Questions Unanswered

By the time the Soulchaser docked in Falecrine, Rickart had grown back most of his bones and a good portion of his nervous system. Veins writhed like vines through the marrow of his skeletal frame, pulsing with new life as cords of muscle began to stretch over them. He was starting to look human again—or at least, something close.

Ringo had stored him in a hidden room embedded in the hull behind a false panel, sealed with a lock only soul energy could open. It was no larger than a walk-in closet, designed for high-value bounties who needed to be brought in breathing. Ringo hadn’t used it in years. Still, it held. No sound, no movement from inside.

Rickart would wake eventually. But not yet.

As the engines wound down and the docking clamps snapped into place, the atmosphere aboard the Soulchaser shifted. The strain of their months-long descent into madness seemed to lift—just enough for them to breathe again. No more mist. No more bones. No more monsters whispering from the dark.

At least, not today.

There was still much ahead—nine months until the meeting in Imachara, and countless unknowns in between—but for now, they’d earned a break. It was the second day of Marcia, a four-day festival celebrating King Marcius, the ninth ruler of the Aenean Empire. Falecrine was awash in music, color, and celebration.

Inside the ship, Elizabeth and Arjun sat at the galley table locked in a tense round of Enmity, the Empire’s most beloved card game. A blend of history and strategy, every card was a snapshot of historical and cultural references. Players built decks from regions they’d visited, creating combinations as complex as the roads they’d traveled. Veterans of the game were rare, and decks like Elizabeth’s—layered with centuries of synergies—were even rarer.

Arjun’s deck was impressive for his age. He played like someone who’d seen too much too young. But Elizabeth? Elizabeth played like someone who remembered the Empire’s not so humble beginnings.

“I deploy Legate Damocles of Grus aboard the Vergilian II,” she said, smirking as she laid down the card that would guarantee her victory in the next turn.

Arjun stared at the board, dumbfounded. “I concede,” he said, throwing his cards on the table. “I would’ve stood a better chance if I could’ve drew some damn ships earlier.”

Elizabeth began to gather her cards. “Just bad luck, then,” she taunted.

Ringo flicked the ash off his cigarette and stood from the navigation console. Smoke curled from his nostrils as he chewed on the butt, hands resting on his hips as he surveyed the docks through the viewport.

“Well I’ll be,” he muttered. “Looks like we got here just in time fer the festivities.”

Arjun stood and stretched, then joined him. Through the viewport, the street beyond was alive with music and movement. Colorful flags stretched from rooftop to rooftop, swaying in the wind. Street vendors hawked sizzling food to throngs of dancing locals, and droves of people came in and out of the taverns in an even, consistent pattern.

“Marcia already?” Arjun asked, his voice tinged with surprise. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t even realize how long we were down there.”

“If we’re countin’ days right, today’s the nineteenth,” Ringo said. “Perfect time fer a celebratory drink.”

Elizabeth put her cards into an engraved, wooden box and placed it on the table with a knowing smile. “Well, I’ve already beaten you… what was it? Four times today? Why don’t you two go blow off some steam?”

“Yuh ain’t comin’?” Ringo asked, raising a brow. “You were down in the mist same as us.”

“I can’t leave Grizald alone.”

“Bring ‘im along. Falecrine won’t know what hit it.”

Elizabeth turned to the silent figure sitting patiently in the corner. Grizald’s sightless eyes stared straight ahead, but she could feel the faint hum of his awareness. With a sigh, she stood.

“Alright then, cowboy. Let’s fraternize with the mortals.”

Ringo crushed the cigarette into his ashtray and adjusted his hat. “Damn right.”

The group took their time readying to leave. Elizabeth changed into travel clothes, though her blade still hung at her hip. Arjun left his gamas on his bunk. He knew better than to walk the streets of Falecrine wearing weapons as a Tarkhanian. The Aenean Hoeprians already gave him enough reasons to watch his back.

Elizabeth wheeled Grizald toward the hatch while Arjun and Ringo followed. The old steel door groaned as Ringo spun the wheel and threw it open.

With a dramatic sweep of his hand, he stepped aside. “After y’all.”

Sunlight spilled into the ship, along with the scent of roasted meats and floral incense from the festival outside.

And so, for the first time in what felt like ages, the crew of the Soulchaser stepped out of the mist—and into the light.

While Ringo and Arjun were used to walking through crowded cities without drawing too much attention, today was different. The four of them together drew more than passing glances. Strangers lingered with their stares. Whispers followed in their wake.

Grizald, slumped in his wheeled chair like a sleeping corpse, looked halfway between dead and divine. Elizabeth, even out of armor, carried herself like a warrior. Her sword—immaculately crafted and worn with intent—rested against her hip. The kind of blade few women in the Empire wielded publicly. The kind of blade that invited either admiration or fear.

Ringo, with his old-world duster and brimmed hat, looked like a relic of another time. 

Arjun, however, was the only one who might have passed unnoticed—if not for the city they were in. Falecrine might have been his home, but the Hoeprians had long been hostile toward Coloni. Tarkhanians, especially. The Mono-Cruxist leanings of the Coloni did little to endear them to the Hoeprian elite. If anything, it only worsened the resentment. Some would even agree that Hoeprians spoke more kindly of mistians than they did of Scurans or Tarkhanians.

Still, Arjun held his head high. The stares didn’t burn as much as they used to. He knew where he belonged. And it wasn’t for them to decide.

Street musicians strummed and drummed to lively rhythms. Flutes danced in the air over the beat of handheld drums. Outside taverns and bakeries, people laughed and drank and sang. Mono-Crux lorekeepers, perched atop their wooden boxes, recited sermons and stories with theatrical flair. 

One lorekeeper near one of the temples, drenched in sweat and burning with passion, raised his voice above the noise.

“Celebrate Marcius?” he bellowed. “Celebrate the tyrant who tried to drown our truth in the mist? Celebrate the architect of genocide, the slayer of Crux’s chosen, the one who fed millions of mistians into the engines of ruination?”

He spat on the ground, fists shaking. “No! We do not honor tyrants in Hoepria. We honor survival. We honor those he tried and failed to break. We honor his death!”

As the crowd roared, Ringo smirked, leaning closer to Arjun. “Gotta love Hoepria. They put on a show, at least.”

Arjun blinked. “I don’t remember Marcia being this… aggressive.”

“It always was,” Elizabeth said dryly. “Even the first Marcia, when I was training the Templars.”

“You weren’t out in the streets durin’ the festivals,” Ringo added. “Hoeprians love takin’ jabs at Marcius. ‘Specially during his own damn holiday.”

“I guess…” Arjun muttered, eyes flicking to the crowd. “I mostly stayed in the temple. Helped with food prep. Didn’t hear speeches like that.”

Ringo gave a short laugh. “That’s cause the streets ain’t the temple. Different etiquette out here.”

They pressed deeper into the city, weaving through a festive mess of color and chaos until they reached a broad intersection marked by a clean-cut stone building with bold, golden lettering across the front.

AURUM MEADHOUSE

“Here it is,” Ringo said, his voice tinged with nostalgia as he led them under the stone awning held up by two pillars.

The scent of roasted meat and honey spilled through the open door. Inside, laughter rolled through the air, clinking mugs slammed on tables, and electric sconces glowed warmly against the stone walls. Plates of fried vegetables and fresh bread passed from table to table. It was the kind of place where people got loud and forgot about the world.

Or so they thought.

Before they could step inside, a broad-shouldered Aenean dressed in all black stepped in their way. A bouncer, armed and heavily built. He gave Ringo and Elizabeth a once-over, then glanced at Grizald without comment.

Then his eyes fell on Arjun.

“You three can head in,” he said, voice flat and practiced. Then he jabbed a thick finger toward Arjun. “But the Tarkhanian stays outside. No Coloni allowed.”

Ringo’s face darkened. “He ain’t Coloni.”

“Wasn’t up for debate.” The man’s hand dropped near the revolver on his hip. “House policy.”

Arjun saw Ringo’s shoulders rise, his jaw clench. He stepped in quickly. “It’s fine. We’ll find somewhere else.”

But Ringo wasn’t moving. His voice dropped, sharp and cold. “Yuh ain’t nothin’ but a coldhearted bigot. Lucky the boy’s got more sense than I do. Cause me? I’d be glad tuh tear yuh a new one.”

The bouncer narrowed his eyes. “Is that a threat?”

The tavern quieted. Nearby tables paused mid-sip. Elizabeth’s hand drifted toward her blade.

“If it is,” Ringo said, “what’re yuh gonna do about it?”

The man’s grip tightened around his holster. “Get out. Or the peacekeepers’ll have you all in cells before sunset.”

Elizabeth took a step forward. “Careful,” she said, voice cold as steel. “You don’t know who you’re threatening.”

“Enough,” Arjun barked. “We’re leaving. Now.”

It took a second, but Ringo and Elizabeth nodded. They turned without another word. Ringo spat on the polished floor before stepping through the door.

“Assholes wanna sell their piss-poor Aurum all over the Empire,” he growled, “but won’t let a Tarkhanian drink it in their own city. Fuckin’ hypocrites. If yuh still want their swill, Arjun, yer buyin’ it yerself. I’m done givin’ ‘em cash.”

Arjun exhaled through his nose. “It’s like this everywhere on the Great Tether. Some worse than others, but there’s always a door that won’t open for me.”

“Yeah, well…” Ringo trailed off.

As they stepped back under the awning, Ringo let his hand drift across the nearest stone pillar. A quiet zap of soul energy cracked the stone—hairline at first, then splitting deeper. As they reached the street, the pillar buckled. The whole awning groaned before crashing down in a storm of rubble, blocking the entrance entirely.

A chorus of screams echoed through the street. Music stopped. Patrons scrambled to the windows.

Ringo didn’t look back. He adjusted his hat.

“Well,” he said casually, “guess the place needed some remodelin’.”

The four of them disappeared into the crowd, unbothered by the chaos left in their wake. The music eventually resumed. But for the Aurum Meadhouse, the celebration was over.

They walked further north, drifting toward the quieter outskirts of Falecrine. The buildings here grew smaller, humbler—stone and marble giving way to creaking wood and aged plaster. The scent of cooked meat hung in the air. As they passed rows of leaning structures, crooked signs swung gently in the wind. Eventually, they spotted a little place tucked between two larger buildings: a stone tavern with a low wooden awning that wrapped around all four sides. Painted on a weather-worn sign above the steps were the words: The Marblous.

It wasn’t much to look at, but it was alive.

Wooden tables crowded the porch. Laughter and chatter spilled out from patrons lounging in the dusk light, drinking cheap ale and gnawing on roasted meat. A few smokers tucked themselves into quiet corners, sneaking drags of gaigo from carved wooden pipes, occasionally blowing smoke into the breeze when they thought no one was watching.

The door to the tavern, thick oak with a polished brass handle, had been propped open with a clay jug—allowing alewives and patrons to pass in and out with ease.

Ringo squinted at the place, then turned to Arjun. “Think this one’s decent?”

Arjun scanned the crowd with a practiced glance. “Tarkhanians. A few Scurans too. Nobody looks like they’re lookin’ for a fight.”

Ringo grunted with approval. “Least this place’ll serve us drinks without throwin’ a tantrum bout it.”

As they reached the porch steps, Elizabeth moved to the front and scooped Grizald up in both arms. He stirred at first, his limbs twitching in protest, but she soothed him quickly with a silent, telepathic message. His body relaxed, slumping softly against her chest.

Arjun and Ringo grabbed the wheelchair and lifted it up the steps. Elizabeth followed, setting Grizald gently back into his seat as they positioned him at the end of a long porch table, near the entrance to the tavern.

The four of them sat down, Ringo and Arjun on one side, Elizabeth opposite. Grizald dozed off in his chair as if the trip had never happened.

A breeze whispered through the porch, carrying the scent of honey-glazed ham, mead, and ale. Lanterns above them flickered softly, casting golden halos on the table.

It wasn’t long before an alewife appeared—freckled and smiling, with her apron half-tied and her hair bound in a messy bun.

“Evenin’,” she greeted, her eyes scanning the group with a curious warmth. “Y’all in town for the festival? Don’t look like you’re from around here.”

Ringo gave a half-smile and nod. “Just passin’ through. Figured we’d stop in fer Marcia. Love a good spiteful celebration.”

The alewife laughed. “Well, you came to the right island. Nobody does Marcia quite like Hoeprians. Where are y’all from?”

“We’re just a few vagabonds seein’ where the wind takes us,” Ringo added.

“Don’t get many travelers this far from the docks. What can I get you?”

“Whatever whiskey y’got. Double, no rocks,” Ringo answered immediately.

She jotted that down, then looked to Arjun.

“Same as him,” Arjun said. “And a smoked turkey leg, if you’ve got it.”

She nodded again and turned to Elizabeth.

“Local ale. And your house stew,” she said, then gestured toward Grizald. “He’s alright.”

The alewife finished scribbling, and Ringo pulled out a handful of senecs. “That should cover it. Keep the rest.”

Her eyes widened slightly, but she smiled. “Well thank you kindly. I’ll be back with your drinks in a bit.”

As she disappeared inside, the table settled into a comfortable lull. Somewhere behind them, a fiddle struck up, and someone sang an old Mono-Cruxist ballad in a drunken, warbling voice.

Elizabeth took in the atmosphere, then cracked a small smile. “Well. They seem kinder than the last place.”

“I see why yuh were so eager tuh leave this place when I first met yuh,” Ringo said to Arjun, half-joking, half-sincere.

“It wasn’t all bad,” Arjun replied. “First time I lived here, I never went into the city. And when I came back, I lived at the temple. The lorekeepers treated me well enough. I got a few stares in the market, sure—but nothing like what happened at the Aurum.”

Elizabeth studied him. “So what compelled you to leave and follow a man like this?” She nodded toward Ringo.

Arjun leaned back in his chair. “A lot of reasons. I knew I’d be drafted soon—shipped off to South Alsium. I ran at five to avoid the Coloni draft, but it was only a matter of time before the Aenean draft would send me there. And… I was still dealing with my mom’s death. Still haunted by what happened with Francisco de Bernuda. My life was just too much to handle at the time. When Ringo showed up, it felt like a way out. And I needed one.”

Just then, the alewife returned with a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand. She placed the whiskey in front of Ringo and Arjun, the ale and stew in front of Elizabeth.

“I’ll be right back with that turkey leg,” she said before disappearing again.

Ringo took a sip of his drink and let out a content sigh. “Ain’t like it used tuh be in my day, but Aenean whiskey still does the job.”

Elizabeth ignored him, refocusing on Arjun. “Must’ve been hard leaving all that behind. Who was Christopher again?”

Arjun’s face softened. “Another orphan. Francisco brought him in when I was still with him in Castille. He was three years younger than me. I protected him from most of the abuse. Called him my brother. When we escaped, I brought him to the temple.”

“Is he still there?” Ringo asked, taking another sip.

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him since I left. He’s only fourteen now, so they wouldn’t have sent him to South Alsium yet.”

“You should go see him,” Elizabeth offered gently. “You may not realize it now, but those ties matter. The people you’ve been through so much with… they give you strength.”

Ringo gave a nod. “Ain’t no wisdom truer than that. Trust me—ain’t much in this world that lasts, but those bonds? They’re worth protectin’.”

Arjun stared at the table, then nodded slowly. “Yeah… I’ll try to stop by tomorrow morning. See if he’s still there.”

Just then, the alewife returned with a plate bearing a massive, glistening turkey leg. She set it down in front of Arjun.

“Here we go. That should hold you for a bit,” she said cheerfully. “Anything else I can get y’all?”

“We’re good fer now,” Ringo replied, lifting his glass.

She gave a quick nod and vanished into the crowd.

The three of them ate and drank in peace for a while, the soft hum of music and chatter filling the background. For the first time in months, it felt like they could finally breathe.

They ordered another round, then another. Before long, three empty glasses sat before each of them. Conversation flowed easier with each sip of ale and whiskey. The tension that had clung to them since their descent into the mist began to unravel.

They laughed more. Talked about little things. Old memories. Shared frustrations. 

As the moonless night crept over the city and lanterns began to flicker to life, Arjun nursed the last of his whiskey and leaned forward across the table.

“So… I know how Ringo got his Epithet,” he said, voice thick with liquor and curiosity, “but what about you two?”

Elizabeth’s expression softened with the warm glow of nostalgia. “It happened around the same time as Ringo’s, actually. We were born in what the world then called the 1860s, in a place called Bristol. Back then, Grizald could walk, talk—he was brilliant. Elegant. A physicist working to find more sustainable energy sources. I was just his assistant.”

She paused, placing a gentle hand on her brother’s arm.

“When the Lost God rebuilt the Staff of Crux, he tried to unite the world under one banner. One empire. He even fused the continents into a single landmass—Earth as we knew it, remade. The capital of that new world was Istanbul.”

Ringo gave a low grunt of agreement, but said nothing.

Elizabeth continued, “Grizald’s research caught the attention of the Lost God himself. He summoned us to Istanbul to work on something called nuclear energy. I didn’t understand half of it, but it mattered.”

She swallowed hard. “And then the Angel’s Egg fell.”

Even the tavern’s noise seemed to fade for a moment.

“The impact hit far to the west—where Ringo was—but the blast swallowed the whole planet. We were trying to reach the underground shelters beneath the capital. We were so close… but not close enough. Grizald threw himself over me, shielded me with his body.”

She stared down at her drink. “When we woke, I was… better than fine. I was immortal. He—he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, but I could still hear his voice in my head. I could feel him. And I realized, somehow, that when he was hurt… the pain passed to me. Even small bruises. It was like our souls had been stitched together, but only I could move.”

Arjun blinked slowly, the weight of it sinking in. “I thought he’d always been like this.”

“No,” she said quietly. “He was a towering man once. Proud. Brilliant. Now, he’s a prisoner in a shell. He hasn’t spoken aloud in over a twenty-thousand years.”

Ringo let the silence settle before speaking. “That blast brought more than just desolation. The Lost God cursed the survivors. And after he broke the Staff again, he vanished like a coward, just when the world needed ‘im most.”

Elizabeth leaned closer. “That’s why we fight. Why we’ve always fought. He shattered the earth, killed billions, and left us all to rot in the pieces. The only thing he did afterward was raise the islands into the sky to escape the mist—and even that was a selfish act of survival. Not salvation.”

“And yet people still worship him…” Arjun muttered bitterly. “The Mono-Cruxists taught me he was the ‘Lost God’ for a reason. That he abandoned the world.”

He gave a loose, whiskey-laced laugh. “Funny thing is—even if they don’t praise what you did directly, Ringo, they see you as the one who tried to save the world. A lot of them think someone like them will finish what you couldn’t.”

Ringo’s eye twitched. “Right. They want a newborn hero now. Guess thousands of years o’ failure makes folk lose faith.”

Arjun put his hand on the table, steadying himself as he looked Ringo in the eye. “I haven’t. I’ve seen what you’ve done. I’ve been with you. I believe this time is different. We have to kill the Lost God. For good.”

Elizabeth smiled gently at Arjun’s passion. “Our defeats aren’t shameful, Arjun. They’re lessons. And we’ve had millennia to learn.”

Her hand drifted back to Grizald. She closed her eyes.

“He’s stirring,” she said softly. “Rickart’s presence is returning. He’s waking.”

Ringo downed the last of his whiskey, snatched a cigarette from his coat, and lit it with a flick of soul energy. He took a long drag and exhaled a slow stream of smoke.

“Well then,” he muttered, voice gruff. “Guess it’s time we get back tuh work.”

The streets of Falecrine had emptied by the time the four of them made their way back to the Soulchaser. The last hours of night clung to the city like soot. The haze of alcohol and burnt oil still lingered in the air as the last stragglers of the Marcia festivities stumbled home, songs dissolving into silence.

When they reached their airship, Ringo turned the heavy wheel of the door with a groaning hiss. The Soulchaser welcomed them with the quiet, familiar hum of the electricity buzzing through the hull. Elizabeth pushed Grizald inside, the wheels of his chair clinking against the metal flooring, while Ringo and Arjun followed in silence.

Ringo didn’t waste a moment. He marched past the others and approached the wall down the corridor. With a subtle flare of soul energy from his hand, a faint glyph pulsed and the panels recessed into the wall with a mechanical hiss—revealing the dim, confined chamber hidden inside the ship’s structure. The cell.

There, curled on the floor like a discarded husk, lay Rickart.

He was fully formed now. Muscle wrapped tightly over bone, veins thick beneath his skin. Even in the faint light, the sheen of newly-grown flesh gave him a raw, almost embryonic appearance. He was breathing—shallow and slow. Naked. Silent.

Ringo stepped in cautiously, eyes narrowed. He didn’t trust stillness, especially from men like Rickart.

Then, without warning, Rickart moved.

He surged upward in a blur, teeth bared, aiming to tackle Ringo to the floor—but Ringo was faster. He pivoted, grabbed the edge of Rickart’s hair, and yanked him down mid-lunge. Rickart slammed against the floor with a dull clang.

“Did yuh miss me?” Ringo growled, grinning as he spun Rickart onto his stomach and forced his face down into the cold steel.

Rickart howled, twisting, trying to break free. “You left me to rot, you bastard! I’ll—”

Before the threat could finish, Ringo lifted his head and drove it into the floor again with a thud. “You’ll what? Try tuh kill me again? How’d that work out fer yuh last time?”

Ringo shifted, pressing a knee between Rickart’s shoulders. He yanked both arms back and pinned them at the wrists. The new skin stretched taut with each movement.

“I was dead for an eternity,” Rickart spat through gritted teeth.

“Half a year,” Ringo corrected flatly. “Yuh weren’t even missed.”

“I felt every second.”

Ringo chuckled darkly. “Well, now yuh’re with me again. Be grateful I didn’t leave yuh down there longer.”

“You should have!” Rickart thrashed again, the veins in his neck bulging. “I’d rather burn forever than see you again.”

“Now c’mon, Ricky. After all I did tuh dig yuh up from that cursed sea, yuh don’t got even a little gratitude?”

“Maybe I would,” Rickart snarled, “if you hadn’t been the one to put me there.”

That made Ringo pause. He looked at him for a long moment, then let out a slow exhale through his nose and stood up, pulling Rickart up with him. He released Rickart’s arms, allowing him to slump forward. Then, Ringo stepped back.

With another pulse of soul energy, the door sealed behind him. It was just the two of them in that claustrophobic space, lit only by a flickering orange bulb overhead.

Rickart stayed where he was, breath heaving, blood trickling from his lip.

“I wasn’t dead the whole time,” he rasped. “You think the mist let me sleep? No. The Eternal Flames halted my regeneration, but I hadn’t found my way there for a long time. My skin melted. My organs boiled. Every time I came back, the mist tortured me again.”

He lifted his head slowly, eyes glassy with fury.

“Then the ambrogs found me. Figured out I was a renewable meal. Ate me alive, piece by piece. Kept my bones safe so I’d keep growing back for them. You ever feel your own ribs being cracked one by one while your lungs fill with mist? You ever beg to die—to truly die, and the world refuses to let you?”

Ringo said nothing for a long beat. His gaze had softened—just slightly. But not with guilt.

With a tinge of empathy.

Rickart’s voice dropped to a low growl. “If there was ever even the slightest chance I’d help you, it died down there.”

Ringo exhaled through his teeth and stared down at the floor, thinking. His voice, when it came, was quieter. Steadier.

“What’d yuh see down there?”

Rickart blinked. “What?”

“All that time. What part of the past yuh see?”

“…Mostly the Crux Wars,” Rickart muttered. “And the aftermath.”

Ringo looked back up. His voice grew colder. “Do yuh want it tuh happen again? Another war? More immortals dead fer a yella bellied god that don’t give a damn?”

Rickart lunged. He was quick, but not quicker than Ringo. In a flash, Ringo grabbed the back of his head and slammed it into the steel wall with a clang. Rickart dropped like a sack of meat, groaning.

Ringo knelt beside him, voice barely above a whisper. “Yuh wanna watch the world drown while yer Lost God looks the other way? Yuh wanna suffer again just tuh prove yer loyalty to a man who never lifts a finger fer yuh?”

“You don’t understand…” Rickart whispered, woozy.

“No,” Ringo said, standing. “I understand exactly what it means tuh believe in somethin’ that don’t believe in yuh.”

He turned and pressed his hand to the wall. The panels hissed and began to reveal the outside of the cell.

Rickart lifted his head one last time. “This won’t end the way you think it will.”

Ringo looked back over his shoulder. “It never does.”

Then the door shut.

The cell sealed tight. Rickart was alone again, the dim bulb flickering overhead like the last light of a dying world.

Outside, Ringo stepped into the ship’s corridor, exhaled a long breath, and ran a hand down his face. His shoulders slumped—not from weakness, but from the weight of old memories returning like ghosts.

He lit another cigarette with a snap of his fingers and walked back toward the others without saying a word.

Arjun had already retired to the barracks. The booze lulled him into a deep, dreamless slumber, one he’d earned after everything they’d been through. But Elizabeth sat quietly at the table, next to her brother. She stared at his sunken, weathered face, tears streaming freely down her cheeks.

Between the ale and the ghosts stirred by old memories, she wept—for Grizald. For the years he lost. For the life that was stolen from him. For the burden he chose to carry so she wouldn’t have to.

When she heard footsteps, she quickly wiped her face and straightened her posture. Ringo stepped in, silent as ever.

“Is he awake?” she asked.

Ringo didn’t answer right away. He crossed the room to his cabinet, pulled out a full bottle of whiskey, and let the door shut with a soft clack. He walked over to the table, dropped into the chair opposite of her, and let a curl of smoke escape his nose like an exhale of ghosts.

He opened the bottle. Took a long, measured swig and set it on the table with a dull thud.

“Was,” he said at last. “Might not be now.”

Elizabeth offered a faint, tired smile. “He already get under your skin?”

Ringo drew on his cigarette again. Smoke drifted toward the low ceiling. “Yuh know, I think about that day all the time. The day Sneakin’ Snake reformed the Staff. Think about what woulda happened if I shot him first. Not Drake. Snake had that damn ring, and I knew it. Had the jump on ‘em. Could’ve got ‘im ‘fore he knew I was there. ‘Fore he used that ring tuh get away. Maybe then Drake would’ve been easy pickin’s. Maybe there wouldn’t be a Lost God. Maybe this whole damn world wouldn’t be the mess it is.”

He grabbed the bottle and took another hard swig. It burned all the way down.

“I made the wrong choice,” he muttered. “And I keep makin’ ‘em. Sendin’ Rickart into the mist? That wasn’t strategic. After the shit he put me through in Ad Alisum, I just wanted tuh watch ‘im fall off that tether. See the look in his eyes as he realized his beggin’ ain’t worth shit. We wasted eight months fer nothin’. Didn’t bring us any closer. Just made our goal that much harder tuh reach.”

He ground the butt of his cigarette into the table with a slow twist of his fingers. “Maybe I ain’t fit tuh save the world. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why we never win.”

Elizabeth shook her head, took the bottle from in front of him, and moved it beside Grizald.

“Dear Crux, Ringo. I know Rickart’s a damn headache, but a few minutes with him sent you into an existential crisis?”

She leaned forward, voice firm.

“You can’t make the right decision? You already did. You picked the side no one else would. The side that’s right, not easy. The side that doesn’t believe in happy endings, but still fights anyway. That takes guts. And when you screw up—which you do—you fix it. Because you have the humility most people lack.”

She stood. “Can you watch Grizald tonight?”

Ringo nodded.

“Good.” She paused by her brother’s chair, resting a hand on his arm. Her eyes softened. She said something to him silently—through that eerie, unspoken connection the two of them shared—and then turned and walked to the barracks.

The door closed behind her with a gentle click.

Ringo sat alone with Grizald now. In moments like this, he almost envied the others. Sleep offered them some escape, even if only for a few hours. But for him, there was no rest. Just long nights and longer regrets.

His gaze drifted to the bottle beside Grizald. He stood and reached for it.

Grizald’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

Ringo flinched, nearly dropping the bottle.

The old man didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But he turned his clouded, milky eyes toward Ringo and shook his head—slowly, deliberately. Judging. Disapproving. Like a ghost calling out from the depths of a broken body.

Then his grip loosened, and his hand dropped back into his lap like a puppet with cut strings.

Ringo stared at him for a long moment. “Eh, what the hell do you know,” he muttered. “Ain’t had so much as a sip of water since yuh got put in that chair.”

Still, the look in those eyes lingered like an echo.

He sat back down, bottle in hand, turning it over slowly. Watching the amber liquid slosh and settle. He thought about all the times evil won. All the times hunger twisted him into something inhuman. All the things he couldn’t undo.

He took another swig anyway.

“Yuh ever miss bein’ normal?” he asked aloud.

Grizald didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But Ringo waited like he might. Like his lips might move and give him something more than silence.

He sighed. “What am I doin’? Couldn’t answer if yuh wanted.”

He looked down at the bottle. Something about the way it moved in his hand—the slow swirl of whiskey inside—made him feel like he was staring into the past.

He stood again, carried it back to the cabinet, and placed it gently inside before closing the door.

Back at the table, he lit a fresh cigarette. The tip glowed bright in the lowlight. Smoke curled upward, rising like prayers that would never be answered.

He watched it spiral into the air as he waited for morning. For the light to come save him from his thoughts.

Arjun woke alone in his bed, roused by the distant hum of celebration rising from the streets outside. The third day of Marcia had begun, and the city was already alive with music, bells, and the scent of warm bread drifting through the air.

He sat up slowly, still buzzed from the night before, riding the edge of a hangover like a wave that hadn’t yet crashed. But he’d trained for moments like this. His time in Satana—wine-filled nights with Jamila and early mornings stocking goods in Ahmed’s store—had made him something of a professional when it came to functioning with a headache.

But this wasn’t just about the drinks. The unease in his gut wasn’t from last night’s ale. It was nerves—deep-seated, hard to ignore.

He was going to see his brother.

The memory of the tavern conversation resurfaced. He’d told Ringo and Elizabeth he’d visit Christopher. And he meant it. But meaning something didn’t make it easier to follow through—especially when it had been years since he last saw him. Years without so much as a letter. Years since he left him at the temple.

Arjun had changed. Grown harder, stronger, maybe even wiser. He imagined Christopher had too. He hoped he’d understand why Arjun had left. Why he had to. But the truth still clung to him like wet clothes: he abandoned him.

Even if he left him in good hands… even if he believed the temple would protect him… Arjun still walked away. Escaping the system that caged them both. And part of him knew despite the circumstances, it had been selfish.

He hoped—prayed—that his brother saw his point of view.

With a deep breath, Arjun got out of bed and dressed himself. He put on his cleanest shirt, buckled his coat, and fixed his gamas on his belt and under his coat last, the familiar weight of them grounding him. He stood at the door for a moment, collecting himself, then opened it and stepped into the Soulchaser’s main room.

Elizabeth sat at the table with both hands wrapped around a cup of Entellan coffee, steam curling up past her face. Across from her sat Ringo, already puffing on a cigarette.

“We’ll succeed this time,” she was saying. “You’ll see. We made the right choice. When Crux is free, we’ll know it was worth it.”

Both of them turned as Arjun entered the room.

“Goin’ tuh the temple today?” Ringo asked.

“Unless you need me here,” Arjun replied, though part of him hoped they would need him—anything to delay what lay ahead.

Elizabeth smiled faintly. “We’ll manage. Go see Christopher.”

He nodded, exhaling through his nose. “Alright. I’ll be back before sundown.”

“If we ain’t here when yuh get back,” Ringo said, “wait fer us. And don’t try tuh talk tuh Rickart alone.”

With another nod, Arjun made for the door. He spun the wheel and pulled it open—the hinges let out a deep squeal. Then, he stepped outside into a city that hadn’t skipped a beat since yesterday.

The smells hit him first: roasted meats, fried sweets, toasted bread. Music drifted from alleyways. Children laughed in the distance. Colorful streamers rippled in the wind like flags of a fleeting peace.

And yet… something about the crowd felt different now. Denser. More imposing.

Alone, every footstep felt louder. Every glance from a stranger lingered longer. Arjun kept a hand near his gamas as he moved through the winding streets, each corner more familiar than he’d expected—and more suffocating than he remembered.

He followed the old stone roads southeast, toward the edge of the city, until at last the temple came into view.

The Abeldarus Temple of Falecrine stood like a marble sentinel above the mists. While not as impressive as the Grand Temple in Imachara, it was massive by local standards. Columns of polished stone ringed the entire perimeter, supporting an awning that wrapped around like arms enclosing sacred space. At the far end, the foundation extended past the cliff, cantilevered over the endless mist below.

There stood the statue.

Abeldarus himself, the Lord of Enzyrnya and Warden of Hoepria at the time of the Leviathan Oil Rush. He had stepped down from his title of Warden to empower Lore Master Varius—marking the birth of the Mono-Cruxist order on Hoepria. Without him, Nacona and Falecrine would not exist. Nor would the Hoeprian Templars who shaped the Mono-Cruxists’ identity.

The statue faced the abyss, as if standing vigil over the souls committed to the mist. Cloaked in royal robes sculpted in silver and gold, his expression was solemn—eyes cast downward, arms at his sides. A silent guardian of the dead.

Arjun stopped at the base of the stairs and looked up.

He had seen this sight hundreds of times. Read scriptures on these very steps. Prayed in this very hall. But now, it struck him with a weight that made his legs feel like lead.

He clenched his fists.

He wasn’t ready.

The last time he stood here, he was barely more than a boy—twelve and furious, choking on the walls that closed in around him. That night, he slipped away under darkness, whispering apologies to Christopher as the boy wept, begging him not to leave. And then he was gone.

He hadn’t come back. Not even once.

He swallowed hard. His mouth was dry.

He didn’t know what waited for him on the other side of those doors. The lorekeepers who raised him might scorn him. They might report him for dodging the draft. Maybe they’d even try to send him to South Alsium themselves. Maybe they’d just turn him away. Maybe Christopher wouldn’t even want to see him.

Maybe…

The doubts spun faster.

But none of those fears would quell unless he climbed the steps. Unless he opened those great oak doors.

And faced what he left behind.

With a deep breath, Arjun stepped forward and climbed the stone steps of the temple. His heart thudded heavier with each one. When he reached the top, he placed his hands on the old oak doors and pushed.

They groaned in protest, creaking open slowly under the pressure, as if reluctant to welcome him home.

Inside, it smelled just like he remembered—rich incense, polished stone, and the faint mustiness of old books. The scent wrapped around him like a memory, pulling him backward through time.

The sanctuary lay quiet. Rows of plush pillows lined the marble floor, worn from years of use, still arranged in neat lines before the raised altar. Candles sat cold in their sconces, their wicks blackened from last service. Golden light spilled through stained glass windows, coloring the white stone in reds and blues.

Not a soul in sight.

Arjun stepped inside and stood still for a moment, soaking it in. After all this time, nothing had changed. That, somehow, was the most jarring part of all.

“Do my eyes deceive me?”

The voice came from a corridor to his right.

Arjun turned quickly. A familiar figure stepped into the light—an old Ioan man in lorekeeper robes, shoulders slightly hunched, bald head, and a white beard. Long and knotted at the end with beads of red and white.

“Lorekeeper Samuel?” Arjun said, surprised.

“Arjun?” Samuel’s expression lit up with both joy and alarm. “My Crux… has anyone else seen you?”

Before Arjun could answer, Samuel rushed to him and placed a guiding hand on his back, urging him toward the corner of the sanctuary.

“You’re the first,” Arjun said as they walked. “Where is everyone?”

“Serving the inner temples,” Samuel whispered. “Marcia has them stretched thin. We’re mostly empty here—thank Crux. Come, quickly.”

They reached the far corner, half-shadowed by a tall marble pillar. Samuel turned to face him, gripping his shoulders tightly.

“It’s been years, Arjun,” he said, softer now. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m only in town for a few days,” Arjun said. “I came to find Christopher.”

Samuel’s face fell.

“I’m sorry, Arjun. He’s not here anymore. He left. About a year ago.”

Arjun blinked. “What?”

“He disappeared in the night. Just like you did. No goodbyes. Just a letter. For you.”

Arjun’s heart burned with sorrow.

“I found it,” Samuel went on, voice low. “Before the others saw. I hid it. They would’ve torn it open, tried to track him. But I kept it safe. In case… one day… you came back.”

Samuel let go of Arjun’s shoulders and looked down at the floor. “I understand why you left. More than you know. I fought in the war. I was stationed in Zarpen when the Zhang crossed the Great Gas Sea. I watched boys like you and Chris get torn apart. I’ve seen what the war does to people.”

He looked back up, his voice firmer now. “But we had to follow the Lore Master’s decree. He speaks with the Emperor’s voice. Our orders were to send you both to South Alsium the moment you came of age.”

“I know,” Arjun said, guilt rising like bile. “I left to save myself. But I should’ve found another way. I came back because I needed to know if he was okay.”

Samuel nodded slowly. “Then come. I’ll give you the letter. But no one can know you were here.”

They walked together through a narrow corridor behind the sanctuary, down winding stairs that led beneath the temple. The torches lining the walls flickered with gentle orange light, casting long shadows that trailed behind them.

They reached a wooden door, simple and old.

Samuel opened it and gestured inside.

The room was modest—just a small cot, a desk, and a wall of books. A candle burned quietly on the desk, its scent mixing with the ever-present incense.

Arjun stepped in, eyes scanning the space. It was nearly identical in size to the room he once shared with Christopher. But this one was Samuel’s—his sanctuary beneath the sanctuary.

The old man crossed to the bookshelf, pulled down a thick leather-bound volume, and opened it. Nestled between its pages was a small envelope.

He handed it to Arjun.

Arjun took it in both hands, staring at the name written across the front in careful handwriting: Arjun.

“I kept it close,” Samuel said. “Hoping. Praying.”

Arjun looked up at him, emotion catching in his throat. “Thank you for understanding. And for protecting him. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye when I left. I never said thank you. For everything.”

Samuel pulled him into a tight hug. “Don’t thank me for doing what was right,” he said. “You were both my children. I did what any father would do.”

They stood there a moment longer. Arjun felt something shift inside him—some burden lighten, if only slightly.

Samuel pulled back and placed a hand gently on Arjun’s cheek.

“Now go. Before anyone sees you. Crux brought you here safely to me, but I fear the others would not be so forgiving.”

A tear welled in Arjun’s eye. “I’ll follow Crux’s will, Lorekeeper Samuel. I’ll find Christopher. And I’ll make you proud.”

Samuel smiled through his own tears. “You already have. Thank you… for coming home. For letting me know you’re okay. Now go.”

He gently ushered Arjun toward the door.

Arjun stepped back into the hallway. 

“Farewell, Arjun.” Samuel closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

Moving swiftly and silently, Arjun crept through the corridors, retracing his steps to the sanctuary. The space was still empty, still lit by the colored sunbeams.

He slipped out through the same doors he’d entered, pulling them shut behind him. The smell of bread and spice returned in full force, the noise of the city swelling as he descended the steps.

In his hand, the letter remained.

He looked at it again—Christopher’s handwriting—and clutched it tightly.

He didn’t open it yet.

He tucked it safely into his pocket and melted into the crowd, vanishing into the color and noise of Marcia, heading back toward the Soulchaser.

After Arjun left the ship, Ringo and Elizabeth lingered at the galley table, her mug half full, steam curling lazily above the rim.

Elizabeth watched him in silence for a moment. “Have you come up with a plan to get Rickart to talk?”

“Ain’t gonna be easy,” Ringo admitted, leaning back in his chair. “‘Specially after sendin’ ‘im tuh the mist muhself. Gonna let ‘im stew in that cell a while.”

He stood and cracked his neck.

“‘Sides, we got ourselves a new lead.”

He walked over to the navigation console and twisted a dial with a practiced hand. The ship’s lights dimmed to near darkness as the engines wound down to a low, barely perceptible hum—a ghost breathing in the dark.

“Phantom Brotherhood’s in town. Man named Heron in particular. Heard ‘em last night on the shortwave. Ran intuh ‘im when we grabbed the Shaft. Somethin’ tells me they ain’t only after that one piece of the Staff, and I wanna ask ‘em a few questions bout their own hunt.”

“And you want us to go with you?” Elizabeth asked, already rising to her feet.

“Not fer a fight. Just tuh find ‘im. Don’t know how he crawled outta Kazem’s Abyss, but if he’s breathin’ still, reckon he’s got an epithet. Grizald can sniff that out.”

Elizabeth set her mug down with a soft clink. “Then let’s not waste time.”

The streets of Satana were thick with life—carts rattled down stone roads, street merchants called out over the clamor of foot traffic, and banners bearing the white-and-red crest of the Mono-Cruxists fluttered overhead. But Ringo barely noticed. He followed Elizabeth and Grizald through alleys and boulevards, cutting through the heart of the city as Grizald tracked the faint hum of an epithet signature.

It was weak, but present. Eventually, it grew stronger as they reached the eastside of the city, where the streets narrowed and the architecture grew finer.

They came to a stop in front of a tavern with no name. The walls were white marble veined with black, the doorway carved from aged mahogany and reinforced with matte-black iron. A Scuran man in a pressed black suit stood by the door—twice the size of any ordinary man, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Ringo stopped just out of earshot. “This the place?”

Elizabeth nodded. “The signal’s loudest here. Whoever he is, he’s inside.”

Ringo adjusted his belt and tipped his hat forward. “Hang back. I’ll see if I can talk muh way in.”

He approached the Scuran slowly, like a man who’d done this a thousand times.

The bouncer raised a massive hand.

“Members only.”

“Lookin’ fer a man named Heron,” Ringo said plainly. “Reckon he’ll wanna see me. Ask ‘im how he survived Kazem’s Abyss.”

The Scuran didn’t blink. But after a moment, he turned and cracked the heavy door open, whispering something to the man on the other side. Ringo stood in the glow of the threshold, arms relaxed but ready.

The door creaked open again.

“Heron said he’ll see you,” the bouncer said, stepping aside.

Inside was a small entry hall with smooth stone floors and electric sconces on the walls. A long table sat against the far wall, covered in weapons—revolvers, knives, clubs, even a pair of brass knuckles that looked like they’d drawn blood that morning.

“Any weapons go on the table,” one of the guards said. “All of ‘em.”

Ringo slowly unholstered his revolvers and laid them down, handles toward the guards. Then, he pulled a knife from his boot and did the same.

“That’s all I got.”

He spread his arms as the second guard stepped forward and patted him down thoroughly. After a pause, he gave a nod, and the door to the proper tavern opened.

The inside was quiet elegance, danger just beneath the surface. Wooden floors made from Zornich trees gleamed under the low lights. The walls were painted the deep maroon of the Aenean flag, and each booth was lit by hanging lamps wrapped in red-tinted glass. The air smelled of gaigo, ale, and spiced whiskey.

At the center of the room was a circular gambling table, surrounded by plush chairs. Conversations died as Ringo stepped in. All eyes turned toward him.

A man rose at the back of the room. Ioan—bald, with black tattoos wrapping around his head and disappearing into his high-collared shirt. His coat was midnight black, his leather armor scratched and well-worn. His presence radiated quiet authority, sharp and patient like a coiled serpent.

“You’re the one askin’ about Kazem?” the man said.

“You Heron?”

“Depends who’s askin’.”

“Name’s Ringo. Yuh reached out tuh muh ship ‘fore everything went sideways.”

Heron’s lips curled in amusement. “So you’re the one who cut the line. Said you’d do what you had to and left us for dead.”

Ringo didn’t flinch. “I did.”

“So why walk into the lion’s den?”

“Tuh be blunt, I ain’t here fer pleasantries. I heard you were still breathin’, and I got questions.”

Heron gave a mirthless chuckle. “You’ve got gall. I’ll give you that.”

He snapped his fingers.

Two men stood from opposite ends of the tavern and started moving toward Ringo.

“I said I got questions,” Ringo growled. “You can answer ‘em the easy way, or I’ll make yuh.”

One of the men reached Ringo first and went to twist his arm behind his back—but Ringo turned and kicked low, his heel crashing into the man’s shin with a crack like dry wood. The man screamed and collapsed, bone jutting through the fabric of his trousers.

The second lunged, but Ringo pivoted and slammed an elbow into his windpipe, then gripped his chin and snapped his neck with a twist. The sound echoed through the room.

Every man in the tavern stood. Hands hovering for a fight. The air thickened.

“I told yuh,” Ringo said, leveling his gaze on Heron. “I ain’t leavin’.”

Heron raised a hand. “Stand down,” he ordered his men. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “You really are that Ringo. Thought you were just a myth. A soul-thief to scare children in the night.”

“You ready tuh talk?”

Heron tilted his head.

“You ready to give the Shaft back?”

Ringo smirked. “Didn’t say that.”

Heron’s arms began to shimmer, the skin crawling as though something alive writhed beneath it. His forearms sagged, flesh and bone liquefying into a grotesque slurry, sliding down into jagged, curved blades of pure bone that jutted from where his hands had been. Veiny flesh still clung to the edges.

“Then we’re not talkin’.”

Ringo exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. “Always gotta do it the hard way.”

Heron roared and sprang forward, his arm-blades aimed straight for Ringo’s chest. Ringo didn’t move—just watched him come. At the last second, Heron’s right blade slashed down in a vertical arc. Ringo slid to the side, pivoting smoothly, spinning around Heron in a blur.

Heron whipped around fast, feinting a downward strike with his left before slashing sideways—only to have Ringo’s hand shoot out like a trap. There was a sickening crack as Ringo wrenched the arm against the joint, snapping it at the elbow.

Heron stumbled back, clutching his arm. Bone jutted clean through the skin, pale and slick with blood. The red ran down, only to meld into the slurry of his flesh. The jagged fracture slowly pulled back inside his arm, flesh sealing over, the limb reshaping until a normal human hand flexed where the weapon had been.

Heron’s nose twitched before he let out a guttural war cry and lunged, bringing his right blade down in a heavy overhead swing. Ringo stepped into him, brushing the bone aside with one hand and driving his fist into Heron’s gut. The impact folded him forward just in time for Ringo to grab the back of his head and yank it down into his rising knee with a meaty crack.

Heron crumpled to the floor. Around them, the rest of the men froze, shoulders tight, unsure if they should step in.

“It’s just a few questions,” Ringo said, standing over him as he looked around, voice steady. “Ain’t worth the lives of all y’all in here.”

Heron swayed as he stood, shaking off the hit. “You want answers?”

“Already answered a few.” Ringo loosened his stance, but his eyes stayed cold. “How’d yuh find the Shaft?”

Heron lashed out with his right blade again, desperate. Ringo ducked low and drove an uppercut into his jaw, the sound like a wet log splitting. A follow-up right hook smashed into Heron’s temple, sending him sprawling.

“I’ll kill everyone in this room,” Ringo said, his voice firm. “And still get muh answers.”

Heron laid dazed. Slowly, he pushed himself up, feet unsteady. “You wanna know? We scoured the Great Gas Sea for it.”

“Why?”

Heron stumbled forward in a sloppy charge, nearly tripping over himself. Ringo back stepped, then planted a boot in his chest, knocking him flat again.

Ringo crouched down, grabbed a fistful of Heron’s shirt, and yanked him close enough that the heat of his breath brushed Heron’s cheek. “Why?”

“Why wouldn’t we? A map of all the artifacts in the Empire?”

“So yuh were just lookin’ fer the Shaft?”

Heron’s left arm morphed into a stubby bone dagger, which he rammed up into Ringo’s stomach. Ringo grunted as the blade punched through flesh, warm blood pouring down onto Heron’s forearm.

Ringo shoved him back, a hand clamping over the wound. His expression didn’t change as he focused, a faint shimmer crawling over his skin as the cut sealed.

Heron’s dagger grew into a full arm-blade again. “We can do this all day.”

Ringo raised his guard, fists up in a tight boxer’s stance. “Yer gonna tell me, one way or another.”

They charged. Heron swept his right blade in a vicious arc, but Ringo dropped low, rolled between his legs, and clipped his ankles mid-roll. Heron pitched forward, smashing face-first into the floorboards.

Ringo sprang up and was on him instantly, yanking him upright by the back of his head. “I know yer after the whole Staff. Why? ‘Nough members turned tuh Mono-Cruxism?”

“Fuck you!” Heron thrashed, but Ringo slammed his face into the ground with a brutal thud.

“Am I right?”

Heron groaned. Another slam. The sound of bone against wood echoed in the tense silence.

“Am I right?” Ringo growled again.

“No! Just the Shaft!” Heron choked out.

“Wrong answer!” Another slam. Heron’s nose burst, blood splattering across the floor.

The room was dead still now, all eyes wide.

“Fine! We were looking for the whole Staff!”

Ringo’s grip tightened on the back of his neck, his knuckles white. “Why?”

“We were ordered to!”

“By who?”

Heron spat blood. “Kill him!”

Four men charged.

Ringo let Heron drop, his head hitting the floor with a wet thud. The first man reached him—Ringo caught him by the collar, used his momentum, and hurled him over his shoulder. The man hit the ground hard, ribs cracking against the floorboards.

Another came from behind—Ringo’s elbow smashed into his face with a crunch of cartilage, blood spraying warm against the back of his coat. He kicked a third square in the gut, folding him in half, and caught the last by the wrist mid-swing. A quick, brutal twist—ligaments tore, bone snapped—and the man’s scream curdled the air.

The doors burst open. The two guards from inside and the one from outside stormed in, carrying rifles, pistols, and shotguns, all loaded and ready. They tossed them to the Brotherhood men scrambling across the room.

Gun barrels snapped toward Ringo.

He yanked the man with the broken arm in front of him just as the first shots rang out. The body jerked and spasmed as rounds punched through him, spraying Ringo’s cheek with blood. Ringo shoved the corpse aside and dove for the heavy table in the center of the room. He flipped it on its side, the solid oak slab groaning as it hit the floor.

Gunfire roared. Splinters exploded off the table’s surface, stinging his face and hands. Rounds thudded into the wood like pounding fists.

He peeked over the rim—two men were dragging Heron away. Ringo lifted a finger. A line of steady blue light burst from the tip, slicing through the air. He swept it sideways—their torsos slid from their legs before they even hit the ground. A shotgun blast answered, knocking his hat clean off as he ducked.

Black powder smoke choked the air, stinging his eyes, the scent of burnt gunpowder and blood mingling thick in his nose. He crouched, snatched his hat off the floor, and jammed it back onto his head. Boots crunched closer through splintered wood.

He waited.

When they were near enough to taste the fear rolling off them, Ringo blasted the table with soul energy. It launched forward like a battering ram, smashing through the front rank. Screams. Bones breaking. The rest stumbled back in shock.

Ringo was already moving. He slammed an uppercut into the nearest man’s jaw, lifting him clean off his feet. The man’s shotgun spun through the air—Ringo caught it and fired twice without aiming. Two clusters of men crumpled, holes blown through them.

A survivor lunged at him—Ringo smashed the butt of the shotgun into his face, teeth and blood spraying. He spun and drove the barrel into another man’s mouth. The weapon snapped in half as the man dropped in a twitching heap.

The table had wrecked most of them, but those on the edges were scrambling for their weapons. Ringo kicked a revolving rifle into his hands and snapped off four shots, each one finding a skull. The sharp smell of hot iron filled the room.

Out of ammo, he tossed the rifle away and closed the distance with the last man. The thug’s hands shook as he tried to raise his shotgun—too slow. Ringo caught the barrel, shoved it skyward as it fired off a shot, and drove a fist into the man’s throat. The man gagged and stumbled back.

Ringo ripped the shotgun free, turned it around, and fired point-blank. The blast shredded his chest, spraying the wall in a fan of red.

Silence.

Ringo exhaled as he dropped the gun on the floor, then let out a low chuckle. “Haven’t had a workout like that in a while.”

Heron groaned, dragging himself toward the door, bone blades already receded into trembling hands. Ringo strolled over, boots thudding on the sticky floor. He nudged Heron onto his back with his boot, then planted it square on his chest.

“Who?”

Heron coughed, flecks of blood spattering his chin. “Ghost…”

“Ghost?” Ringo pressed harder.

“The boss! Hides his name like Don!”

“How’d yuh know where tuh find it?”

“He told us where to look.”

“How’d he know?”

“I don’t—know?!”

Ringo crouched, gripping Heron’s jaw in a vice.

“This was a hit by the Imogen. I wasn’t here. Every month, yer gonna check in on 42.615 AM and give me updates on anything involvin’ the Staff—any lead, any whisper.”

He let go, stood, and stepped away. “I found yuh once. I’ll find yuh again.”

Heron’s head thudded back against the floor.

Ringo moved to a corpse still gripping his revolvers, pried them loose, and holstered them. In the next room, he recovered his knife, sliding it into his boot.

He paused, taking in the blood-streaked wreckage of the Brotherhood’s clubhouse. Then he shut the door behind him.

Elizabeth and Grizald were where he’d left them. He dusted soot off his coat. With a glimmer of soul energy, the blood stains vanished. Then, he adjusted his hat.

“Did you find any leads?” Elizabeth asked.

“Found somethin’,” Ringo said. “Looks like we ain’t the only ones huntin’ the Staff.”

They slipped into the festival crowd, disappearing toward the Soulchaser.

Arjun made it back to the Soulchaser, stepping into a dark and empty ship. The air was stale, cold from sitting dormant. He crossed to the navigation console and twisted the dial just enough to stir the lights awake. The bulbs flickered once, then hummed low, spilling a dim glow across the steel interior.

The engines purred louder. It was a lonely sound.

Arjun slipped the envelope from his coat. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve, like it knew the burden it carried. His thumb brushed the seal, but he couldn’t bring himself to tear it open. The thought of the words waiting inside filled him with a dread far sharper than any blade.

Before he could summon the nerve, a hollow knock-knock-knock echoed from the walls.

Arjun stiffened. He followed the sound until he stood before the cell where Rickart was being held.

“Ringo!” Rickart’s muffled voice rattled through the steel. He was shouting, but through the barrier it sounded no more than a rasping whisper. “Open this damn door!”

“He’s not here,” Arjun shot back, his voice tighter than he meant.

A beat of silence. Then, suspiciously: “Who is this?”

“My name’s Arjun. The one you sent Marcus after.”

Another pause. Then a dry chuckle. “The mortal? Tell me, Arjun—do you have family? Friends in the Empire? Are you really helping the man who plans to slaughter them all—including you?”

“The world’s already ending,” Arjun snapped. “Ringo’s trying to save what’s left of it.”

Rickart laughed, the sound warped by steel and echo. “End? The world won’t end in your lifetime, boy. The Lost God shields us from the wrath of Crux. It’s Ringo who would tear that shield away.”

“That’s a lie!”

“Or is it Ringo who’s lying to you?”

Arjun’s breath caught in his chest, but he forced steel into his tone. “The mist’s rising—it’s nearly spilling over the islands. When it does, the Empire will drown. The mistians will devour everything. You’re just trying to stall the inevitable. Crux’s wrath is vengeance for what your Lost God did!”

Rickart’s voice dropped low, almost coaxing. “Listen to me, Arjun. That’s Mono-Cruxist rot they’ve poured into your ears. You’re being groomed to aid your own destruction. Help me escape, and the Keepers of Crux will protect you. We’ll tell you the truth.”

Arjun’s jaw clenched. He wanted to slam his fists into the wall just to shut him up, but instead he said flatly, “we’re done here.” He turned his back and walked away.

“Arjun! Wait!” Rickart’s muffled call trailed him down the hall, but he didn’t stop.

In the barracks, Arjun set the letter on his bunk, staring at it like it was something poisonous. He lowered his head into his hands, trying to steady his breathing. His mind buzzed with Rickart’s words, worming under his skin like they were meant to.

The hiss of the Soulchaser’s airlock opening snapped him upright.

Ringo, Elizabeth, and Grizald stepped inside. Ringo dropped into a chair, already fishing for a cigarette.

“Where’d you guys go?” Arjun asked, trying to keep his voice even.

Ringo lit the cigarette with a snap of his finger. Smoke curled in the dim light. “Remember when we helped the Mistheart fight off the Brotherhood?”

Arjun nodded. “Yeah, what about it?”

“One of the Brotherhood’s dogs lived. Heard he was lurkin’ in town, on the comms last night. Paid ‘im a visit, today. Wanted tuh know why they had the Shaft in the first place.”

Arjun leaned forward. “So what’d you find?”

“Not much,” Ringo exhaled. “Bastard didn’t even know his boss’ name, fer Crux sake. But they had intel. They knew right where tuh search. Too right. Almost like they were led there.”

Ringo’s eyes narrowed. “Sounds like the Keepers got their hands in it. Which means we might have a traitor in their ranks.”

“You think someone inside’s working against them?” Arjun asked.

Ringo smirked bitterly. “Snake wouldn’t call that kind of shot. And who else even knew where the Shaft was buried?” He took another drag, the ember flaring.

Elizabeth eased down beside Arjun, setting Grizald’s chair by her feet. “Maybe it wasn’t about the Shaft itself. Maybe it was about you. If you found it, maybe that was the plan all along.”

Ringo’s cigarette burned low as he thought on that. “Could be. Either way, somebody out there wants these pieces dug up—and it ain’t us.”

Elizabeth’s voice dropped. “Could mean they want another Crux War.”

Ringo ground the stub into the ashtray. “Well, they’re gonna get it. Now, we can’t stay here. Not with the mess I left. Brotherhood’ll be sniffin’ around soon.”

He pushed to his feet and crossed to the console. “We’ll lie low, gather supplies, look fer leads, and wear Rickart down while we wait fer the others.”

Arjun exchanged a glance with Elizabeth, then helped prep the ship. Ringo’s voice drifted back over the hum of the console.

“Did yuh see yer brother?”

The question hit harder than Arjun expected. He shook his head. “No. They said he left last year. Nobody knows where.”

Ringo paused, looking at him a moment longer than usual. “We’ll be all over. Maybe yuh’ll find ‘im.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

The Soulchaser’s engines roared to life. It lifted from its moorings, rising above the festival lights of the city. The sounds of laughter and music faded as the ship pierced the cloudline, swallowed in clouds and silence.

Ringo leaned against the console, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Rest up. I’ll scan the waves, find us our next stop.”

Arjun nodded, but his attention drifted elsewhere. Elizabeth was already settled beside Grizald. Ringo was lost in his cigarette haze. There was nothing left to busy himself with—nothing to distract him from the dread weighing down atop him.

He slipped away to the barracks. The letter waited on the bed like an accusation. His fingers trembled as he broke the seal.

The words hit harder than Rickart’s accusations. Harder than any fight.

Dear Arjun,

If you’re reading this, then maybe you did come back. Or maybe you forgot. I may never know.

I waited a long time for you. I told myself you’d come walking through the door any day, like nothing had changed. But every day you didn’t, something inside me slipped further away.

You left me here with nothing—no parents, no future, no explanation. Just silence. And I tried to believe you had a reason. I tried to believe you were doing something bigger, something that mattered. But while you were gone, the war kept drowning me in its shadow.

South Alsium is closing in. You know what that means. I can’t stay here and waste away. I don’t want to die before I’ve even lived. Not like my parents. So I’ve made my choice: I’m leaving. Alone, if I have to.

I don’t know if I’ll find you. Some nights I like to imagine you’re out there fighting mist monsters, sailing across the skies, living the kind of life we used to dream about. Other nights I wonder if you’ve forgotten me, if I was never meant to be part of that dream.

I’m scared, Arjun. Scared of what’s ahead, scared of being nothing more than another name lost in the Empire’s ruin. But I’d rather face the unknown than keep waiting for someone who may never return and seal my fate.

I hope I’m wrong. I hope I see you again. I hope, after everything, you still remember me. That you still love me like I love you.

Your brother,

Christopher