Frozen fingers clung to the rail, Vance staring down at what stretched beneath. Below, a hollow space opened wide - endless rows of glass tubes filled the dark, lit by a dull crimson glow. Inside each one, drifting like shadows, floated a body identical to Sterling Prescott's. That name meant something once: power, betrayal, a death in another life. Now he saw it repeated again and again - not a man but a pattern pumped out like parts in a factory.
A single golden gear turned without pause within each quiet clone's chest. Not just wiping out oddities in the Fracture, the Harvesters had begun shaping raw time-god force into something usable - building ranks of Mythic-grade anchors through steady, mechanical effort.
Footsteps held by sheer will alone. Fifteen stolen years - ripped out by Axiom to rebuild his broken foot bones - left the leg numb, like walking on splintered air. Each shift sent shards scraping deep, a soundless crunch beneath skin. Leaning harder on the rail tugged at the thick wire threaded through his arm muscle. Those black strands bit into living tissue, mimicking hot metal teeth carving slowly, unevenly, deeper each second. Still he stood. A sharp chill pressed deep behind his eyes, where the foreign symbol burned at the back of his head. From that spot, cold spread like something frozen had been shoved into his spine, resisting every warm pulse around it in the dark chamber.
Over by the rail, Elian spoke low, fingers tight on the metal. Same faces, every last one, he said. A kid who fixed machines, sixteen years old, hands blackened, skin gone pale. Below, something was taking shape. What could it be
"An empire," Vance replied, his voice flat and analytical. "Sterling bonded with a fragment of the Aethelgard Watcher in the Crimson Woods. The machine recognized a stable host and replicated the architecture."
Axiom moved along the tight walkway, just behind them, every strand of its deep black coat trembling with raw power siphoned from the warship's core. From the creature came a quiet growl - uncertain, almost questioning. Too much time-energy poured up from the endless rows of copied cogs beneath, flooding the lynx's instincts until they blurred.
A thump deep in Vance's ribs made the hidden piece stir. It had waited, still and cold, now it moved.
A hollow ache pulsed where the clock gears met flesh, hours spent choking on absence. Close now - too close - came the hum of his original form, paralyzing the metal. Then, warmth spread through the air, thick with leaking time-stuff pouring from the vat rows. That old machinery shuddered, suddenly aware. Light caught on one tooth of the main cog just before it snapped forward, racing like something half-mad.
Heat surged deep in Vance's chest without warning. A sharp warmth spread under his ribcage like fire waking up.
A bright gold script spilled into his eyes, sweeping away the Harvester's control signals like a sudden tide. Then silence rushed in behind it.
Temperature echoes building up. Overload happening now - too much signal piling in. Time hums louder than it should
Starting quiet intake mode. Restoring the body's building blocks piece by piece
Something shifts. Genes pack tighter now. The old limits break. Rules from before do not hold. A threshold gets crossed. Not safe anymore
A shudder ran through Vance as he dropped onto one knee, time's raw pulse surging into his nerves. From deep inside his wasted right foot, the ache softened, traded slowly for a thick heat spreading through the core of his bones. In his left arm, where electric threads once seared, the sting faded while tough new strands of muscle wove tight under the black wraps. The icy mark around his neck held its grip, yet something stronger now resisted it - his thoughts cutting clear through fog, sudden and precise.
Now he stood far beyond the weak, forgotten lives crushed in battle's path. Rising because the Astral Engine pushed him forward, drawing energy from the Harvester's pulsing factory floor to mend what had fractured inside. Then silence where pain once echoed.
Out of the shadowed shaft they'd fallen through came a thick, clanging sound. That noise hit hard, like iron dropped deep underground.
Out on the hanging walkway stood Elena Rostova. Not a tremor in the pale-haired figure, each motion sharp like clockwork, those cold red eyes fixed on Vance without blinking. Then came the weapon - a tight beam of red light - lifted fast before she drove ahead, aiming to dismantle him by hand. Only silence followed her attack.
This moment, Vance stayed still instead of lunging away in panic.
Muscles tense, ready - they moved fast but stayed smooth. Turning on his right foot, there was no pain now, none of that grinding stiffness from earlier. Up came the knife, dark metal flashing, meeting the red-hot edge in a sharp sideways block. The force hit hard, yet his bones held firm, taking it all without giving way.
A sudden change in her body tipped Axiom off - timing clicked into place without delay. From the shadows, the lynx sent jagged pulses of black energy forward, hitting Elena mid-breath. Force slammed through her ribs, throwing the Harvester sideways like loose debris.
Down the path again came Vance's order, sharp this time, aimed at Elian, words deeper now, fuller, like stone hitting water.
A shove sent Elena stumbling, her balance lost just as light ripped through the air. Out of nowhere, brightness burned everything it touched. Beneath her feet, deep inside glass tubes packed tight with copies, metal wheels spun faster - then locked together. One pulse roared like thunder made by machines.
A sudden crack split the air as the nearest amniotic chamber, hanging just off their walkway, exploded into pieces.
A heavy clear liquid spilled across the steel grid. Out from the ruin came a perfect living replica of Sterling Prescott, skin untouched, glass fragments cracking underfoot. Not bewildered, not hostile, the duplicate stood still. Its gaze shifted at last, locking onto Vance - eyes glowing a deep violent purple, old and unsettling. Then silence.
A voice came out - nothing like Sterling's cold, posh drag. Instead, a soft tune unspooled, familiar from the being below, the one with six wings still waiting on solid ground.
"Did you honestly believe the machine was the only one capable of replication, little thief?" the clone whispered, stepping onto the catwalk
to block their only exit.