They rose with the caverns fog—slowly, deliberately, as if the very rock beneath them insisted on the discipline. Elmore’s eyes fluttered open before dawn’s lanterns had fully woken, heavy lids lifting to the rough-hewn stone ceiling streaked with living emerald moss. The soft mechanical hum of the base’s ventilation vibrated through the walls. Somewhere close, water dripped in a patient rhythm, each drop echoing like a metronome in the quiet.
For a heartbeat, Elmore lay still, fingertips brushing the warm moss of his blanket, listening to the steady rise of his own pulse. Then, without fanfare, he sat up, boots already within reach. His fingers sought the straps of his gear, finding them in practiced darkness.
One by one, the others mirrored him.
Wes rolled over and flexed shoulders cramped from the night of partying.
Tim inhaled sharply, already tasting the morning chill despite the constant warmth of the barracks, and reached for his leather gloves.
Hank stretched limbs like a coiled spring, the fine furrows of sweat from yesterday’s drinking still drying on his brow.
No groans. No yawns. They pulled on boots, buckled belts, checked blades and cartridges in a silent ballet of readiness. Some moved with the methodical precision of craftsmen—Sam precise as he adjusted the straps on his satchel—while others, like Rick, seemed to flow through each motion as though their gear were part of their own flesh.
When they finally formed a line, the corridor’s torches flickered against their silhouettes. Footsteps began: a slow cadence that swelled into a confident rhythm, boots striking the tiled floor with muted clangs. They passed through arched chambers until they reached the mess hall.
The hall yawned before them: long tables carved from solid stone, the air redolent of damp stone and fungal mold. A lone cook ladled out breakfast: a thick stack of pancakes made of ground mycelium, drizzled with a smear of grey butter that smelled earthy and faintly metallic. Chunks of cured wasp legs lay beside mushroom bulbs sweet, dense, chewy.
They ate slowly, spoons and knives raised in concert. No one spoke: only the soft plink of metal on bowls, the whisper of breath, the occasional swallow. Elmore watched the steam rising from the bowls, imagined the day’s heat already pressing down on them, and let the fuel slide into his gut: unremarkable, necessary, still good.
When the last spoon scraped clean, they set their dishes into the wash bin. The clatter of metal was sharp in the hush, each plate and cup stacked with calm efficiency. Elmore paused at the basin, water running cold over his hands, droplets scattering like quicksilver before vanishing. He let the chill remind him: fuel in the belly, steel in the grip, mind clear.
They filed out without another word, boots clicking away, lantern light flickering as they vanished back into the veins of the mountain. The day was waiting.
They moved through the corridors in near silence, the damp chill of the stone walls pressing in around them. Each light flickered against patches of emerald moss slick with condensation, casting ripples of shadow on the slick floor. At every intersection, half‑asleep shift‑hands paused and offered nothing more than a tilt of the head or a curt nod; no one asked questions, no one offered farewells.
At the mouth of the carport, The Beast waited like a coiled predator. Its mat black chassis gleamed faintly in the dim car port, mithril inlays catching stray beams and fracturing them into pale lines. Over‑engineered shocks rigid beneath its bulk, and the trailer sat hitched, bristling with reinforced locks, creates, and cooling pipes. To Elmore the massive engine seamed tp breathe softly beneath the hood, a low, rhythmic rumble that seemed alive.
They loaded themselves aboard with military precision.
Elmore and Brent climbed into the cab, boots thudding against steel steps, doors closing with pneumatic hisses.
Behind them, ten pairs of boots swung over the truck bed’s edge. They settled in two rows—backs ramrod straight, weapons laid across laps or stowed in lockers mounted under their feet, faces set and unreadable.
Then the silent symphony of checks began.
Gloved hands crept over buckles and holsters. Field‑tested rifles slid free, eyes peered through iron sights, triggers squeezed lightly—then each weapon returned to its home. Bandoliers were tapped to ensure shells sat snug, cartridges clicked against plates in affirmative rhythm, ammo box’s double and triple counted.
A small prayer—a whispered blessing to god unseen—drifted from Rick’s cracked throat. No one acknowledged it, but the gathering pause felt like a shared benediction.
Each man followed his own ritual.
Wes plucked a pinch of snuff from his can in his jacket pocket and pressed it into his cheek. He closed his eyes, jaw working the tobacco into place, then leaned back slightly over the truck bed from a moment of pause, shoulders relaxing just enough to let the tension coil tighter around his mind.
Brent fingered his unlit cigar, rolling it between calloused fingers, trimming the cap with a precise bite of his momentarily sharpened teeth. He tucked it behind his ear, as if saving it for a private victory.
Tim checked the seals on the boxes of vials, his pale eyes flicking from label to label. He tapped each bottle once against the foam‑lined compartment before sliding the lid shut. Counting every healing potion with reverence.
Elmore sat slightly forward in his seat, matchbox in hand. He struck a match against the steering wheel; the tiny flame flared white, momentarily illuminating the scowl under his voluminous beard. He inhaled sharply, letting the match burn down to his cigarette tip and snuffing it out between his fingers, savoring the sting, before bringing it to his lips. Smoke curled up in soft spirals, drifting around them like a dream like haze.
“Departing in thirty,” he spoke loudly, more a statement than order, carrying the weight of inevitability rather than obligation.
No one answered.
eventually Elmore’s hand closed around the key. He turned it.
The Beast awoke with a tremor that ran through its frame like a heartbeat. The engine coughed once, then unleashed a roar that rattled the rafters, resonating through the stone like distant thunder. Twin exhaust pipes coughed black‑tinged smoke in sharp bursts, as if the machine was clearing its throat before a sermon.
Lights flickered across the radio, symbols dancing before settling into steady green luminescence. The trailer gave a soft shudder, the hitch locking home with an audible clank.
Elmore shifted in his seat, eyes glinting in the light. He glanced into the rearview mirror, catching the reflection of his crew—faces paled by anticipation.
“Let’s move,” he said, voice low but carrying over the roar.
Elmore dropped the clutch.
The Beast lunged forward, tires chewing at the stone ramp, sending a spray of grit and dirt into the dim air. Behind them, the tunnels swallowed their departure.
Hydra’s voice crackled through the cab’s speakers, warm and unmistakably inhuman and polyphonic. Elmore flipped the hidden mic switch, and the gentle thrum of The Beast’s engine faded into the background for a moment as he slowed to lower the sound.
“Good morning, men. I have messages from your loved ones. As requested, they know the situation.”
A hush fell. One by one, voices surged through the speakers, carrying the weight of home.
“Wes.” A soft inhale, then: “Wes, it’s Marisol. The children slept through last night’s thunderstorm—just like you promised. I’m proud of you. Come home safe.” Wes closed his eyes, shoulders sagging as he clutched the edge of the bed’s side, the echo of his daughter’s laughter already soothing the tight coil in his chest.
“Hank.” A raspy but tender voice: “Hank, it’s your ma. I’ve got a fresh batch of apple cakes cooling on the windowsill for when you get back. I’ll have the little man on the phone get them to you if you’re gone too long. I’d trade every single one just to see your smile again.” Hank’s jaw worked the ache out, and for a moment, the harsh lines of his face softened—memory dispelling the grime of battle.
“Charlie.” A little girl’s excited voice: “Uncle Charlie, Linh and I drew you a picture. It’s on the fridge. You’re like a superhero. We love you!” Charlie’s tough exterior cracked
“Rick.” Laughter rippled through the speakers: “Rick, it’s Arturo. Don’t you dare miss racing me on the ridge in two weeks. I don’t care how busy you are—we have a betting pool to settle. Unless you’re buying dinner for everyone when you get back, in which case… take your time, bro.” Rick grinned, scanning the road ahead, the rattle of gravel under the wheels sounding like applause in his ears.
“Ron.” An exasperated tone: “You know I’m still waiting for that experimental soufflé. Hurry back so I can perfect my recipe with your critiques. We have that school bake sale to prepare for.” Ron’s normally steady breathing hitched, and he glanced at his pack of rations as if picturing a towering soufflé rising before him.
“Frank.” A gruff voice: “Frank, Jakob here. Let’s keep our promises, okay? Don’t let me down. We might get it done this time.” Frank’s broad shoulders stiffened, the promise echoing like an oath in his mind.
“Tim.” A calm, fatherly voice: “Tim, son— you’ve come so far. I’ve saved up a dozen old stories to celebrate. Don’t keep me waiting.” Tim closed his eyes, and the world fell away to the memory of campfire embers and his father’s deep drawl telling tales of forests, wars, people long gone, and stars.
“John.” A chorus of young female voices—daughters, nieces—wishes of love and worry interwoven with giggles and sisterly bickering until it cascaded into good-natured insults. John just shook his head with a bemused half-smile, imagining each one’s face, their arguments a strange kind of lullaby.
“Sam.” A slow, old voice: “Sam, me and the guys are growing a new crop. Be ready to party when you get back.” Sam’s stern gaze softened; he lifted his rifle in a small salute.
“Brett.” A small, eager voice: “Uncle Brett, remember, when in doubt, howl. Good luck down there. And don’t let my Dad get all the glory. His ego is big enough already.” Brent let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head before settling his cigar between his lips and lit it, carried like a talisman, before jabbing Elmore playfully in the arm.
“Chief.” Hydra’s tone deepened, respectful. Ash’s voice came through. firm, tender: “hey mister big shot chief, don't forget you have a wife and child back home so finish what you must and come home safe or ill kick your teeth in and piss on your grave. love you honey.” Elmore exhaled, a plume of smoke drifting from his nostrils like a prayer. His fingers tightened on the wheel, knuckles whitening.
“Thank you, Hydra,” the crew said in unison.
As the Beast trundled forward, past where they had once battled the Shadow Guardian, a sound stopped them cold.
A growl—low, rich, and familiar.
“What the hell is that?” Rick asked, already reaching for his shotgun.
“No,” said Elmore, already opening the truck door. “That’s Ditzy.”
She stepped into the arena from behind one of the tall pillars, quiet and deliberate. The torchbugs and Aither fire light cast a strange reverence over her tan and white coat, the mottled patches catching green-blue flashes in each breath. But what stunned the crew into silence was her size.
Gone was the bounding medium-sized mutt who used to chase sticks through mountain trails. Now Ditzy’s frame was titanic—tall as a horse at the shoulder, thicker than any direwolf the dungeons had spawned. Muscle corded her limbs and back like she’d been sculpted by a thousand hunts. Her paws alone could have cracked concrete. Her eyes burned gold with unwavering clarity.
“...That’s a dog?” Tim whispered.
“That’s our dog,” said Brent, breathlessly reverent.
Ditzy padded up to the truck and sat directly in front of the gate, her body coiled like a sentinel, chest rising and falling with slow deliberation. She didn’t bark. She didn’t whine. She waited.
Elmore stepped forward alone.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, looking her up and down. “Look at you.”
Ditzy’s ears flicked at his voice, her head tilting with that same gentle curiosity she’d had as a pup, even now encased in muscle and presence.
“I know why you’re here,” Elmore said, walking slowly until he could lay a hand against her massive shoulder. “But you can’t come.”
She blinked. Once. Then twice.
“There’s no armor for you,” he went on, voice quiet but firm. “We don’t even know what the next stratum looks like. You get caught out in lava or buried under something ancient and mean, I ain’t got the tools to bring you back.”
She gave a low huff. Not aggressive. Just… disagreeing.
Elmore laughed gently and shook his head. “I know. You think you can handle it. You probably could. But this ain’t about muscle. It’s about uncertainty.”
Her chest rose as she inhaled through her nose, then stood, looming above him, gaze pointed squarely at the gate.
Elmore stepped in front of her, placed both palms on her massive jaw, and lowered his forehead against hers. “Lakevail needs you more than I do right now. If anything happens to us… you guard what’s ours.”
She let out a long, slow exhale through her nose, but this time, she didn’t resist. She bowed her head slightly, the smallest, most difficult surrender she’d ever made.
Elmore scratched behind her ears, rubbing slow and deep through the thick fur and scar-toughened hide. “Good girl.”
She sat back down beside the gate. Then, lifting her head to the curved roof above, Ditzy howled—a long, keening sound that carried through the arena and echoed into the vast caverns beyond. It was not pain. It was not grief. It was understanding. A song of loyalty.
The gate began to pulse in time with her voice.
Elmore turned and walked back to the Beast, climbed into the driver’s seat, and let the engine idle. The men were silent as they approached the gate.
And just as the first strands of crimson Aither-laced shadow began curling outward from the archway, Hydra’s voice crackled through the radio.
“Chief, I need a moment before you pass through.”
Elmore sighed, resting a hand on the wheel. “What is it?”
“President Ryfel is preparing to move against Lakevail. Operational timelines suggest a campaign will begin within the next two years.”
The temperature in the truck dropped, even in this fungal heat.
“He’s planning multiple false flags,” Hydra continued. “Domestic incidents. Aither-borne catastrophes. Fabricated terrorism. He’s aiming to turn the world against you.”
“Using what?” Brent growled.
“Elmore’s past,” Hydra said flatly. “Or what he used to be. Don’t worry—I’ve already erased all known records from every database under federal control.”
Elmore’s knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. His gaze dropped for a moment, jaw tight.
“There’s more,” Hydra went on. “Ryfel has made statements in closed-door meetings and encrypted channels. He says if ground and air campaigns can’t break you, he will melt the mountains with nuclear fire. His exact words: ‘I will break him across the armor his own men made.’ He intends to break the mithril treaty.”
Nobody in the truck spoke. The gate inched open, the black-violet light bleeding into the arena like stormwater.
Elmore stared ahead, not blinking.
“And finally,” Hydra said, almost reluctantly, “we’re detecting recursive interference in the Aither Field. Something unnatural. Self-propagating feedback loops.”
Elmore finally blinked. “What kind of loops?”
“The kind that only occur when probability boundaries begin collapsing. A Black Swan event is approaching.”
“How long?”
“Somewhere between fifty and three hundred years. Give or take a century.”
Charlie barked a bitter laugh. “So tomorrow, or never.”
“That is correct.”
“ ok men one last round of checks this is not a drill so get to it”
Gloved fingers unclasped armored gas masks, fitting straps with precision until each face was sealed behind dark lenses. Elmore’s mithril‑lined lining caught the torchlight in faint flickers, a promise of protection against the burning world beyond. Ammo belts whispered as magazines locked into rifles; pistols clicked home in holsters. Hand‑tuned radios blinked to life.
“Group 1, you read?” Elmore’s voice was low, the words drawn out in focus. “Loud and clear.”came the voices of frank sam and hank “Group 2, you ready?”The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. “Check, Breaker, Breaker.” next was rick ron and john “Group 3, you ready?”
“Still ugly, still alive.” snickered tim charlie and brent “Good enough.”
Silence fell. Even the echoes of their breathing seemed to stall in reverence. Ahead, the black curtain shimmered, waiting.
Hydra’s calm tone flowed through the comm line, soft but unyielding. “Signal strength cannot be guaranteed past the veil. Expect radio silence once you pass through. I will attempt reconnection every ten minutes unless instructed otherwise. Best of luck, Chief. All of you.”
Elmore nodded once, chin dipping in acknowledgment. He slid his gloved hands over the wheel, gaze fixed on the threshold ahead. “Watch over LakeVail,” he whispered through the mask’s filter. “No telling how long this’ll take—weeks, months… doesn’t matter. The trailer doesn’t return till it’s full.”
“Understood, Chief,” came Hydra’s reply, crisp and confident. “I will oversee all operations under Ash’s supervision until your return.”
Elmore’s foot brushed the accelerator. The Beast lurched forward; the trailer groaned in protest as They inched toward the veil.
Then the radio system exploded in confusion.
A shrill alarm stabbed the air. Red lights strobing on the radio’s screen. A harsh electronic screech. A flashing EMERGENCY banner.
Elmore slammed the brakes. The Beast bucked, sending a jolt through the bed. A curse rumbled from one of the men; a short, nervous laugh snapped from another.
Before anyone could speak, Hydra’s voice cut in—urgent, taut. “Chief. Alert—security breach at LakeVail’s Main entrance.”
Elmore’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the wheel. “A very strong, unidentified woman is at the outer checkpoint,” Hydra continued. “She claims to be your sister and is enraged by the requirement to fill out an immigration form before entry. She has begun damaging government and local property—multiple structural impacts recorded leading to collapse—and has incapacitated at least three guards with extreme force.”
A heartbeat passed. “She is demanding immediate entry and has threatened to level the entire checkpoint if you don’t ‘get their head out of their ass.’”
Elmore stared at the still veil before him, its silent calm now a cruel mockery. He exhaled, the vapor from his breath curling in the dim light. Through the filter of his mask, he spoke, tone equal parts resignation and wry annoyance:
“Goddammit, wee.” And with that, he took a deep breath, and spoke into the void beyond the veil—and back home where chaos waited.
“Hydra,” Elmore said, voice level as he stared at the shimmer ahead, “pull every feed you got. External cams, street-level, social media, city net. Verify her identity. Cross it with my face, bone structure, any childhood photos still in the database.”
He reached up and unlatched his gas mask, sliding it off and setting it on his lap with a soft hiss.
Hydra responded instantly, voice already tightening.
“She has just crushed a steel troop transport with her hands.”
A pause.
“She has now thrown a streetlight pole. At a man. He is alive. He is not okay.”
Elmore didn’t flinch. He reached into the glovebox, pulled out a slightly bent cigarette, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and struck a match on the bottom of the dash.
Hydra’s voice crackled with a sharp intake.
“Identity confirmed. Bone structure, voiceprint, adolescent dental record from a 2011 orthodontist visit. It’s her. She is your sister. She has not appeared on record in over a decade. I don’t know where she’s been. I don’t know how she’s like this.”
Elmore exhaled a long plume through his nose. “Let her in. Tell her to go to my dad’s house or stay with Ash if my wife wants. Otherwise help set them up. Great. Good luck.”
He flicked ash out the cracked window and glanced toward the crew.
“Okay, men. Let’s go.”
“Wait—Elmore—Chief—wait—” Hydra cut in, panic mounting, “we don’t know what to do with her. She isn’t following protocols, she won’t take the orientation briefing, she already disabled the arrival checkpoint and took someone’s lunch without speaking.”
Elmore crushed the cigarette into the dash’s worn ashtray and slipped his mask back on, locking it with two firm pulls of the side straps.
“Good luck with your aunt. She’s feisty. See you eventually.”
He shoved the gear into drive and punched the gas. The Beast kicked forward into the veil without hesitation.
Hydra’s voice spat static and panic just before full signal cutoff.
“She’s taken down twenty-three guards barehanded—she has a pipe—she’s going to—she’s doing a thing—hel—”
Silence.
The instant the grill of The Beast slid past the veil, every comfort bled away. The air transformed. It was like stepping into a kiln the size of the world: heat that pressed against their skin, not merely warmed it. It pounced, a living thing, claws of flame trailing the truck’s every movement.
Brent’s eyes bulged behind his mask as the temperature spike hit. “By Christ,” he rasped, voice cracking, “it’s—” His words vanished in the roar of heat, swallowed whole.
Elmore slammed his foot down. The Beast lurched forward, engines screaming in rebellion to the inferno beyond.
Through the windshield, the world had shifted since his last trip, rivers of molten rock snaked through black stone channels, spitting geysers of steam and sulfur. The sky—if it could still be called sky—shimmered in waves of orange and red from pounding lightning through the roiling black clouds miles above, claws of pure red crystal miles long reach down from past the cloud lair, like the armored claws of satan himself poised to snare, each pulse of lightning a heartbeat shaking the magma ocean below.
Elmore reached to his console and flipped the airlock switch. The cab’s seal hissed shut, sealing them inside an insulated cocoon. Fans howled as they fought against the thermal assault, drawing the last breaths of filtered air into their lungs.
Outside, the trailer groaned, cooling manifolds struggling to hold back the heat. The men in the bed lay flat against the floor, backs pressed to the mithril-plated walls, hands working oxygen valves on their masks. Sweat evaporated in mid‑air, but their breath remained unbroken—narrow gulps that tasted of metal and desperation.
Elmore kept his gaze on the narrow ribbon of road snaking through the glowing crags. Up ahead, fetid steam vents hissed like wounded beasts, spitting embers that flicked across the volcanic glass. He weighed his speed—too slow, and the heat would avalanche over them; too fast, and they’d lose control on the slick obsidian.
Elmore punched the throttle. The Beast surged, tires shredding stone to gravel in a cloud of steam. The trailer’s reinforced hitch rattled, moaning under strain, but held firm.
Inside the cab, the external temperature gauge cranked past safe limits, the needle quivering in the red. Elmore ignored it. His eyes narrowed on the tunnel mouth carved into a black cliff face—the only way forward. The entrance lay like a yawning maw, spewing a torrent of convective heat that washed over them like flame.
He tapped the mic. “Hydra—status?”
No reply. Silence. The signal had died.
Elmore exhaled a breath that steamed in the filters. He didn’t need confirmation. The world beyond was testing them, pushing every system to the brink.
“Hold on,” he muttered, more to himself than to Brent.
The Beast hit the hottest stretch. The road glowed beneath the tires, veins of molten rock pulsing through fissures. Brent’s knuckles blanched further as he gripped the wheel beside Elmore’s.
Suddenly, a wall of steam erupted from a side vent—a geyser of superheated vapor blasting across the road. The Beast veered, tires losing traction. Elmore corrected with a jab of the wheel, heart pounding in rhythm with the engine’s roar.
They shot through the steam curtain, windows momentarily fogging over as the cab’s seals fought to keep the furnace at bay. The trailer behind stayed just in sight, a dark silhouette outlined against the magma fields.
Then, as abruptly as it began, the fiercest heat relented. The road forked, opening into a wider plateau where the glowing rivers cooled enough to ripple like liquid glass. The Beast skidded to a halt, brakes smoking, engine ticking as metal contracted.
Inside, silence reigned again—broken only by their ragged breathing and the cab’s fans wheezing for relief.
Elmore finally spoke, voice low and steady: “Everybody ok?”
Brent's eyes peeled through his mask, eyes wild. “Alive,” he choked. “But hell on earth.”
Elmore nodded, pressing a hand to his forehead, feeling the sweat that hadn’t evaporated. “Keep moving,” he ordered. “We’re not done yet.”
He lit another cigarette the old way—sparking a flint lighter against steel. The small flame survived for an instant before the cab’s hissing fans extinguished it. Elmore chuckled, dry and rough. “Figures.” and opens the window just enough to let the tip touch a falling ember and light before rolling the window up.
“Hold up,” Wes whispered, voice so low it might’ve been the wind through the vents.
They hoped out and gathered around, breathing shallow through their masks. A patch of blooms—each as tall as a man’s thigh—huddled against the edges of some rocks, petals like clean velvet that shifted from gunmetal gray to tarnished silver as the magma glow played across them. They didn’t belong here. Nothing belonged here. Yet these flowers pulsed with a quiet defiance.
“Feels… cooler,” Brent said, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. He crouched, hand hovering over one bloom. Sure enough, the air around its petals rippled in a bubble of relief—three inches of merciful cool that made his lungs tick.
Elmore nodded once. “Careful.” His tone was soft but firm.
Gloved hands slid over insulated leather. “We get at least a crate full” Elmore murmured, already slicing a blossom free with a pocket knife and letting it fall into the chill‑pack–lined crate. “Don’t crush or bend them, use a segmented crate so they don't get crushed under their own weight.” getting a nod before turning and seeing they were already doing exactly that
“We raised our intelligence too chief so you don't need to feel like you need to micromanage us anymore.” bringing a smile to Elmore's face.
As they worked, the magma light danced across their visors. Some of the men whispered half‑prayers and didn’t notice until they were finished. They packed bulbs, petals and stems with meticulous care, padding each piece with foam and chill‑packs, the soft hiss of frost packs the only sound.
Elmore closed his eyes for a moment. (Promise made.) He thought of LakeVail—of greenhouses lit by Aither‑crystals and flower fields growing under sealed domes. Maybe one day.
He shook off the daydream and reached for another bloom.
That was when the earth rumbled.
“Movement,” Rick snapped, lobbing a glance toward a sulfur vent field nearby. Through the heat haze, they saw shapes—massive backs, rigid and dark—lumbering.
A herd of black‑plated iguanodons, each one nearly twice the size of a workhorse, padded into view. Their tongues flicked out to lap crystallized brimstone like greedy beasts at a salt lick. Heavy obsidian plates bristled down their sides, veins of red slag pulsing between joints.
They were herbivores, but that didn’t mean they were harmless, evident by the sharpened black spike of a thumb.
The earth split with hooves, a thunderclap of scale and brute mass. The obsidian-plated iguanodons stampeded forward in a wall of black muscle and molten-red joints. The air thickened with heat shimmer and sulfur vapor, distorting the lumbering shapes into demons.
Elmore raised his axe, voice cutting through the furnace like a blade, “Group One—wide block! Group Two—spray and prey! Group Three—hound the field!”
Frank and Sam surged ahead, planting their feet into glass-laced ash thirty feet apart. Their armor hissed as heat soaked through, but neither moved. They were walls of mithril and resolve. Between them, Hank bellowed and slammed his fists together, his veins bulging with Aither. The first beast hit Frank like a freight train—he took it full-body, boots skidding inches through the grit, but he held. Sam absorbed his hit by rolling with the momentum, driving his shoulder beneath a plated jaw and flipping the creature over with a crunch of spine and slag-slick stone.
Behind them, Rick and Ron dropped to one knee over the truck bed, rifles chattering with muffled pops. The air shimmered with the burst of high-velocity mithril rounds. Each shot hit with surgical precision, shredding knee joints, piercing soft underbellies, or blowing out glowing gills that vented heat along the flanks. Rick muttered curses with each pull of the trigger. Ron laughed—high, wild, and thrilled, adjusting for wind drift like he was back on a prairie with too much whiskey and time.
John, seated cross-legged atop The Beast’s cab, scanned the battlefield like a hawk. “Leftmost three tightening formation!” he shouted. “Big bastard with broken back plate’s charging Hank!” Then came a flick of his wrist, and three spheres of incandescent light burst overhead—small suns that confused and dazzled the advancing herd, forcing them to blink and veer in hesitation.
They never had time to recover. Hank caught the large one mid-charge with a leaping swing, his fists crashing into its skull like a battering ram. Its head snapped sideways in a spray of magma-bright blood, coating Hank’s entire upper body. He roared back, now painted red and steaming.
Tom knelt at the flank, slamming the butt of his rifle against the ground like he was knocking on hell’s door only to listen for a moment before taking a shot. With every impact, pockets of buried gas exploded outward in roaring jets, casting sand and molten rock into the air. He fired off potshots as if tuning an instrument, shaping the battlefield with controlled detonations. The herd bunched tighter, channeled into kill lanes.
Then Charlie stepped forward, arms alight with charged Aither. His fingers flexed, and arcs of lightning snapped from fingertip to fingertip before leaping onto the nearest creature. The obsidian hide resisted for a breath—and then ruptured. Explosions of gore sent chunks of cracked black armor and steaming flesh in all directions. The smell of ozone mingled with blood and sulfur.
Brent—half-transformed now, his skin mottled with fur and muscle tight as whipcord—blurred through the chaos. He moved too fast for the naked eye, only Elmore could follow the pattern. Brent ducked low, slid beneath a tail swing, then sprang up onto a beast’s back and drove his claws into its neck. The creature shrieked and twisted—but Brent was already gone, appearing beside another to hamstring it with a sweeping kick that broke bones.
Elmore walked with the battlefield spinning around him, axe already crimson and steaming. He gave commands like a maestro conducting a symphony of violence.
“Frank, collapse the right flank! Sam, catch the spillover!”
Frank surged forward like a glacier with legs, absorbing blows and then crashing his shoulder into one of the beasts, sending it toppling into two more.
“Charlie—cut their backs open!”
Lightning rained down, a controlled fury of arcs now dancing from one plate to another, skipping over blood-slick armor and lighting the battlefield like storm lanterns. Where they touched, armor burst open and geysers of glowing blood painted the ground.
“Tom, smoke out the right slope! Rick, cover the flank!”
Tom lobbed a canister into a rocky overhang. The pressurized charge hissed, then exploded into a searing fog that masked the advance of stragglers. Rick pivoted and picked off confused beasts attempting to break through.
“Brent—hunt the runners!”
Brent vanished into the heat haze, and only the screaming of injured iguanodons told of his presence.
Elmore’s axe came up once more as a beast—larger than the others, its jaw cracked and one eye milky—charged him straight on. No time for finesse. He pivoted and drove the axe down in a thunderous cleave. The blade caught between two neck plates, and with a heave, Elmore wrenched it free, severing muscle and bone in a spray of blood so hot it hissed before it hit the ground. The beast folded in a heap at his feet.
Then silence.
Steam hissed from open wounds and vents. Obsidian hooves twitched. The field was a half-circle of collapsed beasts—some still gurgling, some still twitching, all broken.
Rick sat down hard in the bed, wiping his brow. “Shit,” he muttered, then grinned. “I needed that.”
Ron was cussing out the still-smoking barrel of his rifle like it owed him money. John hopped off the cab and started picking bits of black tooth out of his hair. tom danced on the back of a corpse, boots clacking out a celebratory rhythm. Charlie laid on his back, face to the sky, laughing like he’d just cheated death. Frank and Sam clapped each other’s shoulders, bruised and scuffed but still standing.
Brent reappeared beside Elmore without warning, streaked in blood but calm. “Counted 25 kills.”
Elmore didn’t answer at first, just exhaled a cloud of smoke from his nostrils. The cigarette was blackened at the end, but it still burned.
“Anybody hurt too bad?” he asked.
“Not a one,” Brent replied. “Plenty up busted, though.”
Elmore nodded, eyes scanning the ruined herd. “Patch what needs patching. Keep your masks on. We’ve still got a ways to go.”
They set to work immediately. bagging the dense meat for rations, skinning black hides, and cleaning obsidian‑bones for bulk storage in the bigger crates, each man falling into their unspoken roles. The heat shimmered across the sulfur flats as the carved carcasses steamed where their bodies still held the infernal warmth. Most of the team worked restlessly, their faces red behind filtered masks, sweat pouring inside suits.
But it was Rick who moved with relentless precision—his [Butcher] Skill driving his body like a machine carved from sinew and focus. His arms moved in fluid motions, each incision finding the seam between armor and flesh, each twist of his blade parting bone without resistance. He didn’t speak. Just breathed through his nose, mouth sealed, eyes hooded. He passed down flanks like a man mowing through wheat, gutting, quartering, and stripping black‑plated meat into hunks the size of beer kegs. Ribs clattered into neat piles. Skulls split like melons under his hatchet .
Elmore stood for a moment watching him, the way the mithril-bladed knives made short work of ancient muscle and volcanic hide. The crates in the trailer behind The Beast were already heavy with processed kill, stacked in tiers by Sam and Frank like cordwood, and still the suspension hadn’t even groaned. Elmore eyed it, puzzled.
That much weight should’ve dropped the whole rear end of the truck at least a little. But the trailer stood level, unmoving.
He rolled his shoulder and muttered aloud, mostly to himself, “Mithril ain’t elastic.”
The realization hovered like a fly in his mind. The springs were cast from pure mithril. a choice made for durability, strength, and to make sure it could endure the burning terrain of the deeper strata. But it never occurred to him that the metal’s refusal to flex could be a rough ride especially for his men riding in the truck bed.
He stored the thought and moved on.
They were halfway through the process when Tim’s voice rose above the clang of crates and the groan of creaking meat hooks.
“Hey, everyone, look over here.”
He stood near a splintered fissure at the edge of the field, a place where the cracked obsidian gave way to a narrow geyser. Superheated water boiled up in rhythmic bursts, roaring skyward before collapsing into a ghostly column of steam. The noise was loud enough to mask speech when you got within a few dozen yards of it.
Tim knelt by the geyser, careful not to get too close. He had a thick roll of reinforced glass vials in a leather wrap on his belt, and now he fumbled one free with gloved fingers, tilting it just so. Steam whistled around the edges, the rubber gasket hissing as he sealed the lid tight. The heat off the rock licked at his arms like a dog's humid breathing.
He held the first sample up, the boiling water inside warping the light through the vial. “Maybe the eggheads back home can pull somethin’ useful outta this,” he muttered, half to the group, half to himself. His voice was raspy, dry from the heat, the words softened behind the mask.
The others wandered over, half-interested. Sam whistled. Charlie leaned in and tapped the vial with one thick fingernail.
“Looks like hot piss” he said. “Be funny if it turns out this crap cures cancer.”
Elmore stepped up last, crouching beside Tim, the stench of mineral-rich vapor curling into his nostrils through the respirator. He watched the heat bubble up beneath the crust of the earth and imagined rows of pipes, filters, valves. Systems. Logistics.
“If we can purify this water…” he murmured, “…that’s one less keg to haul in.”
The idea rooted itself deep in his mind, neither a whim nor a passing curiosity. He would test this later. See what they could do with it. He stood slowly, knees popping in the heat. His eyes moved out over the land.
Beyond the kill zone, the road stretched ahead like a wound split open by time crusted in ash and gravel and veins of molten glass. And rising along its edges was a forest of roses.
Each rose stem was a tree, easily seventy feet tall. Their bark was slick and green like oil-painted emerald, but the canopy above exploded in luminous neon reds, a thousand glowing petals casting strange light down over the ash. They looked alive in a different way—alien, hypnotic, menacing.
The scent reached them even at this distance. Not perfume. Something thicker. Rotten honey.
Elmore stepped up onto the tailgate of The Beast, casting one long look at the road ahead. The steam geyser sighed behind them like a beast bedding down.
“Alright,” he said, voice loud and dry and final. “Let’s get moving. We’re burning daylight.”
That earned a short laugh from Brent, who was still flicking off blackened blood from his armored forearms. “What daylight?” he called, gesturing at the black clouds and roiling sky.
But they moved all the same.
Three at a time they took turns in the cab of The Beast to soak in a brief blast of the vehicle’s obsidian-powered AC. They passed around chilled electrolyte packs, slapped shoulders, and grunted through their masks. they used this time to relax, listen to music and dip snuff or smoke as needed.
After an hour Elmore was sitting in the front passenger seat,burning cigarette in hand, eyes on the road of roses ahead, his axe resting in his holster, no longer stained with blood that glowed like embers but clean as dishware after a thorough cleaning.
“For the next mile,” he said, his voice low but sharp, “let’s assume those flowers bite back.”
When the day’s final embers dimmed from molten gold to a sullen, bruised crimson, the crew gathered around The Beast as though drawn by its dying glow. The cab lights stayed on, just low, an amber hush glowing through the windshield like the last breath of a candle in a tomb. They took turns in there, elbows braced on the doors, bare feet propped up on the console, eyes closed fully surrendering to sleep. Others erected lean‑tos from slabs of volcanic slate, propping them against the trailer in crooked triangles hoping to escape the volcanic winds.
Nobody lit a fire. If the question was even asked it would have been met with a very pointed remark about the man's intelligence and most likely manhood.
A sulfurous wind slithered through every shelter regardless, flicking ash and embers into each pregnant pause. Voices, when they came, were full of bravado, each word held up by the day’s adrenaline in spite of the possible dread on the horizon.
A few hours into rotation the men congregated in one of the haphazard slate shelters, stories were told and laughs were had but eventually the tone shifted to nostalgia, Ron sat on a cinder‑chipped rock, shoulders hunched. “I promised her I’d be home for her stew again,” he rasped, voice cracking like old leather. “She makes it with deer neck and dumplings the size of fists. Sops the broth with cornbread till it’s gone. I just hope this is worth it chief.” He swallowed, eyes distant before meeting Elmore's piercing green and blue eyes getting a nod in response. The hush that followed was respectful if momentary as they watched the interaction.
Across the circle, Frank leaned against a jagged slate wall, gaze fixed on nothing. “My boy,” he murmured, voice raw. “Ain’t seen him since the Nexus sparked up. I—” His throat caught. “I barely remember his face.” He closed his eyes as if willing that memory back. “Maybe Hydra’ll find him for me when we return. I pray he does. I only asked it before we left, he is all i have left of my wife.” It wasn’t hope. It was a funeral prayer. As even with closed eyes under a ventilation mask tears could still be seen even if they evaporate quickly.
Then Wes spoke, voice low and unsteady. He chewed the last of his mint gum until it was flavorless dust. “I ain’t scared of lizards or magma rivers,” he said, staring at the glowing cracks beyond camp. “I’m damn scared of what we’re bound to bring back.” He tapped his mask. “Not the flowers or meat but us. I worry a place like this might burn somethin’ outta us we ain’t ever gonna get back.” the sentiment was silently shared as they knew the personal changes the shadow guardian demanded of them.
Silence settled beside the ash.
When he had all he could bear of human contact Elmore sat apart, perched on the trailer’s edge. The ember of his cigarette winked between his fingers like a ghostly heartbeat as without his mask smoking felt even more suffocating. He said nothing, he never liked comforting words on nights like this. Instead, he listened to the sulfur wind as it breathed ancient warnings through their makeshift shelters.
Beyond the circle, distant roars echoed: obsidian‑armored beasts prowling the volcanic dark, a reminder that every dream here carried the risk of waking under fangs and claws.
And so they slept each man wondering who he’d be when he finally walked back out of this hell. If they walked back out at all a sentiment never spoken.