The jungle was behind him.
Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it had simply changed shape.
Dren moved through the dense underbrush like a blade through fabric, steady and slow. The ship's pulse had faded behind him, leaving only instinct and a subtle hum in the back of his skull. The Sable Vow hadn't spoken—it never did—but it had opened its hull, released him, and pointed its inner lights toward the northeast.
So he followed.
Now the trees grew taller, thinner. Their bark had gone pale—not with age, but with something deeper. A sickness. They peeled in curled sheets, flaking like ash. Moss clung to their roots in clotted, black clusters. The ground was soft here, but not with life. It felt padded with rot.
Dren knelt once to press a hand into the soil. It crumbled between his fingers, the color of dried blood.
He stood slowly, eyes scanning the horizon.
The air tasted different. Thinner. A little sweeter. And cold.
No birds sang here.
No wind moved.
The further he walked, the more color bled from the world. Where once there were vines and emerald leaves, now there were empty branches like spears, cracked boughs that jutted skyward like the ribs of something long-dead.
And yet…
Here and there, he saw signs.
A tree whose roots formed perfect circles.
A stone platform half-swallowed by dirt, marked with the same fractal pattern as the Sable Vow's hull.
Pillars toppled and buried in vines—not natural ones, but vines that had grown, withered, and hardened mid-bloom, like a garden caught mid-breath.
This place had once been alive.
Not just alive. Made. Designed. Maintained.
And now it was dying.
He walked further, pushing through the thick, colorless mist that began to cling to the forest floor. His boots cracked dry leaves that powdered beneath him. The glow in his veins flickered faintly, reacting to something unseen.
Eventually, the trees parted.
He stepped into a wide, circular clearing. At its center lay what once must've been a garden—or a shrine.
Now it was a crater of withered roots, hollow stone bowls, and frozen petals locked in petrified arcs. Vines coiled around a single central spire—maybe a marker, maybe a beacon—that leaned slightly to one side. Once, it may have glowed.
Now, it just bled shadow.
Dren moved cautiously through it.
He didn't trust how quiet it had become.
Not natural quiet. Held quiet.
Then came the voice.
"You weren't supposed to come this far."
He turned.
A figure stood between two dead trees, framed by mist and fading light.
Tall. Graceful. Draped in flowing robes of white and violet that shimmered like woven glass. A mask covered its face—smooth, featureless, except for a slight golden line down the center. The being's hands were folded neatly.
It didn't walk forward. It simply was closer.
Dren tensed. His fingers twitched toward his belt out of habit, though he carried no blade here.
The voice again—soft, warm, genderless.
"You carry something new. Something this world has not felt in a very long time."
Dren's mouth was dry. "You know what I am?"
"I know what you've become."
The figure moved again—closer without stepping.
Dren's breath slowed. His lightning hummed faintly.
"You've ruined this place," he said. "This forest. This world."
The figure tilted its head. "No. I made this place. I birthed it."
"Then why is it dead?"
A pause. The wind didn't move. The trees didn't sway.
The figure sighed.
"Because those meant to protect it turned away. They let the balance collapse. Now the soil is broken. The roots have gone silent. But you… you can fix it."
Dren didn't answer.
"You are energy," the being said. "Precision. Pulse. The breath between cracks. I need only a fragment of your charge. Nothing more."
It raised one hand—fingers long and smooth, reaching gently.
"Let me take it. Let me sow the spark again. Let me regrow what was lost."
Dren didn't move. His body buzzed.
The Sable Vow's hum echoed faintly in the back of his skull.
Wrong.
This was wrong.
He narrowed his eyes.
"You said you created this world."
"I did."
"Then why do the roots recoil from you?"
The figure froze.
Dren stepped forward.
"I've walked through dead things before. Ruins. Machines. Corpses. They're silent. But this place? This place is hiding from you."
The figure's voice sharpened, just slightly.
"You misunderstand what is being offered."
"No. I see it now."
The air crackled. His arms tensed. The glow beneath his skin pulsed gold.
"You're not a creator."
Lightning flashed across his knuckles.
"You're a parasite."
He drove his fist forward.
The being reached for him—and in that instant, Dren struck.
Yellow lightning burst from his hand in a focused arc, blasting into the figure's chest. The air ignited. Light filled the clearing like a miniature sun. Trees bent backward. Roots shattered. The crater lit up in spiraling veins of electricity.
The false Creator screamed.
Not in words. Not in pain. Just static.
Its mask cracked. Its robes tore into light. And then it was gone—disintegrated in midair, leaving only a scorched patch of soil behind.
Silence returned.
But this time, it was honest.
The forest didn't sigh. It didn't sing. But something deeper—something ancient—shifted. The roots pulsed faintly once. A breeze moved. A petal fell from a branch and landed in the soil.
Dren breathed.
Then he looked up.
The sky was on fire.
He didn't move.
Not at first.
The glow on his knuckles faded slowly, curling back into his veins like a storm re-sheathing its claws. Around him, the grove stood scorched and cracked. The trees still leaned back as though recoiling from something holy. The spire at the center had split down the middle, its once-flawless stone now bleeding faint black smoke.
The false Creator was gone. Burned from reality like a lie exposed to sunlight.
But the air hadn't settled.
It should have. The lightning was gone. The body was gone. But the atmosphere held… pressure. Something heavier than air, thicker than smoke. A deep, almost invisible gravity that pressed inward on the clearing like the world itself was clenching its teeth.
Dren stepped back once.
Then he felt it.
The tremble.
Not in the ground. In the sky.
He looked up.
A tear had opened in the clouds—no light, no fire—just a smear of absence. The sky itself seemed to ripple, parting around a falling object.
At first it looked like a comet.
But comets didn't have wings.
The sound came late—thunder that cracked backward, echoing from nowhere. Heat dropped into the air like a curtain of flame. Trees to the west curled inward and burst into fire.
Then it dropped.
A silhouette of burning leather and muscle, wings like the sails of hell, screaming down from above.
The bat.
It didn't land.
It crashed.
The impact shook the entire clearing. The creature's molten claws tore through trees as it skidded across the earth, setting fire to everything it touched. Dren was thrown backward, tumbling across scorched roots.
The beast rose from its landing like a nightmare.
Its fur was charred black, molten along the ribs and back. Its wings stretched thirty feet wide, riddled with fire-veins and sparks. Its mouth opened wide—not in hunger, but in command—and the sound it made was not natural.
It was summoning something.
But Dren didn't wait to find out what.
He ran.
Dodging between half-burning trees, his boots kicking sparks, lungs full of ash. The glow beneath his skin had reignited—his heartbeat synced to adrenaline and heat.
The bat leapt.
Its wings slammed downward, throwing up a wave of fire and wind. Dren dove under a fallen log, rolled, and came up behind a stone outcropping just as the creature passed overhead, screaming through the air.
It banked hard and circled back.
Its eyes locked onto him.
It wasn't just attacking. It was retrieving.
Dren braced to fight—veins pulsing, fists sparking—
But he was too slow.
The creature slammed down in front of him, molten claws carving a trench in the earth. It reared up, mouth opening wide. Dren raised his hand to strike—
Too late.
The bat's wing cracked like a whip, knocking him airborne. He crashed through a tree, hit the ground hard, and before he could rise, its claw closed around him.
Pain. Pressure. Heat.
He felt bones strain as the creature's grip tightened. His vision blurred.
Then the ground fell away.
The bat took flight.
⸻
The sky opened around them as the beast soared higher, its body wreathed in smoke trails and flaming embers. Dren dangled below its claw, stunned, vision spinning. The trees shrank. The clouds neared.
Below, the forest burned.
Behind him, the crater that once held the Creator's Grove blackened into ruin.
Ahead—
A new continent.
It wasn't jungle. It wasn't forest.
It was gray. Dead. Charred. Cracked.
Massive stone ridges formed unnatural patterns across the land, carved by something old and brutal. Towering spires pierced the sky like broken weapons. Rivers ran thick—not with water, but with something darker.
And everywhere, things moved.
Not birds. Not beasts.
Titans.
Not all looked the same—some were lanky and insect-like, others huge and hulking. One crawled on limbs longer than buildings. Another dragged a tail that carved trenches through the stone. They moved like they owned the world.
Because they did.
Dren, still struggling, felt the heat of the bat's claws sear into his cloak.
He blinked through the smoke, eyes wide, as he realized—
This was no crash. No accident.
The flaming bat was carrying him to a place it had been called to.
Something had felt his presence. His lightning.
And now… it wanted him delivered.
He struggled harder.
The air thinned.
His body screamed.
He felt his lungs tighten—but somewhere beneath it, something clicked.
The power in his spine surged.
One spark. One strike.
The energy flashed through his arm, into the bat's talon.
It shrieked in pain, its wing veering left—and Dren fell.
He was already above the mountains when he slipped free. Already too high to think.
The wind ripped at his skin as he dropped—tumbling, spinning, arms flailing—
He saw cliffs.
He saw stone.
He saw death.
And then—
Impact.
He crashed into a steep, rocky slope—bouncing, rolling, cracking bone against boulder. A final slam drove the air from his lungs.
He slid down—down—until he hit a ledge.
And stopped.
Half-hanging.
Breath gone.
Vision swimming.
But alive.
Just barely.
He lay there for a moment, his body splayed across the edge of a cliff, staring out at the black, ruin-choked landscape below.
Thousands of Titan shapes moved across it like ants.
Every one of them massive.
Every one of them deadly.
He whispered to himself.
"…Where the hell am I?"