The city of Veythral stretched across the high plateau like the skeleton of something that had once been glorious.
Pale crystal towers still rose in elegant spirals, but many had been hollowed out and fitted with black-iron scaffolding. Wide processional avenues of polished stone cut through the districts, and along those avenues moved long, ordered lines of Veinborn. Their translucent skin caught the bruised violet light of the sky, the luminous veins beneath it pulsing in uneven rhythms as they hauled massive constructs of dark crystal and forged metal.
The constructs were shaped like incomplete limbs, broken wings, and hollow torsos—pieces destined for the colossus that dominated the far end of the city.
The statue rose higher than any tower.
Carved from black crystal and veined with slow-moving crimson light, it depicted a veiled woman with many arms, her hollow chest open to the sky. The highest of her reaching hands disappeared into the low clouds that permanently crowned the plateau. Even from the outer districts, the statue felt close, as if it were watching every step taken in its shadow. The air itself seemed heavier near it, thick with the low, endless hymn that drifted down from the Hanging Choirs suspended high above the city.
At the edge of the central terrace stood a structure of pale stone pillars, taller and older than the surrounding buildings. Its open galleries looked down upon the main avenue where the lines of Veinborn labored without pause.
A figure stood at the outermost edge of the highest gallery.
He was not Veinborn.
He stood nearly a full head taller than the tallest of them, shoulders broad enough to block the violet light behind him. His skin was the deep gray of cooled basalt, marked here and there with faint, ember-like cracks that glowed only when he moved. Heavy plates of dark metal, more grown than forged, covered his chest and forearms. Long black hair, bound loosely at the nape, shifted in the high wind.
His eyes were molten amber, vertical-slitted, and utterly still.
He watched the lines of Veinborn below with an expression that held neither cruelty nor pity—only a cold, measuring focus, as though he were counting the exact number of steps each worker had left before they collapsed. After a long moment, he lifted his gaze.
The statue of the Disciple filled the sky before him, its veiled face lost among the clouds, its many arms spread wide as if to claim the entire continent.
His amber eyes narrowed slightly. The hymn continued, endless and low, while the city of Veythral worked on beneath the watching colossus.
The violet wind moved across the high gallery, carrying the low hymn of the Hanging Choirs.
A voice spoke from directly beside him, quiet and precise.
"Fang of the Veinborn."
Fang turned.
The Hunter stood less than an arm's length away, as though he had always been there. Long dark hair stirred in the high air. Deep purple eyes regarded him without urgency.
Fang gasped. He leapt backward so hard his broad frame nearly toppled, then dropped to one knee hard enough that the stone cracked beneath him. His head bowed low.
"Messenger of the Dark Disciple," he said, voice tight. "You honor this place with your presence."
The Hunter's mouth curved in a faint smile. His gaze, however, remained fixed on the colossal statue rising into the clouds.
"I am always amazed by the wonders of the universe," he said softly. "How many things are born… and how many are lost." He turned his head just enough to look at Fang. "I find myself amused. Curious. About creation. About obedience."
Fang kept his eyes on the floor. A thin line of sweat traced the side of his thick neck and disappeared beneath the dark metal plating at his collar. He did not speak.
The Hunter looked back at the statue.
"What do you feel when you look at the Disciple?"
Fang's throat worked. He knew the wrong word could end him.
"She is a stunning and powerful great being of the universe," he answered carefully.
The Hunter's smile widened a fraction.
"Using large words will not pardon you."
Fang swallowed again, heavier this time.
"It is true," the Hunter continued, almost conversational. "The Disciple is stunning. She is powerful. But all powerful beings eventually leave behind those who begin to believe they can stand on their own." His purple eyes slid back to Fang. "Are you one of them?"
Fang's voice remained steady, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
"I am not."
The Hunter turned fully toward him now. The smile had vanished.
"You live only because you chose to protect your tail after the head was lost… somewhere beyond this realm." The words were cold, almost gentle. "If you did not carry the Disciple's blessing, this conversation would have ended differently."
Fang said nothing. The weight of the statement settled over him like a second sky.
The Hunter's gaze returned to the towering statue.
"How many of the former Dragon King's followers still live?"
Fang answered without lifting his head.
"Ten remain."
"And what would happen," the Hunter asked quietly, "if one of them were simply… gone?"
Silence stretched. The hymn from the Hanging Choirs filled the gap.
At last Fang spoke.
"My people would receive word of it. They would inform me."
The Hunter smiled again, slow and sharp.
"Are you certain all ten are still alive?"
Fang's molten amber eyes widened. For a moment he seemed to search for the safest answer and found none.
The Hunter had already turned away. He began walking along the open gallery, darkness faintly coiling at his heels.
"Summon the followers closest to this continent," he said without looking back. "All of them. Here. At once. No delay."
Fang remained on one knee, head still bowed.
"I understand."
The Hunter's figure disappeared down the wide stone stairs without another word.
Only then did Fang rise.
Confusion twisted across his broad features. He stared at the empty air where the messenger had stood, amber eyes tight.
What is happening…? Why is the messenger here?
His massive fists clenched at his sides. The same crushing weight he had felt the day he chose the darkness settled over his shoulders once more, heavy and familiar.
---------------
Elsewhere in the building, the Hunter stood alone on an open terrace that looked out over the violet night. The bruised sky stretched endlessly above the floating continent. High and cold, a single pale moon hung among the thinner clouds.
Three moons.
The Disciple's warning echoed in his mind, clear and absolute.
A soft scrape of stone sounded behind him.
Fang stepped forward several paces, then sank calmly to one knee.
"They are here."
Three circles of dense black energy bloomed across the terrace floor without sound. From the first rose a gaunt figure draped in layered ash-gray robes, his face hidden behind a cracked porcelain mask. From the second emerged a shorter, stockier woman whose skin was the color of wet iron, both arms wrapped in coiling black chains that moved as if alive. From the third stepped a towering, silent man with no eyes—only smooth skin where they should have been—and a mouth stitched shut with dark thread.
They saw Fang kneeling. Their gazes lifted, found the Hunter, and all three dropped to their knees at once, heads bowed low.
"Messenger of the Dark Disciple," they intoned together.
The Hunter raised one hand in a dismissive wave, still facing the night sky.
"I have no time for greetings. This is a matter of urgency."
The three followers turned slightly toward Fang, silent questions in their postures.
Without looking back, the Hunter spoke again.
"Why are there only three of you?"
Fang's throat tightened. He glanced at the kneeling figures.
"Amon of the Silent Hand will be here soon."
Silence.
Then the Hunter chuckled—low, brief. He sighed.
"Soon?"
He turned at last. Purple eyes moved across their bowed heads.
"Amon does not exist. Not anymore."
Every muscle among the four tensed. Fang's mouth opened—
The Hunter took a single step forward. A crushing pressure rolled outward from him like a wave, forcing the air from their lungs for a heartbeat before it vanished.
"I have come from the Silent Plains," he said. "It is silent, true to its name… and empty." Another step. The pressure returned, heavier. Sweat beaded across Fang's brow and the necks of the three behind him. "I know you still carry a deep grudge against the Disciple. That alone is enough to end you."
His gaze locked on Fang.
"Why was I not informed of Amon's death?"
Fang blinked rapidly.
"I… I am unsure why no word reached me. But I will do my best to—"
A second, sharper surge of aura smashed down across the terrace. It lasted only a moment, yet every one of them struggled to draw breath when it lifted. Sweat ran freely now.
The Hunter's voice remained quiet, almost mild.
"A battle took place. One that appears to have happened much earlier than it should have."
He took one final step, standing directly before them.
"Who would kill Amon and take his blessing? Who would annihilate the Silent Hand and try to cover their tracks? Who would dare plot to stain the Dark Disciple's hands?"
His purple eyes moved slowly across each of their faces, cold and certain.
"Who?"
The four followers remained silent. Confusion, or perhaps something closer to despair, moved across their faces. None of them dared speak.
The Hunter studied each expression in turn. After a long moment, he released a low breath, almost a sigh.
"None of you know."
He turned away from them and walked back to the open edge of the terrace. For a time he simply stood there, gazing up at the bruised violet sky and the single pale moon that hung among the thinner clouds. When he spoke again, his voice was low and firm, carrying easily across the stone.
"I will not waste time trying to pull answers from you. You are only lost remnants. Pathetic ones at that." He glanced back over his shoulder. "You have one day. Scatter. Search every corner of this continent, and the one below, for anything that may bring me closer to my catch." His purple eyes sharpened. "Do not let me down. You already know the consequences."
The four voices rose together, tight and immediate.
"We will not let you or the Dark Disciple down."
The Hunter's gaze moved across them once more. What lived in his eyes then was pure disgust.
"I truly do not like the creatures of this world."
He turned fully back to the sky.
"Move."
None of them stood. They simply vanished—four folds of darkness collapsing inward without sound, leaving the terrace empty except for the Hunter.
He exhaled slowly.
"While those insects roam," he murmured, "I will have to seek the largest clue left behind."
A thin smile touched his mouth.
"The dragon of this region…"
He did not finish the thought. His eyes lifted to the colossal statue of the Disciple rising into the clouds. For a moment he stood in silence. Then he bowed—low, precise, and without hesitation.
Darkness rose around him like a tide, swallowing his figure whole. When it receded, the terrace was empty.
Only the endless low hymn of the Hanging Choirs remained, drifting across the violet night.
---------------
Morning came under a red sky.
A calm wind moved across the high air, carrying the distant cry of birds. A wide flock wheeled slowly through the crimson light—until two streaks cut through them without warning. One pure white, one deep gold. The birds scattered in every direction as the streaks tore onward, descending fast.
Sabrel looked down, white hair whipping behind her, and a bright smile spread across her face.
"Finally… we have made it."
Below them stretched the Red Sea.
It was no ordinary body of water. From horizon to horizon, the surface burned a deep, living crimson, so vast that the eye struggled to find its edge. One could easily have mistaken it for an ocean—except that this sea lay unnaturally still. No waves. No white foam. Only a smooth, blood-colored expanse that reflected the red sky like polished glass. Ancient cliffs of black stone ringed its shores, and the air above it carried a faint metallic scent, sharp and old.
Sabrel and Vespera dove.
Sabrel struck the gray sand hard. The impact exploded outward in a wide ring of grit and force. Vespera descended more gently, hovering a hand's breadth above the ground until her feet touched down without a sound.
Both of them stood in silence for a moment, staring out across the endless red water.
Sabrel drew a deep breath. The wind rushed against her face, cool and heavy with the sea's strange scent. She exhaled slowly.
"This brings back old memories."
Vespera's golden eyes traced the distant curve of the shoreline. A faint smile touched her lips.
"I have only ever heard of this place. It lies far from my Blood Court. There was never any reason to make the journey."
Sabrel walked forward until the red water lapped against her ankles. She looked down at it, then out across the stillness.
"No one really comes out here anyway. They're all afraid of what lives in it."
Vespera sighed, the sound almost thoughtful.
"I'm surprised the sea beast is even still alive. Long ago, the Light of Dawn's clash boiled the oceans of this world…"
Sabrel turned sharply.
"Really?!"
Vespera nodded.
"It was a horrible event. Most sea creatures no longer exist. The ones that remain are… a mystery." She clapped her hands once, a smooth, confident smile returning to her face. "Your opponent will already be weakened. You should have no problem."
Sabrel raised an eyebrow.
"You thought I would have a problem taking it down?"
"I know you're strong," Vespera answered. "But the beast will not care if you are the strongest." She lifted one finger. "Creatures like that are quite intelligent, you see."
"They are?"
"Even standing here and speaking," Vespera said lightly, "all of it is already known by the beast."
Sabrel's eyes widened. Her voice jumped.
"R-Really?!"
Vespera's smile deepened.
"Good luck, Sabrel."
"Vespera, wait—"
Vespera vanished from the sand without a sound. Sabrel stood alone for a moment, then let out a short giggle.
"That was not funny…"
Then she felt it.
A low, heavy rumble rolled through the soles of her feet. The still surface of the Red Sea began to bulge outward, as though something immense were rising from the depths. Water streamed upward in thick curtains. A vast, dark shape broke the surface—first a ridge of silver-gray scales, then another, then the slow, deliberate rise of a body so large it cast a shadow that swallowed the entire shoreline.
Sabrel tilted her head back, white eyes wide with shock as the creature continued to climb from the sea.
It stopped.
The beast towered above her.
Six massive tentacles arched from its back like living towers, each one thick as an ancient tree and lined with pale suckers. Its body was sheathed in overlapping plates of silver and gray scale armor that caught the red light like wet metal. Four powerful limbs gripped the seabed, each ending in long, curved claws that gouged deep trenches into the sand. Its head was a nightmare of sharp angles and heavy bone—two backward-curving horns crowned the skull, and six glowing red eyes fixed on Sabrel with cold, intelligent focus.
The Red Sea lapped quietly around its bulk.
The beast did not roar. It simply watched her.