Lady Marcelline sat at her ornate desk, her fingers steepled in front of her as her sharp mind worked through the details of her latest plans. Scrolls, letters, and documents lay strewn across the polished mahogany surface, each one representing a thread in the vast web of influence she had spun throughout Valarian. Her icy blue eyes scanned the room as if she could see every angle, every contingency playing out before her. Despite the chaos swirling around her, she remained the picture of calm and control, though there was an underlying tension in her posture, an unspoken frustration threatening to bubble to the surface.

She leaned back in her velvet-cushioned chair, her gaze settling on a letter she had received from Cassian just hours earlier. The note was terse, detailing his failure to recover the other fallen star from the mountains. Ashekin, Ayla’s replacement as captain, had been gravely injured, forcing them to divert to Emberfall for a healer. It was a setback, but setbacks were part of the game. She knew how to handle them; in fact, she expected them. Plans that went perfectly were rare, and those that did were often the result of unseen manipulation on her part. That was the thing about power—it wasn’t about controlling everything; it was about knowing how to steer the storm once it hit.

Still, the events in Emberfall had been a mess, one that involved more than just Cassian and his team. Of course, Ayla had to be involved. It was as if fate was conspiring against her, bringing all her carefully laid schemes into conflict at the worst possible moment. The mere thought of it caused a crack in her usual mask of control, and she let out a deep sigh. The sound echoed softly in the room, a rare admission of frustration from a woman known for her implacable composure.

Rohez Genovete had blindsided her by seizing control of the Festival of Breath. The Duchess hadn’t mentioned a word of it in their previous discussions, and Lady Marcelline couldn't help but feel a sting of betrayal. She had grown up with Rohez; they had plotted their rise to power together. Rohez had ascended further, to be sure, but Marcelline had carved out her own place in Valarian, a position of influence just shy of the throne itself. But now, with Rohez and her husband taking direct control of the festival, it was clear they were trying to put her in her place—humble her, perhaps.

She drummed her fingers on the edge of the desk, her mind whirling. The Festival of Breath had always been a collaborative effort, a stage for various noble houses to display their power and influence. By taking control, the Duke and Duchess were not only cutting Marcelline out of key decisions but also putting her at a disadvantage. Rohez had always been the type to play things close to the chest, but this was something else. Something more calculated, more deliberate.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, and Marcelline quickly smoothed her expression. “Enter,” she called, her voice as steady as ever.

A servant entered, carrying a tray with tea and a small note atop it. The silver glinted in the light of the chandelier, casting delicate reflections across the marble floor. Marcelline barely glanced at the tea, her eyes fixed on the note. The servant placed the tray on the edge of her desk and quickly exited, leaving her alone once more.

She took the note between her slender fingers, the paper crinkling softly as she unfolded it. It was from one of her informants, confirming that Thrix Yas’tavot, the notorious crime lord, had indeed fled the city. Lady Marcelline allowed herself a faint smile. She had planned this, of course. The hit she had placed on his head had been meant to flush him out, and it had worked beautifully. With Thrix on the run, no one would challenge the rumors she had spread. The narrative was clear now: Thrix had gambled everything to take out Lady Marcelline, but his plans had backfired, and now he was a hunted man.

In the underworld of Valarian, reputation was everything. Thrix’s sudden flight had destroyed his, leaving his empire in ruins. His name was already being scrubbed from the streets, his alliances crumbling as rivals moved in to pick apart what remained of his once-formidable network. Lady Marcelline had orchestrated it all from behind the scenes, pulling the strings like a master puppeteer.

Her smile faded as she considered the larger picture. While Thrix was now a non-factor, Cassian’s failure in the mountains and the ensuing chaos in Emberfall were concerning. She hadn’t expected the two to cross paths, and now that they had, the web of intrigue surrounding the fallen stars was growing more tangled by the day.

The fallen stars. As far as she knew, Paola was the only surviving one in this region. Few in Udanara understood the true significance of the stars, the rare individuals imbued with the potential to ascend beyond the ordinary limits of power. Fallen stars were the key to achieving Diamond Tier, something that eluded even the most powerful mages and warriors in the world. Having a Diamond Tier artifact was one thing, but becoming a Diamond Tier being? That was something else entirely.

The path to such power required sacrifices that most could not fathom, and even fewer were willing to make. The journey was brutal, demanding more than just strength or skill—it demanded a piece of one’s soul. Lady Marcelline had never heard of anyone outside the fallen stars reaching Diamond Tier. The furthest most people went was Sapphire, and even then, the cost was often too high to bear.

She leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the sprawling city of Valarian shimmered in the afternoon light, its streets bustling with activity as preparations for the Festival of Breath continued. Somewhere out there, Ayla and Paola were moving pieces on the board, whether they realized it or not.

The fallen stars were supposed to be a myth, a legend from the old days. But now, with Paola’s presence confirmed and Cassian’s search for another star ongoing, the reality of their existence could not be ignored. And if Paola truly was a fallen star, then her potential was beyond anything Lady Marcelline had ever encountered. But potential alone wasn’t enough. Power had to be shaped, molded, and controlled. Paola needed guidance, and if left unchecked, she could become a threat to everything Marcelline had worked for.

That was where Ta’huka came in, though he met his fate in Emberfall. The mysterious figure had been sent to observe, to probe Paola’s true nature. Marcelline didn’t trust easily, and while Ayla had proven loyal, love could cloud judgment. Paola might seem harmless now, but her unpredictability made her dangerous. Lady Marcelline had to know exactly where she stood before making any moves.

Ta'huka was dead now, but that was no loss. His job was done perfectly. He was nothing more than a pawn, a disposable tool in the pursuit of a higher goal. Besides, his death had bought her more information. Ayla was on Paola's side, and from the sounds of things, the two were growing closer by the day. If Ayla and her pet human were to form a bond, they could be an unstoppable force. That could be useful, but it could also be a liability.

She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her thoughts. She had always been the type to control every aspect of her environment, every player on the board. But with Paola, there was an element of the unknown, and that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Her mind returned to Ayla, her loyal Sword Maiden. She had invested so much in Ayla’s development, molding her into a warrior capable of standing at her side. But now, with Paola in the picture, Lady Marcelline wondered if Ayla’s loyalty could be tested. Love had a way of complicating things, and while Ayla’s feelings for Paola were clear, Marcelline couldn’t afford any distractions.

The Festival of Breath was her opportunity to solidify her position, to prove once and for all that Valarian’s future lay in her hands. The Duke and Duchess might think they held the reins now, but Lady Marcelline was confident that she could outmaneuver them. Her entire life had been one of careful planning and ruthless execution, and she wasn’t about to let a few setbacks derail her.

She opened her eyes and looked down at the papers on her desk. Each one represented a piece of her plan, a step toward her ultimate goal. The fallen stars, the Festival of Breath, the shifting alliances in Valarian—they were all connected, and she would be the one to pull the strings.

She had so many things in actions, both counting on each other's success and failures. So many people were in play, so many possibilities. She would have to keep a close eye on it all, ensuring that her carefully laid plans would come to fruition. She couldn't afford to let anything slip, to let anything go awry. Then again, she needed some flexibility. The best-laid plans often had a way of going astray, and the best chess players knew how to pivot when necessary.

Taking a deep breath, she rose from her chair and moved toward the window once more. The city stretched out before her, vast and full of potential. There was so much at stake, so many pieces to move. But Lady Marcelline knew one thing for certain: when the dust settled, she would emerge victorious.

***

Thrix sat at a small corner table in a dimly lit tavern tucked away in one of the quieter, less-traveled areas of Emberfall. The establishment wasn’t much to look at—cracked walls, a faint smell of stale ale lingering in the air, and patrons who preferred to keep their heads down and their business to themselves. This suited Thrix just fine. His presence here was a calculated move, a necessary retreat while he figured out his next steps. He had long ago learned the value of staying unnoticed, especially in a place like Emberfall, where information flowed as freely as the river nearby, and where eyes were always watching for an opportunity.

His once-grand stature had been reduced, both physically and metaphorically. The damage from the storm and his narrow escape from the bounty hunters had left him weak, his limbs still missing, his exoskeleton cracked in several places. His clothes hung loose on his battered frame, a shadow of the once-resplendent merchant who could command the room with a single flourish of his mandibles. But Thrix was nothing if not resourceful, and he had survived worse odds before.

His mandibles clicked faintly as he sipped a watered-down ale, his eyes scanning the room, watching the ebb and flow of patrons. People came and went, exchanging gossip, bartering goods, and discussing business deals in hushed tones. Emberfall was a town on the brink, nestled between the desert and the coast, and it was the perfect place for someone like Thrix to disappear. But for how long, he wasn’t sure.

He drummed his fingers on the table, his mind racing through the possibilities. Getting to Windmere was his priority now. That city represented a safer haven, a place where he could regroup and perhaps find the resources he needed to heal and recover fully. But getting there was a problem in itself. Traveling through the Sand Pass was dangerous, especially now with the bandit activity, and Thrix was in no shape to fight his way through it. He needed a ride, a way to slip through unnoticed.

The door to the tavern creaked open, and a few more patrons shuffled in. One of them, a burly man with a thick beard and a patched-up cloak, caught Thrix’s attention. He was the type who moved through cities like Emberfall with purpose, someone with connections. Thrix’s mandibles clicked softly in thought. If there was anyone who could get him onto a caravan headed to Windmere, it was someone like this man.

Thrix rose slowly from his seat, still favoring his weaker limbs, and made his way toward the bar where the man had taken a seat. He had spent his life reading people, understanding their motivations, and exploiting their weaknesses. This would be no different. Sliding onto the barstool next to the man, Thrix ordered another drink, his voice low and unassuming.

"Rough day?" he asked casually, glancing at the man out of the corner of his eyes.

The man grunted, taking a long swig from his mug before replying. "You could say that. Business in this town ain’t what it used to be. Bandits on the trade routes, guards getting lazy, and now the bloody festival’s throwing everything out of whack."

Thrix nodded sympathetically. "Emberfall’s been… unpredictable lately," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But I hear there’s still good business to be had for those willing to take a risk."

The man shot him a sideways glance. "What kind of risk are we talking about, friend?"

Thrix leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I’ve heard there’s a caravan leaving for Windmere in a couple of days. They’re looking for extra muscle to get through the Sand Pass. The bandits have been bold lately, but with the right protection, I imagine there’s plenty of coin to be made."

The man chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "You’ve got the right of it. I’ve heard about that caravan. Dangerous business, though. Not many are willing to take the job unless they’re desperate." He took another sip of his drink. "You looking to hire some muscle?"

Thrix smiled faintly, his mandibles twitching. "Not quite. I’m more interested in securing passage. I’ve got some business in Windmere, and I’d rather not take my chances alone on the road."

The man eyed him carefully, sizing him up. "You don’t look like someone who’s got much to offer in terms of protection, if you don’t mind me saying."

Thrix chuckled softly. "Appearances can be deceiving. I’ve got other talents. Connections, information… things that might be useful to someone in your line of work."

The man stroked his beard thoughtfully, clearly intrigued. "Information, huh? And what kind of information are we talking about?"

Thrix leaned in a little closer. "The kind that could help you navigate the situation in Emberfall. Word is, there’s a power shift coming—one that could affect more than just the trade routes. The Festival of Breath is more than just a celebration this year. It’s a political battlefield, and those who know where to place their bets stand to gain a lot."

The man’s eyes narrowed. "You’re talking about the Duke and Duchess."

Thrix gave a slow nod. "Among others. There are forces at play here, bigger than you or I, but that doesn’t mean we can’t profit from it. Information like this can be worth more than gold to the right people."

The man seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding slowly. "Alright, I’ll bite. I might be able to get you onto the caravan, but you’re gonna have to give me more than just vague promises of information. What exactly are you offering?"

Thrix smiled, knowing he had him hooked. "A full report on the shifts in Valarian’s political landscape. I’ve got sources inside the city, close to Lady Marcelline herself. I know what’s coming, and I can help you stay one step ahead."

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

The man’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of Lady Marcelline, and Thrix could see the gears turning in his head. He knew he had struck a nerve. The man took another sip of his drink, weighing the offer carefully.

"Alright," he said finally, nodding. "I can get you on the caravan, but if your information doesn’t pan out, you’re on your own once we hit Windmere. No guarantees."

"That’s fair," Thrix replied smoothly. "I wouldn’t expect anything less."

The man finished his drink and stood, offering Thrix a hand. "Name’s Garvin. I’ll be with the caravan, so when you’re ready to head out, just ask for me."

Thrix took the man’s hand, his grip firm despite his weakened state. "Thrix Yas’tavot," he said, introducing himself. "I’ll be ready."

Garvin gave him a nod and left the tavern, disappearing into the streets of Emberfall. Thrix watched him go, his mind already calculating his next move. The caravan was his ticket out of this mess, but he knew that once he got to Windmere, the real work would begin. Lady Marcelline’s reach extended far beyond Valarian, and he would have to be careful. But for now, he had bought himself some time.

Thrix returned to his table, finishing the last of his drink. He couldn’t shake the feeling that things were moving faster than he anticipated. Paola, Ayla, the fallen stars… they were all pieces of a larger puzzle, and Thrix wasn’t sure how they all fit together yet. But he knew one thing for certain: survival required adaptation. And if there was one thing Thrix excelled at, it was adapting.

As he sat in the dim light of the tavern, his thoughts turned to Windmere and what awaited him there. He had made it this far by relying on his wits and cunning, and he would continue to do so. But he couldn’t help but wonder if he was walking into something far more dangerous than he realized. The fallen stars were a force unlike anything he had encountered before, and their significance in the political landscape of Udanara was becoming more apparent with each passing day.

Thrix leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting toward the window where the first light of dawn was beginning to break over the horizon. He had a long journey ahead of him, but he wasn’t one to shy away from a challenge. He had survived the storm, the beasts, and the bounty hunters. Windmere was just another step on the path to regaining his power and influence.

But deep down, Thrix knew that something had changed. The old ways of doing business were no longer enough. The world was shifting, and with it, the rules of the game. If he wanted to survive in this new reality, he would have to be smarter, more ruthless, and more cunning than ever before.

Or maybe he needed to do the opposite...

Maybe step away, lay low for a while. Maybe that was the key to survival in a world that seemed to be growing increasingly hostile. After all, Thrix had learned the value of hiding in plain sight, and if the world was going to change, perhaps he needed to as well.

But first, Windmere.

As the tavern slowly began to fill with the morning crowd, Thrix stood, adjusting his tattered cloak and making his way toward the door. The caravan to Windmere awaited, and with it, the next chapter of his journey.

Thrix Yas’tavot was many things—merchant, opportunist, survivor. And now, as he stepped out into the bustling streets of Emberfall, he was ready to take on whatever the world threw at him next.

***

Leif stood outside the bustling square, staring at the gaping hole where the fountain had once been. The aftermath of the fight had left Emberfall in chaos, debris littering the streets and people talking in hushed whispers about the devastation that had unfolded. And somehow, by the grace of whatever gods still cared to watch over him, he had survived it.

But the fight… it had shaken him. Not just because of the violence, but because of the people involved. Ayla, of all people, had been there—Ayla and some other woman with dark hair and a chaotic, untamed look about her. And while Leif had tried to steer clear of the whole ordeal, just before he could duck into the tavern and hide, the fight had erupted. It was like watching two storms collide, and for a moment, all Leif could do was stand frozen in place as the square exploded into a frenzy of magic and steel.

The square had gone from lively to deadly in the blink of an eye. It wasn’t just the combatants; the entire environment seemed to shift, the air crackling with energy, and the ground itself responding to the chaos. Leif had managed to dive behind a stack of barrels just as a bolt of magic shattered the cobblestones where he’d been standing.

"Why is it always them?" he muttered under his breath, peeking out from his hiding spot as Ayla swung her massive broadsword, cleaving through at a handful of enemies with terrifying precision. Her red and blue eyes flashed dangerously, like some kind of avenging storm goddess. Meanwhile, the other woman—Paola, he heard someone yell—seemed to be flitting between attacks, her movements erratic and wild, like a cat playing with its prey.

Leif didn’t need to see any more. He had learned long ago that when Ayla was involved, it was best to be as far away as possible. So, when a nearby cart overturned in the chaos, blocking off his direct escape, Leif scrambled through the narrow alleyways behind the market, ducking and dodging as the fight continued to rage on in the distance.

By the time he made it back to his rented cabin on the outskirts of town, he was winded, sweating, and more than a little panicked. He leaned against the wooden door, his wooden leg aching from the sprint, and cursed his luck.

"Of all the towns in the world," he muttered, "why did I have to end up in the one where they showed up?"

The next few days had been quieter. The square was cordoned off as repairs began, and Leif kept his head down, avoiding any place where he might run into the two women who had almost killed him—whether they knew it or not. He spent his days tending to the axes, throwing a few into the log, and trying to shake the feeling that his life was slipping into something he didn’t recognize.

Leif hated that feeling, the constant gnawing sensation that he was doing nothing, that he was just drifting along. The old excitement of his adventuring days had dulled, but now he found himself missing it. Even the reckless danger of his past seemed almost preferable to this limbo he found himself in. He had spent so much time trying to distance himself from the life he once led, and now, here he was, restless and unsatisfied.

He was tired of running, tired of hiding, but the question remained: what was he going to do about it?

It wasn’t until the evening of the third day after the fight that Leif finally made up his mind. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the crude prosthetic leg that still gave him phantom pain, when the thought hit him: he needed to do something. Anything. His life in Emberfall, tending the bar and living a quiet existence by the river, wasn’t enough anymore. He had tried to run from his past, but he couldn’t keep running forever.

"Maybe it’s time I stopped hiding," he muttered to himself. "Maybe it’s time I went back out there… and did something right."

That’s when he heard the news about the caravan heading to Windmere. The moment he overheard it in the market—guards talking about how they were looking for extra hands to protect the route through the Sand Pass—it was like a switch flipped in his brain. Windmere. A city full of opportunity. A place where he could start fresh, get back on the path of an adventurer, but this time… do it right. No more rogue, no more running from one job to the next. He would find purpose again.

Leif scraped together what little coin he had saved up, counting each piece with a sense of grim determination. The caravan wasn’t taking on passengers for free, and the cost was steep. Plus, as he wasn’t an official adventurer, he knew they’d take a chunk of his pay if he ended up doing any guard work along the way. But it didn’t matter. Windmere was far enough from Emberfall, and far enough from whatever Ayla and Paola were wrapped up in.

He didn’t want to see those two again. Ever. Ayla had spared him once, sure, but he knew better than to count on that kind of luck twice. And Paola? She was a mystery he wanted no part of. His life had enough complications without adding whatever chaos she brought to the table.

When he approached the caravan leader—a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek and a permanent scowl—Leif didn’t bother with pleasantries. He tossed the pouch of coins onto the table in front of him and simply said, "I want a spot on your caravan."

The man raised an eyebrow, his eyes drifting down to the wooden leg. "You looking for a ride or are you offering to guard?"

"Ride," Leif replied, his voice firm. "Just the ride."

The man picked up the pouch, weighing it in his hand before giving a slow nod. "We leave at dawn. Be ready."

Leif nodded, feeling a strange mix of relief and apprehension. This was it. He was leaving Emberfall behind, heading to Windmere to start over again. Maybe he was still running, in a way, but at least this time he was running toward something instead of away from it.

That night, as he sat in his cabin packing the few belongings he had, Leif couldn’t help but reflect on how far he had come—and how far he still had to go. The fight in the square had been a stark reminder of the life he had left behind, but it had also reignited something in him. He didn’t want to be that man again, the man who killed and stole without a second thought. But he also didn’t want to waste away, living in the shadows of his own regrets.

Maybe in Windmere, he could find balance. Maybe he could be the man who fought for something better, who protected others instead of taking from them. It wasn’t too late to change. He could still make things right.

As he lay down to sleep that night, the itch in his phantom leg flared up again, as if reminding him of the scars he carried. But for once, Leif didn’t let it bother him. He had made his decision, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of purpose.

The next morning, he stood by the caravan as it prepared to depart. The wagons were loaded with goods—supplies for Windmere’s markets and a few passengers willing to pay the steep fare. Leif slung his pack over his shoulder and climbed into the back of one of the wagons, finding a spot near the front. He leaned back against the rough wooden wall, closing his eyes for a moment as the caravan started to roll forward.

This was it. No more hiding, no more running from his past. He was going to Windmere, and he was going to do things right this time.

As the wagon bumped along the road, Leif couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. "At least I’ll never have to see those two again," he muttered, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

But deep down, a part of him knew that the universe had a funny way of bringing people back together.

***

Michelangelo trudged through the endless expanse of desert, each step heavy, dragging through the shifting sands as if the earth itself was trying to swallow him whole. The sun was relentless, beating down on his broken, battered body, but the heat was a distant sensation. It barely registered. The ache in his chest, the gnawing emptiness, eclipsed any physical pain he might have felt.

His arm hung useless at his side, shattered from the battle that had taken everything from him. His brothers. Gone. His family, the only connection he'd ever known, now reduced to memories that haunted him with every labored breath. Blood seeped from a wound on his side, dripping in a slow, steady rhythm into the sand. It should have hurt. It should have scared him. But he felt nothing. No fear, no anger, just the hollow ache of loss, stretching into infinity like the barren desert around him.

Leonardo’s final words replayed in his mind, over and over, a loop he couldn’t break free from.

"Stay strong, Mikey… lead them. Don’t let them take you, too."

But Michelangelo hadn't led them. He hadn’t saved anyone. They had all fallen, one by one, in the blood-soaked chaos of that fight. And in the end, he had walked away, not by strength, not by choice—but by sheer accident. It hadn’t been courage or skill that had spared him. It was luck. And that only made the hollow ache worse.

The sun sank lower on the horizon, casting long shadows across the dunes. His throat burned with thirst, but the idea of seeking water felt pointless. What did it matter? He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care. There was no destination, no purpose. Just the endless stretch of sand, and his own desolate thoughts.

The old Michelangelo—Mikey, as his brothers had called him—he was gone. That Michelangelo had been full of life, laughter, and energy. Always the jokester, the light-hearted spirit who could bring a smile to anyone’s face, no matter how dire the situation. But now? Now he felt like a ghost of himself. A husk. A shell of what he had once been.

The battle played out again in his mind, vivid and cruel in its detail. Leonardo fighting with everything he had, his dual katanas a blur of motion as he tried to protect them. Raphael, fierce and furious, attacking with reckless abandon, always the first to throw himself into the fight. Donatello, strategic and calm, wielding his spear with precision. And then... then there was Mikey, spinning his three-section staff, fighting beside them, always trying to keep up, always trying to prove that he belonged.

But it wasn’t enough. None of it was enough.

He could still see the moment Leonardo fell, the look in his brother’s eyes as the life drained out of him. He could still feel the sickening impact of Donatello’s body hitting the ground, still hear Raphael’s roar of defiance as he fought to the last breath. And then, silence. The silence that followed their deaths was louder than any sound Michelangelo had ever heard. It drowned out everything else. The sound of his own heartbeat, the rustle of the wind against the sand, even his own ragged breaths—it was all swallowed by that unbearable silence.

Now, as he walked, his mind replayed the battle, the deaths, the violence. Over and over. It was like he was trapped in it, a never-ending loop of blood and loss. He couldn’t escape it, couldn’t think of anything else. Revenge? He didn’t want it. What was the point? Revenge had cost him his brothers’ lives. It had cost them everything. He had followed them into that battle, fueled by the same desire for justice, for retribution, and look where it had led them.

"What now, Leo?" Michelangelo whispered into the empty desert. His voice was hoarse, barely audible. "What do I do now?"

There was no answer. There would never be an answer. Leonardo was gone, and Michelangelo was alone. Utterly, completely alone. The last of the River Lurkers. The last of his kind, at least as far as he knew. The weight of that realization pressed down on him, heavier than the broken arm, heavier than the blood loss, heavier than the sun above.

Michelangelo had always been the one to keep the group together, the one who could make them laugh, the one who could ease the tension with a well-timed joke. But who was he without them? What was left when the laughter had died, and the jokes fell flat? He had always been more than just the jokester, but now he didn’t know who he was. He didn’t know if there was anything left.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the dry, gritty taste of sand. It stung his skin, but even that felt distant. Everything felt distant now. Like he was walking through a dream, or maybe a nightmare, one he couldn’t wake up from. The desert stretched out before him, endless and uncaring, just like the universe that had taken everything from him.

Michelangelo stumbled, his legs weak, his body on the verge of collapse. But he kept going. There was no destination, no goal, but stopping wasn’t an option. If he stopped, he knew he would never get up again. And part of him wanted that. Part of him longed for the release of death, for the silence that would finally quiet the voices in his head, the memories of his brothers’ deaths.

But another part of him, the part that had kept him alive through the battle, through the blood and the chaos, refused to give up. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was survival instinct. Maybe it was something more. He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

He looked down at his broken arm, the bone jutting out at an unnatural angle, the blood that had soaked through his skin, turning the sand beneath him a dark red. He should bandage it, should try to stop the bleeding, but he didn’t. What did it matter?

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the desert in twilight, the temperature dropping rapidly. Michelangelo shivered, the cold seeping into his bones, but he kept walking. It was all he knew how to do. Walk. Survive. Breathe.

His mind drifted back to the battle once more, to the moment he saw Raphael fall. The anger, the raw fury that had overtaken him in that moment, had fueled him. But now, there was nothing left. No anger. No fury. Just the hollow, aching emptiness where his brothers had once been.

He couldn’t bring himself to hate the ones who had killed them. What was the point? Revenge had taken everything from him. It had turned him into this—a broken, bloodied husk of a being, wandering aimlessly through the desert, with no purpose, no direction, no hope.

Michelangelo stopped, his legs trembling, his body screaming for rest. He sank to his knees, the sand cold against his skin. The stars above twinkled indifferently, distant and uncaring, just like the world below. He looked up at them, his breath shallow, his vision blurring.

"What now?" he whispered again, his voice barely a breath.

There was no answer. There never would be.

The desert wind howled around him, kicking up dust and sand, swirling it into the air like a funeral shroud. Michelangelo closed his eyes, feeling the cold bite of the night air, the emptiness inside him growing with each passing second.

His brothers were gone. His family, his purpose, his very reason for being—it had all been taken from him, ripped away in the blink of an eye. And now, there was nothing. Just the silence. Just the endless expanse of desert, and the hollow shell of a being that had once been Michelangelo.

He opened his eyes, staring out at the darkness before him. His body ached, his arm throbbed, and his blood still dripped into the sand. But none of it mattered.

He was alone. Utterly, completely alone.

And in that moment, Michelangelo realized something.

He wasn’t afraid of the silence anymore.

The old Michelangelo was gone. The one who had laughed, who had joked, who had brought joy to those around him—he was dead, just like his brothers. And what was left?

A husk. A hollow shell. But even a shell could keep moving.

Michelangelo stood, his legs shaking, his arm hanging limp at his side. He took a step, then another, the sand shifting beneath his feet.

There was no destination. No goal. No purpose.

But he would keep walking.

Because that’s all he knew how to do.