The wreck of the Widow-Class Skirmisher still smoked where it had fallen, its body slumped in the crater it carved out of the rock like a broken god. Bits of its wings were curled back, vents wheezing softly as residual heat escaped. Steam hissed from the exposed joints like breath exhaled too late. Lana stood beside the machine's body, silent, her hand still outstretched. Her fingers trembled slightly, though not from fear—more like aftershock. The last glow from the drone's ribbed chest cast pulses of soft orange across her face, and for a moment, her eyes reflected that dying light like mirrors catching the sun.
No one spoke. Even the wind had stopped. It was as if the whole mountain was listening—waiting to see what the machine would do next.
Nyx moved first.
She stepped around the shattered plating with a calmness that didn't belong in a place like this. Crouching near the Widow's midsection, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a narrow cable tipped with a silver spine. "I want its last five minutes," she muttered, mostly to herself. Then louder, "Its visual feed. If anything's still salvageable."
Jason's rifle twitched toward the drone's body as he moved in close behind her. "You're going to tap into that thing? After what it just tried to do?"
Nyx didn't look up. "Of course it's dangerous," she said plainly. "But we need answers. Not guesses."
With a small click, the cable connected. Her handheld screen flared—first static, then white noise. Then, slowly, images began to bleed through.
First came sky.
Then Lana.
Standing atop the outpost's tower, the wind pulling at her coat, one hand extended like she was commanding a storm instead of holding off a killing machine. The visual glitched, flickered. Distorted. The feed trembled as though the machine itself had been confused by what it saw.
Then the image warped again.
And a voice spilled out of the Widow's speakers—softer than metal, but edged with something ancient and terrible. Male. Calm. But with the kind of calm that felt measured. Like a man counting seconds to a detonation.
"Crownless," the voice said. "Your throne bleeds still."
The screen flared again.
A face appeared—or the suggestion of one. A mask, bone-pale and carved with thin veins of metal that pulsed faintly beneath its surface. The mask was fused to a hood made of something fibrous and shifting, like fabric designed to breathe. Behind the figure, a sky stretched red and ruinous. Black thrones floated in that horizon, weightless, suspended like ruined constellations.
"I am Ash-Marrow," the voice continued. "Witness to fracture. Shepherd of silence. Born not of Veliora's mind, but her rejection."
Lana took a slow step forward, gaze narrowing.
"You wear the signal like it chose you," Ash-Marrow said. "But signals echo. They mimic. They mutate. You are not a Queen. You are an algorithm gone recursive."
Jason bristled. "What the hell is he talking about? Did he—did he hijack the Widow's system?"
Nyx's fingers tightened on her cable. "He didn't hijack anything," she said quietly. "He was inside it. Embedded. Waiting."
Ash-Marrow didn't stop.
"Veliora didn't die," he said. "She splintered. Her fragments walk the world now, whispering through flesh and bone and memory. Some still dream of a throne reborn. Others—like me—believe that the throne should remain broken. Because a Queen does not protect. A Queen consumes."
Kieran's voice came low from behind them, quiet but full of warning. "What do you want?"
Ash-Marrow didn't look at him. His eyes—if the thing behind that mask even had eyes—never left Lana.
"I want to warn you. You are not the first to rise. And you will not be the last. But if you think your awakening makes you whole, then you've already lost."
The screen cut to black.
The glow in the Widow's core faded. The last pulse of light went out like a final heartbeat.
Silence.
Then Nyx unplugged the cable.
"He's real," she whispered. "He's not legend or rumor. He's awake. And he's watching us."
Jason lowered his weapon, staring at the dark screen like it might wake again. "He called her a convergence… a recursive algorithm. That's not just a prophecy, that's system language. He sees her as code. Dangerous code."
Nyx stood slowly, the tablet tucked under her arm. "He talked about shards," she said. "I think Veliora's mind was never meant to be kept whole. It broke into pieces—call them Throneshards. Each one carrying a sliver of who she was. Lana's one. Ash-Marrow's another."
"How many more are out there?" Kieran asked.
Nyx shook her head. "No one knows. But they're waking. That much I'm sure of."
Lana had already begun to walk.
She didn't say anything. Just turned from the crater and drifted toward the cliff's edge. She moved like her body was heavier now. Like something inside her had pulled tight.
Kieran followed.
He found her alone at the edge of the world, looking out over jagged stone and fading sunlight. Her arms hung stiff at her sides. The wind pulled at her hair, but she didn't react to it.
"I didn't ask for any of this," she said. Not to him. Just… aloud.
"I know."
"I didn't want a throne, or a war, or to inherit the wreckage of a god who thought she could control evolution."
Kieran was quiet for a moment. Then he stepped beside her.
"Then don't be her," he said. "Be you. Make them deal with that."
She turned her head slightly. Her eyes shimmered—not glowing with power this time, but with something simpler. Something more human.
"I'm afraid I'll forget who that is."
Kieran reached out and gently brushed her hand with his fingers. "Then I'll remind you," he said. "As many times as it takes."
She leaned into him. Just a little. Just enough.
And far behind them, at the edge of the outpost, Nyx's screen lit up again.
Jason was already watching her when it did. "What now?" he asked.
Nyx's brows knit. "It's not Ash-Marrow this time. Different signal. Lower frequency. Buried deep in the Queen's old infrastructure."
Jason's voice dropped. "Another shard?"
Nyx looked up. "No. A summoning."
Jason froze. "It's calling her?"
Nyx nodded. "By name."
And as if in answer, the ground beneath their feet gave a low, shuddering groan. A rumble deep in the stone—older than the Widow, older than Ash-Marrow, older than whatever god Veliora once thought she was.
Something had heard.
And it was stirring.