The hallway stretched long and narrow, metal older than memory—older than him, war-forged steel, rusted at the edges, like the bones in his back.
The others drifted ahead, silhouettes in the haze, pebbles out of reach.
Marshal lingered behind.
A lone knight. Slow. Heavy.
Maybe he should stop. Let the fog come. Let it take him.
He was tired. Too tired.
Then—
Whitfield's voice cut through the quiet, sharp and grating.
"Why must we carry that burden? She's just slowing us down."
He hated her voice. Hated the sound itself.
His arms tightened.
He remembered—
Not her weight but her warmth.
Her imprint seared into his body, melted through skin and nerve. A void. A heat.
Only his diamond bones remained—warped, cracking—her final anchor above the floor.
Lorelai shook in his arms, her body quivering at a cold that didn't exist.
Her breath was a furnace, blistering his skin. Her core screamed with such fire it had already stolen one of his eyes.
Yet she shivered.
Her lips mouthed silent vows. Her tail curled tightly around her leg.
He patted her. But his skinless fingers offered no comfort to her swollen cheek.
She moaned something, too quiet for him to register, a darkness clenching her fangs as he held her.
Who was he to take her with him? The endless pits were his prison, his punishment.
He hardened his fangs.
No. He couldn't stop. Not yet. Not for himself. Never for himself. Not while he held this debt, not while she breathed.
"Hang in there," he muttered.
He staggered. Torn boots scraped steel, his soles flaking like ash.
But he didn't fall.
He marched.
One step. Then another.
Each one shattering the wall between him and the others.
Breaking through the mist. Back to the living. Back to his curse.
Meanwhile, up ahead, Lucien and Rosa murmured, inspecting one of the corridor's direction plates.
"Engineering should've been behind us by now," Lucien said. "Are we sure this is the right axis?"
"Yes. I know where we are." Rosalind snapped.
Her glass tattoo flared red in the Fog-thick corridor. The hue of red mist oozing around her. She was surging Hemarite, he knew.
Addictive stuff.
Then, watching signs, he thought he caught something flicker. No sound. Just the rising static behind his eyes. In response, like an engine craving a spark, his muscles prepped for something unseen, his core stuttering to start up.
He didn't like this; he never liked that feeling.
The metal groaned, along with a woman's lips.
"Why is he still carrying her?" said a siren.
He tried to ignore it, tightening his grip on Lorelai and pretending the scaly woman didn't glare at him. But the slippery Rokgar only intensified her efforts, trying to block his path.
"Do you think you can ignore me?" Cassian snapped.
Her scales flared blue up her throat, her words thrumming with a rhythmic charge.
"Put her down," she ordered.
But Marshal's boot stepped forward, his eyes showing no intention of deviating.
Cass stared as he approached her, scales tensing as he met her gaze.
"Put her down," she ordered, her Neurite surge pulsing madly at his temple.
A useless endeavour, as his diamond skull blocked such attempts, his finger enough to pull out that tongue, choke her if he wished.
But during that moment, the only scent was his burning skin, the sound of fat and tissue bubbling under Lorelai's body. He allowed the rot to waft toward the woman, permitting her to watch as his bone melted. Give her a glimpse of his thirst. How easy it would be to crush her throat and end the sound.
"I—urm", Cassian stuttered.
"Move", he said.
Annoyingly he watched lips suck in a deep breath, her lungs chugging air for a scream.
He clicked his fangs. If she made a noise here, she'd bring down every daemon in earshot. He moved, but she moved faster. Cass—quicker than he would expect, fingers like duct tape slapped her sister's lips shut.
Cass, silent until now, disarmed her twin with a sigh and a hiss.
"Stop picking fights with an inquisitor," she muttered.
Marshal blinked. Inquisitor? When had they started calling him that? Sure, he was similar, one of Rosalind's prototypes, but he wasn't soulless.
His eyes met Cass's, her fangs snarling at him.
"Don't take this the wrong way," she said. "I still don't trust you."
Marshal almost smiled at that. This tiny woman, so delicate and snappable, threatened him. She had guts, he knew that at least. Guess Lorelai had something in common with this one.
But like a brick on a silent walk, a heel cracked against the steel. The broken shoe left a silver stain on the grated metal, and the second one flapped from Amara's fingers.
Cass huffed, more annoyed than concerned about what that clank might attract.
"We've been walking in circles. I thought you said you knew the way," Amara said, tossing her other shoe, showing no concern for the noise.
He did consider scolding the woman himself, but then again, out of things to fear, General Sylvain did make the best Daemon impression.
Rosalind stopped, Lucien's eyes telling Marshal all he needed to know. And maybe even the twins felt it as both took a not-so-subtle position behind his back.
Marshal's lips went dry.
And Rosalind turned, slow. Her voice was ice, her eyes steel.
"Say that again, you stupid cow."
Amara shrank, eyes darting, looking not at Rosalind but the hallway behind them.
But she found no refuge as Rosalind closed the gap, her fingers ready to slap or dismember. Marshal couldn't tell.
Rosalind hissed, her claw tensed to strike.
Then—
"She's not wrong," Marshal said.
Rosalind's neck cracked towards him, her fangs like a predator too gone to call his sister.
He stomached the idea.
"I didn't want to agree with her either." He said. "But something's off. We need to turn around."
She scoffed at that, "How would you know? All you've been doing is lagging behind."
"He's right," Cass said. She shivered. "I feel it too. Everything's… watching us."
Rosalind shot the siren a look, the scaly woman, clutching Marshal's jacket a bit more than she ought to.
Cassian laughed, "Wow, look at you, you're siding with him now? The one who bit Lorelai?"
Cass kept her glare at Rosalind, her green eyes dark. "Better than siding with your ego."
Rosalind laughed, her tail wagging at the situation.
"Feelings aren't facts." She said. "I've mapped this ship. Every floor, every turn."
She looked at Marshal dead in the eye.
"We both know how the dragon slayer got his title."
His grip slipped—not on Lorelai, but on himself. With a voice low and raw from the restrained desire to snap her neck, Marshal stepped forward.
"You think you understand them because you've studied corpses?" He growled, voice cracking, "Let's not forget what you did to Edric."
Rosalind screamed, "you know full well that was not my fault! And you of all people can't blame me for—"
Then a sound clicked, the hum of bolts unfastening.
Everyone turned—
Amara held a lever in her fingers, a red light flickering overhead. The hiss of decompression began, the airlock holding a dam of fogged fingers clawing at the glass.
The hallway warped. The sign above them blinked erratically—kitchen, barracks, cargo, exit.
The door unlocked with a shudder. Voidium, hands, fingers, legs, fangs, faces, Daemons crept around the metal. The slow creak letting in the void itself. The endless mist eating glass screws and voices.
Rosalind pressed her palm over Marshal's heart, her claw quivering.
"…Run." She said.
Marshal didn't wait for the order—he lunged forward and shoved Cass and Cassian ahead of him.
Behind, Lorelai jerked violently in his arms—her body burning, convulsing, her skin flaring steam. Her lips moved again. No sound. Just the shape of a name—over and over. Not his.
Her eyes twitched. Like she watched him, staring through her eyelids.
He gripped her tighter, boot hammering steel, eyes forward, only forward. Rosalind sprinted beside him. Lucien flanked the other side—three Archdemons, running from Daemons.
"I need the Dragon Slayer." Marshal whispered, "Shadow, wake up already."