The path back through the town was lined with silence.
Burned-out buildings loomed like hollow sentinels.
Smoke curled from cracked rooftops.
Ash whispered across shattered cobblestone.
But Dusty didn't notice.
"Hey! That's a scorched bakery sign!" he chirped. "Think the oven did that? Or maybe someone was baking revenge! Hah! You get it?"
He laughed—bright and unbothered.
No one else did.
Doran walked ahead.
Boots crunching softly over soot and broken glass.
He didn't look back. Didn't slow.
He just moved.
Driven not by purpose—
But by instinct.
Kellon trailed beside him.
His steps dragged.
Like guilt had weight.
Like every footprint was being etched into stone.
Behind them, Dusty kept talking.
"Ooh! What's that? A melted bike? Dang, that guy's commute is over. And—wait—hey! That's a charred boot! Is there a foot in there? No? Okay. Good. Kinda. I dunno."
His voice rang through the hollowed streets like a child skipping through a graveyard.
Then—
Kellon spoke.
Quiet. Sharp.
Steel beneath the words.
"You let them take it."
Doran didn't turn.
"You think that's how it went?"
Kellon exhaled through his nose.
Short. Bitter.
"I think you were so focused on wringing answers out of me," he said, "you didn't notice the real threat walking off with the one thing that mattered."
Doran stopped.
Slowly.
Like a stone settling into the current of a river.
He turned his head—just enough.
Just so the firelight caught the edge of one crimson eye.
"I noticed," he said.
"I just chose what I could control."
Kellon stopped too.
Shoulders tight.
Jaw set.
His fists clenched.
"You chose me over the kingdom," he muttered.
Then—
From behind:
"Ooh, what a cool statue!" Dusty called out, cheerful as ever. "So lifelike! Wait—nope. That's a person. Never mind. Creepy!"
Doran turned fully, facing Kellon.
The wind stirred ash between them—
soft spirals rising and falling in the dead air.
"You're not wrong," Doran said quietly.
"But you're not right either."
Kellon let out a short, hollow laugh.
"That supposed to make me feel better?"
Doran stepped in, closer now.
"I didn't even know about the caravan," he said. "Not until I overheard you briefing your unit. Some of your soldiers said your squad was stationed south of the capital."
His eyes sharpened.
"That's the only reason I came."
Kellon's jaw tightened.
Doran turned and kept walking, forcing Kellon to follow.
The broken town stretched out ahead—jagged silhouettes of crumbled homes and fractured lamplight, casting thin shadows through the drifting ash.
"I came for you," Doran said.
"Not the cargo. Not the soldiers. Just you."
Up ahead, Dusty gasped.
"Is that a half-melted piano?! Ohhh man, that is tragic. Think I can still play it?"
He clunked over, raised both arms, and dropped his hands onto the warped keys.
CLUNK. CLUNK. CLUNK. CLUNK.
"Nope. Nope. Definitely not."
Kellon shot the bot a narrow look.
Then turned back to Doran, eyes burning low beneath the soot.
"You don't get it," he muttered. "That chest contained the final piece of a rune engraving system. A breakthrough. Something that could've erased the biggest flaw we've faced for centuries."
He looked down at his own hands.
"The unsteady hand of man," Kellon said, voice tightening. "This would've solved it. A device that could engrave with perfect precision. No misfires. No degradation. Real-time rethreading."
Doran's brow twitched.
But he didn't slow.
"They're calling it the Dawnmaker."
He stepped ahead of Doran, blocking the path.
His voice rose.
"You think I'm angry over pride?" he snapped. "I'm angry because I had one job. One."
He stopped.
Fists trembling.
"Get that chest to the capital."
"And I failed."
Doran finally halted.
Met his eyes.
His voice cut low—quiet, but sharp enough to pierce bone.
"You're right," he said. "You failed."
Kellon flinched. Just slightly.
Doran stepped forward.
Boots shifting the ash beneath them like breaking crust.
"And now Practum has a scapegoat."
The words hit like stone.
Heavy. Final.
"You think they'll care that you were ambushed? That the chest was taken by professionals?"
He tilted his head, tone turning grim.
"No. They'll see a lost asset. A broken soldier. A convenient headline."
Kellon's fists curled tighter.
Doran's expression didn't shift.
"So go ahead. Limp back to the capital. Watch how fast they label you a traitor. A plant. A coward."
His crimson eyes dropped to Kellon's trembling hands—then rose again.
"Or stay here. With me."
A beat.
"No kingdom. No orders. No safety net."
He leaned in slightly, voice low.
"Just survival."
Then he turned.
Walked forward.
No drama.
Just certainty.
His voice drifted back behind him, low and smoky on the wind.
"Pick fast, Kellon."
A pause.
"Because the ones who stole that chest?"
Another beat.
"They don't wait for paperwork."
Kellon didn't move at first.
He just stood there—
Still.
Silent.
Ash swirled around him like breath from a dying world.
The ruins stretched behind. The unknown ahead.
His breath came slow.
Measured.
But inside, everything cracked.
All the drills.
All the years.
All the deaths.
None of it had prepared him for this.
Not the failure.
Not the choice.
Not the truth.
He looked down at his hands.
Still shaking.
Still stained.
Not from weakness.
From weight.
They wouldn't care that he survived.
Only that the chest didn't.
Up ahead, Doran walked on—
Cutting through the haze like a blade.
Unbothered.
Unforgiven.
Unrelenting.
Kellon closed his eyes.
Then opened them.
And stepped forward.
Then another.
And another.
Until the ash swallowed his footprints.
And the past stayed behind.
"Guess I'm staying," he muttered—just loud enough to be heard.
Doran didn't stop.
Didn't look back.
But his voice came, low and simple.
"Good."
A pause.
"Then try to keep up."
Ahead, Dusty turned at the sound of footsteps behind him.
His optics brightened—lenses flickering to life.
"Oooh! Look who finally picked a side!"
He thrust both arms forward in dramatic flair, giving two overly enthusiastic thumbs-up.
"Welcome to the Misfit Club, my dude!"
Kellon gave him a long look.
Not annoyed.
Just… tired.
"I already regret this."
"You will!" Dusty chirped, entirely unbothered.
Doran didn't slow.
His voice cut through the banter like a blade.
"Ship's not far. We move fast, we're gone before the next squad sweeps through."
Kellon frowned.
"You really think Practum will send more?"
Doran nodded once, curt and certain.
"You were a soldier. You really think they won't?"
Kellon's jaw tightened.
His eyes dropped, then flicked away.
"…No," he admitted quietly. "They'll be here by sunrise."
"Then we're behind schedule," Doran said flatly.
Dusty jogged ahead, arms swinging with exaggerated energy—like a kid on a field trip through hell.
"Do we get codenames now? Like Ash Team Alpha? Or maybe—The Fire Fighters? Wait, that's already something, right?"
Neither answered.
They rounded a corner.
The street stretched out ahead, veiled in a low curtain of drifting smoke.
Ruins lined the edges like teeth—blackened bones of a town long hollowed out.
Doran's voice came quieter this time.
Low. Measured.
"What happened to all the people? It's too quiet."
Kellon glanced sideways.
"We relocated them to Adva. Town over. Figured it'd be safer if the drop went south."
Dusty gasped.
He spun in a circle—arms wide, walking backward now.
"Ooooooh! Ghost town! I knew it! This place is totally haunted."
He paused mid-spin, staring into a cracked window.
Like it might blink back.
"…If a piano plays itself, I'm out."
The streets began to slope downward. Stone gave way to dust. And in the distance, the edge of town came into view—low hills silhouetted by dying light.
Up ahead, nestled between two collapsed buildings, the ship waited.
Old. Worn.
Its frame patched with metal and memory—scars of a dozen battles, the kind that didn't heal. Only hardened.
One of the wings creaked faintly in the wind, a long, tired groan like an old warrior refusing to rest.
And yet—
Amid the scorched plating and dented armor—
the sails stood out.
New.
Unblemished.
White, clean, and quiet.
A contradiction stitched in hope.
Doran reached it first.
He jumped up onto the deck without a word.
A hop. A grip.
And he was inside—like he'd done it a hundred times before.
Kellon stopped at the edge.
He turned—just briefly—looking back over the town.
The blackened streets.
The flickering remnants of firelight.
The broken silhouettes of what used to be home.
Forgive me, he thought.
To Practum.
To the soldiers left behind.
To the ones who would never walk again.
Then—
He climbed aboard.
His boots landed quietly on the deck. Solid. Steady. Final.
Behind him, Dusty waddled toward the ship, head tilted back like a child staring up at a mountain.
"Hey! Little help!" he called, arms flailing in exaggerated desperation. "You guys got, like, a winch? A ramp? A dramatic elevator platform with theme music?"
Doran leaned over the edge.
His eyes were shadowed, the rising light behind him casting his face in fire-tinged silhouette.
"Get up yourself."
He turned away before Dusty could answer.
But his thoughts stayed sharp.
Cautious.
I've seen what that other personality of yours can do.
Behind him, Kellon hesitated.
Then—quietly—he stepped forward.
Leaned down.
Extended a hand.
"C'mon," he muttered.
Dusty's optics lit up, red lenses gleaming.
"Aww, I knew you liked me!"
Kellon sighed.
And pulled him up anyway.
Doran made his way up the narrow stairs leading to the helm, each step creaking beneath his boots.
He dropped into the worn pilot's chair—one of the few things aboard that looked like it truly belonged—and tapped a series of commands into the panel beside him.
The screen flickered to life with a low whirr, casting his face in a soft blue glow.
Behind him, Kellon stepped forward, steadying himself on the railing.
"So what now?" he asked.
Voice low, but level. Focused.
Doran didn't look away from the panel.
His fingers moved with practiced ease—muscle memory driving each toggle and sequence.
"First," he said, "we see my mechanic. I need some upgrades."
He paused.
Then looked over his shoulder.
Toward Dusty—
Who was currently poking at a broken antenna like a curious child in a scrapyard.
Dusty spun a disconnected ship wheel with great flourish.
"Captain Dusty! Pirate of the skies!" he bellowed, voice full of self-declared glory.
Oblivious.
Kellon followed the glance, his brow furrowing.
"You think he's gonna be a problem?"
Doran's voice came quieter now.
Measured.
"I think he already is. Just not the kind that knows it yet."
He turned back to the helm and flipped a switch.
The ship rumbled.
Engines groaned awake—old, heavy things with tired voices.
The hum deepened, thrumming through the floor like a heartbeat.
Lights flickered across the console. A system shook off its slumber.
Then—
Doran pulled the lever.
The ship jolted.
It listed left—briefly—before rocking back into alignment.
Dusty stumbled, catching himself on a nearby rail.
"Whoa! Whoa! Are we… flying-flying? Or crash-flying?" he shouted, genuinely unsure.
The hull groaned.
Then—
It lifted.
Slow. Steady.
Rising above the ash-streaked town, through soot and ruin, into the quiet dark.
Below, the remnants of the city shrank into perspective—
firelight dimming, streets curling inward until the destruction looked small.
Like a scar on the skin of the world.
Doran leaned forward and pressed a circular button to the left of the helm.
A pulse rang out.
FZZZMMM—
A translucent barrier shimmered to life around the ship—
a soft blue dome blooming outward, encasing the hull in a protective veil.
Ash and cinders skittered across it, scattering like fireflies on glass.
"Oooooh, so fancy!!" Dusty gasped, palms pressed to the inside of the barrier like a child at a window.
Kellon stood back, watching it settle.
His lips were tight.
He didn't speak.
But he didn't look away.
Doran didn't pause.
His hand moved to the second button—larger, circular, marked by a single engraved rune.
He pressed it.
No countdown.
No warning.
No sound but the engine's rising breath.
Just—
FWOOM.
The stars stretched.
The clouds vanished.
And in an instant, the ship was gone.
Swallowed by speed, flung into the dark, leaving behind only a whisper in the sky—and a smoldering world fading beneath them.
30th day of Winter, 13,499
Planet Donum
In a dusty, dimly lit room, a chisel hummed softly against steel.
A woman with brown hair tied in a loose knot leaned over her workbench, posture locked, eyes razor-sharp with focus.
Her hand moved slow. Intentional.
Each stroke carved another line into the plate's surface—more surgery than sculpture.
One wrong cut, and the rune would collapse. Or worse—misfire. Turn sacred circuitry into a silent executioner.
Heat pulsed up from the stone floor in angry waves.
The air was thick—hot, metallic, suffocating.
The scent of scorched rune-dust and burnt copper clung to her skin like a bad memory.
She paused.
Flexed her fingers.
Wiped her brow with the back of a gloved hand.
The rune beneath her knife flared.
Soft.
Clean.
Perfect.
She exhaled. A small victory. A breath of peace.
Then—
BANG.
The door slammed open.
"Hey! You almost done with the next batch?" a voice barked.
Leyla didn't need to look.
She knew the voice.
Knew the footsteps.
Knew the weight of her debt behind them.
"Just about," she called, reaching for the next plate. "This is the last one."
A bulky figure leaned into the doorway—broad-shouldered, overdressed for the heat.
A thick chain dangled from his neck, the golden Allasupa crest swinging like a noose.
He sniffed. "You said that an hour ago."
"I said it was close an hour ago," Leyla muttered, eyes never leaving the plate. "Now it's close-enough. Unless you're eager to hand these out before the safety checks. Want your boys melting from the spine up? Be my guest."
The enforcer chuckled. Stepped inside.
His tone was friendly.
But dead things could smile too.
"You're lucky you're good, Leyla. Most people don't live to talk back to us twice."
She didn't flinch.
Didn't smile.
Just kept carving.
Lucky. Right.
The man crossed the workshop, boots thudding against stone—each step intentional, weighty, like he wanted her to feel every inch of his presence.
He stopped beside the bench. Folded his arms.
His gaze swept over scattered rune plates and still-glowing tools.
"Single layer?" he muttered. "I thought this batch was double."
Leyla didn't answer.
Her chisel guided through a tight curve—surgeon's precision.
Silence stretched.
Then he leaned in, voice low—acid under honey.
"You know the Family's been patient. Don't screw us. Now double-layer these."
Leyla pressed harder than she meant to.
The chisel dug deeper than intended.
She froze.
The rune shimmered—its glow too bright, just for a second. Then—steady.
Still stable.
Barely.
She set the chisel down. Finally looked up.
Her eyes were sharp.
Sweat trickled past her bangs.
"Double-layering plates this thin risks thread collapse. You want clean channels or corpses?"
The man smirked.
"The Family wants strength. If someone dies wearing it, that's on them."
He turned, brushing past a rack of unfinished plates.
"You're not here to ask questions. You're here to pay your debt."
Leyla's jaw tightened.
"I'm already doing three times the labor these are worth."
"Then maybe next time," he said, pausing at the door, "don't take credits from people who carve names into bones."
He left without waiting for a reply.
BANG.
The door slammed shut again.
The rune on her bench flickered. Then steadied.
Leyla stared at it—her warped reflection dancing across the glow.
She whispered, just loud enough for the rune to hear:
"Double-layered it is, then."
She picked up the chisel. Moved to carve.
Then paused.
The blade hovered.
Her hand shook.
She let out a breath—unsteady—and leaned into the table.
The rune pulsed beneath her palms.
Like a clock.
Ticking down.
"What am I going to do?" she muttered, eyes locked on the glow.
She glanced toward the corner of the shop.
A small, dust-covered device sat on a shelf—half-buried under scrap cloth and forgotten failures.
Maybe…
She took a step toward it.
Then another.
Stopped.
Right at the edge of the table.
Still within reach of the plate.
Still tethered.
Her eyes flicked back and forth.
Table. Device.
Past. Hope.
Then—back to work.
The chisel trembled between her fingers.
"No," she whispered. "I couldn't ask him."
Her strokes were slower now.
Measured.
Heavy.
Like each line cost her something.
The rune glowed brighter as it took shape.
But her eyes weren't fully on it anymore. They were elsewhere. She pressed harder into the curve. As if she could bury the thought under metal.
That device held a chance.
But not without a price.
Not yet.