Sea of Bones

The Soulchaser dipped beneath the clouds, its hull cutting through the warm upper air like a knife. As it descended into the Great Gas Sea, the golden light of the sun vanished behind them, swallowed by the churning wall of brownish-pink mist. It was like falling into the belly of a sleeping, angry god.

Only a couple days had passed since they left Tarkhan, but everything about the world left behind already felt distant. Peace. People. Family. Sunlight. All traded in for this—eternal night, where monsters hunted by scent and sound, and time didn’t seem to pass the same way.

The Soulchaser’s descent was steady but tense. There was no telling what waited in the toxic fog-drenched chasm between Alsium and Calixtus. But once they entered the mist, they had to be committed. There was no turning back.

The deeper they went, the more sound changed. Beneath the familiar hum of the engines, came the distant howls and guttural moans of mistians echoing from somewhere far—or perhaps far too close.

Arjun sat in the galley, his eyes fixed on nothing. His breath shallow. The last time he’d descended this deep was with Ringo, in the aftermath of the first fight with the Mistheart. He remembered the drasura—its tentacles, the way its roar tore through the mist. That was the day he learned what true terror felt like. And now, he was here again.

He tightened his jaw. Humans could be reasoned with. Even deceived with enough effort. Mistians? They were primal. Brutal. Perfect predators designed to hunt and kill men like him; men who fought too hard to live.

And somewhere down here, among the corpses and flames, was a body with a little tenacity: Rickart. Or what was left of him.

“Arjun.” Ringo’s voice echoed through the ship. “Suit up. We’re nearin’ the bottom. I need yuh up top. Make sure we’ve got a clearin’ tuh land.”

Arjun stood, nodding silently. Elizabeth sat with Grizald across the room, their minds fused in that eerie silence they shared when they scouted for epithets. She gave him a quick glance—half support, half caution.

He made his way to the barracks and opened the locker of submistial suits. The smell of oil, steel, and leather struck him like a wave of memory. It had been months since he wore one. Since he needed to.

The suit was heavier than he remembered, or maybe he just wasn’t used to it anymore. Layered leather and chain, reinforced with steel rings at the joints, designed to resist acidic mist and razor claws alike. It took effort just to move in the thing, let alone breathe through the filter of the sealed mask. He clicked the rebreather into place and tested it—hiss, pause, hiss. He was ready.

Gamas at his sides, boots thudding against the floor, Arjun climbed the ladder to the upper hatch.

“Ready?” he called out.

Ringo, sitting at the console, nodded. A cocoon of soul energy formed around Arjun, sealing him off from the rest of the ship. “Go ahead.”

Arjun turned the wheel on the hatch, unsealing it with a loud metallic groan. The mist hissed around him, licking the edges of the soul shield as he climbed onto the upper deck of the Soulchaser.

Outside, it was like standing in wet darkness. The mist clung to every surface, curling in slow, unnatural spirals, blotting out all but the closest things. He could barely see his own hands. The eternal flames that flickered dimly in the distance were like dying stars, and the ship’s forward lights were the only real guide.

He made his way to the ARR gun mounted on the deck, gripped the handles, and aimed into the haze below.

The first shriek came from somewhere in the mist—sharp and close. Arjun’s pulse spiked. He opened fire without hesitation. The heavy repeater roared, spitting rounds into the fog. Muzzle flashes lit up silhouettes in the dark. Misshapen, wrong.

Mistians.

More shrieks answered. His bullets punched holes in shadows, and still more came. The Soulchaser began to spin slowly, giving him a wider arc. He fired at every flicker, every glint of fang or claw in the mist. It wasn’t about hitting them all. It was about letting them know these grounds were claimed.

Then, slowly, the cries faded. The silhouettes vanished. The mist fell into silence again, thick and choking.

He held his breath, waiting. Nothing.

Below him, the Soulchaser’s landing gear extended and hit the floor with a solid metallic thud, shaking the hull as it settled into place. The turbines slowed to a low, steady hum—just enough to keep auxiliary systems running in the abyss.

With a long exhale, Arjun dismounted the ARR gun and turned back toward the hatch. He knocked twice, the sound muffled in the dense atmosphere.

A moment later, Ringo’s voice echoed through the steel. “Come on in!”

The hatch wheel groaned as he turned it, and the moment he pulled it closed behind him, the soul chamber surrounding him collapsed with a flicker of dissipating light. He unclipped his mask and took a deep breath, the filtered air of the ship still tinged faintly with rust and oil—but far better than the decaying stench outside.

“Outside’s clear… for now,” Arjun reported.

“Good. Should stay that way fer a minute,” Ringo muttered, already heading toward the storage bay with purpose.

Elizabeth leaned forward in her seat, peering out the front viewport into a wall of pink-brown haze. “Even with the headlights, we can barely see past the hull,” she murmured.

“Not surprised,” Arjun said, lowering his air tank to the floor as he slumped into the galley’s creaking bench. “Mist’s so thick you can barely see your hand in front of you. Sight doesn’t help you much out here anyway. Mistians don’t use it. They smell you, feel you, hear the pulse of your blood. Doesn’t matter what you’ve read or how many you’ve seen—every one of them’s a nightmare.”

Elizabeth glanced at him. “You’ve been in the mist often?”

“Only once,” he replied. “Back during our run in with the Mistheart. I was just a kid back then… we barely made it out alive.”

She nodded solemnly. “They all die the same, at least.”

“That they do,” Ringo replied.

He reappeared, his satchel bulging with supplies—light sticks, rope, and a handful of explosives. He tossed it onto the table with a heavy thump.

“Arjun,” he said, “wanna test somethin’ ‘fore we head out?”

“What’s that?” Arjun asked, raising a brow.

“Yer epithet might be able tuh make yer skin tough enough tuh block the mist’s corrosive properties. If so, yuh won’t need that clunky suit—just the mask.”

Arjun narrowed his eyes. “And if it’s not?”

“Few seconds of exposure won’t kill yuh,” Ringo said flatly. “Might sting. Might burn. But if the tyran holds up, it’ll make things easier. A lot easier.”

After a moment of hesitation, Arjun nodded. “Alright. Let’s try it.”

He re-equipped the tank with a grunt, clicking the mask back into place with practiced motion. Then he peeled off his glove and placed his bare hand on one of his gamas.

The tyran crept up his arm like liquid metal, encasing his forearm in dense, glistening flesh. He flexed his fingers, the silver skin glinting under the dim lights.

“Ready,” he said.

Ringo led him to the airlock and pressed the seal control on the wall. With a clang, a steel shutter descended behind them, sealing them off from the rest of the ship.

“I’ll soul-bind the sleeve,” Ringo said, forming a glowing ring of soul energy around the point where tyran met leather and steel. “Just tuh make sure it don’t leak.”

He spun the wheel, opened the hatch—and the mist rolled in like breath from a cruel god.

Arjun stepped forward, extending his tyran hand into the haze. For a moment, he braced himself—waiting for the sting, the burn, the bubbling of his skin.

But nothing happened.

The mist slid harmlessly off the surface of his arm, unable to bite through the armor.

Ringo’s mouth curled into a grin. “Knew it. Yer epithet just became all the more valuable.”

Arjun gave a short laugh beneath his mask. “Good. Because I hate wearing this stupid suit.”

Ringo shut the door, hit the purge fan, and they returned to the ship interior as the steel wall lifted. Mist sucked away into the filtration system.

Elizabeth glanced up. “Looks like it worked.”

“Worked like a charm,” Ringo confirmed.

Arjun removed the mask again and dropped the tank with a grunt. “So? What’s the plan now?”

“This is ‘bout the place I dropped ‘im,” Ringo muttered, heading back to the table. “No soul pulse. No reading. Could mean he’s long gone. Or it could mean he’s fuelin’ one of those damn eternal flames.”

“Then we’re looking for bones?” Arjun asked.

Ringo tossed him a black sack. “Just the skull. That’s where his core’s stored. Find that, maybe we can grow us an immortal.”

Elizabeth stood, arms crossed. “How long are you going to be out there?”

“He’s got a day’s worth of air,” Ringo said. “We’ll circle the flames nearby. Stay within range. Move the ship if we have to.”

“I’ll guard the Soulchaser,” she said simply. “Try not to die out there.”

Ringo tipped his hat to her. “Appreciate it.”

Arjun shed his suit, touched his gama again, and the tyran form wrapped around him in full this time, glimmering like liquid armor. He set his gamas—his human skin—on the table, then resecured his mask and tank.

The two of them headed back to the hatch, locking themselves in the corridor with the protective shudders.

“Yuh ready?” Ringo asked, hand on the release wheel.

Arjun nodded. “Let’s go find a dead man.”

The outer door opened with a hiss, and the mist curled around their feet like eager fingers. The heat was gone here. The pressure of the deep settled on their shoulders like a weight.

They stepped out into the abyss—into a world shaped by death.

“Ain’t got time tuh waste,” Ringo said, glowing, icy-blue eyes scanning the swirling shadows. “Let’s head out.”

Arjun adjusted his grip on the bag and followed. They walked side by side, two phantoms vanishing into the fog, toward the nearest flicker of firelight.

The shrieks of mistians echoed all around them—blood-curdling howls, guttural snarls, and deep, resonant bellows that seemed to crawl across the mist and under their skin. But still, no shadows in sight.

They weren’t being hunted—yet.

In the mist, that was a kind of mercy.

Arjun and Ringo moved cautiously across the skeletal plain. Their boots pressed into brittle bones and rotted steel, crunching ever so faintly beneath each step. The floor was littered with the remains of the dead—millennia of battles, massacres, and feeding grounds built layer upon layer. Most of these bones were nameless mistians, but some might’ve even belonged to people. They were indistinguishable in the mist.

The only light came from a pale, flickering beacon in the distance: an eternal flame, burning white at its core, like a star imprisoned in fog. It pierced through the brownish-pink mist like a signal fire, promising warmth, vision… and violence.

To a survivor, it was a false sanctuary.

To the mistians, it was a dinner bell.

But they weren’t headed there for safety. They were there for remnants of an immortal—if it hadn’t already been devoured or incinerated by the flame’s unnatural properties.

Ringo’s hand hovered over his revolvers. Arjun’s posture was alert but less anxious than it might’ve been months ago. His tyran skin clung to him like a second armor—cool, flexible, impervious. He felt the fear, yes—but not panic. Not the helpless kind.

He could fight now. Maybe not win against everything, but survive. Hold his ground.

But there was only one law in the mist: hubris was always punished by the next deadliest abomination. No matter how powerful he became, there was always something lurking in the gloom, bigger and deadlier.

Even with his epithet, Arjun knew not to grow comfortable. If even immortals feared the mist, he would never be strong enough to truly feel safe.

By the time they felt the warmth of the flame brushing against their skin, the tension in the air had thickened. It wasn’t the heat that made them sweat—it was the sound. Not just shrieking now. Growls. Snorts. Skittering claws and the occasional sharp crack of teeth on bone.

“Ambrogs,” Arjun murmured under his breath.

Ringo nodded once. They crouched low, moving up a hill of what looked like sand at first glance—but was bone ground into fine dust, packed dense by millennia of trampling. The smell was sharp and metallic, thick with decay.

When they crested the hill, they froze.

Below them, gathered like animals around a fire, was a massive ambrog colony. Lanky, sinewy beasts with twisted limbs. Their sickly, pale skin stretched over their skeletal structure. They stood tall and twitchy—jerking their heads toward the slightest movement or sound.

And among them… broglings.

Young ambrogs. Tiny, frantic things the size of human toddlers, crawling under adult legs and leaping over bone piles.

Arjun had never seen that before. Few had.

He swallowed.

This wasn’t just a feeding pack. It was a settlement. A stronghold. And that made it dangerous on a whole new level. Mistians usually didn’t protect anything—but parents protected their young.

Arjun looked to Ringo. Their eyes met, and the old bounty hunter made a slow gesture with his fingers: back off. Get low. Move quiet.

They crawled back down the slope, every limb placed with care. Even a stray cough could turn this into a war zone. Once they were far enough to talk, Ringo whispered.

“Ain’t likin’ our odds head-on.”

“You think?” Arjun whispered, voice tense. “There’s gotta be hundreds.”

“Which is why I brought these.” Ringo swung his satchel around and pulled out a cluster of explosives—shaped like stones, with two red holes on top big enough for a thumb and pointer finger to fit. “Won’t kill a titan, but enough tuh make a good crater.”

Arjun stared at the explosives, then back at the hill. “Why not just toss one into the group? Hit ‘em before they know we’re there.”

Ringo shook his head. “Mistians hunt off sound and smell. A ground shakin’ explosion and ambrog guts all over the place’ll draw everything from a ten kilometer radius. ‘Sides, don’t wanna accidentally destroy the flame and its fuel.”

He paused. “We needa draw ‘em out. Get the whole colony tuh chase after me. Lead ‘em far enough that they don’t hear yuh while yer diggin’.”

Arjun hesitated. “So I sneak back in. Alone. And grab as many skulls as I can while you’re playing bait.”

“Exactly.”

“And what happens if they don’t chase you?”

“Then I’ll make ‘em,” Ringo said, lips curling into a grin. “I got a few tricks left in these old bones.”

Arjun looked down at the explosives in Ringo’s bag. “I hate this plan.”

“Means it’s a good one.”

Arjun sighed. “You really think Rickart’s skull is in that pile?”

“I think,” Ringo said, tightening the straps of his satchel, “that if he’s anywhere, he’s burnin’ in that flame. And if he ain’t? We’ll move tuh the next hell.”

Arjun looked up toward the distant glow. “Then let’s get it over with.”

“Atta boy,” Ringo said. “Once I draw ‘em out, don’t wait. Be quick. Be quiet. And whatever yuh do, don’t stop movin’. They see yuh? That flame’ll be the last thing yuh ever see.”

Arjun nodded once.

Then the two of them split—one heading into fire, the other into madness.

Arjun perched atop the bone-dusted mound, barely breathing. Even the hiss of his oxygen mask sounded too loud. He stared through the thick, pinkish-brown haze, waiting for the moment. For Ringo’s signal. For the gap that would let him slip into the firelight and grab what they came for.

Far off in the gloom, Ringo moved like a phantom, placing the last of the explosives in a wide arc. He slotted each charge into the cracked surface, twisting until a red glow lit inside the casing—one by one, lighting a circle of death. He checked the detonator in his palm. The other hand rested on his revolver, fingers twitching with readiness.

When he turned back and headed toward the flame, he drew in a breath and muttered under it: “Time tuh dance.”

He stepped into the firelight.

The ambrogs barely noticed at first. They bickered and hissed, their skeletal bodies hunched over scraps—bones slick with blood, corpses still twitching. Their eyes flicked with static rage as they fought over half-eaten limbs, tongues curling out to taste the damp bones.

Then Ringo fired.

A shot cracked the darkness. One bullet into the heart of the pack. The nearest ambrog screeched and collapsed.

The response was instant. The three alpha ambrogs rose to their full height, towering shadows with jaws like bear traps. Their bellowing roars made the ground quake. With a shriek from the alphas, the entire swarm surged into motion—hundreds of limbs clicking and thundering over the sand, bones shattering beneath their feet.

“Come on, yuh bastards!” Ringo shouted, spinning on his heel.

He ran, his duster whipping behind him as he darted into the mist. Behind him, the world thundered with pursuit. The horde of ambrogs, young and old, swarmed like an avalanche. Some leapt over others, eager to be the first to reach him. Their growls shook the air. The earth cracked with each strike of their limbs.

Ringo fired backward—one, two, three, four, five shots—barely slowing them. He didn’t need to kill them. He only needed to make them follow.

He reached the edge of his trap and flung up a dome of soul energy around himself. The glowing barrier shimmered like molten glass as the first ambrogs slammed against it.

Then—click.

The detonator pulsed once in his hand.

BOOM.

The earth shattered. The explosion ripped outward in a perfect circle. Mistian ichor sprayed like molten oil. Limbs cartwheeled through the haze. The force of the blast cracked the ground and sent a thunderclap echoing through the mist for kilometers.

The soul shield shattered—Ringo dropped to a knee but stayed alive. He gasped, body trembling from the soul expenditure, but he was up again a heartbeat later, guns drawn.

The few ambrogs left stumbled, dazed and burnt. Ringo didn’t hesitate—he aimed through the swirling haze, his eyes glowing blue with soul-sight. He picked them off one by one, each shot precise, efficient.

Meanwhile, at the eternal flame, Arjun moved.

He vaulted down the bone dune and landed in a crouch. Heat rolled off the fire in waves. Skulls and bones littered the base—thousands, but only hundreds of skulls—and even less that were human. The fire glowed white-hot in the center, flickering violet around the edges. Arjun didn’t hesitate. He knelt by the flame, reached in with his tyran-covered hands, and began pulling out the skulls of humans.

His tyran skin sizzled in the heat. The oxygen tank hissed at his back—one wrong move and he’d be mistian food. Still, he worked fast, throwing every human skull into the black sack Ringo gave him. It grew heavy quickly, but he pressed on.

The shots echoed in the distance. Mistian screams filled the air. Ringo was holding them off.

Then—a shriek overhead.

Arjun ducked instinctively. Talons scraped over his tank. A harpy dove, missed by centimeters, and circled back. Arjun cursed, eyes darting upward through the mist. The harpy dove again.

He braced himself and caught it by the leg mid-dive, using its momentum to slam it down. It screeched and thrashed. He crushed its skull beneath his boot, ichor splattering across his mask.

More shrieks followed.

He grabbed the bag and ran.

Ringo was surrounded. Ambrogs, harpies, mirelings even a few mistfangs.  The endless ranks of Crux’s wrath clawed at him from every side. He ducked, rolled, kicked. His coat was torn, soaked in blood—some his, some theirs. Soul energy radiated from his skin like heat waves.

He hurled a grenade behind him and spun, firing both revolvers in synchronized rhythm. Still, they kept coming.

Then—thud-thud-thud.

A low vibration through the earth.

A shadow fell over the battlefield.

Ringo turned. His breath caught.

A titan emerged.

Its legs were spindled towers—ten in all. A great crustacean form with claws like siege engines, and a hulking mass of shipwrecks fused to its back like a castle of rust and ruin. Heavy weaponry, shattered decks, long-dead lanterns, and bones stuck out of the chitinous shell like reef barnacles.

It didn’t roar. It moved.

Massive claws swept through the battlefield, scooping up ambrogs and devouring them whole. Steel groaned with every movement of its legs. One of its eyes—a massive, pearl-white orb—turned and glared in his direction.

Ringo’s mouth went dry. “Crux almighty…”

Behind him, Arjun burst into view, sack in hand.

“I got them! Let’s go!”

Ringo didn’t wait. “Run! Don’t look back!”

They ran, shadows flickering around them as the titan carved through the battlefield. Mistians screamed as they were crushed or devoured. The scent of mistian blood choked the air.

They didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Even as Arjun’s legs burned and his breath came in ragged hisses, he forced himself to keep moving. Ringo caught up, nearly dragging him through the mist.

Behind them, the titan kept feasting.

Clearing the horde for them, unknowingly.

Ringo’s diversion had cleared their path—but only that.

As he and Arjun neared the ship, new sounds bled through the mist—snarling, screeching, steel clashing. Another fight. Another war zone. Their boots crunched through boney grit as they slowed their approach, weapons ready.

Shapes flickered through the haze, silhouettes illuminated by a pulsing white glow.

It was Elizabeth.

Armored from neck to toe, her polished steel plating shimmered with her sword’s bright light. A streamlined gas mask wrapped over her face, twin oxygen tanks mounted on her mask. Her broadsword burned like a white-hot ember, cutting arcs of searing light through the mist.

She danced between the jaws of death with ruthless efficiency—fluid, controlled, lethal. Mistfangs surrounded her in a frenzied swarm, lunging from all sides with jagged claws and gleaming fangs. But Elizabeth didn’t flinch. She moved like a storm given human form—grace in every pivot, fury in every strike.

Her sword cleaved clean through the mistfangs, searing their flesh as it passed. Sparks and ichor splattered across the air like oil thrown into a forge.

From above, the Soulchaser floated like a silent sentinel, suspended meters above the ground. Its heavy anchor chain plunged into the sea’s floor, tethering it in place and just out of reach of the hungry mistfang pack below.

Harpies descended from above, screeching as they dove toward her. Elizabeth pivoted, slicing an arc of pure light into the sky—one, two, three—cutting them down mid-flight. Their broken bodies spiraled into the abyss.

She wasn’t just fighting. She was commanding the battlefield.

Each move was calculated, precise. She twisted her stance with the weight of wind, struck with the inevitability of fire, held her ground with the strength of a mountain. Even her voice—a war cry that split the mist—caused the mistfangs to recoil in hesitation.

And hesitation was death.

Ringo stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he watched. “Helluva woman,” he muttered, then pulled his revolvers free.

He opened fire, his shots snapping through the haze like thunderclaps. Harpies shrieked overhead, but Ringo’s aim was sharp. The swarm scattered as bodies fell from the sky.

“Arjun! Climb the anchor and use the gun!” he called out, though Arjun was already moving.

Clutching the bag of skulls, Arjun sprinted toward the base of the chain. Halfway there, something slammed into him from the side.

A mistfang.

The beast’s full weight knocked him off his feet. Arjun twisted mid-fall, slamming onto his back with the oxygen tank pinned beneath him. The mistfang latched its jaws around his throat—but the tyran shell held. Its teeth cracked on his neck like glass on steel.

It recoiled, whimpering.

Arjun’s arm shot up, wrapping around its neck. His other arm locked in. With a grunt, he twisted, squeezing tight. The mistfang howled, thrashing to be freed—then went limp. A sickening snap echoed into the mist.

Arjun shoved the corpse aside and bolted to his feet. He didn’t hesitate. Every second mattered.

He reached the anchor and gripped the thick, rusted chain, climbing hand over hand. The groan of steel echoed as he reached the ladder, hauling himself onto the hull. The deck was slick with condensation, every breath inside the mask ragged.

He made it to the mounted ARR gun, grabbed the handles, and swung it around to the sky.

RATATATATAT.

The first line of fire swept the skies clean. Harpies disintegrated into dark mist and feathers. He pulled down, aiming into the mass below. Elizabeth was still fighting, but the pack was losing ground—and fast.

He fired into the swarm, not indiscriminately, but surgically—breaking the ranks, collapsing their momentum.

Down below, the remaining mistfangs hesitated. Their leaders were dead. Their numbers thinned. The battlefield shifted.

They scattered.

What was left of the horde fled into the shadows, shrieking in frustration and defeat.

The field fell silent.

Arjun exhaled, stepped back from the gun, and made his way down the ladder. He reached the hull’s side hatch and opened it. He stepped inside and shut the hatch behind him. The chamber filled with noise as fans whirred to life, purging the remaining mist. The shutter rose above him.

Inside, Grizald sat still in his chair—unbothered, unblinking. His breathing was soft, his presence unshaken by the chaos outside.

Arjun made a straight line to the cockpit and dropped the sack at his feet, landing the Soulchaser in a slow descent. The landing gear extended, grinding against bone and sand until the ship settled with a heavy thump.

He returned to the hatch, pressed the button again. The steel barrier dropped into place with a clang, sealing the interior once more. Then he twisted the wheel and opened the outer hatch.

Ringo climbed in first, breathing hard. His coat was torn, body streaked with blood and ichor, face half-lit by the fading soulfire in his eyes.

Elizabeth followed. Her armor was dented in places, her mask cracked but intact. Her sword, once glowing, now hung dull at her side.

“You alright?” Arjun asked her.

She yanked her mask off and exhaled. “They won’t be trying that again.”

Ringo leaned against the wall, catching his breath. “That was too damn close.”

Arjun nodded, closing the hatch behind them with a metallic thunk. “But we’ve got what we came for.”

He pressed the purge button on the control panel. A low hum kicked in as the airlock sequence activated—fans roaring to life, pulling in the remaining mist and filtering it outside the Soulchaser. Overhead, the heavy steel shutter lifted with a hiss.

The three of them stepped inside, feet dragging, the weight of exhaustion heavier than their gear.

Elizabeth was the first to move toward the galley. Her sword hung limply at her side. She unclasped her gauntlets with a trembling hand and let them drop with a metallic clatter onto the table.

Beneath them, her hands were raw—flesh blistered and torn from the corrosive burn of the mist. Tendons showed beneath layers of pale, scorched skin. The pain had to be excruciating… but she said nothing.

Arjun winced when he saw them. He unhooked his oxygen tank and pulled off his mask, letting out a breath he’d been holding far too long. “You sure you’re alright?”

Elizabeth looked down at her palms, flexing her fingers slowly. Her eyes narrowed, jaw tight. “Didn’t have time for the full suit. I knew it would hurt—but I heal faster than the mist can kill me.”

Even as she spoke, the wounds began to knit themselves closed—flesh knitting together in slow, unnatural folds of pink and red. Within seconds, the worst of it had begun to fade.

“Long as Grizald’s breathin’, she’ll live,” Ringo said. He didn’t even glance up. He was already at the table, crouched beside the bag of skulls Arjun had retrieved. “Now let’s see if we can make ghosts talk.”

With a grunt, he overturned the sack. Bone tumbled out in a clattering heap—skulls rolling across the steel table, each one brittle and silent.

Ringo spread them out with care. He picked one up and examined it under the dim light. Its jaw was wide, the eye sockets set far apart. “This one’s an ambrog skull. Ain’t human.” He set it aside and picked up another.

Arjun moved across the room and touched the fleshy hilts of his gamas, drawing the tyran back into them. His regular skin reemerged, it crept up his arms and to the rest of his body until it was completely tyran-free. “Sorry. I grabbed everything I could. Wasn’t exactly a calm shopping trip.”

“No one’s blamin’ yuh,” Ringo muttered. “Can’t expect perfect discernment in the conditions. But yuh sure yuh got all the human skulls?”

Arjun reattached his gamas to his hips and leaned on the table, watching as Ringo continued sorting. “I’m sure I got every human skull I could find. If Rickart’s was there… it’s in that pile.”

Ringo nodded slowly. “Then it’s just a waitin’ game now.”

The three of them stood still for a moment, listening to the low hum of the ship’s engines and the gentle creak of metal beneath their feet.

Arjun sighed and sank into the seat beside the table. “I hope we got it on the first try. I don’t want to spend another second down here. Let alone days.”

Elizabeth took a seat as well, rotating her wrist and wincing at the final tug of regrowth beneath her skin. “I share the sentiment. We’re pushing our luck every minute we linger in the mist.”

“How long until we know if one of these is Rickart’s?” she asked, glancing at the skulls.

“Hour or so, give or take,” Ringo said. “If he’s in there. Skull’ll start rebuildin’ the rest of ‘em. Might even twitch, if we’re lucky.”

“And if we’re not?” Arjun asked.

Ringo looked up from the bones. “Then we try again somewhere else. There’s more eternal flames. More bones. Just gotta keep diggin’.”

He moved to the navigation console and lowered himself into the pilot’s seat, fingers dancing across the dials and switches. The engines powered up with a slow rumble, shaking the hull as the Soulchaser rumbled back to life.

“First, we head up. I’ll find a dock in Cales. We need supplies, and Grizald ain’t lookin’ too lively. Could use some rest topside.”

Outside, the landing gear began to retract. A deep metallic groan echoed through the floor as the Soulchaser rose into the mist, leaving behind the carcasses, dust, and mist-choked ruins below.

They ascended slowly, the pinkish-brown fog thinning with each meter climbed.

Inside, silence returned—heavy, strained, but not empty. It was the silence of people who had survived something they weren’t entirely sure they’d survive again. The kind of silence that lingered with the burn of adrenaline still retreating from the bloodstream.

Arjun sat across from Elizabeth at the galley table, his fingers drumming slowly against his gamas. He watched her as she flexed her healing hands, the last of the burns flaking away like ash. Her face was as calm as stone, but her eyes were elsewhere—locked on something in memory.

“You were amazing out there,” Arjun said finally, breaking the silence. “Fighting those mistfangs… you moved like a Hoeprian Templar. I’ve never seen anyone fight like that.”

Elizabeth’s gaze sharpened, pulled back from wherever it had drifted. “Oh? You know a lot about the Templars?”

Arjun nodded. “I grew up in Falecrine. I lived at the Abeldarus Temple for a few years as an orphan. I used to watch the Templars train in the courtyards.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Then it might surprise you to know—I’m the one who founded them.”

Arjun blinked, stunned. “Wait… seriously? You founded the Hoeprian Templars?”

She nodded. “Under order of Lore Master Varius, during the first attempt to build the Staff in these lands. Grizald and I were sent by Mishka, following the path laid out by Lore Keeper Theodosius. While he helped establish Nacona, I raised the Templar Order.”

Arjun leaned forward. “You’ve… tried this before?”

Elizabeth’s smile faded. “We’ve tried more than once. Long before Ringo ever set foot in the Aenean territories.”

She folded her hands on the table. “Have you met Mishka yet?”

Arjun shook his head. “No. Ringo’s never mentioned her.”

“That’s no surprise. Mishka prefers the shadows. Ringo might be the face of the Crux Wars, but Mishka… she’s the one who always pulled the strings. She’s the architect of every organized resistance against the Lost God since the sundering.”

“I thought the Mono-Cruxists came to Hoepria almost a century before the Templars were founded.”

“They did. That was Mishka’s foresight. She saw the tension in their faith—the schism in their doctrine. She knew, eventually, conflict would spark revolution. When they began to rebel against mistian oil, she called me and Grizald. My job was to train an army and bide our time.”

Arjun frowned. “But nothing ever came of it.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you ask Ringo what happened?”

Arjun turned in his chair to look at Ringo, who sat at the navigation console. The old man didn’t meet his eyes. “Valeria happened.”

“Valeria?” Arjun asked. “The woman terrorizing Solinum?”

Ringo finally glanced back, his voice quiet but steady. “Met ‘er in Alcaecia ‘bout a hundred years after I left Lijiang. Mishka and Beth already had a foundation here in Hoepria. I brought Valeria in thinkin’ she could help. She had the right convictions—knew the dangers of the Lost God, wanted to stop him. But she… didn’t know how tuh wait.”

Elizabeth scoffed. “She didn’t just act on her own—she imploded our operation.”

“What happened?” Arjun asked, brow furrowed.

Elizabeth’s expression hardened. “Do you know about the Poly-Crux Inquisition? The assassination of Emperor Cyrillus?”

Arjun nodded. “Yeah. The Lore Master tried to amend The Crux. That’s what sparked it, right?”

“That idea came from Valeria,” Elizabeth said coldly. “She pushed Lore Master Photius to announce her reforms. Publicly. Loudly. Before we were ready.”

Arjun’s expression darkened. “But that triggered the whole purge…”

Elizabeth nodded. “The Keepers retaliated immediately. They assassinated Cyrillus and installed a puppet regime. They used the inquisition to wipe out Mono-Cruxist leaders, decimate the Templars, and scatter our networks across the islands. Centuries of groundwork—gone overnight.”

Arjun turned back to Ringo. “Is that why you imprisoned her?”

Ringo didn’t answer at first. He stared through the console windshield as the haze of the mist thinned and rays of sunlight began to break through above them.

“She went rogue,” he said at last. “And she paid the price.”

Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice low but unwavering. “Please understand this, Arjun. Ringo’s last apprentice shattered everything we built. The damage she did cost us a war before it even began. We’ve waited over four hundred years for another chance.”

Arjun swallowed hard. “You think I’m supposed to… fix what she broke?”

Elizabeth didn’t blink. “No. I hope you can. Just don’t repeat her mistakes. Don’t be reckless. Don’t be proud. And don’t try to carry this alone.”

He didn’t know how to respond. The air felt heavier than before. The silence wasn’t just silence now—it was expectation. Responsibility. Legacy.

Then, sunlight broke through fully.

The mist peeled away from the viewports. Pale pink skies opened above them as the Soulchaser breached the surface. Sea and sky returned to sight, and with them came a tentative breath of peace.

“We ain’t runnin’ the same race, Beth,” Ringo said quietly. “This time, the war’s already started. We got more pieces than before. And we’re close to the next one. We don’t need armies—we just need tuh move faster than the Keepers.”

Elizabeth stood and walked toward Grizald’s chair, checking his pulse and brushing a hand gently along his temple.

“I’ve waited a long time for this,” she said softly. “I hope you’re right this time.”

Without another word, she turned and stepped into the barracks, the door sliding shut behind her.

Ringo and Arjun sat in silence again. The kind that wasn’t comfortable. The kind that thickened with every passing second, like mist pressing down on the walls of the Soulchaser.

Finally, Arjun broke it. His voice low, restrained—but sharp.

“How come you never told me any of this before?”

Ringo didn’t look up. “What would’ve been the point? It was a mistake I made a long time ago. Lifetimes ago. Ain’t got much tuh do with the road ahead.”

“It has everything to do with it,” Arjun snapped, getting out of his seat and stepping closer. “We fought her. She possessed me. She whispered things in my ear—told me you’d betray me one day. That this was all a lie. And you never warned me. You never trusted me with any of it.”

Ringo stayed quiet for a beat. Then he sighed and leaned back, eyes distant.

“I’ve lived a long time, Arjun. Long enough tuh bury whole versions of muhself. I’ve made choices—some bad, some worse—and learned tuh live with the ghosts. But it ain’t easy explainin’ all that. There’s things I can’t explain. Nuance that don’t fit intuh clean little stories.”

He looked up, meeting Arjun’s gaze.

“If I laid it all out, if yuh knew every name, every fight, every broken promise—I reckon yuh might start lookin’ at me the same way the Keepers do. And I ain’t that man anymore. Least, I don’t wanna be.”

Arjun was quiet for a moment, the ship humming beneath their feet. Then he stepped closer and planted his hand firmly on the console beside Ringo.

“I’m not the Keepers. I’m not some ancient god or a priest or a soldier. I’m me. And I chose to be here. Not because you’re perfect. Not because you never made mistakes. But because I believe in what we’re doing. And I believe in you.”

Ringo didn’t answer. He just watched Arjun for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then Arjun gave a tired nod and turned away.

“I’ll be in the barracks. Wake me when we reach Calixtus.”

He disappeared into the barracks. The sound of the door shutting echoed softly behind him.

Ringo turned back to the controls, his reflection in the glass barely visible against the mist-thinned sunlight. Alone with the wheel again, he guided the Soulchaser forward in silence.

It didn’t take long to reach Calixtus.

The Soulchaser drifted through the sky until it locked into one of the dock’s landing pads against the western edge of Cales. The ship’s hum dulled to a quiet purr as the engines powered down, sighing like a beast at rest.

Ringo didn’t move at first. He sat in silence, staring at the navigation console as if hoping the skulls would change if he waited long enough. Eventually, he pushed himself up with a grunt and walked over to the galley table. The skulls were still there, scattered across the surface like dice cast by cruel gods.

He inspected them again. Still. Silent. Lifeless.

No signs of regeneration. No immortal bone trying to knit itself back together. No faint flicker of essence. Just ordinary, decayed remains—just more victims of the mist.

Ringo exhaled, slow and long, and made his way to the barracks. He gave the door two gentle knocks.

“Got some good news and some bad,” he called. “Y’all wanna come out here?”

Within moments, Elizabeth stepped out. Arjun followed, eyes bleary from restless sleep, clad in his worn undershirt and trousers.

“What’s going on?” Arjun asked, rubbing the exhaustion from his face.

Ringo gestured toward the table. “Skulls ain’t regeneratin’. Looks like we ain’t got Rickart. But we docked safe, leastways.”

Elizabeth groaned. “So, we’re headed back down?”

“Refuel. Resupply,” Ringo said, scratching his stubble. “Then we go again. Reckon we’ll find ‘em soon enough.”

Neither Arjun nor Elizabeth answered. They didn’t need to. The silence said enough.

And Ringo—though he masked it with calm—would eat those words in time.

What was meant to be a single descent turned into eight months of searching.

Days below, days above. Days where time didn’t feel real anymore—just endless cycles of diving into hell, clawing their way back out, only to dive in again. Eternal flames became familiar, skulls became currency, and the mist, once terrifying, was now just a backdrop to their slow unraveling.

Sometimes they took bounties—small jobs to refill their pockets or Ringo’s soul reserves—but it always led back to the mist. That became their life. That became their truth.

August blurred into Februa. The months changed above, but not below. The mist was always the same.

And so was the failure.

Arjun stirred awake for what felt like the hundredth time in the same dock in Cales. His spine ached. His joints popped as he stood.

He heard the engines whining low. They were descending again. Different location, same nightmare.

In the main room, Elizabeth was already sitting beside Grizald, her hands clasped as she focused. Her expression was unreadable now—stoic, hollow. She didn’t even look up when Arjun walked past.

Ringo was at the helm smoking a cigarette, same as always. His face hadn’t changed, but Arjun knew the weight was wearing him thin.

Arjun geared up in silence.

Gas mask. Oxygen tank. Gamas. Tyran.

Routine.

He moved with mechanical precision. There was no fear anymore, no anxiety. Just fatigue. Deep, soul-rattling fatigue. He could fight mistians in his sleep. Sometimes he felt like he did.

He climbed the ladder like it was a chore. Took his position at the ARR gun. Fired. Cleared the path. Dropped down again.

Back inside the ship.

Same steps. Same outcomes.

He peeled off the mask with a hiss and just stood there for a moment, hollowed out.

Ringo didn’t say anything either. He just walked to his cabinet and poured himself a drink—then handed the bottle to Arjun. Neither said anything. Arjun drank straight from the bottle. Ringo tossed his back in a single gulp.

They locked eyes for a second. Both of them looked dead tired.

Arjun set the bottle down on the counter and didn’t look back at Ringo. “We doing this again?”

Ringo nodded and handed him the same worn black sack.

“We’ll find him this time.”

“Sure,” Arjun muttered. He didn’t believe it. Not anymore.

He slung the bag over his shoulder and walked toward the hatch. Ringo followed.

“See yuh later,” he called back.

Elizabeth didn’t turn around. Her eyes were still fixed on Grizald, her mind tethered to the mist. “Good luck,” she said quietly. “You desperately need it.”

Ringo tipped his hat and disappeared behind the shutter.

They stepped outside into the thick, oppressive haze, and the same sickly hues of the pinkish mist greeted them—like always. After months, it no longer looked alien or eerie. It looked disgusting. Familiar in the way rot becomes familiar. The kind of pink that sickens the soul.

But then—something caught their eye.

A light, distant but unmistakable, flickered through the haze.

An Eternal Flame. But this one wasn’t like the others.

It pulsed.

Its glow flared brighter for a moment, almost like it was breathing—alive. A heartbeat in the dark. The usual pale white radiance suddenly refracted into prismatic colors—brilliant ribbons of violet, green, and gold—before dimming back into the usual white. Then it pulsed again, the color flashing briefly like the beat of a heart refusing to die.

Ringo’s mouth parted slightly. “That’s… not normal.”

Arjun leaned forward, squinting through the blur of mist. “Could it be…?”

Ringo’s eyes lit up with sudden, childlike intensity. “It’s Rickart,” he breathed. “It gotta be.”

That flickering, that spectral pulse—it had to be him.

Hope, long buried beneath fatigue and failure, surged up through their veins like fire through dry kindling. After months of fruitless dives, they could feel it: this was the one. A second wind bloomed through their aching limbs, their senses sharpening as if the mist itself had become thinner.

They looked at each other. A silent agreement passed between them.

They moved.

Not recklessly, but purposefully—fast and light, navigating the treacherous, bone-littered landscape with practiced grace. The mist surrounded them, thick as ever, but they had learned to read it like scripture. The subtle hiss of a harpy’s wing, the way the bones crackled under heavier steps, the reverberations of distant snarls—they knew how to interpret it all.

They’d earned their survival here. This wasn’t luck anymore.

They were experts.

The eternal flame shimmered about three kilometers away, its strange light pulsing ever more vividly as they neared. And for once, the mist itself seemed to part for them—perhaps out of respect, perhaps out of dread.

They didn’t fight. They didn’t need to.

Until they heard the combat.

Roughly a kilometer from the flame, the stillness shattered.

The first signs were the bodies.

Uneaten. Undisturbed. Wrong. In the mist, death was never wasted. Yet here were corpses—scattered sparsely at first, then thickening into fields of the fallen. Mistians who had died not in ambush or feeding, but in battle. And left to rot.

Then came the sound—distant at first, like thunder muffled by fog, but growing rapidly.

Roars. Screeches. Bone-breaking impacts.

The ground beneath them quivered as they approached a ridge of calcified remains. And as they reached the summit, the horizon exploded into view.

A war.

No… a massacre.

An unholy storm of monsters swarmed around the eternal flame. The once-modest fire had grown enormous, fed by mountains of corpses. It burned like a lighthouse of death, a monument to the carnage. But instead of warding off mistians, it called to them. And they answered.

Thousands—tens of thousands—fought and killed in the flickering light. It was every kind of horror they’d ever seen, and many they hadn’t. A graveyard in the making. A fortress built of bodies.

The two stood, frozen in a cocktail of awe and horror.

Ringo murmured, “Crux help us…”

Colossal titans loomed in the distance—monstrous horrors grinding lesser beasts underfoot. Ambrogs watched the chaos from hills of bone, darting in only to drag off the freshest kills. Harpies swooped down from above, talons plucking out eyes and entrails before vanishing into the mist again.

A cyclops waded through the swarm, one claw slicing through a bubonid’s chest as green acid splattered in a geyser. Mistfangs surged in packs, coordinated and lethal, while basilisks slithered through the trenches, vomiting toxic gas that melted anything it touched.

And then—screams.

A drasura reared back, spewing acid into the eyes of an arachneth. The eight-legged horror shrieked and staggered, lashing wildly as its legs crushed hundreds of creatures in its panic. It stumbled into the massive ring of corpses encircling the eternal flame. The moment its leg touched the fire, it ignited—its shriek was a banshee wail that echoed like the end of days.

It collapsed atop the burning pile. Flame spilled out like a tidal wave. The fire spread fast, igniting flesh and bone, bathing everything in gold and ash. The stench of burning meat overwhelmed even the rot of the mist.

Ringo and Arjun stood at the ridge, unmoving. Arjun gripped the sack in his hand like it was the only thing grounding him.

“This is…” Arjun began, but couldn’t finish.

Ringo finished it for him. “Bad… real bad.”

They had seen much in their long descent through hell—but this was new. This was worse.

And somewhere in the eye of this storm of monsters, burning bodies, and writhing death… was a skull that could change the fate of the world.

The skull of Rickart was in there.

And there was only one way to get it.

“We’re runnin’ straight through,” Ringo said, eyes locked on the hell ahead. His voice was gravel and steel.

Arjun blinked. “What?”

“Only way we can.” Ringo didn’t look at him. “Hope they’re too busy tearin’ each other apart to notice us. We make straight for the flame. Yuh get in, grab the skull, and we bolt.”

Arjun’s voice rose in disbelief. “I’m going into that?”

“I can’t,” Ringo said plainly. “My souls’ll protect me from the mist, but not that kind of heat. The heart of that flame’s hotter than a gut. Yer tyran’s the only thing tough enough tuh withstand it.”

Arjun hesitated. “But what about my air tank?”

“I’ll burn through extra souls. Wrap yuh in energy, keep the mist off long enough fer yuh tuh breathe. But it’ll drain me. I gotta stay close.”

Arjun stared at the inferno. The flame was like a dying star, pulsing in and out with a beat that rattled his bones. “I’ll do it,” he said, steady now. “If it ends this hunt… if it gets us out of here… I’ll do it.”

Ringo cracked a smile. “That’s the spirit. That’s Rickart’s skull, I know it. No other damn fire starts a war like this.”

Arjun dropped the air tank to the sand. “Alright then. Let’s end this.”

Ringo reached out, enclosing Arjun’s face in a shifting dome of soul energy. It shimmered faintly with a bluish sheen, alive with ghostlight.

“Uh… one more thing,” Ringo said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yuh were fine grabbin’ skulls near the edge of the flame, but yer goin’ right into the belly this time…”

Arjun narrowed his eyes. “And?”

“Yer clothes. They’ll burn right off. Turn tuh ash before yuh even get halfway.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Arjun sighed with the weight of exhaustion and inevitability. “Fine.”

He began stripping, his movements mechanical. Shirt, pants, boots—all came off and went into the black sack with his air tank and gas mask. Goosebumps raced across his skin. Ringo took the bag with a grunt and slung it over his shoulder.

“Yuh good?” Ringo asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Arjun said, cracking his neck.

“Alright. Let’s finish this and get the hell outta here.”

They launched themselves down the bone ridge, sliding fast over cracked skulls and fossilized vertebrae. The slope gave way suddenly, and they tumbled the last few meters before hitting the mist-soaked ground running.

Chaos.

Every direction erupted with shrieks and explosions. Mistians clawed, roared, screeched, and bled. Creatures the size of buildings fought alongside monsters no bigger than wolves. It wasn’t a battlefield—it was a maelstrom.

Above them, a shriek split the sky. A dozen mistvex circled like vultures before dive-bombing, lashing at the swarm with barbed tails. They impaled a cyclops, a drake, and turned an entire pack of mistfangs into pulp.

Something massive hit the ground beside them—a twilightscour, dead before it landed. Its blackened wings shattered like glass. It had been cleaved in two, its ichor soaking into the sea of bones.

Ringo and Arjun ran.

They didn’t dodge—they didn’t weave. There was no room for fancy maneuvers here. Just speed and trust that luck, or some divine hand, would keep them from being decapitated by a reaper’s scythe or skewered on a harpy’s talon.

A cyclops turned its enormous head toward them, mouth agape.

Ringo snapped his revolver up and fired—once, twice, three times—until the back of the cyclops’ skull blew apart like overripe fruit. It crumpled behind them with a quake.

They were twenty meters out.

Then ten.

Then five.

The heat hit them.

It was like standing inside a forge—blistering waves pouring out from the flame. Bones crackled beneath their feet as they skidded to a halt at the edge of the burning mound.

The eternal flame roared now. It wasn’t a fire—it was a beast. The way it pulsed, the way it consumed, it felt alive. Each flare was like the exhale of a god.

“Few eyes on us!” Ringo shouted over the din, dropping the bag and drawing both his revolvers. “I’ll hold ‘em! Get in there and grab it!”

As Arjun stepped forward, Ringo’s guns barked lightning. A quartet of mistians closed in from the right—a basilisk, a tentral, two gorgos. Ringo dropped all four before they hit ten meters.

Arjun turned back just once. “I’ll be fast.”

“Make damn sure,” Ringo growled, already lining up another shot.

Arjun turned back to the flame and took a breath—not for his lungs, but for his soul. Then he stepped into the inferno.

The fire rushed to greet him, hungry and wild.

And he disappeared inside.

Arjun worked quickly. Each step deeper into the inferno was like wading through a furnace’s breath. The pile of burning corpses formed a sprawling labyrinth, a shifting structure of flame and bone that twisted around the core of the eternal flame like roots coiled around a sacred heart. Flaming ribs jutted out like the skeletons of ancient beasts, some crackling, some hissing as fluids within them vaporized. 

The center of the flame stood like a mountain, a tower of bones built upon centuries of death. The eternal flame towered hundreds of meters into the mist-choked sky, burning from its roots to its crown, flaring brighter every time it pulsed. When it did, its diameter nearly doubled, the sheer force of heat blasting outward in concentric waves.

Even with tyran flesh, Arjun could feel it gnawing at him. Not enough to melt him down—but enough to warn: you don’t belong here.

He gritted his teeth and plunged deeper.

Outside the inferno, Ringo planted his boots in scorched bone and stayed fixed to his post. The flames behind him licked at his coat, throwing light that made his silver revolvers gleam like twin stars in the mist.

They were coming from every direction now.

Harpies screamed down from above, but he clipped them out of the sky with practiced ease. Mistfangs darted through the battlefield like sharks beneath dark water. He snapped off three shots—two to the chest, one to the skull—and downed another pack leader. More replaced it.

He was out of breath, sweat soaking through his collar. It had been months of this—month after month of war and fire and failure. But today had to be different. This was the last time. This had to be the one.

A hulking figure emerged from the side—a barbarian. Ogre-sized, its back scarred and calloused, its weapon a femur longer than Arjun was tall. It charged, roaring with its jaw unhinged.

Ringo didn’t flinch.

One bullet.

Right between the eyes.

The barbarian’s brain exploded mid-step, its momentum carrying it forward. It collapsed with an earth-shaking crash, steam rising from its corpse as it crushed a trio of mistfangs beneath it.

“Keep movin’, kid,” Ringo muttered under his breath, watching the shadows ripple beyond the haze. “Keep diggin’.”

Then he saw them.

Tentacles.

Black. Titanic. Moving like slow tidal waves through the mist.

Each one as thick as an airship’s hull. They slithered with horrifying grace across the battlefield, curling, uncurling—devouring. Bodies disappeared beneath them like they were nothing. Cyclopses were snapped in half. Gorgos crushed like paper dolls.

The mist warped with their motion. Air currents turned. A low, submistial moan echoed from below.

“Kraken…” Ringo whispered, and for a moment, his breath caught. Even his immortal heart thudded faster.

No one fought a kraken. Not even other titans.

“Come on,” he muttered, eyes still scanning. “Come on, Arjun…”

Inside the fire, Arjun caught the change.

The pulse was different—off-center. Not from the flame’s core, but from a node that seemed to resist the rest. A bulge in the ripple.

He sprinted toward it.

As the next pulse surged, he saw it. One skull. Wedged between two scorched vertebrae, bone white and whole—but with one difference: a faint light pulsed in the hollow of its eye socket. Not firelight. Not reflection.

A soul.

He lunged, grabbed it with both hands.

The moment his fingers wrapped around it, the skull ignited from within. A pale white flame, not like the one surrounding him, but colder. Smarter. Alive.

The pulse stopped.

The eternal flame dimmed—not extinguished, but changed. Its prismatic flicker ceased. It burned now as any other eternal flame would: hot, steady, eternal. But the magic—the anomaly—was gone.

He had it.

Arjun staggered for a moment, dizzy with heat and exertion. His mind raced to reorient. Everything looked the same—smoke, fire, bone—but he steadied his ears, listened. Through the roar of fire and the distant howls of dying titans, he picked up on a constant rhythm—gunfire.

He ran.

He barreled through flaming arches, leapt over rib cages, kicked aside burning skulls. The flame licked at his sides, but his tyran body held. It was all muscle memory now. All instinct.

He broke through the outer edge of the inferno—and landed in the ash beside Ringo.

“I got it!” Arjun yelled. “I fucking got it!”

Ringo spun and shot a cyclops through the jaw without even looking. “Good. Now run.”

Behind them, the ground trembled.

Arjun turned and saw it.

The kraken.

It had arrived.

A nightmarish creature that dwarfed even the titans that dared to claim its eternal flame. Its tentacles towered like black monoliths. Mistians scattered beneath it, clawing and trampling each other in pure panic. Even the titans—the arachneth, the basilisk queens, the drasuras—ran.

Nothing stood their ground.

No one.

The kraken reared, its limbs curling like towers made of bone and shadow.

It didn’t reach Arjun and Ringo yet.

But it would.

They ran.

Bone cracked beneath their heels as they sprinted over corpses, slipping and sliding down a slope of scorched debris. The flame behind them dimmed further as the kraken neared, drawn to the power Rickart had left behind.

Arjun clutched the glowing skull tight, shielding it from the elements. Ringo ran beside him, reloading without looking, panting like a warhorse as he lugged the sack behind him.

No more fire.

No more bones.

No more flames.

They just had to make it back to the Soulchaser.

Alive.

They didn’t stop running until the mist quieted.

The shrieks of mistians faded behind them, swallowed by the great silence that blanketed the warzone. Arjun stumbled to a halt beside Ringo, lungs heaving. He bent forward, resting one hand on his knee and clutching the skull with the other.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Arjun stood, lifting the skull into the pale haze. The light within it pulsed faintly, a slow white glow that shimmered in the mist like a distant star. The beginnings of a brain—a lattice of gleaming nerves and tissue—were forming inside the bone. A protective aura swirled around it, thin and glass-like, shielding it from the corrosive mist.

He turned back. The eternal flame they’d just escaped from was gone.

The kraken now reigned.

Its writhing mass of limbs moved across the battlefield like a living hurricane, crushing everything beneath it. Firelight flickered and died beneath its shadow. Whatever was left of that chaotic war—mistians, titans, even the bones of a thousand years—was now food for something far worse.

Arjun exhaled. “We did it.”

Ringo let out a low breath, the kind that only came after months of blood, bone, and desperation. He slung his revolvers into their holsters with a weary finality. Then he stepped forward, holding out the black sack.

Arjun handed him the skull gently, as if passing a child.

Ringo cradled it for a second, his eyes fixed on the glowing light inside. His face softened. Not with sentiment—but with the distant look of a man who had chased a ghost and finally caught it.

“Get dressed,” he said quietly. “Put yer gear back on. We’re finally leavin’ this hell.”

Arjun didn’t argue. He dropped to one knee, shrugging into his shirt, pants, and boots with the frenzied precision of someone who’d done it a hundred times. He strapped the oxygen tank to his back, sealed the gas mask, and felt the familiar hiss of filtered breath fill his lungs. Ringo’s soul field dissolved from around him.

“Feels good to breathe again,” Arjun muttered, his voice muffled by the mask.

Ringo didn’t respond at first. He turned the skull over in his hands, watching the slow, steady growth inside it.

“Can’t believe it’s him…” he said finally. “After all this time.” He looked to Arjun. “We head back tuh the ship. Then we drink. I want a real drink—none of that piss from Cales. I’m thinkin’… Falecrine.”

Arjun blinked. “Why Falecrine?”

Ringo gave a lopsided grin. “Home of yer Aurum. Feels right. Yuh earned it. And I can’t stand another minute in Cales.”

Something shifted in Arjun’s eyes. A quiet pride rose in him—not just at surviving, but at being chosen. Trusted. Part of something much bigger than himself. He nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s get back to the ship.”

They turned and began walking into the mist, the glowing skull cradled between them like a beacon.

Behind them, the kraken consumed the last of the battlefield. The eternal flame had claimed thousands—but not them.

Not this time.

Ahead, the Soulchaser waited. A dot in the fog. A promise.

They still had to revive Rickart. Still had to interrogate him. Still had to find the Gem of Death and stop a god.

Nine months until Imachara.

Nine months until the rebellion’s next great move.

They had won one battle. The longest one. The quietest one.

But the war had only just begun.

And they were finally ready to fight it.

For they found Rickart’s skull amongst the sea of bones.