Bone dust clung to everything. It sifted down from the cavern ceiling in pale, dry flakes, coating the tunnels, the tools, the skin of the men and women who labored here until they all looked like the ghosts of themselves. It filled Kael's lungs with every breath, rough and gritty, a reminder that he lived in the hollow remains of something far greater — the ribcage of a god-beast whose name had been lost to time.
The marrow-lamps flickered along the walls, each one a glass bulb filled with thick, glowing ichor tapped from deep inside the rib itself. Their light bled across the jagged surfaces of bone, casting long shadows over the workers hunched at the base of the colossal curve. The air reeked of iron and damp decay. Somewhere far above, drops of condensed water fell in slow, hollow plinks, vanishing into the cracks.
Kael worked with his head down, chisel and mallet in hand, chipping at the inner curve of the rib. The marrow here was old and dry — useless for cultivation, but still worth something if boiled into broth. Every strike of his chisel sent up a little cloud of dust that settled into his dark hair. His hands were raw and blistered, his arms aching, but he kept his rhythm steady. Speed invited mistakes, and mistakes invited attention. He wanted neither.
"Hoy, Bone Rat," a voice called from behind him.
Kael didn't turn immediately. Bone Rat — the lowest caste in Hollow Fang Clan, a name spat at scavengers like him. He kept chipping until the marrow wedge broke loose, then turned, wiping dust from his face.
A marrow-broker stood there, heavyset, his cheeks sagging around a broad mouth. Jarn. A petty trader who bought marrow scraps cheap and sold them dear. His eyes scanned Kael's pile, lips curling.
"That all you've got?"
Kael leaned on his chisel. "Old bone, Jarn. You know it's half-rotten down here."
Jarn grunted. "Half-rotten still boils." He stooped, picking up a fragment. "I'll give you a quarter-ration for the lot."
Kael gave him a flat look. "That's robbery."
"That's charity."
Kael's gaze dropped to Jarn's marrow-sack. A faint, slow drip was running down the side — a pinhole leak near the stitching. If the ichor inside spilled, Jarn's profits would be ruined before he reached the clan kitchens.
Kael let his eyes flick to it, then back to Jarn. "Quarter-ration… and the sack tears before you get home. Half-ration, and I show you where."
Jarn's face froze. He glanced down, saw the leak, and cursed. His eyes narrowed at Kael. "You're a mouthy rat."
Kael shrugged. "Mouthy rats live longer."
A tense moment hung between them before Jarn huffed and tossed a small pouch of marrow coins into Kael's hand. "Half-ration. Now get back to scraping before I change my mind."
Kael caught it without a word and slipped it into his tunic. He returned to his work, but his ears stayed open. The Bone Caverns were full of whispers, and the wrong one could kill you faster than hunger.
By midday, his arms ached like they were filled with molten lead. He set his tools down and made his way toward the central cavern, where the clan's more talented cultivators trained. The air there was warmer, the light brighter from larger marrow-lamps. Two young men in bone armor were sparring in the ring — both in the Bone Condensation stage, the first true step on the cultivation path.
Their movements were slow compared to the lightning speed of the figures in his imagination, but to Kael, they were poetry. Every shift of weight, every twist of the wrist, every pivot on the bone floor — he drank it in, committing it to memory. Someday, when his hands were not empty, he would move like that.
"Watching the clouds again, boy?"
Kael glanced sideways. Old Man Griv leaned against a pillar, a wineskin dangling from one gnarled hand. His beard was patchy, his eyes bloodshot, but somewhere under the stink of stale drink was a man who had once known power.
"I'm watching their feet," Kael said.
Griv grinned through broken teeth. "Better than watching their swords. Feet tell the truth." He took a long pull from the skin, then lowered his voice. "Bone Condensation's just the bottom rung, you know. Beyond marrow and organs, there's the Void Sense, the Cosmic Predator… and further still. Higher than the priests will ever tell you."
Kael's brow furrowed. "How high?"
Griv's grin widened, but he didn't answer. He just laughed, a rough, broken sound, and wandered off into the shadows.
The ring cleared. Kael was about to move on when the crowd parted for someone he knew all too well.
Tyrak Hollowclaw. The young master of the clan, draped in bone-lacquered armor, a predator's smile on his lips. His hair was black as wet ink, his eyes sharp and cold. Two guards followed him, their bone blades resting casually at their hips.
"Well, if it isn't the marrowless wonder," Tyrak said loudly enough for the cavern to hear. "Still scraping bones like a rat?"
Kael said nothing. The crowd's eyes were on him, waiting for a reaction. Tyrak stepped closer, the smile never leaving his face.
"Tell me, Kael — when you sleep at night, do you dream of marrow? Or do you just dream of gnawing on scraps like a dog?"
The guards chuckled. Kael kept his eyes low, but inside, something cold coiled tighter.
Tyrak's hand shot out, shoving him hard. Kael staggered, caught himself, and straightened without a word.
The smile faltered for just a heartbeat. Tyrak leaned in, his voice low. "You'd better keep your head down, rat. You never know when the tunnels might… collapse."
He left without looking back, his guards following.
That night, Kael returned to his sleeping niche — a shallow cut in the bone wall, barely big enough to lie down. The marrow-broth he'd bought with Jarn's coins was lukewarm and thin, but it filled his stomach enough to dull the ache.
He was drifting toward sleep when a scream tore through the tunnels.
He bolted upright. Voices shouted in the distance. He followed the echoes, weaving through narrow passages until he reached the source — a small crowd huddled around a figure sprawled on the floor.
The body was fresh. Chest ripped open, ribs snapped, blood pooling dark on the bone floor. The smell was sharp, metallic, and heavy in the air.
Tyrak was there, crouched beside the corpse. His gaze lifted, found Kael, and in that instant, Kael knew.
"It was him!" Tyrak's voice rang with outrage, carrying over the crowd. "I saw him near the tunnels earlier! The marrowless rat's been feeding on our own!"
The crowd murmured, some recoiling, others glaring.
Two Beast Priests stepped forward, their bone masks gleaming in the marrow-light. Their robes were white, stained faintly pink from old blood.
"Is this true?" one asked, his voice a low growl.
Kael's mouth opened, but before he could speak, Tyrak stepped forward, lifting the corpse's arm to reveal deep bite marks in the flesh.
The priest's eyes hardened behind his mask. "Blasphemy," he said. "To consume the flesh of your kin is to profane the Sky Beast itself."
"That's not—" Kael began, but rough hands seized his arms.
"Enough," the second priest hissed. "The marrowless are a burden. Cast him into the Depths."
The Depths. The words were a death sentence. No one sent there returned.
Chains bit into his wrists as they dragged him away, the crowd parting without pity. The tunnels narrowed, the air growing colder, damper. The marrow-lamps thinned, their glow swallowed by shadow.
Somewhere in that darkness, deep in the marrow of the dead god-beast, something shifted. Watching. Waiting.