The ferry groaned as it crossed the threshold.
Not water beneath it—light. A slow, viscous current of folded distance that shimmered like glass under strain. The lanterns along the ribs of bone cast pale halos that didn't quite touch the dark.
Rivax set the wooden box down at the center of the deck with a heavy, final thud.
The sound carried.
Everyone felt it.
The box was old—older than most civilizations. Reinforced with bands of blackened steel etched in warding glyphs so dense they overlapped themselves. The wood had darkened to the color of dried blood, and something inside it pulsed—not alive, not dead. Waiting.
Dheas and Tavran took position on either side of Rivax without being told.
Flanking.
Witnessing.
Rivax exhaled once, steadying himself, then dragged his fingers along the seals. They flared briefly—resentful—before peeling away like burned paper.
The lid creaked open.
The air changed.
Not heat. Not cold.
Weight.
The kind that presses on the soul and reminds it that gods once bled for less.
"These," Rivax said quietly, voice rough with reverence, "were not forged."
He reached inside.
"They were answered."
Qaritas
Rivax lifted the first weapon with both hands.
A short spear—no, a dagger—no, something in between. The shaft was obsidian-black, matte and absolute, swallowing light without reflection. The blade looked… unfinished. Not broken. Forgotten.
Reality simply hadn't completed it.
Its edge wasn't sharp.
It was absent.
Qaritas felt it before it was handed to him. A hollow behind the eyes. A pressure in the chest, like something inside him had leaned forward and gone very still.
"This one," Rivax said, meeting Qaritas's gaze, "does not cut flesh."
He placed it into Qaritas's hands.
"It removes presence."
The weapon was warm.
Not comforting. Familiar.
The shadows around Qaritas adjusted instantly—subtly, reverently—like they recognized something older than themselves.
Nez sat down at Qaritas's feet and did not move.
The pain came in waves.
Not sharp. Not explosive.
Deep.
Like something inside Qaritas was being slowly unseated, bone by bone, memory by memory. His pulse refused to settle. His breath kept catching on nothing. Shadows slid too close to his skin, then recoiled, then pressed again—uncertain, restless.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, the Awakening would finish.
He sat with his back against one of the ferry's inner ribs, head tipped forward, fists clenched so tight his nails cut crescent moons into his palms.
Nez did not leave him.
The dark feline pressed fully against Qaritas's side now, warm and solid, tail wrapped loosely around his ankle like an anchor line. Every time the pain spiked, Nez's ears flattened and his body tensed—but he stayed.
Didn't hiss.
Didn't retreat.
Didn't let the dark touch him again.
Qaritas exhaled shakily and rested his forehead against the cat's crown.
"I don't know who I'll be tomorrow," he whispered.
Nez's tail flicked once.
The shadows surged—
—and stopped.
Not because Qaritas commanded them.
Because they recognized who mattered.
Qaritas's fingers sank into warm fur, and for the first time in hours, the pain didn't vanish—
—but it eased.
Inside him, Eon was uncharacteristically quiet.
Watching.
Eon said nothing.
Which terrified Qaritas more than laughter ever could.
Hydeius
The next weapon sang softly as it emerged.
A broad, straight sword—immaculate, solemn—its surface etched with thousands of names so fine they could only be seen when the blade tilted just right. Each name shimmered faintly, then settled, like a held breath released.
The hilt was wrapped in funerary thread woven from soul-light, warm and steady in Hydeius's grasp.
Hydeius took it carefully.
The blade grew heavier.
Not physically.
Existentially.
Hydeius felt a name slip from the blade as he lifted it—
not erased,
just… complete.
"This blade," Rivax said, "ends bonds cleanly."
Hydeius bowed his head once.
Not in thanks.
In acknowledgment.
Cree
Cree's weapon smoldered the moment Rivax lifted it.
A macuahuitl, obsidian edges embedded with ember-crystals that burned without consuming themselves. Sparks drifted from it like pollen, floating, dying, being reborn as flame again.
The weapon breathed.
Cree smiled faintly when it touched her hands—and the sparks brightened.
"It remembers what it burns," Rivax warned.
Cree's voice was gentle.
"So do I."
Komus
Komus's saber refused to settle.
A curved blade that warped perspective—long from one angle, short from another, sometimes both at once. Space bent around it, subtly offended by its existence.
Komus whistled under his breath.
"Oh, that's just rude," he said, testing the weight. The air rippled when he moved it.
Rivax gave him a look. "Try not to fold the ferry."
Komus grinned. "No promises."
Niriai
Niriai's sword hummed with quiet authority.
A straight double-edged blade with a hollow center channel filled with shifting constellations—stars sliding, rearranging, vanishing into new configurations. The pommel ring rotated slowly, sigils clicking into alignment.
When Niriai held it, the ferry's shadows bent toward her.
Doors, Qaritas thought.
Too many of them.
Daviyi
Daviyi's blade was small.
Deceptively so.
A leaf-shaped dagger etched with moving script that rearranged itself as she watched. When she touched it, the glyphs paused—then accelerated, learning her.
Daviyi inhaled sharply.
"It's reading me," she muttered.
Rivax nodded. "And it will never forget."
Daviyi smiled without humor.
"Neither will I."
They practiced.
Not recklessly. Not playfully.
With the quiet intensity of people who understood that this was rehearsal for survival.
Cree and Hydeius moved like blurs—fire and release in perfect counterpoint.
Niriai flowed between spaces that shouldn't have existed. Daviyi fought like a scholar with nothing left to lose—precise, brutal, efficient.
Komus laughed once as he cut distance apart like cloth.
"Is it just me," he said, dodging backward through a folded arc of space, "or is everyone stronger?"
Komus finally broke the silence.
"Niriai," he said quietly, "about Azrhoth."
She froze.
Not outwardly—no flinch, no gasp—but space around her stiffened, gates trembling faintly at the edges of reality.
"…What about him?" she asked.
Komus hesitated. "You said he wasn't—"
She closed her eyes.
Then nodded once.
"We were best friends," Niriai said. "Before we were anything else."
Komus frowned slightly.
"We fell in love," she continued. "Slowly. Stupidly. And then very all at once."
She swallowed.
"We had sixteen children."
The words landed like thunder.
Even Qaritas looked up.
Komus didn't breathe. "Sixteen?"
Niriai laughed weakly. "Cosmic gates are… productive."
Then her voice darkened.
"When the Fragments from Atramenta and Noct took my brother, Nysaeon… they didn't just capture him. They erased him. Piece by piece."
Komus's hands curled slowly.
"He was the one who rescued him," Niriai said. "Pulled what was left of Nysaeon back before his mind was completely destroyed. His body was ruined. It took years to restore."
She looked at Komus now.
"And when Lord Lexen's soul was placed into that body… and he finally awakened…"
Her voice softened.
"You told me," she said, "that you looked forward to seeing me in your next life."
Silence.
Komus staggered back a half-step.
"I—" His voice failed. He tried again. "I didn't remember that."
"I know," Niriai whispered. "You weren't meant to."
Qaritas stared.
That wasn't the man who'd attacked him on the shooting star.
That wasn't the monster.
Komus looked at Niriai like he was seeing the universe wrong for the first time.
"…He's my son," he said.
Niriai nodded.
"Yes."
Komus didn't hesitate.
He pulled her into his arms, holding her like the ground might disappear if he didn't.
"When this is over," he said hoarsely, "after the Hellbound—"
His breath hitched.
"I want to meet all sixteen."
Niriai broke.
She laughed and cried at the same time, clutching him like she'd been waiting lifetimes for those words.
"Of course," she sobbed. "Of course you will."
Qaritas didn't answer.
He was watching the void-edge in his hands erase a practice construct—not break it, not shatter it—forget it.
He swallowed.
"Why did you come?" Qaritas asked Komus suddenly
Komus stopped.
For once, he didn't joke.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded letter.
And something else.
An eyeball.
Fresh.
Perfectly preserved.
Qaritas's stomach dropped.
Komus opened the letter and handed it over.
The handwriting was elegant.
Cruel.
Just a reminder of who you were, my son.
Lord Lexen did not disappear.
He was refined.
Come to the ball.
I have a surprise for you too.
Qaritas looked up slowly.
Komus's smile was brittle. "Delivered this morning."
Eon chuckled softly.
"Oh," he murmured. "That does remind me of someone."
The ferry shuddered as Deepcrest came into view—its quiet glow clinging stubbornly to the edge of Mrajeareim, a mercy that had not yet been burned away.
A massive, glyph-covered arm exploded through the upper tier of the Hellbound colosseum rising beyond Deepcrest— obliterating a spire in a rain of ash and bone. A roar followed—deep, ancient, furious enough to bend the wind itself.
The Hellbound.
The arena rose like a wound in the world—obsidian walls clawing at the sky, corpses twisted into garlands, towers bleeding ash.
And beyond it—
Mrajeareim.
The realm where fragments were born.
Where gods were stripped bare.
Where surrender was the first lesson—and the last.
The air reeked of burning flesh and blood. Screams layered endlessly, some too old to belong to anyone living. Rivers of molten despair cut through the land, heat pressing down like a judgment.
Somewhere beyond them, a garden bloomed.
Violet leaves.
Flowers grown from bone.
Weeping.
That place had taught him to be divine.
And punished him every time he tried to be anything else.
Qaritas tightened his grip on the void-blade.
Nez stood at his side.
Eon's voice curled, satisfied.
Yes, Eon murmured. Now you look armed enough to disappoint the gods.
Ahead—
Ecayrous waited.
And the banquet had teeth.