A faint crackle buzzed through the communicator. Static hummed for a breath too long before a voice broke through, rough and low.
"Ash, are you there?"
Fingers tightened around the edge of the console. Ash leaned in, his pulse steady, controlled. "Yeah. I'm here."
A slow exhale on the other end. "Good… You made it out."
Ash's grip didn't loosen. "I did. The others didn't."
A pause. Then, Rowan's voice shifted, quieter, weighted. "I know."
Ash straightened. "How?"
"Max reached out. Told me what happened. Their condition. Why you left." A beat of hesitation. "And about your ability."
Ash's jaw set. He hadn't planned on that detail getting out so soon. "So he told you."
"He had no choice."
A slow breath. Ash didn't push the topic. "Can you get a message to him?"
Rowan clicked his tongue. "Doubt it. Their communicator barely holds a signal."
Ash muttered a curse under his breath. "Power's low… He's rationing it, waiting until he knows how much farther they have to go."
"And? How much farther?"
Ash hesitated, gaze flicking to the navigation screen. "I don't know exactly. But whatever time they have left—it's under two days."
Silence stretched across the channel. Then, Rowan muttered, "Two days… That's something, at least."
A nagging thought crept into Ash's mind. His expression darkened. "Wait. Did Max say how they're making it through Sandworm Valley?"
Rowan hesitated. "Yeah… He said they're traveling with a sleeping-tier six Creature."
The chair scraped against the floor as Eir shot up from his corner.
"Tier six?!" His voice lashed through the room like a whip.
Operators around them stiffened, heads snapping toward the console. Murmurs rippled through the air.
Ash's fingers curled into a fist. "Did he say how they're keeping it asleep?"
Rowan took too long to answer. "No… I figured Kael knocked it out."
A slow exhale, sharp as steel. "No. We used Nightveil Drought."
The room shifted, tension thickening. Rowan's voice dropped lower. "That plant's extinct."
"It's not. But Max only has two vials left. And I don't think it's enough."
A harsh curse spilled through the communicator. "Damn it… You're going back, aren't you?"
Ash flexed his fingers, already moving toward his gear. "I don't have a choice. If we push through the night, we might make it."
Rowan exhaled, a reluctant acceptance in his tone. "Fine. Get back there. I'll send ships to Ironhold for backup."
"Appreciate it."
The transmission cut.
A thick silence settled over the room, the kind that weighed heavy on the chest.
Eir dragged a hand through his hair, voice low and grim. "You know what this means."
Ash nodded once, eyes cold and focused. "Yeah. If that thing wakes up… They won't make it."
————
The moment the heavy metal doors of the communication center hissed shut, the silence settled like a weight. The air felt colder, thicker, as if the world outside had swallowed them whole. Ash's boots struck the cracked stone with a dull thud, each step a reminder of the road ahead. Eir led the way, flanked by the guard who stood rigid at the entrance, his eyes scanning the empty corridor.
The narrow hallways twisted ahead of them, the dim lights overhead flickering like dying embers. A low hum reverberated through the walls, the engines of the settlement buzzing beneath the ground, but the sound felt far away, disconnected from the urgency that gripped Ash. He kept his pace steady, eyes forward, following the unwavering guard.
The storage room's door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the dark, cavernous space within. The scent of preserved food mixed with the sharp tang of metal, the cold air settling around them like a heavy cloak. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with every conceivable ration—canned food, dried meats, salted vegetables, bags of rice—all packed tightly, a mountain of supplies for a journey none of them truly wanted to face.
At the far end of the room, a low hum pulsed through the air. A large metal contraption stood under a flickering light, its intricate design strange and purposeful. The weight-reducing machine. Its pipes twisted like veins, snaking across its surface, and the machinery inside thrummed in quiet anticipation. It stood still, but Ash could feel the force of its power, the way it could change everything if used right.
Near the machine, two figures stood. One was a man, rough-looking with a scar running down his cheek, his fingers moving swiftly across the controls. The machine's hum deepened as he worked, his hands sure, moving with the confidence of someone who knew this equipment inside out. His eyes never left the machine's display, his focus absolute. The food it carried would sustain them, keep them alive for days, but that didn't matter if they couldn't get there in time.
Next to him stood a woman. She didn't look up as they entered, her focus buried in a worn leather-bound book. The pages turned with the same precision as her fingers, but there was a tension in the way she held the book, as if it offered some kind of solace. Something about her felt out of place here, as if her quiet concentration contrasted with the harsh, utilitarian space around them.
Eir gave a short nod to both figures, his expression unreadable as he stepped forward with Ash.
"This is it," Eir said, gesturing to the machine, his voice steady despite the tension crawling beneath it. "Everything's ready."
Ash didn't answer, his gaze flicking from the machine to the stacked food. The weight of the task ahead tightened in his chest, the burden heavier now, but it was a weight he couldn't escape. He moved to the side, his hands already finding the work, shifting supplies into the machine with practiced efficiency.
The man grunted as he adjusted a valve on the machine. His rough hands were worn, scarred from years of working with heavy machinery. "Got everything prepped," he muttered, his voice hoarse, a low growl of a man who didn't waste words. "Packed tight, should hold up for the trip."
Ash's gaze lingered on the machine's controls, the hum of the machinery reverberating in his chest. The system was fragile, temperamental, but it had to work. They didn't have time for mistakes. His hands moved to the supplies, helping the man load the goods into the machine, his movements precise, controlled.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the woman again. She hadn't moved, still absorbed in the book, her fingers turning the pages with a sense of ritual, as if lost in a world far removed from the one they were trying to survive in.
Eir noticed Ash's glance and followed his line of sight. "Don't mind her," he said, his voice flat. "Just a researcher. No use in a place like this."
Ash didn't respond. He didn't need to. The woman's presence hung in the room like an unanswered question.
She didn't even flinch as Ash moved past her, her fingers never pausing in their slow, deliberate flip of the page. The weight of the room seemed to bend around her, the noise of the preparations and the tension in the air seemingly irrelevant to her. She was lost in a world Ash couldn't understand, and he didn't care to.
He turned away from her, his focus already narrowing to the machine and the task that lay before him.
The weight-reducing contraption hummed louder as Ash moved toward it, the soft whirring of its inner workings filling the silence. He bent down, his hands locking onto its cool surface, the weight of the supplies pressing down on him, but he didn't feel it. Not yet.
Eir clapped his hands together, the sharp sound snapping through the stillness of the room. "You've got your supplies," he said, his tone low, sharp. "Now don't waste time. Every minute counts."
Ash glanced up, his expression hardening at the sharpness of Eir's voice. There was no need for the urgency. Ash had already known what needed to be done. Still, the unspoken tension between them lingered, like a dark cloud in the corner of the room. He said nothing. His gaze lingered for a second longer before he shifted his focus back to the machine, his grip tightening.
"I won't," he said, his voice clipped, a promise hidden beneath the surface. His muscles flexed as he hoisted the weight-reducing machine into his arms. It was a mechanical beast, cumbersome in its own way, but the hum of its systems running at full capacity steadied him.
The door slid open with a metallic groan, but Ash didn't pause. He didn't need to. The world outside was waiting for him, and every second that ticked by now felt like a countdown. Each moment was a step closer to a point of no return.
Eir's eyes followed him, his face still unreadable. "Good luck, Ash," he muttered, his words carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken things. There was no warmth in his tone, only the quiet acknowledgment of the danger that loomed ahead. Ash didn't look back.
The woman finally raised her eyes from the book, her gaze dark and heavy. She didn't speak, but for the briefest of moments, Ash felt the weight of her stare, like a warning that hung in the air between them, thick and suffocating.
He didn't respond. There was nothing to say. He was already out the door, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, the world outside pressing in, as if the very earth itself was urging him forward. The promise of those still waiting burned in his mind, sharper than anything else.
The door closed behind him with a soft hiss, and the silence inside the storage room returned to its quiet, oppressive stillness.
Ash's gaze lingered on the closed gates, the faint hiss of the storage room's entrance still echoing in his ears. The silence stretched out, thick and suffocating. His fingers tightened around the handle of the weight-reducing machine, the hum of its internal gears the only sound breaking through the stillness.
The woman's face flashed in his mind—the way her dark eyes never left her book, how her presence in that room had unsettled him. She didn't belong there. Something about her felt like a hollow specter, a remnant of a world that had long crumbled.
He shook his head. There was no time for that. The road ahead wouldn't wait. Every step mattered now. There was too much at stake.
Ash glanced down at the bulging sack tied to his waist, its weight pressing against his ribs. A bitter reminder. He would return—he had to. Someone was waiting for him, someone who had made sure he wouldn't go empty-handed, who had given him more than just supplies. They had given him something far more fragile: hope.
"I'll make it back," he muttered, voice low, a vow carved into the stillness of the air.
The cold steel walls of Ironhold loomed ahead, grim and oppressive. Each footstep was a slow scrape against the cracked stone, the sound muffled by the weight of his thoughts. Ironhold had never been a place for compassion. It was a prison—their prison. Ash was just passing through, a stranger moving on to whatever came next.
At the gates, the same guard from earlier stood waiting. His face was worn, his eyes heavy with fatigue, like the city itself had carved its lines into him. He studied Ash for a moment before speaking, his voice rough but not unkind.
"So you're finally leaving," the guard said, a wisp of something like a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. Nothing ever did in this place.
Ash stopped before him, the weight of the machine pulling at his shoulders. He met the guard's gaze, his voice gravelly. "Yeah. I have to. They're waiting for me."
The guard's lips pulled into a smile that didn't quite fit. He nodded once, the gesture stiff. "Good luck out there, kid." He paused, eyes flickering toward the gates and the distant wasteland beyond. "I'd offer to go with you, but..."
Ash didn't wait for the rest. He knew the game. The guard was stuck here, bound by a prison made of metal and desperation. But Ash had no time for sympathy. Not now. He nodded sharply, his lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile, more a reflex than a real expression.
"Yeah, right," Ash muttered, his tone hard, a blade's edge to it.
The guard gestured toward the gates. With a creak and groan, they began to open, their movement slow and reluctant, like a body waking from a long slumber. The sound sliced through the silence, heavy and final.
Ash pushed the machine forward, its bulk dragging him, a constant reminder of everything that hung in the balance. As the gates creaked wider, the biting wind rushed toward him, cold and uninviting, as if it knew how little he wanted to step into the world beyond.
But he did. He had to.
The gates slammed shut behind him, the finality of the sound like a coffin's lid closing. Ironhold was behind him now, but its shadow would follow.
The road stretched out, dark and unfathomable. A world that made Ironhold look like a sanctuary. The wind howled, carrying with it the scent of decay, of everything that had died and everything that would. The weight on his chest felt heavier now, the burden of the journey pulling at him with each step.
But it didn't matter.
He wasn't looking back.
What mattered was the road ahead.
Each step forward, no matter how grim, brought him closer to the people who waited.
And that was all he needed to know.