dreamed of it growing up. But…”

His smile wilted. The noise of the room didn’t touch that small pocket of quiet around the four of them.

“I’ve got… a disease,” Daniel continued, voice low. “Been seizing since I was a kid. Body locks up, I fall, jerk, black out. Beats me back to bed for hours. Hunter life’s dangerous enough. One seizure at the wrong time and I could take the whole crew down with me.”

Brutus blinked, surprised. “Seize?”

Daniel nodded. “Doctors got me on some new pills. Helps. Doesn’t stop it completely.” He took Ovid’s empty shot glass, rinsed it, and set it upside down. “Got me out of the draft before they shipped me off to South Alsium like you boys. Lucky break, I guess.”

“Sounds awful,” Ovid said, genuinely.

Daniel shrugged. “It’s life. Could be worse.”

Ovid’s expression brightened, enthusiasm cutting through the haze of alcohol. “You should come with us sometime. Brutus and I were out on the Gas Sea even when we were too small to lift a damn harpoon.” He nudged Brutus. “Tell him—it’s not dangerous just watching from the cabin.”

Brutus barked out a laugh. “Fuck no! Never had any trouble as a kid. Not unless you count Ovid almost falling overboard that one time—”

“That was once,” Ovid snapped, though he grinned as he said it. “Should’ve never told you about that!”

Daniel’s eyes lit with hesitant hope. “Really? You… mean it?”

“Yeah,” Ovid said, clapping his shoulder over the bar. “Sit in the cabin, keep the place warm. We’ll handle the dirty work.”

Julius chimed in, slurring slightly: “Could use someone smart on deck. Crux knows these two ain’t it,” he joked motioning to Ovid and Brutus.

Brutus jabbed a finger at Daniel. “We should take him on one of those submistial escorts. Let him talk to the scholars about mistology. Bet they’d love a commoner that’s smarter than them!”

Ovid and Julius howled laughing. Brutus joined in with a self-satisfied roar.

Daniel shook his head, smiling. “You idiots…”

Ovid wiped a tear from the corner of his eye from laughing too hard. “C’mon, Danny. Who knows? Impress the right academic and maybe you’ll get into the School of Mistians.”

Brutus snorted. “Probably not. But… fuck ‘em anyway.”

The four of them exploded in drunken laughter, the kind that made strangers smile and tables turn. The tavern hummed around them—clanking steins, creaking planks, men shouting over cards and dice.

Daniel looked at them—these loud, reckless, loyal men—and felt something warm coil in his chest. For a moment, he allowed himself the fantasy that this life, this table, these friends, might stay the same forever.

He didn’t know, of course.

None of them did.

But in that messy, golden moment in Scurvy—they were brothers. And Daniel felt lucky just to sit among them.

Daniel stirred, rolling onto his side. The sunlight sliced through the little window; dust motes drifted in the stale air. He blinked once, then twice, and saw Ovid slumped against the wall. 

“Why are you here?” Daniel rasped.

Ovid cracked one eye open, then the other. “I need to talk to you.”

Daniel let out a long, slow breath. “We’ve been over this. You’re dead.”

Ovid’s mouth twitched. “What?”

“You’re not going to trick me, vision.” Daniel pushed himself upright with an effort. “If you’re real, bring me a cup of water.”

Ovid rose, head swimming. The room pitched as if the floor had turned to sea; his stomach rolled. He staggered, grabbed the doorframe, and walked out into the cramped kitchen, if you’d call it that. The effort of the trip took him more than it should have—his legs felt hollow, his breath shallow. He nearly collapsed twice before he found a ladle and a wooden cup tucked beside an old bowl full of water.

He returned and eased the cup into Daniel’s hands. He drank greedily and lowered the cup to his lap. 

“You believe me now?” Ovid asked.

Daniel squinted, studying his face like a man checking a ghost for breath. “Believe what?”

“It’s really me,” Ovid wheezed. “Brutus and the others lied about my death.”

Daniel’s jaw dropped. “No shit?”

Ovid let himself lean on the wall. Sweat beaded at his temples. “You okay for this conversation right now?” he asked, voice thin.

Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose and took a moment, like he was steadying a ship. He noticed Ovid’s pallor and the way sweat clung to his shirt. “Are you okay for this? You look like someone with early signs of Cruxium poisoning.”

Ovid laughed—a single, brittle sound that rolled into a cough. “Think it’s the opposite. I’m going through withdrawal.” He drew a ragged breath. “I’ll explain. Later. I need some rest first. Then I go into the mist.”

“For what?” Daniel asked, brows knitting.

“Cruxium. I need to consume it. To survive.” Ovid’s voice was unsteady when he spoke.

Daniel pushed himself up carefully. “Could you get some from bones? Got some ground up.”

Ovid blinked. “Why do you have ground up mistian bones?”

“Long story,” Daniel said, and disappeared into the clutter. He rooted through boxes and came back with a small jar of powder.

Ovid took the jar with hands that trembled. “Ground ambrog bones?” he read in Daniel’s handwriting.

Daniel grimaced. “You sure about this?”

Ovid nodded. “Can I get a cup of water?”

Daniel filled a cup with water, spooned in the powder, and stirred until it sat as a bitter, grainy slurry. Ovid held the cup, then tipped it back and swallowed in one hard pull.

The taste was ash and copper and something that made his throat close. It brought bile to his mouth, but within heartbeats a tremor of color returned to his eyes: a flicker of that brownish-pink in his veins, a warmth threading along his limbs. His shoulders eased. The fog in his head thinned.

“Did your eyes just flash?” Daniel asked, an eyebrow raised.

Ovid’s grin was wolfish and brief. “Yeah.” He pushed energy back into his voice. “Now. Let’s talk.”

They sat opposite each other at the corner table. Daniel quickly pushed the dishes aside. The small room seemed to shrink and settle around their conversation as the Cruxium eased Ovid.

“I want to know everything that happened after I disappeared,” Ovid said, fingers tapping the wood.

Daniel’s expression went flat. “You mean how I found out? What they told me?”

Ovid nodded.

Daniel leaned back, looking for the words. “A few days after your sweep, Brutus came in alone. Sat down at the bar with dread on his face. Said that you held off two cyclops while the rest of them got to the ship. He said you died a hero.”

Ovid let out a short laugh that had no humor. “At least they didn’t slander my name.”

“Only ever saw Brutus after you died. Julius and Rollo showed up for the memorial in Ivrea, then disappeared. Brutus hangs around Scurvy every now and then—kept showing up with money, helping me with my… hobby. Set me up with supplies, funded my little projects.” Daniel’s jaw tightened. “Generous, if you ask me.”

“Brutus is still here?” Ovid asked, the name like a hot coal.

“Yeah.” Daniel nodded slowly. “He’s got an estate over in Leviathan Valley. Big house, yard, stable, the whole thing. He drops by Scurvy a lot. Helped me get these,” he waved at the scattered tools and parts. “Says he wants to support the locals—give something back.”

Ovid’s face grew grim. “He killed Innis.”

Daniel’s face went white. “What? Brutus? He—no. He wouldn’t—”

“He strung her up himself. I know it.” Ovid’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “He and the others took the chance when they thought I was dead. They took my life and they took hers.”

Daniel rocked back on his heels, sliding an empty box aside with his foot. “I always thought he was—good. He gave me senecs when I needed parts. Sometimes gave me money just cause. I never asked. I just—” He stopped, as if he’d been punched.

“Who else? Just the three?” Daniel asked after a beat.

“I suspect my father had a hand in it too—after I refused to leave Innis for the family legacy.” Ovid’s voice hardened. “But I don’t have proof. Just Brutus, Julius, and Rollo for certain.”

Daniel ran a hand through his hair. “So it wasn’t an accident. Not grief. Not bad luck. It was all planned.” His voice went small at the end, as if saying it aloud made it anymore truer than it already was.

Ovid’s eyes were flat and steady, the hard line of a man with a single purpose. “I’m going to find them. I’m going to make them pay.”

Daniel looked him up and down. Even with the faint pulse of Cruxium in his pupils, Ovid looked ragged—hollow-cheeked like a man stripped of ordinary mercies.

“When was the last time you had a warm meal? A bed?” Daniel asked, not unkindly. 

Ovid blinked, searching the corners of a life he could barely feel. “A long time,” he said finally. The words were both empty and honest.

Daniel let out a breath through his nose and stood. “You can’t get revenge on fumes, Ovid. Not if you want to last long enough to make them pay.”

He moved with quiet efficiency towards the door. “I’ll get you stew from downstairs. You sit here and don’t move. When I come back I want the whole story of the past year. And why you’re drinking the most disgustingly toxic drink I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Ovid’s jaw loosened; in that moment he acknowledged his humanity and mortality. He nodded once, a slow, grateful motion. “Alright.”

The Decan XII-X flew low, its hull humming with the constant thrum of engines straining against the northern currents. The pink and brown haze of the Great Gas Sea rolled beneath them in slow waves. Every few seconds, the ship creaked, settling under its own weight.

Mist patrol. Boring, endless mist patrol. Ovid had spent half his enlistment staring into that shimmering abyss.

Brutus stood planted at the railing like a statue with a pulse, both hands clamped around the ARR gun. He kept his head close, eyes narrowed down the iron sight as if sheer stubbornness alone could summon a mistian from the clouds.

Ovid stood beside him with binoculars, sweep-checking the horizon for movement. Nothing. Just pink vapor, sunlight, and heat.

“It’s been quiet for a while now,” Brutus muttered. “Haven’t seen a harpy in days.”

Ovid lowered the binoculars and wiped sweat from his brow. “I thought it was supposed to be cold in the north. Most dangerous thing out here is sunburn and heatstroke.”

Brutus barked a laugh. “It’s all the airships pumping shit into the sky. All the bombs and engines burning oil.”

“You think?”

Brutus nodded confidently. “Definitely. Think about how hot those engines get. Multiply that by the million ships on the Zhang front? Of course it’s hot.”

Ovid snorted. “…Would kill for some pollution clouds today.”

They both chuckled, and then silence settled again.

Brutus groaned. “For fuck’s sake. I mean, I don’t wanna be on the frontlines, but I’m wasting my life staring at pink clouds all day talking about the damn weather with you.”

“We could talk about something else,” Ovid said with a smug tilt of his head.

Brutus shot him a look, trying not to smile.

Footsteps clunked on the deck. Julius approached, rifle slung professionally, posture painfully rigid—as always.

“Any activity?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Ovid answered.

“All fucking day,” Brutus grumbled.

Julius stepped past them, leaned over the railing, and without hesitation fired into the mist.

A screech rose and fell—a harpy, dead before it reached the bottom of the Great Gas Sea.

Brutus blinked. “Did you—what—really?”

Julius looked over at him, expression annoyingly neutral. “You weren’t looking hard enough.”

“This fucking guy,” Brutus muttered. “You got lucky. I swear there’s been nothing out here.”

Ovid laughed. “He’s got eagle eyes. We can’t compete with that.”

“Do I?” Julius asked. “Or are you two just blind?”

“The latter could be true,” Ovid admitted.

Brutus scoffed. “Speak for yourself, I can see just fine.”

Julius tapped the rail with his gloved fingers. “Alright, then tell me—anything moving out there now?”

Brutus immediately squinted down the ARR’s sights, scanning. Ovid followed with his binoculars.

“Nope,” Brutus said. “You got the only harpy in kilometers.”

Immediately after Brutus, Ovid shouted out. “Oh wait, I think I—”

Bang. Another shot snapped the air. Another screech. Another mist-dive of a dying harpy.

Julius lowered the rifle with irritating casualness. “At least one of you on watch can see,” he said, then turned on his heel and walked away.

“Asshole,” Brutus muttered under his breath.

“He’s just fucking with you,” Ovid said, half-amused, half-defensive.

“He’s pissed he’s stuck on deck watch,” Brutus insisted.

“True. He’s a real Cartan, huh?”

“Always the champion,” Brutus mocked. “He’s someone who should be on the frontlines—he’d love it. All the heroic fights he wants.”

“He’s been a soldier since birth,” Ovid said. “Trained for this before South Alsium. But hey—better on our side if shit goes down.”

Brutus grunted. “I think you and I would handle ourselves just fine. We’re better than anyone on this Decan.”

“I don’t know if we’re the best,” Ovid said, trying to be modest.

“We’re up there.”

Brutus punctuated the statement by squeezing off a short burst into the mist—three shots, three screams. The echoes vanished into the haze.

Ovid laughed. “Now that I can agree with.”

Daniel pushed the door open with his hip, a wooden bowl steaming in his hands. The rich scent of beef, onions, and carrots filled the cramped room. He set the bowl down in front of Ovid, slid over a battered spoon, then sank into the seat across from him.

Ovid didn’t wait. He scooped a mound of stew into his mouth, then another. He ate like a man trying to relearn what hunger even felt like. His hands trembled faintly—not with rage this time, but with the shock of warmth, of real food after months of blood, bone, and Cruxium.

Daniel didn’t interrupt. He watched with a strange mix of pity and awe as Ovid cleaned the bowl almost as quickly as he downed the ambrog slurry.

When the spoon finally clattered onto the table, Ovid exhaled, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Crux… forgot food could taste like something.”

Daniel leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Alright,” he said quietly. “You said they lied about your death. I mean—clearly. But what happened? Where were you this whole time?”

Ovid rolled the empty spoon with his fingers, grounding himself. “We went down for the sweep. Same routine as every other. Suits on, weapons checked. Rollo stayed at the helm while Julius and Brutus came out with me.”

He paused, jaw tightening.

“We hit the mist—barely got a sentence out before Julius drove the spike of his rifle straight into my gut.”

Daniel shot upright. “What?!”

“Punctured my suit,” Ovid continued flatly. “My lungs filled with mist. I could feel my insides start dissolving. Couldn’t even scream. I dropped, and Brutus just took my gun and said it was, ‘just business.’ Then they left me there. No cyclops. No heroics. Just betrayal.”

Daniel dragged a hand down his face. “Fuck… man. How are you even alive right now?”

Ovid let out a tired breath. “You know the Crux? The book?”

Daniel shook his head. “Never read it. Don’t care to entertain a god whose goal’s to wipe out humanity through their own greed.”

“Fair enough. But you know about epithets, right? Like the Lexian Elite?”

Daniel nodded slowly. “Of course. I’ve still read the H.A.E.”

“Well… I died. Fully. The mist ate through me. But something down there didn’t let me stay dead. When I woke up, I didn’t remember anything after the navy. Not my life as a hunter, not Innis, not you—nothing. I breathed in, and the mist hit different. Felt like fire in my veins.”

“What do you mean… different?”

“I mean my body changed. Strength, speed… instincts that weren’t human. And when the ambrogs found me, my body fought on its own. Every kill made me stronger. Every drop of Cruxium I consumed pushed me further. The more I took in, the more monstrous I became. Claws, size, hunger. But I lost control each time.”

Daniel blinked at him. “So you’re… a mistian and a man? A bridge between both worlds?”

Ovid gave a small, tired nod.

“Looks like it.”

“And you’ve just been… a beast out there all this time?” Daniel asked quietly.

Another nod.

Daniel swallowed hard. “So what brought you back?”

“A hunting crew from Monstrum,” Ovid said. “I was tearing through the mist. They followed the carnage straight to me. When I bit one of them, the taste of his blood triggered something—reminded me of Innis. That memory was enough to drag me back into myself. Enough to make me find a way out.”

Daniel sat back, stunned. “You know… if you didn’t drink that sludge earlier and start glowing for a few seconds, I’d think you’d lost your mind.”

Ovid huffed a small, humorless laugh. “I lived it and I think I lost it.”

Daniel’s expression softened. “Well… I’m glad you’re back. Genuinely. Even if you’re half mistian now.”

“Thanks,” Ovid murmured. But the warmth faded quickly from his face. “But now I have work to do.”

Daniel eyed him—sunken eyes, shaking hands, sweat still drying on his brow. “What you need is sleep first. A real bed. You look like you’ve been up for months.”

Ovid hesitated. His instincts screamed at him to push on—hunt, confront, kill—but his body sagged with exhaustion he couldn’t hide.

“Yeah,” he finally admitted. “Alright. I’ll rest.”

Daniel stood and extended his hand. Ovid clasped it.

“Good,” Daniel said. “Sleep first. Then tomorrow… I’ll take you to Brutus’ place.”

Ovid’s grip tightened just slightly. “It’s a deal.”

“South Sea War. Go,” Ovid said, thumbing the crease of the textbook as he sat cross-legged on his bunk.

Brutus sat across from him on his own bed, elbows on his knees, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. “Four-twenty-six to four-forty-six. Us against the South Sea League—Novans, Entellans, and the Neron.”

“Four-forty-eight,” Ovid corrected without looking up. “But the rest is right.”

Brutus dropped his head back with a groan. “Crux. What happened in ‘46 then?”

“That’s when Emperor Marcius II gave Auxius the Auxian Islands.”

Brutus pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Why do we have to learn this shit? What’s any of this got to do with killing Zhang?”

“We can learn a lot from the successes and failures of the past,” Ovid said, trying to sound patient.

“And knowing a war ended two years later than I thought helps how?”

Ovid tried to come up with something wise, then abandoned it. “I… don’t know. Maybe they just want us to know our timelines.”

Brutus snorted and held out a hand. “Alright then, Mister History Matters. My turn.”

Ovid passed him the book. “Shoot.”

Brutus flipped through the pages like he was shuffling a deck of cards. “Okay. The Aenean Civil War.”

Ovid closed his eyes to think. “Technically it started when Warden Leon of Nova was overthrown—eight-twenty-nine AE. But it could be argued it began with the formation of Libertad in eight-twenty-five.”

Brutus raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Tensions between Emperor Lexus and the general populace. Mostly the public backlash from the Mist Experiments.” Ovid shrugged. “People only put up with slaughter for so long.”

“Smart ass,” Brutus muttered. “Alright, how’d it end?”

“Eight-thirty-five AE. Treaty of Laba. After Lexus died, Emperor Vincentius sat down with Libertad leader, Remon de los Libe. Figured the rebellion would never die unless he gave people a voice.”

Brutus sat forward. “Treaty says what?”

Ovid squinted up at the ceiling, trying to recall the wording. “Uhhh… rebels were pardoned, and the Imperial Senate was formed.”

“Wrong.” Brutus laughed, triumphant. “Senate came later. The treaty only made Remon an advisor to the Emperor.”

Ovid threw his hands up. “I asked you two questions for yours! You got me writing essays.”

“Ask more questions then. The exam’s not gonna be ‘what’s the start and end of a war.’ We’re gonna get butchered if we don’t know this stuff.”

Ovid grumbled and ripped the book back. “Alright. Scuran War. Go.”

“That one didn’t even last a year—five-o-six to five-o-seven.”

“Reason it began?”

Brutus frowned in concentration. “The Aeneans played the Scuran kings against each other. Buying POWs as slaves. But then one King figured it out—uh—formed the Scuran Alliance, ended the fighting.”

“Which king?”

“Fuck—I don’t know!”

“Macrath Athlone. And none of that is what started the war.”

“I KNOW!” Brutus snapped. “I was getting to that! Quit jumping on me while I’m thinking.”

Ovid rolled his eyes. “Fine. Continue.”

“When the wars ended, the Aenean Army started kidnapping people at night to keep the slave trade going. Scurans caught them and tried to trade the captured soldiers for all their enslaved people back.” Brutus paused, thinking. “Emperor Vortigernus didn’t like that.”

“Then what?”

“The Lord of Novae arranged a diplomatic meeting with all four Scuran Kings—”

“Which Lord of—”

“STOP interrupting me! I don’t know! Lord… Fuckwad! Who cares? It’s stupid.”

Ovid exhaled through his nose. “Brutus… it’s not stupid. You just need—”

“I don’t need anything,” Brutus snapped, then softened a bit. “I just… I don’t see how any of this is gonna matter once we’re out there getting shot at.”

Ovid let a beat pass. “Maybe we need a break. Want to spar?”

Brutus huffed. “And get my ass kicked? No thanks. I’ll take a walk before I throw this damn book out the window.”

“Yeah, alright,” Ovid replied gently. “See you at dinner?”

Brutus grabbed his coat and hat, still muttering. “Yeah. Dinner.”

He hesitated in the doorway—just long enough for Ovid to notice—but said nothing before shutting it behind him.

Ovid jerked awake with a strangled breath. His shirt clung to him, drenched, the fabric cold against his skin. His heart hammered like it was still trying to outrun something monstrous in the dark. The nightmares always found him again on the surface—maybe because the mist wasn’t there to drown them out, maybe because mortality pressed on him like a weight he’d forgotten he used to carry.

No sunlight filtered through the small square window. Outside was still the dead of pre-dawn, but the dim amber lamps in the next room glowed just enough to push back the darkness.

He laid still for a moment, staring at the low ceiling. Sweat slid down his temples. His breath came in rough pulls. Even the silence felt heavier than the mist down below.

Then he heard it.

A clink. A soft scrap of something being dragged or pushed. The squeak of a chair. Daniel muttering under his breath. He was working—fussing with something the way he always did when inspiration struck.

Ovid sighed and swung his legs off the cot. The floorboards creaked beneath him, and he steadied himself on the wall as a faint wave of dizziness reminded him that he’d been half-alive at best when he arrived.

He shuffled into the main room.

Daniel snapped his head up, surprised, then grinned. “You’re alive! Again.” He laughed. “You’ve been out for a day and a half. I crashed out here. You were snoring like a sleeping bear.”

Ovid rubbed his face. “Don’t remember the last time I really slept.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Daniel dusted his hands and gestured at the cluttered worktable beside him. “Anyway—since you need your daily hit of Cruxium and had to drink that cursed sludge—I made you something.”

He picked up a small object between his thumb and pointer finger and held it out proudly.

A thin tan cylinder, tightly wrapped.

“It’s like a gaigo stick,” Daniel announced, “but for Cruxium.”

Ovid blinked. “You… made Cruxium sticks?”

“Crux-sticks,” Daniel corrected, pleased with himself. “Ground ambrog bones wrapped in ambrog leather. You spark it up, inhale, and boom. Mist-smoke straight into the lungs. No more choking down bone soup.”

He held up a lighter in his other hand, eyebrows lifted like he expected applause.

Ovid took the stick slowly. “This… actually might work.” He turned it over between his fingers. “I didn’t even think to do this.”

“Hey, innovation is kinda my thing,” Daniel said with a shrug, then sighed. “At least, ever since Brutus believed in me enough to throw money at my projects.”

Ovid’s expression tightened—jaw hard, eyes shadowed. “I’m sorry he turned out to be what he is.”

Daniel snorted. “Ovid. The man literally stabbed you in the back. I think I can handle the emotional betrayal of accepting money from a psychopath.”

Ovid’s fist curled. “He’s going to pay for it today.”

Daniel froze for half a second—the conviction in Ovid’s voice wasn’t anger. It was certainty.

“Right,” Daniel said, swallowing his nerves as he went to grab his boots. “We’ll leave in a minute.”

He hurried around the room pulling on layers. Ovid watched him from the bedroom doorway—holding back something monstrous buried just beneath the skin.

Then Daniel paused, remembering something.

“Oh—before I forget.” He turned, unsure how Ovid would react. “Brutus has your bird now.”

Ovid’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

“Icarus,” Daniel clarified, gently. “He bought him off your family at the memorial. He… he takes good care of him, from what I hear.”

Ovid’s face didn’t twist with rage—it stilled. Went blank. Too blank.

“I’m going to kill him,” he said calmly. “I’m going to make it slow. And then I’ll take Icarus back.”

Daniel shivered despite himself.

Ovid’s eyes drifted to a crate of metal scraps and chain near the wall. Without asking, he bent down, picked up a length of chain, and slung it across his shoulder like it was his now.

“Let’s go.”

“Right,” Daniel said, grabbing his coat. “Tavern’s wagon is out back. Boars are already hitched. Won’t take long if we ride it there.”

Ovid stepped toward the door, chain rattling softly with each step.

Only the deck lights cut through the darkness, bathing the upper rails of the Decan XII-X in a weak yellow glow. The rest of the world was ink-black sky and endless mist, the Great Gas Sea whispering below like a beast breathing in its sleep.

Ovid lifted his tin cup of grog and took a slow sip. The cheap drink burned a little, but it was warm, and warmth was rare out there in the middle of night. He leaned against the railing, letting the wind push hair from his brow.

“You think you’ll become a hunter after this?” he asked.

Brutus, propped beside him with his usual heavy posture, mirrored him and raised his cup. “Definitely. I was born for adventure. For adrenaline. Sitting around on this damned ship all day? This isn’t a life. Just waiting for orders, waiting for nothing. Hunting—that’d be something.”

Ovid chuckled. “Yeah? Well, I’d bring you onto my crew in a heartbeat.” He tapped the side of his cup with his fingernail, thinking aloud. “My father’s gonna want me to learn to run Monstrum the moment I step foot on Grus. Wants me leading a crew of hunters to start. Could use someone I know’s got my back.”

Brutus grinned and raised his cup. “I’d be honored, Captain.” They clinked metal to metal and drank.

A few paces away, Julius sat cross-legged on the deck, hunched over his cup as if shielding the grog from the wind. 

“What about you, Julius?” Ovid called out, chin tilting toward him. “You joining us when we get out? Or you already have plans?”

Julius didn’t look up at first. He let the question sit in the air. “Don’t know,” he finally muttered. “Been aiming for the service my whole life. Might stay after my mandatory years. Might not.”

Brutus scoffed loudly. “For what? We don’t do shit out here but stand around cleaning rifles and waiting for the Decanus to tell us the obvious. You trained to fight Zhang, not play lookout for harpies and smugglers that never show.”

Julius’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

“You could join us,” Ovid offered. “Good pay. Better food than the shit they serve on this damned ship. And with your eyes? We’d be unstoppable.”

Brutus nodded in agreement. “Guy can see a harpy blinking in the fog. I’d take that on my crew any day.”

Julius shrugged a single shoulder. “Maybe. I’ll think on it.”

Ovid smirked, knowing that was as enthusiastic as Julius got.

He turned. “What about you, Rollo? Want to join us? Could use a mechanic who can repair a pump mid-fall.”

Rollo sat, leaning against a crate with a cup in his hands. The soft, tired look on his face shifted into something warmer.

“The senecs would be hard to turn down,” he admitted. “Karina and Eliana are counting on my pay back home. You offer me a chance to give them a better life?” He shrugged. “Hard to say no to that.”

Ovid raised his cup again, this time higher. The others mirrored him one by one.

“Then let’s toast to something better waiting for us when we get off this steel coffin,” he declared. “To future hunts, future ships—and future riches.”

The cups clattered together. Laughter echoed over the deck, bleeding into the night, swallowed by the dark mist below.

For a brief moment, the war, the monotony, the exhaustion—it all felt far away.

Just four young men dreaming of a different life.

A life none of them knew would fracture. A life that would never last.

The boar trotted steadily down the stone road, its hooves clopping in a slow, patient rhythm. Dew clung to the grass on either side, sparkling in the newborn light. Dawn peeled across the sky in thin pink layers—almost the same shade as the mist that brought Ovid back from the dead more times than he could count.

The deeper they descended into Leviathan Valley, the quieter everything became.

This was where hunters ended—the lucky ones, anyway. Men and women who survived decades of fighting beasts the size of fortresses settled here among serenity and silence. Their homes sprawled across the landscape like monuments: enormous estates built partly of stone, partly of leviathan bone—ivory arches, massive rib-frames, jawbones repurposed as gates. All gathered over their careers. Their trophies were their foundations.

They didn’t have to travel too deep into the valley. Brutus’ manor sat near the northern lip, closest to Scurvy.

As they approached the estate, Ovid pulled out the Crux-stick, rolled expertly by Daniel, and flicked the lighter. The end glowed ember-orange, and the moment he drew in a breath, faint brown-pink veins pulsed across his temples and down his neck. The whites of his eyes shimmered—then dimmed again as he exhaled smoke into the cool morning air.

Daniel tried to pretend he wasn’t watching Ovid carefully, but he was.

Brutus’ manor came into full view, and it was… enormous. Bigger than Ovid imagined it would be. Sandstone walls layered with polished leviathan plates. Vertebrae lined the pathway like decorative posts. A massive skull—easily from a juvenile leviathan—was mounted above the doorway like a trophy.

Ovid’s stomach twisted. Brutus hadn’t earned all of this. He hadn’t been hunting long enough, hadn’t taken down even a tenth of the beasts needed for these bones. He bought them. Probably with the senecs he collected for murdering Ovid and his family.

Daniel slowed the cart as they turned onto the gravel path. Stones crunched beneath the boar’s hooves and the wagon’s wheels.

“What’s your game plan?” Daniel asked cautiously.

Ovid didn’t answer right away. He held out his hand instead. “You got more of those sticks?”

Daniel reached into his coat, pulled out a small rectangular tin, and handed it over. “Rolled as many as I could while you slept. Should last you a while.”

Ovid tapped the lid, opened it, saw the neatly packed Cruxium sticks inside, and nodded once in gratitude. He put the tin in his pocket, brought the stick to his lips again, and drew in a long, steady breath.

When he exhaled, the glow was brighter.

Finally, he spoke. “Head home, Danny. I’ll walk the rest.”

Daniel blinked. “You sure? We’re… pretty far from the door.”

“I’m sure.”

Ovid turned his head, meeting Daniel’s eyes directly. There was resolve there—cold, absolute, unshakeable. Not rage exactly, but something deeper and more dangerous.

“I gotta go up alone,” Ovid finished quietly. “I’ll meet you back at your place.”

Daniel looked like he wanted to argue—his lips parted slightly, fingers gripping the reins—but then his shoulders sagged. He let out a long sigh.

“…Alright. You know where to find me.”

Ovid jumped down from the wagon. Gravel shifted beneath his boots. He adjusted the chain over his shoulder, took another pull from the Cruxium stick, and began the walk.

His stride was steady. No hesitation. Nothing in the world could have stopped him.

After several meters he turned back once and lifted a hand in a brief, wordless farewell.

Daniel raised his hand back, though Ovid wasn’t looking anymore—he was facing the manor again, smoke trailing from his lips, silhouette framed by the rising sun.

When Ovid had gotten far enough up the winding path, Daniel clicked his tongue, turned the boar around, and began the slow ride home.

Behind him, Ovid kept walking, each step deliberate, the chain’s metal links clinking softly like distant thunder.

Brutus’ waited in his manor.

And Ovid was finally coming.

“Eyes open! Let’s catch us a leviathan and bring it in for processing,” Ovid called out, voice steady but hard.

The Gannet drifted through the pale, swirling mist. Rollo kept her level, hands tight on the wheel. Julius stood at the bow behind the massive harpoon gun—cocked, loaded, and ready to fire.

Ovid lingered at the starboard rail, gaze fixed downward into the shifting void below. His posture was stiff, restless. Brutus watched him while leaning on a support beam, arms folded.

“What’s gotten into you?” Brutus finally asked, pushing off the beam and walking toward him.

Ovid didn’t look up. “Just looking for a leviathan. Sooner we find one, sooner we can get back, get paid, and head out again.”

Brutus came to stand beside him, leaning against the rail, scanning the fog as well. “What’s the rush? We already hauled in more than any other crew this month. You’re gonna work us to death.”

“I just—I need the senecs,” Ovid murmured.

Brutus blinked. “For what? You’re a billionaire.”

Ovid’s jaw tightened. “Not anymore.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t tell the others yet, but I stepped down as the heir to Monstrum.”

Brutus snapped his head toward him. “What? Why the fuck would you do that?”

Ovid closed his eyes briefly, then breathed out. “Innis is pregnant.”

Brutus straightened, stunned. “You’re serious?”

A small, sheepish smile tugged at Ovid’s lips. “Yeah.”

Brutus scratched the back of his neck. “Should I say congratulations or I’m sorry?”

“I’m excited—more than excited. I want to raise a kid with her. Teach them everything I know. Give them a good life. But my father—” His face twisted. “He wants me to pay her off. Pay them off. To send them away and pretend the baby never existed.”

Brutus swore under his breath.

“So I stepped down,” Ovid continued. “I’m working as a normal old hunter now. Making my keep honestly. And after the baby’s born…I’m done. Innis and I are leaving Oma and Grus behind. Starting over somewhere far away from Monstrum.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m excited. And terrified. I just—I don’t know how to build a life outside all of this.”

Brutus grabbed him and pulled him into a tight hug. “Congratulations, brother.”

Ovid let himself exhale for the first time in days.

Brutus clapped his back and stepped away. “Don’t worry about a damn thing. We’ll run hunts until our arms and legs give out. We’ll get you enough senecs to leave with a fortune. Your kid is gonna have the best start possible.”

He turned back to the rail, scanning the mist again—same as Ovid, but now with renewed purpose.

Ovid watched him, a real smile growing this time. The weight didn’t vanish, but it shifted. Felt shareable.

He laid a hand on Brutus’ shoulder. “Thanks, man. You’re my best friend. I’m glad we met back at the Academy.”

Brutus grinned. “Me too. And I plan on being your kid’s favorite uncle. No competition.”

“Got one spotted!” Julius shouted from the bow.

Both men snapped upright. Brutus glanced at Ovid, nodding once—business mode, all heart beneath it.

“Showtime,” Ovid said. “Get the harpoon ready!”

There Ovid stood—meters from Brutus’ front door. The estate unfolded around him in perfect, curated symmetry: trimmed hedges, bronze lanterns, and a small roundabout with a stone fountain gurgling at its center. Several winding paths branched off from the courtyard, disappearing into gardens, workshops, and stables. Everything was orderly. Everything was peaceful. Everything was a lie.

The entrance loomed ahead—a heavy wooden door framed by a raised porch and tall columns. Above it, mounted like a trophy, the bleached skull of a leviathan glared down at him, eye sockets black and hollow. 

Cruxium throbbed in Ovid’s bloodstream, burning cold and quick. He finished the last drag of his second Cruxium stick, flicking it aside as the chain over his shoulder clinked faintly. Each heartbeat pushed more power through him. More strength. More anger.

He turned his head—and froze.

Parked beside the porch was an automobile. Sleek. Polished. Expensive in a way only a handful of people in the Empire could afford. The same kind of machine his father had picked him up in after the war. A machine only purchased by someone with obscene wealth.

The price on Ovid’s head had been high. Astronomically high.

Seeing the automobile made it real. Confirmed everything he already knew. He’d accepted the fortune that came with betraying a brother.

Ovid swallowed hard, jaw flexing. Then, without hesitation, he climbed the porch steps and raised his fist. The heavy wooden door thudded under his knock.

It creaked open—and a familiar face stared back at him.

Artair.

One of Innis’ uncles. A man Ovid had laughed with at dinners, who shared a few drinks with him on the rare occasion. A man he’d thought was still scraping for food and board back at Sabia Ennisi.

“Artair?” Ovid breathed.

Artair’s face drained of color. “Crux… Ovid? How are you here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Artair hesitated, then opened the door fully, voice dropping. “Brutus paid our debts. Moved us here. Said we’d have an easier life working his estate.”

Ovid’s eyes narrowed. “How many of you?”

“Eight adults. Twelve including the children…” Artair shook his head in disbelief. “Ovid—you’ve been dead for a year.”

“It’s a long story,” Ovid said softly. “One I’ll tell you someday.”

His expression sharpened. “But right now, I need you to listen carefully. Gather everyone inside—quietly—and take them away from here. Immediately.”

Artair’s breath caught. “Why? What’s happened?”

“Brutus is not the man you think he is,” Ovid said, voice tight with urgency. “He’s dangerous. I need you all gone. No arguments, no questions. Just go. And never speak a word of me being alive.”

Artair studied him—saw the exhaustion, the Cruxium in his eyes, the chain over his shoulder, the haunted focus—and understood enough to obey. He nodded.

“I’ll get the others,” he whispered, ushering Ovid inside. “Be careful.”

Ovid stepped into the grand foyer. The air smelled of polished wood, citrus oil, and wealth bought in blood. Paintings lined the hall—Grusian hunters, airships, leviathans being dragged to deserted islands. He walked past them without looking.

Artair pointed down the main hall. “He’s in his study. Double doors on the right.”

“Thank you,” Ovid murmured.

Artair hurried away, already calling for family in hushed tones.

Ovid walked.

His boots echoed through the corridor, and with each step, memories surfaced—raw and stinging.

“I’d be honored, Captain.” 

“Congratulations, brother.”

“Your kid is going to have the best start possible.”

“I’m gonna be your kid’s favorite uncle.”

What once warmed him now carved him open. Each memory another twist of the knife. Each echo of Brutus’ voice was another reminder that betrayal always comes easiest from the people closest to you.

He reached the study.

The double doors stood tall and imposing, carved with scenes of Grusian hunters battling mistians. He raised a hand toward the brass handle—but stopped, fingers hovering above it.

His pulse hammered. His breath shook.

This door was the threshold between past and present. Between grief and reckoning. Between who he had been—and who he was now.

With a slow breath, he hardened his resolve. Then he wrapped his fingers around the handle.

And pulled.

“I told you I’m busy,” Brutus grumbled without looking up.

He sat hunched at his massive desk on the far side of the study, firelight dancing behind him from the stone hearth. The flames cast orange ribbons across the two-story walls lined with books, hunting trophies, and relics he’d scavenged—or bought.

He continued writing in his ledger with slow, deliberate strokes of his pen, the tip scratching against the page. A bottle of expensive whiskey and a half-melted glass of ice sat within reach, the drink untouched long enough that condensation pooled around the base. He still hadn’t looked to see who entered.

Ovid stepped inside and shut the door with a soft thump. The chain slung over his shoulder clinked against itself—quiet, but unmistakable.

Brutus froze at the sound. He finished the last bit of a sentence before finally lifting his eyes.

The pen slipped from his fingers and hit the ground, bouncing once before rolling under the desk.

His face drained of color. His breath hitched. He stared like he was watching death walk toward him.

“What’s wrong?” Ovid asked, voice calm, almost gentle. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Brutus struggled to form words. “But… but you’re—”

“Dead?” Ovid shrugged. “Yeah. That was the idea, wasn’t it? Judging by the size of this house, it must have paid pretty damn well.”

Brutus’s throat convulsed as he swallowed hard, shoulders trembling. His lips moved without sound at first, then finally—barely— “How… how are you—”

Ovid stepped forward slowly, each footfall deliberate. “Alive?” he finished for him. “It’s a long story.” He reached the desk, rounding the corner. “But don’t worry. We’ve got time. All the time in the world.”

Ovid walked around the desk and stood beside him, looking down.

“Get up,” Ovid said quietly.

Brutus blinked, confused. “What?”

Ovid’s hand snapped forward, clamping around his throat. With supernatural ease, he lifted Brutus off the floor, holding him suspended like a man weighing nothing. Light flickered behind Ovid’s eyes—soft pink, muted brown, the colors of the mist itself—before he hurled Brutus across the desk.

Brutus crashed onto the carpet, skidding until his back hit a shelf, knocking a few trinkets loose. He groaned, disoriented, but didn’t dare stand. Instead he laid there, torso twisted, staring up at the man he had betrayed.

Ovid settled into Brutus’s chair as though reclaiming a throne. He tossed the chain onto the desk and poured himself a glass of the whiskey. He took a slow sip, savoring it, holding Brutus’s gaze the entire time.

“So,” Ovid began conversationally, “there I was—organs melting, lungs burning, dying in agony. And then… nothing. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in the mist. No suit. No air. No pain. And the mist—” he lifted his hand slowly, flexed it, “—the mist loved me. Fed me. Made me stronger. Faster. Better.”

Brutus shook his head. “Ovid—”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Ovid slammed the glass onto the desk. Whiskey sloshed out onto papers and the polished wood.

Brutus fell silent immediately.

“You’ll talk when I tell you to,” Ovid continued, voice returning to a chilling calm. “Now… where was I? Ah.” He picked up the glass again. “Wandering the mist. Killing anything that dared cross my path. No memory. No history. Just instinct.”

He took another slow sip.

“Then I found them—the Faffers. Creatures from the Crux itself. Turns out they’re real and they’re still alive. They took me in. Treated me like family. Like a son. Like…” His voice softened for just an instant. “Like someone worth saving.”

Brutus’s jaw quivered.

“They said I was the one chosen by Crux to save the world. They thought I was a god. I was happy there too.” Ovid gave a nostalgic smile. “And then,” he said, leaning back in Brutus’s chair, “it all came back.”

Brutus visibly deflated, dread overtaking him.

“I remembered Julius stabbing me with his rifle’s spike,” Ovid said. “I remembered you saying, ‘No hard feelings, friend. Just business.’” His head tilted, eyes narrowing. “So here I am, Brutus. And I want to know—what business?”

Brutus’s voice cracked. “Ovid, I’m so—”

Ovid shot to his feet, palms slamming flat on the desk with a heavy thud. Papers flew. Brutus flinched.

“Sorry?” Ovid snarled. “I didn’t come here for an apology. I want the truth. You don’t get a house like this without someone paying a fortune. Was it my father?”

Brutus blinked fast, tears forming. “I—I don’t know. Rollo was the one approached. He made the deal. He dealt with whoever paid us.”

“Ohhhh,” Ovid said with exaggerated realization. “So Rollo made the deal and you just played along?” He leaned forward. “He forced Julius to stab me?” Ovid’s voice sharpened like a blade. “And he forced you to kill the mother of my child?”

Brutus’s breath caught. “Ovid—no, I—”

“YOU KILLED HER!” Ovid roared. His eyes flared, glowing with the brutal colors of the mist. The fire behind him hissed and guttered as if reacting to the sudden surge of power. “YOU KILLED INNIS! DON’T YOU FUCKING LIE TO ME!”

The room trembled with the force of his rage.

Ovid rushed around the desk in an instant. Brutus scrambled backward on the polished boards, his breath hitching in short, broken pulses of panic.

Ovid seized him by the shirt with both hands and hauled him upright in one violent pull. Brutus dangled, feet scraping helplessly at the floor. Ovid pulled him close—so close Brutus could feel the unnatural heat on Ovid’s breath, smell the tang of mist clinging to his skin.

“You killed her,” Ovid whispered, voice trembling with restrained violence. “I want to hear you say it. I want it out of your mouth.”

“I—I—”

Ovid shook him hard enough to give him whiplash. “FUCKING SPIT IT OUT!”

Brutus broke all at once.

“I killed her!” he cried, face scrunching into something small and pathetic. “I strung her up—on the tree—I did it! I killed her! Is that what you want?!”

“Say her name.” Ovid’s voice was a razor.

Brutus sobbed, trembling in Ovid’s grip. “I—I killed Innis. I killed her… I killed your child. I did what I was told—I did what I had to—”

Ovid flung him aside like garbage.

Brutus slammed into a bookcase. Shelves cracked. A storm of books collapsed over him, thudding against the floor and his back. He coughed, disoriented, blinking through tears.

“How much was it worth?” Ovid asked coldly.

“Fifty… fifty-million senecs,” Brutus stammered.

“Huh.” Ovid tilted his head. “Was it worth it?”

Brutus didn’t respond.

Ovid strode over, grabbed him by a fistful of hair, and yanked his head up until Brutus sat upright, spine pressed to broken wood.

“I asked you a question,” Ovid hissed centimeters from his face. “Was it worth it?”

Brutus’ voice shrank to a murmur. “No.”

“No?” Ovid scoffed. “Look at this house.” He kicked a fallen book aside. “This is everything you ever wanted. And you got it. You got your dream.”

He threw Brutus’ head back down.

Brutus gasped as his skull struck the floorboards.

Ovid paced slowly in front of him, hands folded behind his back like a disappointed officer scolding recruits.

“I’ve been replaying everything,” Ovid said. “Every joke. Every comment. All those tiny little tells—the envy you couldn’t hide.” He pointed downward. “You wanted to be me. At least more successful than me. More liked than me. Happier than me.”

Ovid crouched beside Brutus’ head.

“Because who opened the door when I arrived? Innis’ uncle. Said you bought her family.”

Brutus wiped his eyes. “I paid their debts. They’re free Aenean citizens now. I give them wages. I—I’m helping them.”

“Oh?” Ovid’s smile sharpened. “And what about Icarus?”

Brutus swallowed. “Your parents were going to sell him to a butcher. I saved his life—I swear I did.”

“Really?” Ovid stood, pacing again. “So all of this—every last part of the wreckage you left behind—you’ve been trying to patch it up with charity?” He snorted. “Trying to feel like a good man?”

“Ovid, I’m sorry.” Brutus’ voice cracked. “I don’t know what I was thinking. But I’m not evil. I’m not. Please—you have to believe me.”

Ovid’s laugh was soft, humorless, and terrifying.

“No, Brutus. Good men don’t need to tell people they’re good.”

“The only good men are those motivated by the guilt of their evil deeds.” Brutus’ chin quivered. “And I regret it. Everything. I regret it every day.”

Ovid shook his head. “You regret getting caught. You regret that you have to atone for your sins on my terms now.”

He motioned for Brutus to stand.

“Up.”

Brutus hesitated—just a fraction of a second—but it was enough.

Ovid grabbed him by the collar and heaved him upright, slamming him into the shattered shelf hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Brutus’ knees buckled, but fear forced him upright. He trembled under Ovid’s shadow.

“I’m sorry, Ovid,” Brutus pleaded, tears falling freely. “I helped kill you. I killed Innis. I killed your baby. I did it for greed—because I wanted this life. I’m so sorry. I regret it all. I swear it.”

Ovid leaned close, his expression unreadable.

“You told me you’d be my kid’s favorite uncle,” he said quietly. “You promised to protect them. Give them a good life. Then you murdered them before they ever drew breath.”

“I was consumed by—”

“NOW I’M CONSUMED BY VENGEANCE!”

Ovid’s roar rattled the chandelier.

He clamped a hand around Brutus’ throat. Brutus clawed at his wrist, wheezing, eyes wide with primal terror.

“I want to beat you to death with my bare hands,” Ovid growled. “But that would be too fast.”

He dragged Brutus across the room by the throat. Brutus’ heels screeched against the floorboards, struggling for any footing, nails digging into Ovid’s arm to no effect.

With a brutal lift, Ovid slammed Brutus onto the desk. The whiskey bottle shattered on the floor, glass scattering like diamonds across the boards as liquor spread across the room.

Ovid didn’t even flinch.

He grabbed the chain and looped it around Brutus’ neck. Brutus choked, eyes bulging with terror as Ovid pulled the last link apart with inhuman strength, then resealed it into a perfect, tight collar.

A prison.

A sentence.

“What are you doing?!” Brutus choked.

Ovid tugged the chain. The collar yanked hard against Brutus’ throat.

“Come.”

Brutus stumbled off the desk, nearly tripping over his own feet in his attempt to follow fast enough to not be dragged.

“Ovid—please,” he begged, voice shaking. “What do you want? How can I make this right?”

Ovid didn’t turn around.

“We’re working on that right now.”

“You—you can have the house. Your bird. Everything. All the money that’s left. I’ll give you everything. Just—please…”

Ovid stopped walking.

Brutus’ breath hitched.

Ovid turned slowly, expression cold as the ice.

“You think I’m here for money?”

Ovid dragged Brutus into the grand foyer, the chain scraping along the polished floors like an executioner’s blade. The chandeliers above swayed slightly from the disturbance—tiny crystalline ticks echoing through the vast room.

He snatched a nearby chair without breaking stride. It screeched across the ground as he dropped it dead-center under the second-floor landing.

“Climb up,” Ovid ordered, voice low but resonant with something inhuman. “Stay right there.”

“Ovid—”

“DO IT.”

The roar came from somewhere deeper than Ovid’s chest, something primal and angry and buried in the marrow. The Cruxium inside him flared with it, bending his voice into a monstrous bellow. Brutus flinched like a beaten dog and scrambled onto the chair.

Ovid turned away, giving slack as he ascended the staircase. Every step up caused Brutus’ breath to hitch—every link of the chain pulled his fate tighter.

Brutus followed him with wide, terrified eyes. “Ovid… please… don’t do this. I’m sorry. I swear I’m sorry.” The tears came freely now. “Ovid. Ovid!”

Ovid jerked the chain. “Enough.”

The single word boomed, reverberating off the walls. Brutus didn’t just fall silent—he shut down, staring glassy-eyed into nothing. A man in freefall.

At the top of the stairs Ovid stopped, braced himself, and pulled the chain taut. Brutus gagged—wet, violent sounds. Ovid gave some slack, just enough to let breath in, then began wrapping the chain around the brass railing. Metal clattered and rang out as he looped it again, and again, and again. He tore the final link apart and clipped it shut, forming a tether that was secure and unbreakable.

Turning, Ovid saw something he hadn’t noticed on the way up—a painting of him, perfectly framed in gold, hung like a lost war hero memorialized by someone’s love.

He froze. Something curdled inside him.

He lunged and ripped the portrait down. Canvas tore, frame cracked. Holding it by the edge, he marched back down the stairs, boots thundering. At the bottom step he hurled it.

The painting slammed into Brutus’ head—sending him tumbling off the chair. The chain snapped him upward mid-fall. His legs thrashed wildly, his hands clawing at the collar, body spasming. After a frantic struggle he managed to haul himself up the chain enough to cough once, twice—before his strength gave out and he sagged again, choking.

Ovid strode over, grabbed him by the back of the pants, and lifted him effortlessly. Brutus yelped as Ovid dragged the chair back under him and dropped him onto it.

Brutus trembled violently, shaking with pain and adrenaline.

“You had my portrait up in your house?” Ovid snarled. “Are you serious?”

Brutus coughed, every breath ragged. “You… you were still my best friend,” he rasped. “I loved you like a brother.”

“That’s how you treat brothers?” Ovid spat.

“It was a lot of money.”

Ovid grabbed the painting and almost hit him again—almost drove the frame straight into his skull. He lifted it above his head… froze… and then threw it aside with a growl, like he couldn’t stand the idea of giving it the honors.

“You tell me what I want,” Ovid said, voice cold as a blade buried in snow, “and I’ll kick the chair. You lie, or you refuse, and I’ll set this place ablaze and see if you burn alive before you choose to kick it yourself.”

“You’re a monster!” Brutus cried, voice cracking.

Ovid grinned—wide, sharp, and wrong. “You’re right. I am a monster.”

He pulled out his tin, revealing two Crux-sticks. He stuck both in his mouth, lit them simultaneously, and inhaled deeply. His muscles tensed and grew firmer. His veins lit up faintly beneath his skin. His nails lengthened into slight claws.

Brutus watched in pure horror.

“But you know what?” Ovid exhaled a cloud of shimmering Cruxium. “Bad men make monsters. Monsters make bad men.”

He leaned closer. “So tell me. What monster made you?”

“I already told you, Rollo handled it all. I just got instructions and a bank account loaded with senecs. From Rollo.”

Brutus stammered out the details—the bank account, the passcode which was a grotesque use of Ovid’s name. Ovid slapped him hard enough to split his lip.

“You dare use my name? My face? You dare immortalize me like I meant something to you?”

Ovid’s entire body trembled—he was wrestling the Beast, his anger mixed with the Cruxium fueled its power. It was barely contained.

Brutus kept rambling, desperate. “I’ve changed—I swear—I used the money to help people. I made something good out of it—”

“Where’s Rollo?” Ovid demanded.

“I—I don’t know—after the memorial, he left all his money to his wife and daughter and vanished. No goodbye or anything. At least not to me,” Brutus explained. 

Ovid listened, then turned away abruptly, as though remaining still might make him explode.

He flicked the Crux-sticks on the ground, seized a potted shrub, and dumped it out. Then he ripped a sword from a decorative coat of arms—Monstrum’s crest glinting under the chandelier.

He stormed outside, stabbed the automobile’s fuel tank, and drained mistian oil into the pot. Then he carried it inside and began splashing oil everywhere—walls, floors, stairs, hallways—painting the house in death.

When he returned to Brutus, he stared deep into his eyes as he tipped the last of the oil over his head. It poured over him cold and slick. Brutus gasped, sputtered, trembling as the stench engulfed him.

“Ovid—please—I don’t know where Rollo is, but Julius—Julius is on Entella—Laba, practicing Mycolism with the shamans. He can help you find him—”

Ovid tossed the pot aside. It shattered into shards across the planks like broken bone.

“I believe you,” Ovid said quietly.

Brutus breathed out in relief—until Ovid added:

“But that changes nothing.”

Panic erupted in Brutus’ eyes. He begged, he apologized, he confessed to everything. Innis’ death, the betrayal, the lies he told afterward. He called himself a traitor, greedy, jealous. He admitted he was a bad man.

Ovid stood like stone listening. Every breath he took grew harsher, faster, deeper—until it looked like his ribs might crack.

He punched the wall, blowing out a hole the size of his torso.

“Is Icarus in your stables?” Ovid asked, voice flat.

Brutus nodded frantically. Ovid turned and walked toward the door.

“Ovid?” Brutus called.

Silence.

“Ovid?!”

Ovid stopped. Hand on the door. Shoulders trembling. Tears in his eyes.

“You were my brother,” he whispered. “We survived the worst together. I thought you’d carry me through anything. But you were just a jealous, greedy sack of shit.”

He opened the door, then looked back one last time.

“It’s a shame,” Ovid said softly. “You would’ve been my kid’s favorite uncle.”

He stepped outside, took out a Crux-stick, lit it. Dragged in the vapor—his eyes glowing faintly.

“Ovid—Ovid stop—please—please—”

“May your soul never find peace.”

He flicked the Crux-stick inside.

It hit the floor.

Sparks bloomed.

The oil ignited in a thunderous whoosh.

“Ovid! OVID! STOP!” Brutus shrieked.

Fire consumed the foyer. Flames crawled the walls. Heat roared out the door.

Ovid held it open just long enough to speak:

“Kick the chair. It’ll be less painful.”

He shut the door.

The screams followed him out onto the path, echoing into the day—pleas devolving into wordless agony.

Ovid did not smile. Did not tremble. He simply walked, a man carved from purpose and ruin, heading for the stables.

The stables looked more like an aircraft hangar than something meant for animals. A long steel structure stood against the grey sky, its corrugated metal walls glowing faintly orange from the fires behind Ovid. A massive shutter-door spanned the entire front, tall enough for a small airship to fit through.

To the right of it was a keypad—clean, polished. A code was required.

Ovid didn’t bother.

He walked up to the door, crouched, and sank his fingers into the packed earth. His muscles tensed. A low growl built in his throat as he slipped his hands under the metal lip. Then, with a sharp inhale—and a roar—he tore the door upward. It shrieked as the steel warped in his grip, then shot skyward, rolling into itself until it slammed against the ceiling beams with a metallic boom.

Inside, the structure echoed with the sounds of life—contained chaos, an organized racket. Boars snorted in their stalls, slamming heavy bodies against wood as they tried to inspect the intruder. Horses lifted their heads, ears twitching, but most returned to their feed, more concerned with their hay than the destruction at their front door.

He moved slowly through the aisle, his boots crunching stray hay beneath him. Each stall he passed drew a different noise—boars grunting, horses snorting—but Ovid barely registered any of it. His eyes were fixed on the end of the hall.

Because at the far end, the largest stall was caged in thick iron bars. Inside, Icarus laid curled in on himself, a tight ball of red, orange, and black feathers. A chain pinned his thin, scaled leg to the ground.

At the smell of fish—sour, pungent, days old—Ovid grimaced. The seed trough beside it had barely been touched.

When he reached the cage, he placed both palms against the bars and leaned in.

“Icarus?”

For a heartbeat, there was no response.

Then—a sudden, piercing screech.

Icarus’ head snapped up, eyes wide and shimmering with recognition. He scrambled to his feet, wings slamming against steel with desperate force. Each beat against the bars sent a clang through the stables, but he didn’t care—he pushed his beak through the gap, reaching for the only person who’d ever shown him love.

Ovid’s expression softened instantly—melting from fury to something achingly gentle. He brought a hand up and stroked Icarus’ beak, letting out a breath that trembled on its way out.

“Hey, boy…” His voice cracked—small, human, the calmest he’d sounded since setting foot in Leviathan Valley.

Icarus cooed, eyes closing as Ovid reached between the bars and scratched the feathers beneath his beak. For a brief, fragile moment, the world felt whole again—just a man and his companion, reunited after too many stolen years.

When Ovid finally pulled back, he dug into his pocket, pulled out a Crux-stick, and lit it. His veins glowed faintly, the energy pulsing beneath his skin like embers.

“Stand back,” he muttered.

Icarus shuffled away obediently.

With the stick hanging from his lips, Ovid grabbed two bars and pulled. Metal shrieked. The lock exploded off its hinges. The entire gate swung open, banging against the bars.

Icarus bolted forward—but jerked short as the chain snapped tight. He stumbled, squawking in frustration.

“Hold on, buddy.” Ovid moved into the stall. He knelt, wedging his fingers between the shackle and the bird’s leg, then tore until the metal snapped.

The moment Icarus was free, he pressed his head into Ovid’s chest. Ovid dropped the Crux-stick and wrapped his arms around the bird’s feathered neck, burying his face into warm plumage.

“I missed you too,” he whispered, a single tear cutting a warm track down his cheek. Icarus crooned softly, almost mournfully, as if sensing the wounds carved into Ovid’s heart.

They stayed like that—man and bird, steadying each other in the ruins of betrayal.

Then Ovid pulled himself together. He stepped back, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

“Where’s your saddle, boy?”

Icarus turned, trotted to the wall, and nudged the saddle with his beak until it fell with a heavy thud. Ovid huffed a tired laugh and strapped it onto his back with practiced hands.

When he finished, he strode down the aisle and punched open the latch of the nearest stall. The horse burst out. Then another. And another.

One by one, Ovid freed them all. A stampede thundered toward the open door—boars squealing, horses kicking up dirt as they fled into the burning valley beyond.

When the last stall was opened, Ovid climbed onto Icarus’ back and gripped the reins.

Icarus ran.

Moments later, he opened his wings, beating them hard until the air caught beneath them. With a final push, they launched skyward, soaring over Brutus’ estate.

Below, the mansion was consumed in a roaring inferno. The east wing collapsed, sending a plume of fire spiraling upward. The roof buckled. Walls crumbled. Every lie Brutus built, every stolen luxury, every remnant of a life crafted from betrayal—it all burned to ash.

If Brutus hadn’t already hung himself where Ovid left him, the fire had taken him. Either way, his chapter was closed.

Ovid watched for only a second.

Not with satisfaction.

Not with triumph.

His chest ached. His stomach twisted.

He felt hollow—mourning a friend who had died long before the flames ever touched him.

He tore his eyes away and leaned into Icarus’ flight.

“Let’s go,” he muttered, voice heavy. “We’re done here.”

Icarus banked northward.

Toward Mantua.

Toward Scurvy.

Toward Daniel—living just above.

Icarus landed behind the tavern with a heavy thump, talons grinding over the gravel. This was the same spot Innis used to park her delivery wagon when she brought ale to Scurvy. The memory made Ovid’s chest tighten.

He slid off Icarus’ back, running a hand down the eagle’s beak.

“Stay here,” Ovid murmured. “I won’t be long.”

Icarus let out a low, rumbling croon in reply.

Ovid climbed the back steps to Daniel’s room above the tavern, each wooden plank groaning softly under his weight. He knocked once. Within seconds the door swung open, and Daniel immediately stepped aside.

“I take it Brutus is dead?” Daniel asked, voice steady but eyes cautious.

Ovid stepped in and gave a single nod. The smell of metal shavings and old books filled the room.

“I’m heading to Entella. Can you make any more Crux-sticks before I leave?”

Daniel shut the door behind him.

“Entella?” he echoed, frowning. “Why there?”

“Brutus said Julius is studying Mycolism there.” Ovid’s voice lowered, gravelly. “He’s next.”

Daniel stared at him, then crossed his arms. “Then I’m going too.”

“No.” Ovid shook his head immediately. “Stay here.”

“And do what?” Daniel demanded. “Polish glasses downstairs?”

“Daniel—”

“I’m serious.” His voice sharpened as he stepped closer. “You’ve been alone out there this whole time. Alone in the mist. And look how you showed up at my doorstep.”

Ovid furrowed his brow. “How I showed up? I was surviving. In the mist. Barely sleeping. Constantly fighting. How in Crux’s name was I supposed to show up?”

Daniel’s jaw flexed. “What about your Cruxium dependency? You need a daily dose. You said it yourself.”

“That’s why I asked for more Crux-sticks.” Ovid gestured toward the cluttered workbench. “Just… make what you can.”

Daniel exhaled, frustrated. “And when you run out? What then? What happens when the shakes start again?”

Ovid shrugged in a defeated, almost fatalistic way. “I’ll figure something out.”

“No.” Daniel’s voice was steady. “I’m coming.”

He stood straighter, as if forcing himself to occupy more space.

“I haven’t had much in this life. Not many friends. No excitement. Nothing to look forward to except waking up the next day and doing it all over again.”

He met Ovid’s eyes.

“But you—you were my friend. Before you died.” He swallowed. “Or whatever happened to you. Brutus helped me after you vanished, yeah… but you were always a real friend.”

Something in Ovid softened, but he didn’t speak.

Daniel crossed to his table, sweeping aside scraps of metal and notes.

“And I already mourned you once,” Daniel said quietly. “I’m not doing it again.”

He picked up a slender syringe filled with glowing liquid—the color of the mist itself—and tossed it lightly to Ovid.

Ovid caught it and stared. “Is this… pure Cruxium?”

Daniel smirked proudly. “As close as I can get right now. Been experimenting since you went to sleep the other day. Thought if you were headed into danger, you might need something stronger than sticks. You jab yourself with that, you’ll feel it instantly. If my math’s right, that vial is worth at least twenty Crux-sticks.”

Ovid stared at it like it was a miracle. “Daniel… this is incredible. Thank you.”

Daniel lifted his chin. “Give me a few days and I can make more. Some other stuff too. But—” he motioned between them “—only if I come with you.”

Ovid looked from the vial, to the table littered with Daniel’s work, to Daniel himself—determined, stubborn.

“You still owe me that ride-along you promised,” Daniel added, pointing at him almost accusingly.

Ovid sighed deeply.

“Fine. But we’re taking Icarus. No public airships. No ports. I can’t let anyone else know I’m alive. I can’t be taking more risks like that.”

“Good.” Daniel nodded. “When we head into towns, you can hide. I’ll do the talking.”

“You don’t understand.” Ovid stepped closer. “This won’t be easy. We’ll be island-hopping. Sleeping rough. Flying exposed in the open sky. If you seize while we’re up there… I can’t save you.”

Daniel didn’t blink. “That’s fine. I’m tired of being afraid to die. It’s kept me from actually living.” His voice steadied with an unfamiliar resolve.

“If I die out there… at least I die doing something that matters. Something I chose.”

He gestured broadly to the room.

“I paid my dues a year in advance. Took a leave from downstairs. I’m ready.”

Ovid let out a short, stunned laugh. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” Daniel said with a small grin. “But I’m going.”

Ovid ran a hand through his hair, thinking. “How long until you’re ready? With the Cruxium. All of it.”

“A few days,” Daniel said confidently. “Ten tops and I’ll have a good bit of Cruxium for you.”

Ovid nodded. “Then I’ll see you in ten days. Right here.”

He started toward the door.

Daniel blinked. “What? Where are you going?”

Ovid paused with his hand on the knob.

“I need to find somewhere safe for me and Icarus. Somewhere no one will see us. I can’t stay here. Too many eyes.”

He opened the door and stepped into the cool evening air. Storm clouds rolled in from the south—the same direction where Brutus’ home still smoldered.

Ovid turned back one last time.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Daniel’s expression flickered—fear, pride, disbelief—but he nodded.

“I’ll see you soon.”

The door shut softly behind Ovid.

He descended the stairs and approached Icarus, who waited faithfully in the shadows. Ovid placed one hand on the eagle’s warm feathers, then pulled himself onto the saddle.

Thunder murmured in the distance.

“Let’s go,” he whispered.

Icarus spread his massive wings, beating them once, twice, and then launched them into the darkening sky—toward cover, toward Entella, toward the hunt that would define everything.