"It's time for bed, boys."

The quaint wooden door creaked open, revealing a chaotic room. Handmade toys and tattered rags that served as blankets were scattered across the floor. Outside, icy winds howled, and snow lashed against the window in a frenzy.

"Rowan, Callahan, I swear—you were raised by pigs," their mother sighed, her voice frayed with exhaustion. She stepped inside, shaking her head at the mess, but before she could scold them further, her two sons burst past her, barreling into the room like an unstoppable storm.

Rowan and Callahan were still brimming with energy, even as the day wound to its close. They wrestled playfully, beds serving as their makeshift battlefield.

"Be careful, Rowan! You're going to hurt him!" their mother warned sharply, though her concern fell on deaf ears. Rowan, the older of the two, hoisted Callahan onto his shoulders and spun him in dizzying circles.

"TWISTER!" Rowan yelled triumphantly.

"MA!" Callahan cried out in mock panic as his brother slammed him down onto the bed with exaggerated flair.

The younger boy's eyes darted wildly, trying to track the spinning room. Rowan leaned over him, smirking mischievously. "Do you give up?" he teased, his tone dripping with playful menace.

Callahan glared up at him, defiance blazing in his eyes. "No—NO!"

"Wrong answer," Rowan said with a grin, pinning his little brother down effortlessly. "Do you surrender?" he asked again, his tone feigning mercy.

Before Callahan could muster another protest, their mother's swift hand landed on the back of Rowan's head.

"Enough! Both of you, to bed. Now." Her voice carried the authority of someone too tired to argue further. "It's cold, I'm tired, and you two are driving me mad."

The grand battle came to an abrupt end, ruled a draw by the final authority in their household.

"Sorry, Ma," Rowan said sheepishly, leaping off the bed and retreating to his own.

"Sorry, Mama," Callahan echoed, his voice softer as he crawled under his shabby blanket and curled into a ball.

The room grew quiet as the exhaustion of the day finally caught up to them. Their mother tucked them in, her touch lingering just long enough to ease their restlessness. She blew out the lamp, plunging the room into a comforting darkness.

"Good night, boys," she said softly.

"Good night!" they replied in unison, their voices tinged with warmth. The snowstorm outside seemed to fade as Callahan's eyelids grew heavy. The world softened, the memory glowing with a warmth that felt too perfect to be real.

A gnawing anxiety began to fill the room. In the dark, a figure grew at the threshold of the door that their mother had just gone through. That loving comfort had all but evaporated—dread, fear, everything that scared Callahan now stood at that doorway. He looked over to his brother for comfort, but Rowan was fast asleep. He tried to scream out for his mother, but the words would not leave his throat.

"Please don't," his lips moved, but no sound came out. The shadow's clawed hand stretched out and slowly wrapped around Rowan's bed. Callahan tried to move, but his body was petrified. All he could do was watch. He was too weak to do anything, he thought—sick, frail, of no use to anyone.

Tears started to well up in Callahan's eyes. Rowan, he thought. If he just woke up, he'd make the bad things go away. He'd always had before. He could scare the beasts away. "Rowan, wake up!" he desperately tried to shout once more, but the room remained silent. Those claws, sharp as razors, were now around his brother's neck. The entire room around him started to melt. The darkness from the shadow spread out and consumed everything—the beds, the toys, the window—all devoured by the dark.

Callahan was left floating in an abyss, his eyes locked on his brother, now fully in the grasp of that dark demon. He reached out for Rowan, his heart heavy with dread, a terrifying, insurmountable fear of losing his big brother. The blackened hand tightened.

"Rowan, please," a final desperate cry. Rowan still had not woken, but he had started to change. Callahan watched in horror as his brother's body began to twist and break into an unfamiliar form. Dark brown hair grew thick on Rowan's body. His face bent into the shape of a beast. His body grew to tower over both Callahan and the demon.

The beast's eyes opened—dark, glassy blobs that looked down at the shadow that begun to retreat to the far edges of the room. The beast tilted its head back, took a deep breath, and then let loose a great, guttural roar at the demon.

There were now two great horrors in front of Callahan. He watched in terror as the beast continuously bellowed at the shadow. Again, and again, and again. The nightmare started to break down with each thunderous roar, another crack in the darkness. Slowly the noise started to sound familiar. The beast had started to sound like it was saying something.

"CAAAAAAAAAAL!" This horrifying thing was saying his name.

"CAAAAAAL!" Callahan closed his eyes, burying his face in his hands rocking back and forth trying to escape into himself.

"CAL." The voice began to get softer, but the fear remained unshaken.

"Cal." Light exploded from the darkness. Callahan's eyes snapped open as he sprang up from the bed, covered in sweat, his face soaked in fear.

"We're about to make landfall. You okay?" It was Rowan, standing with a concerned look on his face.

"Y-yeah. No, sorry... just a bad dream. Really bad," Callahan's mind was scattered. He put his head in his palms and closed his eyes. They stung, and his head ached.

Rowan looked him over once more, patted him on the back, then began to make his way out of the cabin "Man, whatever you were dreaming about, I hope it wasn't about me. I don't need you turning yellow on me mid-voyage. Grab some food—it ain't ma's homecooking, but it'll get the job done— meet me at the bow when you're done."

Cal's hands slid beneath his eyes, pulling them wide open, the skin stretched thin over bloodshot pupils and dark, heavy bags. He scanned the room, his tired gaze drifting over the shabby crew quarters. With a grunt, he shoved himself out of bed, the weight of the day pressing down on him. He had everything he needed, or at least he thought he did. Even so, he double-checked, then triple-checked. There was too much riding on this. Well-paying jobs in Onoria were rare, especially if you weren't Onorian. The scraps were reserved for outsiders, left to rot in the foreign quarters, drinking away their lives among the other dregs—cannon fodder and serfs, the city's underbelly.

Cal's hand brushed the doorframe as he moved, a signal that he was ready to start the day. Yet, something held him back. He paused, still shaken by the remnants of the nightmare, its images clawing at him. Pressing his head against the wall, he stared down at his feet, trying to summon the strength to move forward. His breath hitched, steadying him, but as he did, a carved silver medallion slipped from beneath his cloak. It was a necklace, a small profile of a boar etched into the metal—his mother's parting gift to him and his brother, a symbol of home, a reminder to stay strong in the face of whatever came.

He pinched the medallion between his fingers, the cool metal grounding him. He traced the fine details with his thumb, letting the weight of it settle in his chest before tucking it deep into his clothes. It was a comfort, something to hold onto when the world felt too heavy. With a steadying breath, Cal straightened, feeling a flicker of resolve. He was ready. The journey awaited.

The rain fell in unrelenting sheets, as it often did on the Isle of Bimos. The seas surrounding it churned with constant fury, and the land itself bore the scars of countless battles. Once a thriving colony of a now-forgotten people, the isle had become nothing more than a desolate rock, adrift in the middle of the Bay of Kings. Few dared to set foot on its shores, but its shadow, visible from the beaches of the capital, tempted the bold and the reckless. They came, chasing the promise of treasures buried deep beneath its war-torn stone.

Fortunes of glittering gold were rarely the reward for those who ventured to the isle. Instead, the deep bowels of the earth held a stagnant well of anima—a restless pool of lost souls, unable to ascend to the heavens. These spirits, bound to what was once their living home, haunt its corridors with a vengeful grip. Many fools, thinking themselves heroes, have added their own souls to the mire. On the Isle of Bimos, the dead do not rest—they linger, waiting for fresh anima to quell their putrid suffering.

Being aboard the ship would be torturous for those not familiar with the sea. The closer they got to their destination, the rougher the waters became. Rowan stood at the bow, his left foot resting on the edge, one arm draped casually over his knee. He gazed out at the horizon, like a seasoned sailor, excitement shining plainly on his face. It wasn't a shared sentiment among the crew. The men's expressions ranged from annoyed scowls—irritated by the rotten weather they'd been enduring for the past couple of days—to fear and anxiety about what lay ahead.

An older man, weathered and scarred by years at sea, joined Rowan at the bow. He gave the younger man a nod, his gaze scanning the choppy waters. "Never a day it doesn't rain in these cursed waters. Having fun, though, are we?" The old man's voice carried a hint of discontent, his irritation obvious beneath the surface.

"Ah, Captain Galvos, the fun's still ahead, ain't it? I'm rarin' to go!" Rowan's enthusiasm was palpable, oblivious to the Captain's contempt.

The Captain motioned for Rowan to step away from the bow, his tone polite but firm. "I haven't seen your whelp of a brother yet. He hasn't helped with preparations, and he doesn't look like much of a fighter. I'm having my doubts he's worth the money you say he is, Rowan."

The Captain was skilled at masking his emotions, especially in front of newcomers, but those who had sailed with him for years could see the anger and regret burning on his face—a silent accusation that he'd been ripped off.

Rowan's expression remained calm, though the Captain's words stung. "Alright, now, look, you need muscle, you've got me. But what good is muscle without brains? He's my brains. And more importantly, he's my little brother. We do this together, or not at all."

It bothered Rowan more than he let on that the Captain seemed to be backing out of their agreement. He'd had no issue with the man before he met Callahan in the flesh.

"Fine," the Captain grumbled, clearly unwilling to argue further. "We'll see then. Get with the rest of the crew. I've got things to go over with all of you."

The Captain didn't want to create a scene in front of the crew, especially not with two temporary swabbies. To him, they were just expendable meat until proven otherwise.

"Aye aye, Captain," Rowan said with a half-hearted, almost mocking salute. Galvos responded with a dismissive smirk, already turning away.

Men from all over the ship began gathering on the main deck. Rowan kept his eyes on the doors to the workers' cabins, waiting for his brother to make his way topside. When he finally saw Callahan emerging, he grinned and called out, "Cal! Over here!"

Rowan jogged over to him, ruffling his brother's hair with his giant hands. "The man of the hour has arrived! Thought you'd gone back to sleep there for a minute."

"Yeah, sorry about that." Callahan was relieved to get some air, though he wasn't thrilled about Rowan messing with his hair after such a lousy rest. He shrugged his brother's hands off and joined the rest of the crew gathering on deck. "Captain's real excited to see what we can do out there."

"More like what you can do," Callahan muttered under his breath, not quite masking the edge of humor. "Pretty sure he hates me."

Rowan stretched his words out, feigning offense. "What? No." He chuckled. "He's just a hard man of the seas, y'know? Has to act like an arse so his crew won't mutiny. He's a nice guy if you get him some drinks. He was jolly as a pig in the stye when we were mingling at Kiki's."

Rowan wasn't sure if he was lying to himself or to Callahan anymore, but he liked to keep spirits high. Part of him didn't care much if they got a permanent spot on the crew. The pay for this gig alone was enough to make a big leap toward their goal.

"Hmm, sure." Callahan didn't buy it, but he didn't mind. This was for his mom and their family. "Like you said, we'll show him what we can do today." His voice carried an unusually strong resolve.

Rowan pulled his brother in with his massive arm and squeezed him against his side. "That's the spirit! Somebody must've sprinkled sunshine in your oats today. You're not a complete downer this morning!"

Attention was called to the front of the ship as Captain Galvos, arquebus resting on his shoulder, stepped onto some barrels that had been arranged as a makeshift podium, giving him a better view over the crew. The men, a rabbling, chaotic mess of various backgrounds, were pricked and plucked from all corners of the world. The raucous cacophony of their voices was music to the Captain's ears—a sound he thrived in. But as much as he enjoyed the chaos, it was time to give his last words before they set foot on the beach.

"All right, all right!" Galvos shouted, firing a shot into the air. The men cheered, the shot ringing through the air like a challenge, before the noise began to die down. Rough as the journey had been, it was time to buckle down and get to business. "I'm sure you all know your roles well enough, but let's do a little refresher for the ones who've taken one too many to the head," he said, setting the butt of his arquebus down at his foot with a loud thud.

"We're here to capture some real nasty beasts. A dead Wailer ain't worth much, so don't bother bringing any corpses back. I want 'em breathing, understand?" His eyes swept over the crew, making sure every pair of eyes was on him. "Now remember—keep your gear on. This place is a hellhole, and the stagnant anima here will rot you from the inside out if you're not careful." He paused for a beat, letting that sink in.

A crewman hurried over with one of the infamous masks. It covered the face entirely, with two large glassy sockets for eyes. Galvos took it, holding it up with a look of mock seriousness. "These," he continued, slipping the mask over his face, "aren't just for fashion." He tried to continue with the speech, but his words were muffled, barely making it past the heavy layers of the mask.

There was a moment of awkward silence before a voice called out from the crowd. "What'd he say? Something about fashion?"

Another crewman, clearly amused, laughed. "I'm more worried about how he looks with that thing on."

Galvos pulled the mask off with a growl, his face flushed from the brief stint of comedic incompetence. "Enough with the jokes!" he snapped, his voice carrying through the ship again. "The point is, wear 'em. Trust me, you don't want to end up like those poor bastards who thought they could skip it. Now, get ready. We land soon."

The crew, quieter now, nodded in agreement, the threat of the anima weighing heavily in their minds. They knew Galvos wasn't one for nonsense, and when he said "get ready," they knew it was time to act.

"Now, men! Who are we?!" Galvos's voice rang out, booming across the ship. He almost forgot to rally his crew with their signature salute, but the reminder came just in time.

"THE KRACKEN CALLERS!" the crew responded with fierce fervor. Even Rowan joined in, grinning ear to ear. Callahan, on the other hand, stayed quiet, though secretly, he couldn't help but appreciate the spectacle.

Galvos raised an eyebrow and let the tension build before his next words. "Now, why would you fools call the sea devil's attention like that?"

The crew waited a moment in eager anticipation before shouting in unison, "CAUSE WE FEAR NOTHING!"

The ship erupted into a chorus of raucous cheers and hollers, men psyching each other up for the job ahead. Galvos stood back with a grin, clearly satisfied. His crew was ready.

Stepping down from the makeshift podium, Galvos readied himself. He wouldn't let his men have all the fun.

"The sea devil, huh? What actually is a Kraken?" Rowan pondered, trying to remember the stories his mother had told them about the great beasts of the world, but he was coming up a little short.

"It's a big squid, but I don't think one actually lives in this bay," Callahan said, thinking it over. "But I heard there's one that roams in the channel between Vallara and Ryvakar."

Rowan's eyes lit up, and a grin spread across his face. "Well, you know, if this job goes underwater, maybe we'll go hunt a Kraken." Rowan could already see himself, spear in hand, diving into the depths, sticking the beast with a well-placed blow. He'd ride it to the very bottom of the sea, all the way until it finally fell to his hands.

Callahan raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "The channel to Ryvakar is halfway across the world. And how are you going to kill a Kraken, anyway?"

Rowan smiled at his little brother, completely unbothered by the practicality of it. "With your help, of course. You just give me some gills, and I'll stab it to death."

Callahan sighed, shaking his head. His brother's ambition was endless, but sometimes Callahan wished he could be a little more grounded.

The two of them suited up, donning the masks Galvos had given them. They were more than just protection—each one was blessed with a prayer from Onorus, a blessing woven into the fabric to shield them from the mire's toxic grip. Their exposed skin was wrapped tightly, no place left for the stagnant anima to rot their flesh.

Callahan tugged at his mask, trying to adjust it. His voice came out muffled. "Can't see a damn thing in this thing."

Rowan, already heading off the ship, raised a hand to his ear, teasing. "Sorry, what was that?"

Callahan hurried to catch up, voice still muffled as he walked quickly behind his brother. "If I can't see you, we're going to have issues."

Rowan just grinned, pushing ahead. "It'll be fine. We won't even need your bind, alright?"

"Hey, wait!" A voice called out from behind them. Callahan and Rowan had barely stepped onto the sands when they turned to see a skinny man trotting toward them, his silhouette nearly swallowed by the gray mist that clung to the island. On his back was a strange, complicated device, something the brothers hadn't seen before. It clanged with each step he took, a reminder of just how out of place they were in this miserable, rain-swept land.

"Captain wants me coming with you two," the man said, adjusting the straps on his back. The device seemed to shift and groan, the weight of it a clear challenge to his lanky frame. Callahan gave him a once-over, his gaze settling on the strange contraption.

Rowan grinned, always the cheery one. "Welcome to the party!" he said, his words a ray of sunshine trying to pierce through the thick, stubborn storm clouds.", Callahan, on the other hand, squinted at the device. He wasn't a tinkerer by any means, but the strange machinery piqued his curiosity.

"You gonna be able to carry that thing all the way? Looks heavy." Callahan took a step closer, studying it from every angle. "What does it do?"

The man adjusted the straps again, his thin frame visibly straining under the weight. "I'll be fine," he said, though there was a slight hitch in his voice. "Galvos said you two were headed for the old fort on the inner plateau. Said there were deep concentrations there, so I need to come along."

Rowan raised an eyebrow, looking the man over, noting his wiry build. "You got a name?"

The stranger didn't hesitate. "Ollie."

The rain was still coming down in sheets, each drop cutting through the air like needles. The wind screeched through the trees, the thunder rolling so loud it seemed like the island itself was speaking, warning them to turn back.

It was another half hour of walking—not too long, but Ollie had fallen behind the brothers a bit. The fort, their destination, was now clearly visible ahead.

"All right, Rowan," Callahan said, his voice steady as he outlined the plan. "Best bet would be to pin one of these things down. Their hooks shouldn't pierce your armor, so once you've got one down, you need to place the black covering over its face. You don't want those eyes looking into yours..."

Callahan continued, going over the strategy in detail, but Rowan seemed distracted, his gaze far off. Callahan sighed, trying again, "We've only got enough traps for three of them, so I'll shoot down any others that might try to charge us..."

The crew had been outfitted with weapons, some bringing their own. Rowan, preferred simplicity: a solid sledge, dull and to the point—just the way he liked it. Callahan wasn't as physically intimidating or skilled in melee combat as his brother, so he took on a more supportive role, carrying a crossbow and staying at the back. His aim wasn't bad, but he wasn't exactly a marksman.

"Ollie, I—" Callahan began, but Ollie cut him off, his pace picking up again, as if he'd found a second wind.

"I won't be much help with the fighting," Ollie said, Callahan could hear his exhausted breath.

"Oh yeah? What exactly is that thing, anyway?" Callahan asked, his curiosity piqued.

Ollie hesitated, as if weighing his words. He wasn't given specific instructions to keep the device a secret, but something about talking about it felt... off. Still, the conversation helped pass the time.

"This thing," Ollie said, adjusting the straps on his back, "it can safely suck up all that stagnant anima. We got a special commission from the capital to collect it."

Rowan, who had start walking backwards facing his brother and Ollie so he could join the conversation, raised an eyebrow. "We're bringing that stuff back with us on the ship?" He gave a surprised huff of concern. "Doesn't sound good."

It was rare for Rowan to show any real concern, especially over something like this. Mires like this one were infamous for the creatures they spawned and the effects they had on living beings. The danger was very real, despite the exaggerated myths that had spread about them.

"It's real valuable to the war effort, the Captain was told so, anyway," Ollie said, his voice a little sharper now. "Don't know if you two keep track of that sort of thing, but... well, there's rumors."

His shoulders stiffened, and his hands tugged at the straps of the machine, the movements tense and jerky, as though he were trying to work out some invisible frustration. A flicker of something dark radiated through his posture—resentment, fury—but it disappeared almost as quickly as it came. Callahan wasn't sure what to make of it. Ollie was angry about something, but what? "I heard... there was an Aurelan city," Ollie continued, his words becoming heavier with each breath. "wiped away in a day, cause of a new weapon made from the stuff." A slight quiver touched his voice, and he hesitated before continuing. "Horrible... horrible stuff."

There was a long pause. A low, almost inaudible whimper slipped from Ollie's lips: "Sweet mother Aureha..." The words were swallowed by the thick mask, muffling not just his voice but the weight of his grief. Even as Callahan had slowed his stride to match Ollie's, the whispers never reached his ears.

"War isn't our business," Rowan turned forward again to the path ahead, his words voiced in colder less jovial tone than they had tended to be. "It isn't until It is," Ollie replied, "and then suddenly it's too late." Callahan wanted to say something. Ollie's struggles were becoming more obvious with every step, and the weight on the man's heart was plain to see. But no words came to mind—nothing that might ease the burden or lift his spirits. The trial ahead was dangerous, and Callahan couldn't shake the worry that Ollie, whether through distraction or misstep, might put them all at greater risk.

The rest of the road was walked wordlessly, till they had finally reached the fort, A voice reinvigorated broke the silence "we made it boys," Rowan held out both arms up to the stoney walls of the stronghold, "She's waiting for us to clean her out!"

The fortress stood—barely—its walls battered by war and worn thin by the passage of time. At its heart, an endless torrent of forgotten souls churned, abandoned and unwanted, as though no heaven would claim them. Their scattered essence clung low to the ground like a billowing green fog, thickening as the trio drew closer. By the time they reached the entrance, the mist was waist-deep, curling around them like the breath of tragedy itself.

These anima mires were home to twisted parodies of life—amalgamations of aimless souls fused into monstrous forms. They animated horrors, mindless nightmares that prowled these cursed lands, their very existence a testament to despair.

The three men finally emerged from the rain, stepping into what seemed to be the remnants of a mess hall. The courtyard outside had been scoured, its once solid stone surface now cracked and weathered. The green fog from the anima mire clung to the air, but there were no signs of wailers yet—those mindless horrors seemed to prefer the deeper parts of the mire, where the concentration of anima was strongest.

Callahan glanced around, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of danger, but the courtyard remained eerily quiet. He couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that clung to the air.

"Guess this might be where we part ways for a while," Ollie muttered, He carefully unloaded the machine from his back, his hands moving with surprising precision as he began adjusting buttons and knobs. The contraption seemed more complex with every turn, a far cry from the rough-and-ready tools Rowan and Callahan were used to.

A circular hatch popped open in the center of the device, and lights along its edges flickered to life. A low, mechanical whir sounded from within, the soft hum of gears turning as green mist from the outside was slowly drawn into the machine. The fog swirled like a miniature whirlwind, sucked into the contraption's insides as it prepared to do its work.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"That thing's gonna fill up fast, don't you think? Does your Captain plan to send you on multiple trips?" Callahan asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. The device was unlike anything he'd ever seen. It was a miracle they were even standing here in the first place—most men, especially those unprepared, wouldn't survive this deep in a mire. Yet here they were, not just alive but harvesting the very stuff that would normally kill them.

Ollie's hands didn't falter as he worked the controls, his gaze fixed on the machine. "Bunch of pebbles in there from the capital," he muttered. "Sucks up anima like a sponge. It'll be plenty enough."

Callahan watched the swirling green mist vanish into the device's core, the low hum of its workings filling the uneasy silence of the room. He tore his eyes away, glancing around the mess hall. Broken tables and chairs lay scattered like forgotten corpses of better days. The large fireplace had collapsed in on itself, a pile of ash and rubble now lying where warmth once lived. Small streams of rainwater dripped through holes in the ceiling, each drop falling with a faint, rhythmic plink that echoed through the space.

Across the room, Rowan dug through the debris, his gloved hands brushing against the stone walls. Callahan knew what he was looking for: the jagged, scratched marks of wailers' hooked limbs, telltale signs of the horrors that should've been here. But there was nothing. No creatures of the mire, no lurking nightmares in the shadows.

The absence was unsettling. It was hauntingly, eerily peaceful.

A crashing sound echoed through the hall as Rowan's reckless rummaging brought part of the stone wall down in a heap—more damage to an already crumbling room.

"I don't think we're gonna have much luck here," Callahan called out, eyeing the mess with a mix of worry and irritation. If Rowan kept at it like this, the whole place might come down on top of them. Rowan stepped back from the debris and fiddled with the straps of his mask. "Guess they're shy. Thought we'd have run into one by now." He gave an exaggerated shrug, throwing a quick glance to Callahan. "Maybe they're having a nap in the barracks or bedrooms, You ready, Cal?"

Callahan glanced at Ollie, who stood motionless, eyes locked on the machine as it hummed and whirred.

"You should come with us, Ollie. Probably not a good idea to stay here alone."

Ollie shook his head but didn't look up. "I'll be fine. Go do your job."

Callahan hesitated. The quiet was unsettling, and he couldn't help but imagine the wailers biding their time, waiting for them to split up. He didn't want the guilt of leaving Ollie to fend for himself—or the fallout if they made it back to the ship without him or the anima-harvesting machine. Rowan stepped between them, clapping Callahan on the shoulder. "You're not gonna change his mind," he said with a grin. "But Cal won't leave you behind unless I try to get you to come along—or convince him you'll be fine."

He shifted his other arm over to Ollie, resting a firm hand on his shoulder.

"So what do you say? Come exploring with us. The machine doesn't need you standing here like the captain watching over lazy deckhands"

Ollie looked at the two brothers, Rowan's massive hand firm on his shoulder. Though he couldn't see their faces, he could feel their concern. It was something he felt he didn't deserve. He swallowed his doubt and tried to muster a bit of confidence.

"Captain needs this job done. If I'm the only one without a full delivery, I'll be sipping sea water instead of ale." The joke came out dry, but he hoped it would work—hoped it would make them go on their way. Rowan withdrew his hand and gave Ollie a reassuring pat before turning to Callahan. "See? He'll be fine, Cal. And we won't even be long. A couple towers, the barracks, the barn. By the time we're back, his machine'll be full—and we'll have at least two wailers to throw over our shoulders."

Callahan sighed, unconvinced by either his brother or Ollie that leaving him behind was a good idea. But the man was adamant. Whatever kept him there—whether it was fear of the Captain's punishment or something deeper—he wasn't going to budge. And the job wouldn't get done if they stood in the mess hall all day. He lingered for a moment longer, glancing back at Ollie, who still hadn't moved from his post by the machine. Finally, he turned and followed Rowan out of the room. As the door swung shut behind them, Callahan cast one last look over his shoulder. Ollie had slumped down next to the device, his masked head buried in his hands, one knee drawn tightly to his chest. His back was pressed against the wall, his whole posture heavy with some unseen burden. Whatever it was, it clung to him like the storm outside, and Callahan couldn't shake the feeling they shouldn't have left him.

The brothers, now one man short, began their search of the fortress's remaining sections. They did their best to stay under roofs, using connecting corridors to shield themselves from the ever-pouring rain. In the barracks, they found rusted weapons and decayed armor, all too far gone to be worth taking as trophies. The connecting halls were just as barren, derelict like the rest of the fortress. Any marks or symbols once engraved on the walls had long since been wiped away, time's cruel hand erasing all traces of the past. The stagnant anima had a decaying effect on most things—objects warped and melted away, leaving only the faintest traces of what they had once been. Even the barn, was empty—no carcasses, not even bones. The mire's corrosive power had claimed it all.

In the spires, collapsed staircases blocked their way. There were no traces of wailers here either, just more ruin to navigate. The brothers pressed on, climbing to the highest floors of the largest building in the fort. Inside, they found a few bedrooms, likely for the higher-ranking officers. But there was nothing luxurious about them—just the same decay. One room, however, caught Callahan's attention. A massive picture frame hung atop a wall where a bed might have once stood. The gold frame was tarnished, the intricate designs once engraved upon it now lost to time. The picture it had once held had vanished, perhaps taken in the chaos of war or simply eroded away.

"Gettin' a lil worried we might go back empty-handed," Rowan said, resting his hands behind his head, fingers interlaced, elbows pointing toward the ceiling. His voice held a casual edge, but his posture, relaxed as it was, betrayed his growing boredom. "Kiki's gonna have a fit over the tab I'll run trying to butter up Galvos if we do."

Callahan shot him a glance. Rowan's words might've seemed carefree, but Callahan knew it was mostly about filling the silence with familiar chatter. He wasn't so concerned about the lack of action—Rowan was just itching for a distraction. Callahan had learned to read his brother's subtle signs of restlessness over the years.

"You're running a tab now?" Callahan's tone wasn't sharp, but the concern was there. He knew his brother loved to mingle— that's how they found most of their gigs—but hearing Rowan was spending money they didn't have still grated on him. "We're supposed to be saving, you know. Ma isn't going to get better if you drink away our savings."

Rowan's relaxed stride faltered, his shoulders tightening. "What's that supposed to mean?" The offense was slight, but it was there.

"I'm just saying," Callahan continued, his voice low but firm, "it took a lot of money to get here already, and we haven't made much back. Ma's still at home, sick and—" He paused, the words catching in his throat. "We don't have all the time in the world, that's all."

Under his mask, Rowan's brow furrowed, and his voice carried a hint of frustration. "I know that." His words came quick, clipped. "You think I'm spending the money all willy-nilly? I only spend when I think I can nail us down a job." His voice rose slightly as they continued down the uneven stone hall. "

You'd know how hard it is to get work if you ever left the damn room. You gotta earn people's trust in the lower city."

Callahan stiffened but didn't reply. Rowan wasn't done yet. "The room, which, just so you know, was given to us because of me." He punctuated the words with a light shove to Callahan's shoulder—not rough, but enough to send him stumbling over loose stones. Callahan caught himself and shot his brother a sharp glare.

"You think I just sit in the room doing nothing, Rowan?" His tone simmered now, frustration bubbling under the surface.

"I'm trying my damned best to get a handle on the one useful thing I can do for us," Callahan snapped, his voice tight with frustration. "Every discarded book on the subject I can find, I mull over for hours." He took a sharp breath, trying to steady himself, but the words came tumbling out. "It barely helps. And it's not like we can practice near the city without being carted off to some far-off battlefield where we'll probably just be used as meat shields for Onorian soldiers."

He threw up his hands, the motion almost desperate, Rowan stood silently, regret flickering across his face concealed under the mask as he watched.

"And you know," Callahan continued, his voice trembling now, "it's not like I thought coming here was that good of an idea in the first place. I'm no fighter. I should've stayed home. I could've helped Brig take care of Ma." His voice cracked on the last word, and he turned his back on Rowan, shoulders slumping under the weight of everything he couldn't say. His hands clasped behind his neck, his head bowed low. "I don't know why I'm even here..."

Callahan walked onward, the both of them now lost in the bowels of the castle as silence settled after their argument. "Y'know," Rowan said, cutting through the tension, "Brig would probably kick us both for this."

"You'd deserve it," Callahan shot back.

Rowan chuckled. "Maybe. Wanna give it a go? See if I feel it."

"Yeah, maybe when you're not wrapped head to toe in armor and gear. I'll get you when you least expect it."

The mood began to soften, Rowan's laughter lingering as they continued through the dark halls.

"Not sure where we are anymore," Rowan admitted, glancing around. "Thought we'd have circled back by now."

Callahan gave their surroundings a good gander. It was getting darker. "We should probably get a light burnin' before we start tripping over ourselves like drunks." Rowan rifled through their gear searching for a torch.

"Wait." The chill in Callahan's voice froze Rowan mid-motion. Callahan's hand shot out, stopping him from igniting the torch. His gaze was locked on something far down the hall—a pair of silvery discs floating in the dark. Rowan stayed still, quiet, at first unaware of what had caught his brother's attention. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw it too. "That'd be a telltale sign if ever there was one," he whispered, his voice just high enough to keep the mask from muffling it entirely.

Cold eyes in the dark.

They lurked in corners of mired castles and caves, striking from the shadows with a screeching wail. Stories said the sound could bend reality like magic, disorienting prey with illusions of their darkest nightmares. The Wailers were lithe and anemic creatures, with four spindly limbs like a spider's, elbows that bent both ways, and a sharp, ebony claw protruding from grayish skin. Their faces were gaunt, with large, reflective eyes like silver mirrors, torn and pointed ears twitching as they listened.

They were fast. They were deadly.

And now the brothers had finally laid eyes on one.

Rowan stood steady, his posture betraying a quiet eagerness. In one hand, he held the black-out muzzle meant for the creature's head; in the other, a coil of specialized wire to bind its spindly legs. He'd forgone drawing his weapon entirely. Though the creature was still partially obscured by shadows, Rowan had seen enough to gauge its size—small, no bigger than Callahan, maybe smaller. He was confident he could wrestle it to the ground and bind it barehanded.

Callahan was not so sure.

The air around him felt heavier, charged with unease. His hands fumbled as he worked to quietly load a bolt into his crossbow, every metallic click of the mechanism feeling far louder than it should. He stole a glance at the silvery discs far down the hall—watching, waiting. His pulse quickened, the chill in his chest spreading like frost.

The Wailer hadn't moved. Not yet.

"You got this, Cal. Keep it steady," Rowan's words were low, their effect uncertain in calming Callahan's shaken aim.

Callahan had the creature locked in his sights—he couldn't afford to miss. It stared back at them, its reflective eyes unmoving, a haunting presence in the dark. There was no way Rowan could get close enough to grab it. The Kraken Callers' bolts were said to have a temporary paralyzing effect on creatures spawned from the mire, but Callahan had to be precise. One shot, that was all he had. If he missed the creature would surely attack. Rowan moved in slowly, inching closer, while Callahan adjusted his aim. His finger hovered over the trigger, trembling just slightly as he steadied his breath.

The pressure mounted as Callahan's finger squeezed the crossbow's trigger. The bolt shot forward, quick as a flash, cutting through the air toward the creature. But the Wailer was quicker. Its ears twitched, reacting to the sound of the release, and in an instant, its body contorted with a sickening agility. The bolt passed just inches from its flesh as the creature twisted unnaturally, avoiding the shot as if it had no bones.

"Shit, shit, shit, I'm sorry!" Panic gripped Callahan as he scrambled to reload his crossbow. But Rowan was already off, his sprint echoing in the stone halls before the first bolt had even left the weapon. The Wailer had repositioned, its throat swelling grotesquely like a sickening boil, and then it let out its namesake—a bone-rattling wail that should never have been heard by men's ears. The sound reverberated through the castle's walls, and it hit Rowan like a physical blow. He stopped dead in his tracks, collapsing to one knee. His hands dropped uselessly as he struggled to block out the noise that flooded his mind, gnawing at his nerves.

Callahan's grip on the crossbow faltered too as the sound tore through him, his whole body shaking from the force of it. He fell to all fours, struggling to regain control, his breath ragged as he fumbled for his bolt.

The Wailer's legs tensed, coiling like a predator preparing to strike. With a sudden leap, it launched from the wall, skittering toward Rowan in erratic zigzags.

Callahan's vision was a blur, his mask still obstructing his sight, and now the Wailer's screech and the dimming room made everything spin. No matter how desperately his hands scrambled across the cold floor, he couldn't seem to find his footing. In mere seconds, the Wailer closed the distance, its legs curling and tensing for the killing blow. The air crackled with the anticipation of a deadly, final leap. Rowan still hadn't moved.Mid-air, the Wailer's spindly legs aimed at Rowan, ready to clamp down in a macabre embrace, its sharp claws poised to sink deep into his flesh.

In just as quick an instant that the Wailer had dodged Callahan's bolt, Rowan's massive hand shot from his side, his palm open and ready. Like a fleshy tree trunk wrapped in steel and leather, it closed around the creature mid-flight, its head swallowed whole by his grasp.

If the Wailer could see behind Rowan's black mask, it would catch a devilish smile of satisfaction.

Rowan pushed off the ground with explosive power, slamming the Wailer's body down. Its limbs flailed, now trailing limply behind its crushed head. With a final surge, Rowan's hand slammed the creature into the stone floor, pressing down with brutal force. The Wailer's legs, unmoored from the rest of its body, squirmed and flailed, trying to stab at Rowan's armor. But its claws couldn't find purchase.

In a desperate, final attempt, the Wailer began to bloat again, but Rowan's other hand shot up, wrapping around its throat. "Quiet, no more screaming," he muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction. He had it—now all he needed was the muzzle and the wire, and one creature would be down, one step closer to finishing the job.

"Cal, you good?" Rowan's voice was firm but not without a hint of amusement. "Bring me the muzzle, the wire, quick—little bastard's trying to bite through my gloves."

Callahan shook himself, his head pounding from the screech, but his hands were steady now. He scrambled to where Rowan knelt, grabbing the bindings and muzzle.

"Here, damn—shut it up for good," Callahan grumbled, pressing his palm to his forehead as the pain from the Wailer's scream lingered.

Rowan's grin was dark as he worked the muzzle over the Wailer's head, its legs still bound but struggling violently. "Nah, nah, nah. Can't kill it. We're taking this pup home." He paused, his voice taking on a mockingly cheery tone as he forced the creature into submission. "Ain't that right, little guy? You're gonna love the ship. Whatever pit they decide to throw you in...well, it'll be better than this, that's for sure."

The Wailer wriggled in his grip, but Rowan's strength held. Its legs were tied, its body curled in a forced fetal position. Its attempts to break free were futile.

The brothers stood side by side, their chests heaving as the rush of victory swept over them. Rowan knelt down to match Callahan's height, a wide grin splitting his face behind the mask. He flexed his arm, his hand clenched into a fist and pointed straight up. Callahan mirrored him without hesitation, their elbows meeting in a firm press before both fists swung forward, colliding with a solid thud. It was their own little celebration—part taunt, part ritual, a brotherly gesture they made their own.

"Well, two more to go," Callahan muttered, glancing back at the bound creature. "You think it's safe to leave this thing here? What if it wriggles loose or someone else gets to it?" Rowan shrugged, already gathering bits of rubble and debris. "It's tied up good. Ain't like it can call for help. Besides, if Ollie comes down here and steals our glory, let him. The mopey bastard could use a win." Callahan frowned but stayed quiet as Rowan finished covering the creature—not enough to hurt it, just enough to keep it out of sight from other wailers and easy to spot later. With a final pat of the debris pile, Rowan stepped back, hands on his hips, his voice still tinged with the rush of victory. "See? All set. We'll grab it on our way out." Callahan's eyes lingered on the pile as Rowan lit a torch and wedged it into the wall. "If you say so."

The brothers made their way to the end of the room where they had first spotted the Wailer, the space now lit by the torch Callahan held in his hand. At the far wall, a narrow entrance revealed itself, sloping downward into a deep and oppressive darkness. Etches and claw marks covered the walls around the opening, far more numerous than anything they had seen elsewhere in the castle.

"They must scurry in and out of this place a lot," Callahan muttered as he ran his fingers over one of the jagged grooves. His hand paused on a particularly deep mark, his unease growing with every second he lingered.

At the threshold, the torchlight barely seemed to reach. Shadows crowded in the space ahead, almost swallowing the faint flicker entirely. Callahan's gaze traced the walls, noting just how many marks surrounded them now—innumerable paths carved into the stone by creatures moving in and out. The green fog that had once lingered at waist height now stretched far above their heads as they delved deeper into the abyss. The narrow walls began to widen, the smooth, paved stone giving way to uneven dirt and jagged rock. The further they went, the less this place resembled anything man-made.

They moved in silence, knowing the torch was already enough of a beacon in the dark. Sound, however, was what drew the Wailers. Their massive eyes were less for seeing and more for harm—deadly weapons rather than tools of perception. If they stayed quiet, they might just get the jump on the next one. Callahan clenched his jaw, silently praying that whatever came next wouldn't have a chance to scream. The dull ache in his skull from the first encounter still hadn't faded. Downward they trudged, the trek seeming to stretch endlessly. The air grew heavier, and the walls loomed like watchful sentinels, the weight of the earth pressing in from all sides. They must have been far below the surface now, deeper than they had imagined possible when they first entered the fortress above. Then, something new appeared ahead, faint but unmistakable. A soft glow emanated from the walls, flickering in the periphery of the torchlight. It wasn't the green of the fog or the yellow of firelight. This was different—a bluish hue that pulsed faintly, as though alive.

"Look at that," Rowan whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "Light on the walls."

Callahan lowered his torch as they neared the glowing walls. The light seeped from carved lines, forming massive figures—what looked like men frozen in a variety of poses. They seemed to tell a story, but one the brothers could never hope to decipher.

"An arch of the same blue light appeared further down, a beckoning entrance. The figures on the walls seemed to walk in that very same direction. The brothers exchanged a silent nod and followed the path, once again guided by what felt like the touch of man. Passing beneath the arch, they entered a vast, circular amphitheater. The walls were still lined with the bluish glow, crisscrossing in arcane patterns from floor to ceiling, leading toward a raised platform at the center of the room. White marble pillars encircled a pedestal, atop which sat a strange relic encased in a transparent dome. The brothers stood in awe, struck by the beauty and complexity of the site. They wondered who could have built something so intricate, so deep beneath the earth.

Excitedly, Callahan began to ramble, "We—we gotta tell Galvos." Rowan blinked, a bit shocked—he didn't think Callahan cared much for the Captain. "Huh, really?" he muttered in surprise.

"Of course! Look at this place! Could you imagine what kind of stuff is down here?" Callahan's words spilled out faster as they moved closer to the center. "Who knows what lost treasures are hidden here? Rowan, this might be it—our big break. We tell him, and he gets his men, and we can explore it all. No more begging for work in Onoria." Rowan's eyes, hidden behind his mask, widened with excitement at the spark in his brother's voice. They climbed the white marble stairs of the central platform, both eager to see what strange relic lay at its heart, admiring the cerulean lines and swirls that traced the stairs and pillars around them.

They stood before the pedestal, the clear dome encasing the relic spotless, untouched by dust or debris—pristine in a way nothing else in this place had been. Inside, a silvery orb glowed softly, a green jewel nestled at its center. Blue cerulean lines spiraled out from the jewel, like bloodshot veins spreading from its pupil. It was an eye—or at least, that's what they both thought. A jeweled, silvery eye.

The brothers stood, stunned into silence, their minds racing.

"Rowan... this, we're..." Callahan trailed off, struggling to find the words. The future had never seemed so bright.

Rowan let out a small laugh, clapping Callahan on the shoulder. "Cal, I know you don't drink, but... I mean, you can't not celebrate with me."

Their eyes met, and their smiles were so wide they seemed to nearly tear through their masks. In unison, they whispered—desperate to contain their excitement but unable to stop themselves: "WE'RE RICH."

The joy was overflowing, too much to hold in. They wanted to shout louder, but the thought of attracting any unwanted guests kept them in check.

"Well, little brother, I humbly bestow upon you the honor of claiming this treasure," Rowan said with a dramatic bow, teasing his brother forward to seize their long-sought yet unexpected prize.

Callahan grinned, matching the bow. "Well, I'll humbly accept, big brother," he said, standing tall as he reached for the dome. It came open with ease, revealing the eye, now resting in its place, waiting to be claimed. Callahan pinched the eye between his thumb and index finger, lifting it from its suspended position on the pedestal.

He rolled the eye in his gloved palm, wishing he could feel the cold metal directly on his skin. It had a solid heft, and the intricate details were a work of art. But something strange began to happen. As the eye left the pedestal, the blue, cerulean lines that crisscrossed and marked the room started to recede. The once bright room gradually grew darker, as if the very energy of the place was beginning to fade.

"Uh-oh, trap, you think?" Rowan mused, though he wasn't fully concerned.

Callahan, however, showed more alarm at the situation. He tried placing the eye back on the pedestal, hoping the light would return, but it failed. "Well... uh," he began, anxiety creeping in, "I mean, we're just gonna sell it anyway, right? It's fine. Galvos and the crew will have torches too, so we can still explore." But before they could light their torches, the room plunged into complete darkness—so dense that they couldn't even see their hands in front of their faces.

"Rowan, you there?" Callahan called out, his voice shaky as he reached into the darkness, finally finding his brother's steeled arm.

"Scared of the dark?" Rowan teased.

"Light a damn torch, idiot." Callahan could hear the rustling of Rowan's gear, a giggle mixed in with the sound as he searched for a torch. But the air felt thick, suffocating.

Callahan scanned the oppressive darkness, and then—something terrifying emerged. Two silvery discs on the ceiling. Then four, six, eight, ten... The ceiling seemed to be coming alive with what appeared to be stars—yet it was obvious they hadn't been teleported under the night sky.

"Rowan..." Fear gripped him, thick and suffocating. "Look." He nudged his brother to look up.

"Hundreds you think? Thousands maybe..." Callahan's fear was thick, like clotted blood his voice curdling, his breath barely making it out of his lungs. "Rowan..." a whimper squeezed out, "Are we gonna die here..." A stark, cold reality hit him in the gut, no more words could come out. In the dark, he felt those large strong hands pushing him to the floor, "stay quiet, stay hidden, and when the light goes on, you know Callahan, you know what to do" Rowan's words were steadfast, no joking, no chiding, no brotherly banter, just trust, trust in what Callahan was capable of.

Rowan took the steps down, eyes scanning the darkness. He couldn't let the monsters reach his brother. With purpose, he set to work, lighting every remaining torch and spreading them around the room. His brother needed to see this—needed to see him.

Gripping his sledge tight, he gave the hammer's head a test swing, feeling the weight settle into his hands. He beat it against his chest—once, twice—a taunt. "You got this, Cal!"

With a mighty roar, the first Wailer descended from above, crashing to the ground beside Rowan with a sickening thud. Rowan's muscles coiled as he took his stance, the hammer rising high over his shoulder.

He didn't hesitate. The moment the Wailer moved, Rowan brought the hammer down with devastating force, smashing it into the creature's skull. It was dead in an instant

More fell from the ceiling, their unnatural forms dropping into the arena. Rowan was ready. He dodged the first strike, his body moving instinctively. His hammer crashed into the neck of the next Wailer, snapping it with a sickening crack. Another was upon him—this time, he swung with precision, crushing its chest, its ribs collapsing under the weight of the blow. The room was alive with chaos, but Rowan was unshaken.

In the heat of the battle Callahan tried to focus on his brother, the lenses of his mask were clouded, the light reflected of the anima fog in strange patterns, it was almost impossible for him to clearly see Rowan fight, more and more Wailers fell from above, they dashed and jumped all trying to put an end to Rowan's life, but his armor did not falter, and despite his size he was quick on his feet.

The ground trembled with each strike, the sound of crunching bone, slamming impact, and dirt and stone being ripped from beneath him. Marble cracked and shattered as Rowan's hammer smashed through another Wailer, but something worse was coming.

The creatures began to bloat. Not just one, but many. Rowan didn't hesitate—he dashed forward, crushing one Wailer's throat before it could scream, then hurled it at another, its body crashing into the next creature, briefly interrupting its horrific wail. But it wasn't enough.

One Wailer screamed. Then another. The sound was a torrent, a wave of agony crashing over them.

It was like being hit by a stampede, but this time, it wasn't just one—this was the deafening, bone-rattling force of multiple Wailers, their cries twisting into a single, overwhelming cacophony. Rowan staggered, his mind fighting to stay clear as his body screamed for relief. He pressed his hand against the shaft of his hammer, using it to keep his balance, his weight swaying like a tree in a storm.

Callahan could feel it too—his body seized with pain. The wails burrowed into his very bones, and the air around him seemed to vibrate, threatening to tear his insides apart. It felt as though he were being crushed under a herd of hooved beasts, their weight breaking him piece by piece. But he couldn't stop—not now. Not when Rowan was still fighting.

Through the haze of pain, Callahan glimpsed his brother. Rowan was still standing, though barely. His hammer was the only thing keeping him upright, his body hunched, like a man at the edge of collapse. Rowan's breathing was shallow, strained. His grip on the hammer was the only thing that tethered him to reality.

But he was still standing.

A dark feeling welled in Callahan's chest as the wailers slowly approached Rowan. They were cautious now, respecting the lethal range of his hammer. It seemed they weren't completely mindless after all.

As they closed in, a vision began to form in Callahan's mind. That shadowy figure from his nightmare, its dark claws around Rowan's throat, panic surged through him. He couldn't lose Rowan—not like this. He wouldn't let that thing take him.

"ROWAN!" he screamed, voice raw with urgency.

"QUIET CAL!" came the ragged reply. The creatures were closing in, time was slipping away.

Callahan's breath came in rapid, shallow bursts, his mask still clinging to his face. "I can't..." His words were strained. "I can't see with this fucking mask on."

Without a second thought for his own safety, or the thick miasma of fallen souls filling the air, Callahan ripped the mask from his face. His eyes locked onto his brother—green and glowing faintly, his vision sharp as he fixed on Rowan with unwavering focus.

The vision of his brother conquering the Kraken filled his mind. But now, instead of slaying the beast, he merged with it. The mighty limbs of the Kraken intertwined with Rowan's body, its massive power and strength flowing as one. Rowan would not fight alone. They would not fight alone.

Callahan held the vision steady in his mind, his eyes piercing through Rowan's armor, through flesh, bone, and straight into his soul.

A pulse shook Rowan to his feet, deep from within him. He knew what was happening. It was happening again. "Give it your all, Cal. I can take it," he whispered to himself. His flesh beneath the armor bubbled, a strange sensation—not completely painful, but not entirely pleasant either.

One brave wailer saw its chance and lunged, but it never even made it within striking range of Rowan's hammer. From his back, a gargantuan tentacle exploded outwards, coiling around the wailer's neck. The creature struggled for breath, but the might of the sea devil choked the unholy life out of it before it could even dare to scream.

The wailers launched their assault again, but this time they were met with something far worse. More tentacles of the Kraken sprouted from Rowan's back, thick and powerful, silencing any would-be screeches before they could even reach their crescendo. No longer a mere defender, Rowan became the storm itself. With a multitude of limbs, he tore through the amphitheatre, wielding debris and broken pillars as weapons, obliterating everything in his path. He didn't need to dash from creature to creature anymore—his very presence was a wave of destruction.

Callahan's focus, however, began to crack under the strain. His lungs filled with the caustic anima, and his vision wavered. He stumbled, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the world around him blurring.

"Cal, put your mask back on," Rowan shouted, the urgency in his voice clear. "Get out of here, you've done your part! Go, go, go!"

The words echoed in Callahan's ears, but they sounded distant, unreal. Rowan, a blur of power, cast aside wailer after wailer, his massive limbs throwing columns of granite like twigs. His transformation into this unstoppable force was awe-inspiring, but to Callahan, it felt like the world was falling away. His lungs burned, liquid rising in his chest with each strained breath. The sound of his brother's roar blended with the rush of fluid filling his airways, the cold panic creeping in as his own body started to fail him.

With what little clarity remained in his mind, Callahan made a run for it, his brother crushing and thrashing any Wailer that dared impede his path. He surged past the arches, pushing himself forward, moving with a surprising burst of speed down the hall lined with the giant men carved into the rock. The sounds of the battle grew distant behind him; any lingering Wailers would hopefully be drawn into the fray. If they dared to follow, their hunger would only lead them to absolute destruction.

His breath came in ragged gasps now, each inhalation harder than the last. The mask was suffocating, its weight pressing against him like the world itself was bearing down. His vision blurred at the edges, the darkness swallowing him. The path back had disappeared somewhere in the labyrinth of his mind. His legs gave way. He fell, face-first into the dirt, too tired to catch himself.

His breathing slowed as the panic that had once clawed at him faded. It felt almost as if he were drifting—weightless, suspended in an endless sea of exhaustion. His fingers dug into the ground, clawing at the earth as if to anchor himself, to remind himself he was still here. A thought lingered in the back of his mind, desperate and fleeting: I don't want it to end, not yet.

And then, the light came. It was faint at first, a soft glow that spread around him, as if the darkness itself were parting in reverence. He didn't know if it was real or if his death-throes were pulling him into some hallucination. It didn't matter. It was beautiful, either way. Those crisscrossing patterns—he knew them well—stretched out above him, their familiar shapes now casting strange shadows across the cavern ceiling. He'd never have guessed the patterns extended this far.

A sharp pang of regret tugged at him, the thought almost absurd in its simplicity: I hope Ma doesn't cry. I hope Rowan brings her the necklace she gave me. What a silly thing to think about. Under his arms, the weight grew lighter still. A gentle pressure lifted him, as if something unseen was guiding him away from the earth. Was this it? Was his soul leaving his body? His back arched slightly, rising from the ground, and for a fleeting moment, he welcomed it. It feels nice, he thought, I want to let go. I'm so tired. His lower back scraped along the dirt, his legs dragging behind him. Guess I'm bottom-heavy, he thought with a silent chuckle, the sound of it trapped in his chest, unvoiced. The absurdity of it almost made him smile, though he lacked the strength to do so.

The light surrounded him now, brighter, clearer. He closed his eyes, feeling his body give in, his soul tugged away by whatever force had reached down to claim him. The only thing that mattered now was the quiet, the peace that awaited him in the dark. Callahan stole one final glance at the living world below, the light still tracing his ascent. It softly illuminated a masked figure hovering above him, but it couldn't be Rowan. I can still hear him, Callahan thought. I can still feel him fighting. His eyelids were too heavy to open now. They fluttered shut for what he thought would be the final time.

As he drifted away, an unfamiliar voice pierced the darkness of his mind. The Accord will not only bend for you. It will break. He didn't understand the words, didn't know whose voice spoke them. His consciousness hung by the thinnest thread. Rowan...