| Asneduas crouched low beside the pool of dark light, watching something crawl across its surface. A black, insect-like machine twitched with fluid, unnatural motion. Its shell pulsed with red light—alive and listening.

  | “The new patch of Arthalaine’s children are almost ready. We’ll send them to the new city before nightfall.”

  | “And the previous patch?” Jamoraian asked. | “Still transmitting? Any distortion?”

  | “No. The net across Lower Earth holds. Their cities are loud, chaotic—perfect. All of it flows back to Arthalaine. As it should.”

  Asneduas, the controller of the dark forces on Mars, leaned over the shifting pool, voice like death itself. Beside him, Jamoraian stood motionless, armor glowing faintly with runes.

  | “Do you remember the Anchors? The first three?”

  A pause.

  | “They were made on Mars. Before collapse. Wood that was still alive when carved. Gold letters etched on the inside. Sealed in a crystal-hard shell. And crowned with a stone so dark it drank the light.”

  | “Only three. One lost. One corrupted. And one…”

  Their gaze turned.

  | “…is waking.”

  They saw Marta’s fingers brush the pendant.

  | “She touched the Anchor. She wasn’t meant to.”

  | “Still—it was enough. We whispered. She heard. The seed was planted.”

  | “She will test him. Turn him. And if he breaks…”

  | “…the spiral begins.”

  Ryan didn’t know any of this.

  He only knew the pendant felt heavier.

  It burned against his skin some nights. And in his dreams, he saw things he couldn’t explain—

  Cities turned to ash. Faces with no mouths. A door made of light that led into water.

  The pendant never spoke.

  But it remembered.

  And it watched.

  Three days earlier

  The decision to hunt the beast didn’t come from the elders. It came from Dagon.

  | “It walks too close to our border,” he told them. | “If we wait, we invite it in.”

  The council hesitated. Supplies were short. A shipment from the second village had arrived late—and broken.

  Dented steel. Robes meant for rituals, not war. Crossbows with frayed strings. Axes with cracked handles.

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  | “They sent us salvage,” Garron spat. | “Not weapons—scraps.”

  Even so, only three stood with Dagon: Ryan, Marcus, and Garron.

  | “Three is enough,” Dagon said. | “We track it. Strike fast. Come home alive.”

  They entered the forest under a low sun. The trees whispered with damp air, and Dagon looked back more than once.

  Then came the fog.

  | “It’s close,” Dagon muttered, crouched behind a wet log. His grip on the blade was firm—but his knuckles were pale.

  | “Then we don’t wait,” Ryan said.

  Marcus and Garron flanked them. They moved with the steps of men trying to look brave, but breathing like prey.

  The fog split. The beast came.

  It was faster than any of them expected—bones wrapped in muscle, eyes like ash.

  Garron ran first. Marcus followed.

  Dagon stood one breath too long.

  Claws. Blood. Collapse.

  Then Ryan moved.

  No plan. No thought.

  Only instinct.

  He struck—not to kill, but to redirect.

  The beast screamed and vanished into the fog.

  Dagon bled into the soil, but he lived.

  Marcus and Garron never returned.

  In Salya, no one spoke their names again.

  But their absence hung in the village like smoke that never cleared.

  Ryan wasn’t thanked.

  He was watched.

  And Dagon—

  He spoke less with each passing hour.

  The sky over Salya was iron-grey as Ryan stepped into the market.

  Three days had passed since the hunt. His arm still ached beneath its wrappings.

  The villagers’ eyes had softened—slightly.

  But Dagon’s words had not returned.

  Ryan needed air.

  He moved through the rows of stalls: dried herbs, hanging meats, old tools rusted by mist.

  One table drew him in—carved figures in twisted shapes, some elegant, others scarred with symbols he didn’t know.

  He reached for one carved like a serpent coiled around a sun.

  | “Sorry,” a voice said. | “Miras isn’t here. I’m watching his stall.”

  He turned.

  A girl crouched by the next shop, restringing a cracked flute.

  Oil-stained fingers. Calm eyes. She didn’t flinch under his stare.

  | “You can still look,” she said, not looking up. | “I know most of the prices.”

  | “You work both stalls?” he asked.

  | “Music’s mine. Miras just asks for help when his knees go stiff.”

  She tested a string with her thumb.

  | “People think instruments are simple. They’re not. One wrong pull and it sounds like grief.”

  He smiled.

  | “I’m Ryan.”

  | “Naeli.”

  They spoke a little longer.

  Enough for Ryan to remember the sound of her voice even after he left.

  As he turned away, she called out—

  | “Even silence has rhythm.

  | Some people just forget how to listen.”

  Ryan returned from the market with something rare in his chest—lightness.

  It wasn’t joy exactly, but it was close.

  Naeli’s voice still echoed in his mind, especially that last line—

  Even silence has rhythm…

  He stepped through the doorway, pulling the curtain aside.

  The house was dim. Quiet.

  He turned toward the back, toward the cot he’d been using.

  | “Ryan,” a voice said behind him.

  He paused.

  Marta stood near the wall, arms crossed.

  She hadn’t lit a lamp. Her shadow stretched long.

  | “You’re not going to do it, are you?” she asked.

  | “Why are you delaying?”

  The weight returned.

  Ryan sighed.

  | “Why can’t I tell Dagon?”

  Her eyes darted sideways, then locked onto his.

  | “That’s not your business.”

  He took a step back.

  | “I won’t betray him.”

  She stepped forward instead.

  | “The Anchor chose you. Not him. Not me.

  | And since you came, it hasn’t stopped humming.”

  Her fingers brushed the chain around his neck.

  | “Let go,” Ryan said, softly.

  | “When you pay the price,” she whispered.

  Eventually, she released it.

  | “Just remember,” she said as she walked away,

  | “There’s more than one kind of betrayal.”

  She left without another word.

  Ryan stood in the quiet.

  The Anchor was still warm against his chest—

  not given…

  not taken…

  only watching.

  That night, Dagon sat by the fire, sharpening his blade.

  Ryan joined him.

  They didn’t speak.

  But something passed between them—

  a silence stronger than steel.

  And far beyond the mountains of Salya, in a tower that did not cast a shadow—

  The Watchers whispered.

  | “He resisted.”

  | “Then he is not yet broken.”

  The light around the Anchor dimmed.

  But it was still awake.

  And the darkness was listening.