? ? ?

  Athur Tarmour sat on his new throne within the First Temple. He had surveyed the growing number of forces now gathering outside from the roof for a time. They had come from near and far, forming a new cooperative. Their goal—taking this world for themselves. But he had become bored and restless and had retreated inside after a time.

  The Weeping Wyrm had left him a while ago, departing to commune with the other entities involved. They were considered heretical, but they were also useful pawns in their designs for dominance, and they needed them.

  Since becoming its Chosen One he had become so much more powerful, as the spirit of their god was infused into him, his word had become law upon those around him.

  Steeped in the stench of the divine, his body had changed once again, and ironically, he was now more human than he had ever been since his first baptism centuries past.

  Like all the Blanched, once washed in the tears of the Weeper, their humanity was cleansed and what was left was a shallow reflection of their past mortal life, lives awash in despair.

  That inward loathing was entwined with the transformation, the world itself wilted around them as they moved through it, the repulsion of colors—that only scratched the surface of how nature itself recoiled from their unnatural presence.

  Their existence had been constrained here on the soils of this island for too long, isolated and alone, but that had changed, and the old rules upended.

  With the most recent arrival of Ossuran the fruits of their schemes were ripening, it would not be long before they were ready, not just for the Great Red Dragon and its machine but also, for what was to come after.

  The Weeper had dreams of the future. In these the Blanched were free, spreading their devotion across the globe, going across the impassable seas to set foot upon other shores, faraway lands—missionaries delivering the gifts of their bereaved Lord to all.

  But there was also a threat. One that could undo this. A warrior who crossed the stars themselves. A mortal man who threatened the existence of their beloved Weeping Wyrm!

  Mereque!

  Tarmour fumed, this was wholly unacceptable, he would not let it come to pass.

  All had been revealed to Athur when the Weeper deepened its bond to him, when their consciousnesses entwined and two minds became like one, creating the avatar that now stood as King of Tears among the Blanched.

  However, as infuriating as the arrival of the man named Mereque had been, it had not been without a boon. For his appearance on their land—and the events around that—led to the breaking of the ancient treaty and the release of their Lord.

  Foretelling the future was an imprecise matter, even for the most gifted of oracles, but the Weeping Wyrm’s dreams were powerful beyond the sight of any soothsayer, befitting that of a god.

  Tarmour had seen what his Lord had seen in its slumber, its fear and loathing was bottomless, the world would share that misery—the duty of the Crusade.

  Their goal was simple; assuage the Weeper’s sorrow by spreading that grief as far as it would go. Convert the worthy. Burn the heretical.

  Brother Keigael held Grace in one of the lower conversion chambers, the Priest had wanted to throw her straight into the Weeping Wyrm’s pit, but Athur spared her. She was the bait they needed to draw the spaceman back to the Shimmering City.

  If they could bind him, he would be brought before their Lord. If he could not be bound, he would be destroyed. He clenched his fist.

  Even if the ancient guardians came with him, it wouldn’t be enough, they were prepared.

  He was confident they had amassed sufficient force to deal with that pair.

  The Weeper had brought together the others for that reason—Ossuran, the Children, the power of the Father of Night—an axis of darkness.

  Those accursed guardians did not know what they were heading towards—for all their might, they were not ready for what awaited them here.

  Tarmour smiled at the thought.

  When he was one of the Knights, Athur deferred to the authority of the Priests, it had been the way of things for centuries.

  Now that his station had advanced, it was they who submitted to him.

  It was strange, but it was a change he enjoyed.

  They could not resist, for the Weeper resided within him, and its words were law.

  The Arch Minister of Sufferance was a clever one and held much ambition in his heart. But Keigael had been wise—prostrating himself immediately—it had saved him from assured oblivion and kept his station secure.

  That was the fate many Priests faced once he had transcended. He annihilated a handful of them upon his immediate awakening, sensing their doubts. There would be no tolerance for disobedience.

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  He felt the weight of the Weeping Wyrm’s massive presence returning to him, it was more like an awakening, as if its eyes were opening after another restless sleep. His fist clenched harder.

  The entity’s mind was a thousand times beyond his own—it needed him regardless—its actual form lay dormant far beneath them, and the sedentary bloated mass that was its body was unsuited to the task of walking upon the land.

  They were entwined, his thoughts becoming its thoughts, and its thoughts becoming his own (though much of what it perceived he could not fathom). The Weeper was far too monstrous for him to understand with true clarity, its mind—alien.

  However, the Weeping Wyrm understood Tarmour’s mind fully, the creature knew all that he knew, felt all that he felt, suffered all that he suffered; even loved and lost, all that he had loved and lost.

  Its familiar voice came scratching from within him, a horrid and spine-chilling rasp, that belied its depthless melancholy and malice.

  “I know why you ssspare the Fay… like an echo… from… another time.”

  His god whispered truth knowing everything there was to know about him, he could not deny any of what it said, nor would he dare.

  “Yess… ssshe remindsss you… daughtersss… ssso tragic… the fire… the terror… your wife’s criesss… the ssscream… haunting… you… coward… you watched… you could not sssave them… you ran… you left them… coward… pathetic… who would have you? Who would take sssuch a wretch?”

  “Only You, my Lord.”, Athur answered reverentially, his devotion was without question, unassailable, “I am your wretch, your voice, your legs, or anything you desire. What will you have of me now?”

  The old memories came back, pulled out from the deepest recesses of his past life, reminding him of where he came from and what he owed it.

  It did so not because it hated him, but because it hated itself more, and to show him he was not alone—its only mercy.

  “Yesss… only I… a delegation arrivesss… the Scionsss of Shadow… go… welcome them…”

  The Father of Night had rejected the Weeper’s prior invitations. He had given them the knowledge to perform the ritual that created the Umbral Glooms. A generous gift, but he was bound by his own accord with the guardians. That changed though when the treaty that constrained their god was violated.

  “The Temple of Night! It is as you have foreseen, my Lord! “, Tarmour replied.

  “Yesss… Darknesss alignsss… the tidesss at last change… soon Umbron Illwing will descend to ssslither upon thisss mortal coil…”, the Weeping Wyrm hissed inside him, triumph mixing with torment filled his head with laughter, before it fell asleep again. Athur’s mind was nearly broken by those mad lamentations.

  He wanted to collapse, exhaustion overwhelming—a single tear tumbling. But his god had spelled out its desires, he walked away to meet their guests, the arm of his throne a ruin.

  ? ? ?

  Mereque held tight, knuckles aching on the spines.

  Hexabulous had warned him the ride would be rough; it was no exaggeration.

  The dragon circled sharp, dropping to clamp atop RX's back—monstrous claws scraping steel with a screech that vibrated through his armor. Mereque hugged closer to the hot scales, while its wings pinned flat and tail lashed for balance.

  The machine thrummed—a deep ominous sound rising from within, its engines building up power that prickled his suit sensors.

  “Let’s go, RX!”, the Red Dragon roared out.

  “Bzzz… Target acquired. Initiating acceleration.”

  Before he could blink, the spaceman was nearly thrown free, caught unexpectedly by a speed greater than anything he had been prepared for.

  The cloud-cover around them vaporized instantly, ringlets of force pushing it outwards, only the open sky and stars remained visible in the wake of their advance.

  His HUD flared urgently (red):

  ALERT: EXTREME ACCELERATION

  G-FORCE: 12.4

  STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY: 91%

  PHYSIOLOGICAL SPIKE: MAXIMUM

  RECOMMENDATION: DO NOT LET GO!

  They silently appeared in front of the First Temple, materializing as if from nowhere—like thunder from the void. Their thunder soon followed.

  The sound flattened too many bodies to count behind them—a commandment from the All Mighty—trumpeting their arrival.

  Mereque reeled, his head was spinning. He felt like the old wound in his shoulder wanted to open. That was insane. Why didn’t they put me inside the machine? It would have been safer. Were they testing me?

  They hovered over the seething throngs—grotesque screaming Sycophants scurrying in panic, Blanched Knights unfurling their fractal wings, summoning weapons with haste. Chattering Priests wove glowing wards; Lunar Children turned massive heads, roaring out in challenge.

  None were ready when RX414’s undercarriage irised open and tens of thousands of pebble spheres spilled out, fanning wide to blanket the inner city.

  His HUD pulsed (amber):

  ALERT: TACTICAL DEPLOYMENT — MAGNETIC SCATTER BOMBS DETECTED

  COVERAGE: INNER CITY 82%

  ENEMY DISRUPTION: HIGH

  RECOMMENDATION: OPPORTUNITY IDENTIFIED — LOCATE GRACE

  Explosions bloomed seconds after—the streets erupted in fire and shrapnel, screams and panic followed.

  Mereque's heart pounded.

  Of course, they had expected the enemy to counter the scatter bombs quickly.

  It wasn't long before Blanched Knights took to the sky, summoning magical flechettes that hissed through the air, striking spheres mid-fall in bursts of arcane light.

  But the chaos bought precious seconds.

  Mereque didn't hesitate—he leaped from Hexabulous's back, boots hitting temple stone with jarring impact. He sprinted for the massive open archway, Wyrmspitter drawn and ready.

  His HUD pulsed urgently (amber):

  ALERT: ENEMY COUNTER ACTIVE

  DISRUPTION WINDOW: 18 SEC

  TITAN HOLD: CONFIRMED

  RECOMMENDATION: YOUR OPPORTUNITY IS NOW — MOVE!

  “Hurry, human!” Hexabulous bellowed, massive claw pointing towards the dark recesses of the towering entrance. “Lower levels—I smell her! We'll hold the tide here!”

  Mereque glanced back, words catching—madness, just two against thousands—but the absurdity struck him like a blow. A fire-breathing dragon and a machine as allies? Who was he to question the impossible or the odds?

  He nodded sharply, throat tight. Hold. Please, just hold.

  With only three against a city of horrors, words failed him. The scenario was preposterous—yet all too real.

  As he plunged into the archway, he looked back one last time.

  Hexabulous unleashed absolute chaos.

  His huge steel blade whirling in master arcs, streams of flame roaring from wide open jaws—the dragon spinning like a primal dancer, fanning the heat into a towering fire cyclone. The inferno was beginning to swallow Knights mid-air, giants staggered back against the blistering winds, their cries lost in the roar.

  Mereque's chest tightened—raw awe and dread. They'll hold... they have to.

  His HUD pulsed softly (amber):

  ALERT: FIRE CYCLONE DETECTED

  SOURCE: TITAN ENGAGEMENT

  ENEMY DISRUPTION: MAXIMUM

  OPPORTUNITY INDEX: HIGH

  RECOMMENDATION: PROCEED – GRACE IS WAITING

  The passageway swallowed him—ivory corridors glowing with sourceless light, cloying and wrong. Teardrop carvings leered endless from walls, mocking eyes in stone.

  The thunder of their battle rumbled through the thick walls—the titans' fury released, fierce enough to vibrate into the soles of his boots, dust sprinkling steady from the ceiling like grave snow.

  Isolation pressed heavy. He was alone now—wounds throbbing, allies behind him, unknown enemies ahead.

  Grace is here. Lower levels. Whatever it costs. I’m coming.

  He ran deeper, his footfalls echoing the vow and his unspoken fear—heart pounding against the growing darkness.