The ferry drifted through the last coils of the heavenly throat and broke into open sky.
Below, Taeterra waited—an archipelago of stone and cloud suspended over an ocean that glowed from within. The harbor was alive: pillars of living basalt twisted upward like vertebrae; chains of lightning ran through them in slow pulses, lighting the docks as if the world itself breathed. Forges burned along the cliffs, their smoke the color of dawn turned metallic.
When the ramp touched ground, the vibration of it travelled through Qaritas's bones.
Behind them, the ferry sighed—a deep, metallic breath that rolled through the dock before fading into the wind, like the sound of heaven closing its throat
Komus stepped off first, squinting at the living rock beneath their feet.
"Finally," he muttered, giving the pier an experimental kick. "Solid ground that still hums like thunder. Just what my nerves needed."
Niraí laughed under her breath, though the sound carried the weariness of gods who had forgotten how to rest.
Daviyi crouched near the edge of the pier, running a fingertip through the glowing tide. The water clung to her skin like quicksilver before dripping away in perfect spheres.
Cree was right behind her, muttering a ward under their breath as if the sea might answer back. "Even the salt hums here," she said.
Hydeius lingered last, gaze tilted skyward. The reflection of the floating forges danced in his eyes like constellations being smelted anew.
Qaritas followed, boots clicking against the pulsing stone. The air was thick with minerals and incense. Sparks drifted from the forges farther inland—orange fireflies caught in gravity's indecision.
He reached for Ayla's mind without meaning to. The link opened like the crack of a door in a quiet house.
Ayla?
Her aura flickered in answer—gold-gray, dim at the edges. She stood at the far end of the pier beside Zcain and Rnarah, face calm, but her eyes were swollen and rimmed with red.
I'm fine, she sent back, the thought soft and controlled.
Qaritas didn't believe her.
He felt her grief like static through a radio made of light—loud, then gone.
For half a breath, she looked toward him—as if hearing his heartbeat instead of his words—and then looked away. The space between them felt heavy with things neither dared to name.
Eon stirred inside him, usually quick with a barb.
But now his voice came low, uncertain. She looks… smaller. I don't remember gods looking small.
Qaritas said nothing. The sea wind was heavy with iron, and somewhere beyond the harbor, he could already feel the pressure of violence—a rhythm waiting to be struck.
The rest of them gathered where the pier met the main causeway: Cree and Daviyi smelling faintly of ash and medicine; Hydeius still wrapped in silence; Niraí brushing stray sparks from her hair.
Cree kept their palms close to her sides, faint orange light bleeding from the cracks between their fingers—the habit of someone who'd been in too many aftermaths.
Daviyi busied herself checking the edge of her scalpel charm, the gesture more about control than readiness.
Hydeius said nothing, but his shadow rippled wrong against the stone, bending toward the forge-fire like it wanted to kneel.
For a moment no one spoke. The hum of the island filled the space where words might have lived.
Zcain broke it first, his voice calm and command-shaped.
"We'll rest here, regroup, and then head for the upper forges. Tavren's expecting us."
His tone was steady, but Qaritas saw the tremor in his hands before he folded them behind his back.
Rnarah's veil fluttered in the forge-wind, her gaze unreadable.
"The harbor will hold," she said. "For now."
Komus snorted. "That's what sailors say right before something eats the ship."
Daviyi glanced toward Qaritas. "You're quiet. Too quiet."
"I'm listening," he said. His eyes tracked the distant smoke rising from the forge towers. "Something's wrong up there."
Ayla moved to stand beside him. The gold of her aura brushed against the faint violet under his skin, two colors trying not to bleed together.
"Every silence after war feels too clean," she murmured.
He met her eyes, wanting to believe that silence meant peace. It didn't.
Behind his ribs, Aun'darion's pulse quickened.
Eon's voice returned, soft as breath against glass. You feel it too. The next storm. I don't know if I want to watch it or run from it.
Qaritas exhaled, gaze fixed on the forge towers where sparks leapt higher than the clouds.
"Then hold your breath," he whispered. "It's about to begin."
The path wound upward through carved veins of stone that pulsed with light, the heartbeat of Taeterra itself. Each step brought the scent of molten metal sharper—iron, lightning, and old rain.
The air began to vibrate.
Not with wind, but with rhythm.
Metal on bone. Hammer on godflesh.
Komus winced, rubbing at one ear.
"Either someone's forging a god," he muttered, "or Dheas started a fight ."
Niraí's laughter cracked mid-note, the sound too brittle to survive the heat. Komus caught the shift but didn't comment.
A beat later, the world agreed with him.
BOOM.
A shockwave rolled down the path, carrying with it a wall of heat and the taste of ozone. The sky above flickered white for a heartbeat, and then the thunder came—a deep, resonant roar that sounded less like battle and more like the planet screaming through its teeth.
Eon went very still inside Qaritas's chest.
That isn't mortal forging, he whispered, voice thin, uncertain. That's Covenant metal—he's working with memory itself.
Zcain's pace quickened. "Tavren," he said under his breath, the word a mix of relief and dread.
When they rounded the last bend, the forge opened before them—an arena built into the cliffside, glowing like a wound in the world. The air shimmered with heat; molten rivers crawled through channels in the stone. Chains hung from the ceiling, each holding half-forged weapons that trembled as if dreaming of violence.
At the center, two figures blurred in motion.
Tavren was enormous—ten feet of coiled muscle and radiant fury, rose-quartz eyes blazing under hair the color of sunrise through blood. His bare arms gleamed with sweat and molten dust, each swing of his hammer distorting the air.
His opponent—Dheas—moved with lazy precision, black scales glittering between bursts of fur and feathers. His grin was a weapon all its own.
The hammer met Dheas's ribs with a sound like planets colliding. Bone liquefied. For an instant his torso caved inward—then reformed, flesh knitting backward through smoke. The wound sealed in reverse, veins of molten gold sewing him shut.
The smell hit next: iron, ozone, and the sweetness of burning ichor.
Qaritas flinched. Even Eon recoiled inside him.
That's not healing, Eon hissed. That's rewriting. They're sculpting each other alive.
Tavren roared, bringing the hammer down again. The floor cracked, sparks scattering into the molten trenches. Dheas caught the blow with one clawed hand, but the impact shattered his arm into dust.
He only laughed. "You hit harder than last time, Covenant-boy."
"Hard enough to make it stick, this time," Tavren growled, raising the hammer again.
The next strike tore Dheas's shoulder clean off. He staggered back, then grinned through a spray of luminous blood.
His body convulsed, muscle twisting, finding itself, knitting together like a film played backward.
"Still standing," he crooned.
"Barely thinking," Tavren shot back. "You heal faster than you learn."
Dheas flexed his newly formed arm, smoke curling from the seams. "I learn which blows feel best."
The next exchange was worse. Hammer met claw, fire met sinew. The noise alone split the air like lightning trapped in a jar.
Ayla flinched, her aura spiking gold. "That's not a duel," she whispered. "That's a ritual."
Beside her, Zcain's jaw tightened; the red in his eyes wasn't reflection—it was sleeplessness refusing to fade.
Rnarah didn't blink. "It always was."
Blood—bright as molten glass—spattered the walls.
Cree flinched when one droplet hissed near their boot; instinctively they reached to heal air itself before realizing there was no saving what burned here.
Daviyi pressed a hand to her mouth, the medic in her recoiling even as the scholar leaned closer, morbidly fascinated by the way divine tissue reknit.
Hydeius didn't move—his eyes half-lidded, studying the rhythm of the blows like someone decoding prophecy from violence.
Ayla's aura flared once, dimmed, then steadied—her restraint more painful than fear.
Each droplet hissed, sprouting small, shifting patterns before evaporating.
Eon's voice trembled—shock, fascination, a little fear.
They're playing with resurrection like children. Do you see it? Every death is a rehearsal.
Qaritas couldn't look away. He felt the heat through his bones, the echo of their pain thrumming against his own fractured pulse.
At last, Tavren's hammer struck Dheas across the face, the blow decapitating him in a clean, merciless arc. The head tumbled once, twice—then landed upright, still grinning.
"Was that necessary?" it asked dryly.
Tavren reached down, lifted it by the hair, and snarled, "If you break another one of Vax's beloved weapons, I'll forge you into one myself."
The body behind him twitched, neck sealing, vertebrae snapping back into place with the sound of a zipper drawn through lightning. Dheas's new head formed like poured glass.
He blinked, smiled, and bowed low.
"I swear on the stars themselves, Tavren. But if Vax ever does forge me, I expect to be his favorite blade."
The forge laughed with him—chains rattling, molten rivers boiling harder as if feeding off the absurdity.
Eon finally found his voice again, low and shaken.
What kind of world did you bring me to, little brother? Even their laughter bleeds.
Qaritas didn't answer.
He could still smell the iron in the air, the echo of gods remaking themselves through pain.
And deep beneath his ribs, Aun'darion's pulse beat faster—as if it recognized this ritual too.
The forge remembered their screams. Each blow sent sparks whirling through the air like shards of captured stars.
Then a voice cut through it.
"Enough."
The word struck like ice against iron.
Every flame in the forge stilled, freezing mid-sway, smoke rising in statues of gray. The hammer in Tavren's hand halted inches above Dheas's throat. Even the molten channels ceased their pulse.
Rnarah stood on the edge of the platform, veil rippling in the heat that no longer moved.
The frozen smoke glowed faintly violet—the same hue that had once burned through heaven's throat.
Even stillness remembered the color of his awakening.Her presence folded the noise inward until silence became a shape.
"Blood feeds metal," she said, her voice calm, cold, divine. "Not family."
The words didn't echo—they obeyed. Even the molten air seemed to bow to her tone.
The silence smelled scorched—like even sound had burned.
For a long heartbeat, no one breathed.
Tavren exhaled first, the sound rough as tearing cloth. He let the hammer fall to his side, the weapon's glow dimming to a faint rose. Dheas straightened, cracks along his shoulders sealing with lazy grace. His grin, though tired, stayed.
"Well," Dheas said lightly, flexing fingers that were still half-smoke. "Guess we'll call it a draw."
Komus exhaled like he'd been holding the breath for centuries. Ayla's hand trembled once, then stilled against her thigh. Even the molten rivers seemed to sigh.
Zcain descended the steps toward them, the red light of his blood-threads casting soft sigils on the stone. "You two have learned nothing in the centuries since you first sparred."
Zcain's gaze swept the group, lingering a second too long on Qaritas—but he said nothing. Not yet.
Dheas chuckled. "Learned plenty. Just none of it involves restraint, Uncle."
Zcain's gaze flicked to Tavren—father to son, commander to warrior. "You know each other too well. That's what makes it dangerous."
Rnarah joined him, her voice the steady current beneath his words. "Tell them, my beloved. They don't know."
Zcain looked to the others—Ayla, Komus, Niraí, Qaritas—the newcomers who had watched gods tear each other apart.
"They grew up together," he said quietly.
He hesitated, the faint hum of the forge filling the pause.
"Trained together, and chose to be brothers in arms."
His hand closed unconsciously over the thin scar that crossed his palm—an old memory turned habit.
He looked at his son before continuing. "Vax and his brother joined us after both brothers married into my family."
His tone softened, almost reverent. "He's actually Tavren's beloved."
Rnarah reached out, brushing a smear of ash from her son's shoulder—a mother's motion disguised as ceremony.
Tavren gave a weary snort, wiping blood and soot from his jaw. "Vax even creates an forges all the weapons and torture devices in Taeterra."
Eon's whisper coiled up Qaritas's spine, softer now, wary.
So they were born from the same forge—bonded through violence and rebirth. It's almost beautiful. Almost.
Qaritas's throat ached from the weight of that word: family.
He didn't know if he stood closer to the hammer or the heart—but the bruise felt the same.
The forge's light flickered—and for an instant, everything inside Qaritas tilted.
The heat didn't fade; it folded inward, like the air was collapsing into his veins.
Little brother, Eon whispered, voice honeyed and cruel, you should rest. Let me keep the body warm for you.
Pain bloomed. Not external—internal, blooming behind his eyes like lightning turned inward. His limbs jerked once. He tasted blood, realized his own hand had tightened hard enough to break the skin of his palm.
"Qaritas?" Komus's voice came faint and distant, warped by distance that wasn't real. The world rippled. The forge dimmed to ash.
Inside his mind, the world was wrong.
Komus hung from strings of flesh—his laughter carved open, looped into petals. Ayla stood beside him, her gold-gray aura twisted into a bouquet of muscle and light, her eyes blooming like roses made of nerve.
See? Eon murmured, amused. They're prettier this way. You always hid from beauty's true shape.
Qaritas tried to scream, but his throat locked.
Eon's laughter slid down his spine. Ah, can't have that.
The pain spiked white-hot—then vanished. A horrible quiet followed. He felt the absence before understanding it: his voice was gone. His own body wouldn't obey.
His hands moved without his consent—flexing, clenching, his fingers brushing the hilt of his blade. His knees bent like a marionette drawn by a crueler god.
There, Eon said softly, controlling each motion with a lover's precision. Much better. You were never built for freedom, brother. Just resonance.
But something inside Qaritas refused to vanish. He forced breath into lungs that weren't his, pushed against the weight of the invading will. The fractures along his arms flared gold-violet, light fighting light.
Stop.
No, Eon purred. Sleep.
"Qaritas!" Ayla's voice crashed through the mental storm—not in sound, but through the mindlink. Her aura slammed into him like warm thunder. Anchor—remember?
He did.
The pain broke. The illusions snapped, the bloody flowers collapsing back into shadow. The forge's light returned. His breath came in shudders. Eon's presence recoiled, his laughter echoing from deeper within.
Your will's stronger than I thought, the god whispered, voice dripping with admiration and malice. But the clock is ticking. Four days, little brother—and your body will be mine.
Qaritas blinked hard, forcing his expression into calm as the others' attention drifted away. Ayla's eyes caught his, worry like a tremor of light between them.
You okay? she sent quietly.
"Just sore," he lied aloud, smiling faintly. "The cracks ache more than before."
Ayla's smile was soft and sad. "If something's on your mind, you can talk to me."
Any thought of me will be erased, Eon whispered, almost fond. No one will know what your sad excuse of a father did to me—or what I'll do to you.
Qaritas kept smiling. "Later," he said, voice steady but thin. "When it's quieter."
Inside him, laughter coiled and faded, like the last ember of a dying forge.
Zcain's expression softened, though the strain in his voice remained. "You look exhausted, my son."
The taller god rolled his shoulders, muscles shifting like tectonic plates. "I'm fine father, Vax has been watching the forge again," Tavren admitted. "Keeps ordering me to rest—says I'm burning through my own covenant faster than I can renew it." His rose-quartz eyes narrowed toward Dheas. "Wouldn't need rest if someone didn't keep breaking the weapons he blesses or if they finally awaken."
Rnarah put her hand on her son's shoulder, "They will, we just need to wait
Dheas was still re-forming the last traces of his chest wound. Smoke curled through the seams as he smiled, teeth bright as fresh bone. "If Vax forged better toys, they'd last longer."
Tavren pointed the blood-streaked hammer at him, voice low and thunderous. "You'll be my next blade if you break another one."
The tension sparked again—heat rushing back into the air, the flames threatening to resume their song—until Rnarah's tone sliced between them, cool as moonlight.
"Eat first," she said. "Threaten later."
A faint laugh rippled through the group, the kind of laughter that follows catastrophe. The forge seemed to exhale with them, its fires thawing back to motion, gentler now.
Komus brushed a fleck of molten dust from his coat.
"If dinner's less violent than this, I'll consider it divine intervention."
Tavren grunted, turning toward a wide stairway of vapor that coiled upward from the edge of the forge. "The dining hall's above. Level sixty-six. Don't wander off—the stairs decide your speed, not you."
As they stepped onto the first translucent tread, the stair pulsed beneath their feet and began to rise. Wind roared, color smearing into light as the world blurred around them.
Eon's voice returned, quiet, awed.
They break each other, then dine together. I don't understand them.
Qaritas's hand brushed the rail of cloud, his reflection fragmenting in it.
"Neither do I," he murmured. "But maybe that's what family means here—bleeding and pretending it was a lesson."
The staircase climbed faster, the forge shrinking to a pulse of rose and gold far below. Ahead, suspended in the luminous mist, a sign materialized.
For once, even he didn't whisper. The silence between them was its own kind of prayer.
66 — Dining Hall.
The air grew warmer, thick with the scent of roasted metals and strange spices.