The storm over Scrapveil had finally faded.
Ash and dust drifted like snow through the skeletal towers, and the broken silhouettes of mechas lay silent beneath the pale dawn.
For the first time in days, the city wasn't screaming.
Rayan Tarsa sat on a rusted beam, his legs dangling over the edge, staring at the ruins below.
The smell of burnt ether hung thick in the air.
He pulled off his gloves—his hands trembled slightly, scarred from the neural backlash of his last sync with Rustfang.
> "You're quiet," said Lyra Venn, walking up behind him with a salvaged data-core slung over her shoulder.
"That's not like you."
Rayan gave a half-smile.
> "Didn't think I had a type."
> "You do now," Lyra replied dryly. "Brooding hero with a death wish."
She tossed the data-core beside him. It landed with a metallic thud, leaking faint blue light through its cracked surface.
> "From the Order's archives," she said. "Encrypted with soul-lock codes. Whatever they were hiding, it's big."
Rayan tilted his head, watching the flickering runes across the core.
> "And you're sure it's not going to fry us?"
> "Not sure," she said with a smirk. "But that's what makes it fun."
Behind them, Rustfang stood motionless—its massive frame partially buried in the rubble, armor plates charred and cracked.
The once-dormant glow of its core now pulsed faintly, like a sleeping heartbeat.
Rayan's gaze softened.
He could feel Rustfang breathing through the neural link, even in silence.
A faint hum, a whisper of consciousness brushing against his thoughts.
> "You're healing," he murmured.
"A little slower than me, but still."
The mech's eye flickered weakly in response—a single blue spark that pulsed once, like acknowledgment.
Lyra crouched beside him, opening her toolkit.
> "If we can stabilize the energy flow, Rustfang can be fully operational in two days."
> "Two days?" Rayan repeated. "The Order will reach the outskirts by sunrise tomorrow."
> "Then you better come up with something heroic," she muttered, tightening a bolt. "I'm just the mechanic."
Hours later, as night fell, Rayan found himself in the cockpit again.
The neural interface flickered to life around him—thin threads of light weaving into the familiar geometry of Rustfang's consciousness space.
But something felt… different.
The space was darker, deeper.
He wasn't alone anymore.
A low voice echoed through the link—heavy, resonant, almost ancient.
> "Rayan Tarsa… you've touched the boundary between soul and steel."
Rayan froze.
> "Who's there?"
> "You know me," the voice replied. "Or rather… you will."
From the shadows within the interface, a figure emerged—humanoid, but its body formed from shimmering etheric metal.
Its face was blank, but its voice carried warmth and sorrow.
> "Every Soul Engine carries a fragment of its maker's will," it said.
"You've awakened mine."
> "You're saying you're… Rustfang?" Rayan asked cautiously.
> "Part of it," the figure said. "The rest lies buried beneath Vall Oras. That's where my heart sleeps."
Rayan's chest tightened.
He'd heard of that name—Vall Oras.
A dead city, once the cradle of the world's greatest forge. Now just a crater of lightning and ghosts.
> "And if I find it?" he asked.
> "Then you'll find the truth of why this world broke," the echo said.
"And why you were chosen."
The voice began to fade, but before it disappeared, it whispered one last phrase:
> "Remember, Rayan… machines are not bound by fate. But men—men always are."
The cockpit lights snapped back to normal.
Rayan gasped, his breath shaky, sweat running down his temples.
Outside, Lyra was still working under the floodlights, muttering curses at broken wiring.
He looked down at his trembling hands.
For the first time, he realized he wasn't afraid—not of death, not of the Order, not even of the darkness inside Rustfang.
He was afraid of what he might become.
He closed his fist, and the mech's faint glow answered in kind.
> "Vall Oras," he whispered.
"Guess that's where we're going next."