Chapter 18 - The Chains That Bind pt 1

Salt-heavy air thickens as the rowboat scrapes onto the shore, its prow slicing through sand already half-swallowed by mist. The silence here isn't just an absence of sound; it has a weight, as if every breath risks stirring something better left forgotten. Each oar creaks, echoing in a hush that refuses to die, and the fog presses down, cold and damp, swallowing the world a dozen steps from the waterline.

Thalro jumps out first, boots crunching on pebbles and bone-white driftwood tangled in the sand. He steadies the boat and offers his hand. Naomi hesitates, staring at the pale beach. Her breath comes in short bursts, the cold burning her lungs as she rises shakily, sliding her palm into his. The moment her foot touches the ground, a sensation claws at her chest; tight and unfamiliar, as though a leash is drawing tight around her heart. She flinches and swallows, forcing herself upright.

No birds call here. The wind has teeth, dragging wisps of fog in ragged sheets across the ruined coastline. Half-sunken pillars jut from the sand, each marked by spirals and glyphs eroded into the ghostly suggestion. Above the remains, a tangled treeline broods. Blackened trunks rise from the fog, twisting into one another, their limbs scorched and gnarled, bark split and oozing dark sap. Vines choke what's left of the ruins, winding over toppled arch archways and shattered steps, binding everything in a slow, strangling embrace. High in the canopy, broken statues stare sightlessly into the gloom, their faces eroded to hollow masks; no eyes, just empty sockets watching nothing.

Jareth's broad figure moves up the shore ahead, a silent, hulking shadow with the sword strapped across his back and the battered coat swallowing most of his frame. He doesn't turn, doesn't pause, simply trudges onward as if daring the darkness to move first. Around him, the rest of the crew drifts up from the surf, each man clutching their weapons tight, eyes wide, nerves stripped raw by the unnatural stillness. Every step draws a chorus of muffled curses and sharp, nervous glances. Boots sink into sand that clings wetly, refusing to let go.

The deeper they move from the shoreline, the heavier the air becomes, thick with rot and the bitter tang of old magic. The ground grows uneven, pocked with the remnants of ancient pathways buried beneath leaves and bone-dry branches. Along with one-half collapsed wall, moss glows faintly in the murk, pulsing with green light that flickers with every brush of mist. Above it all, the sky had disappeared; there is only a ceiling of grey cloud pressed low, turning the whole island into a tomb.

Shadows crowd the ruins. Skeletal hands stretch from the dirt, knuckles arched, grasping for purchase that will never come. Ribcages lie twisted, poking from the roots of ancient trees, every bone picked clean by centuries of rain and time. Here and there, scraps of armour and rusted swords stick up at odd angles, abandoned by men who died so long ago that even their ghosts seem tired. The wind shifts, and the trees creak in complaint—a noise that almost sounds like a human moan. Naomi freezes, her heart battering against her ribs. She swears she can feel eyes on her, countless and unseen, pressing in from every side.

She walks with the crew; the mist rising around their knees like hands. Thalro keeps a step ahead, shoulders hunched, the gleam of fear in his eyes visible even in the gloom. The ruins thicken as they move inland, the remains of a wide stone plaza opening beneath their boots. An altar sits at the far end, barely visible under a carpet of leaves and moss. Broken statues kneel, their heads bowed in eternal supplication, their backs hunched as though crushed by the weight of endless sorrow.

To the tight, what must have once been a great hall slumps in upon itself, its arches caved and split. A dark well stands at the centre, waterless and choked with brambles, the stones slick with mould. Faded carvings ring the edge of the well; scenes of battle, feasts, and mourning. Their faces etched in the stone are all twisted, their mouths open in silent screams, their eyes gouged out.

All along the treeline, the forest presses close. The trees themselves seem to lean in, roots lifting from the earth as if straining for freedom, their branches tangled like the fingers of the dead. Mist moves between them in thick, restless curls, swirling around the ground and hiding everything beyond arm's reach. Every so often, a shape passes through the fog: a figure, indistinct, neither wholly real nor entirely shadow. Some vanish before the mind can settle on what they were. Others linger on the edge of the vision, moving just enough to suggest they're watching.

Jareth's voice breaks the hush, a gravel scrape low and quiet, meant for the crew but echoing across the clearing. "Stay sharp. I want eyes open. No one strays." He glances over his shoulder, eyes narrowed, jaw set hard. "We don't turn our backs. Not here."

A crewman to the left—Fenn, one of the younger ones—trips over something buried in the dirt. He stumbles, curses, and freezes as he sees what caught his foot: a half-buried jawbone, teeth still clenched tight around a rotten scrap of leather. His eyes widen, lips pulled into a thin line as he steps away, boot shaking. Another sailor edges past, skirting past a skeleton draped over a crumbling altar, ribs gaping open and fingers curled in a claw around a blade rusted nearly to dust.

Beneath the weight of the mist, even the air feels haunted. There's a strange hum, low and persistent, that creeps beneath the skin and burrows into the skull. It isn't quite sound, but more of the suggestion of voices: sighs, faint laughter, echo of tears. Sometimes, Naomi swears she catches a word or phrase drifting out of the gloom in a dialect that chills her to the marrow. She glances at Jareth, but his eyes are fixed forward, his jaw grinding, as if he feels it too but refuses to let it show.

A narrow pathway cuts through the rubble, veering toward the heart of the island. Along its edge, stone tiles break through the earth, their patterns fractured by time. Each step further presses down on Naomi, the sensation around her chest tightening, prickling down her spine with every heartbeat. In the spaces between the ruins, half-seen shapes drift; faces stretched long with grief, eyes hollow, skin translucent and barely there.

Ghosts. She's seeing ghosts.

One stands close to the path, a woman wrapped in the tattered remnants of the gown, her hands clasped as if in prayer, mouth stretched wide in a scream Naomi can't hear. Behind her, a pair of spectral children dart through the mist, giggling as they loop around a shattered column, their laughter sharp and brittle as glass. They vanish the moment she blinks, gone like candlelight in a draft.

Ahead, the forest parts around a great tree blackened by fire, roots sprawled wide and greedy across the stones. Even from here, it radiates something foul; Naomi's heart pounds, and she looks away, fighting the urge to run. The ground beneath the tree is bare of life. Nothing grows, and the bones are thickest there, piled high, their surfaces scraped smooth by wind or claw.

Naomi shivers, the cold biting through her coat and sinking deep into her bones. Thalro's hand brushes her shoulder gently, but she flinches all the same. He doesn't comment, just grips his sword tighter, the white of his knuckles shining in the gloom.

Decay grips the land with a tenacity that feels personal. Every sense rebels against the cold, metallic stink drifting off the bones and broken stones. Overhead, a crow erupts from the altar, wings a black blur, voice scraping the silence with a hollow caw before the fog swallows it whole. The noise shivers through Naomi, snapping her back to the present. Her breath hangs pale in the air, lungs squeezed tight, every exhale a struggle.

A voice cuts through the gloom; rough around the edges, quiet but edged with a captain's unyielding command. "Lass, that the tree you're after?" Jareth stands a pace behind, his bulk casting a warped shadow against the ruined stones. His eyes flick from the tree's silhouette to Naomi's face, searching for something more solid in the half-light.

A thick, tangled root splits the ground before her boots. The tree stands crooked, its trunk split and blackened, limbs gnarled, hunched in silent witness. Whatever this is, it radiates a presence; heaven, dense, and almost suffocating. Naomi steps closer, boots squelching through sodden leaves and old blood that stains the earth a dark, persistent red. Her hand lifts as if to touch, but she stops herself, curling her fingers into her palm.

A tight, rasping sound escapes her. "No. This isn't it." She forces her voice is work, the words tumbling out with effort. "The Oath tree… isn't here." Her lungs ache. Each breath seems to claw deeper, as if the air itself is laced with dust and secrets. "B… but look at the roots, how they're all spread out… see the marks on the bark? This a Spirt Tree." She stares at the twisting trunk, eyes wide and glassy.

Jareth doesn't move, but something in his posture shifts. He keeps his distance, just far enough to shield her from the prying eyes of the crew. Years on the sea have taught him to read a storm in the making, and there's one gathering now in Naomi's silence. The air is colder around her, charged with tension he can't shake.

The others linger near the broken columns, nervous, watching the exchange out of the corner of their eyes. Borin mutters a word under his breath, drawing a rune in the dirt with the butt of his axe, his superstitions on high alert.

For a moment, Naomi seems caught between worlds. Her wings twitch restlessly, the rough bandage shifting across the battered veins. She presses her hands to her face, scrubbing at the clammy sweat, but the cold clings to her skin. A slow, dragging shudder passes through her as she tries to steady herself.

"I read about these when I was little." Her voice wavers, pitched low to keep the tremor hidden. "Spirit Trees. The old texts called them Veyrathil." She circles the trunk, her fingers almost trailing along the deep split in the bark, "There are stories… some say they were born from the tears of the gods; when the first mortals died, the gods wept, and where their tears fell, these trees took root." The story lingers on her lips. A childhood memory filtered through the terror of now.

She glances back at Jareth, searching for his reaction, but he's stone-faced, arms crossed over his chest, every muscle locked down. The captain in him stays vigilant, eyes never still.

"Spirit Trees… grow in places where… emotion clings. Joy, grief. Sometimes, both. Villages, battlefields, graveyards. I wouldn't call them rare, but you don't find two in every forest either." Her gaze sharpens as she studies the base of the trunk: deep groves, worn by centuries of touch and torment, spiral out from the roots. Something ancient sits in the silence between her words.

Jareth grunts. "Sounds like trouble. You sayin' this thing's dangerous?" His voice is rougher now, not loud, but hard enough to carry to Borin and the others. He angles himself so the crew can see his expression, even as he keeps Naomi in his periphery.

She hesitates, breath shaking. "They're… not dangerous by themselves. Not unless the land is." The explanation tastes like ash. "Spirit Trees drink in memories. All of them. Good or bad. When the place is peaceful, the tree is gentle. People leave offerings. Sometimes you hear laughter or music, even in the quiet. But if there's too much pain, too much death, the tree… changes." Naomi's eyes drift to a cluster of bones tangled at the roots.

The mist gathers, thicker now, swirling around her boots and legs, trying to pull her in. Her heart kicks up, frantic. It's hard to tell if the tightness in her chest is fear or something more, like a deeper force pressing against her soul, demanding she listen.

She drags a ragged breath, fighting the urge to run. "If enough grief settles in the wood, the tree becomes… wrong. It traps the pain. Sometimes it traps the dead. She looks up, following the warped branches overhead, each drooping against an invisible weight. "You feel it when you get close. That heaviness… it isn't the wind." Her voice barely rises above a whisper, but the words stick to the ruined air.

Jareth shifts, boots grinding on loose stone. He doesn't argue, doesn't mock. Instead, he turns back toward the crew, jaw set, gaze flicking over each face. There's a message in the glance: stay back, don't ask questions. He means to hold the line if anything comes crawling out of the dark.

A shudder runs through Naomi. Sweat beads along her brow despite the chill. The pull toward the tree grows stronger, each heartbeat like a drum calling her forward. She forces herself to stop, boots planted firm, wings pressed flat against her back. She wraps her arms around herself, swallowing the cold that builds in her throat.

"I'm not sure what happened here," she admits, her eyes on the blackened bark, "but the tree remembers. It remembers everything." Her voice drops, thick with something close to awe and fear.

A sharp gust rattles the leaves overhead, sending a rain of ash and dust to the ground. The light fades, colours draining from the world. Only the whisper of memories lingers, cold and insistent, pressing in with the promise that nothing on this island is truly dead.

A hush settles across the clearing, thick as old velvet, swallowing the last scraps of sunlight that filter through the ragged trees. Nothing stirs but the slow, hesitant breath that slips from Naomi's lips. Jareth sees it; sees the tension run through her spine, the way her wings shiver by an icy wind only she can feel. Her whole body pulls forward, drawn to the ancient, blackened trunk. He tries calling her name, voice hoarse but steady, the captain's grit cutting through the unease. "Naomi—hey, look at me. Lass, you hearin' me?"

She stands before the Spirit Tree, boots buried in a carpet of ash and bone. Her head tips, gaze hollow and far away. To others, she looks lost. But inside, it's as if her senses have sharpened to razors. The world collapses inward. In the silence, she hears them. The voices start as whispers, a thrum below the wind: the screams of the dying, the endless, wordless begging of the forgotten. The air thickens with grief. Faces—half-formed, mouths wide in terror—flash in the blackened back. Her hands curl at her sides. Something deeper calls to her, gentle at first, then insistent; a longing in the marrow. For the first time since stepping onto cursed soil, her panic fades. Calm slides into her chest, cold and soothing. The tree wants her touch.

The dead want her to listen.

A trembling hand rises, palm outstretched. Her body moves like it belongs to someone else, slow, and dreamlike. Mist curls at her ankles. Vines coil up her boots, slick and cold, tightening with every heartbeat. The crew shuffles in the ruins, their voices lost to the hush. Jareth calls her again, voice sharper, slicing through the growing dread. "Naomi! Enough of this! Don't—"

Something unseen slams into him: a wall of force, thick as stone, pushing him back. He grits his teeth and shoves forward, but the harder he tries, the colder the air becomes. It's like fighting a storm at sea; Naomi's magic, or something using her magic, is holding him at bay. He snarls, anger boiling up, boots gouging tracks in the earth as he forces his way, inch by stubborn ich, toward her.

At the tree's base, Naomi's fingers brush the mark. The moment skin meets wood, she convulses. Her body seizes, legs locking and wings snapping open, iridescent mauve and indigo catching what little light remains. The trembling spreads; her knees buckle, but the vines keep her upright, weaving around her calves, tightening until her breath hitches in pain. Her lips part, a strangled gasp tearing from her chest. The clearing feels with a sudden, bone-deep cold, a sharpness that bites to the core.

Her eyes snap wide. The colour bleeds away, leaving only white; two blank, shining mirrors staring at nothing. All around her, the world drops away. She's falling—tumbling backward through memory and time. Chaos explodes in her mind: screams tearing at her ears, the flash of flames, the roar of water and breaking stone. Shadows run wild through the ruins; the cries of the dying drown out her own thoughts.

It isn't just death she sees. Fragments come in violent succession; blades clashing, banners burning, hands outstretched in mercy that is never granted. A goddess' face flickers through the storm, her mouth open in betrayal, her body shuddering as spills bright and terrible onto the roots below. The shock of it drives Naomi back, deeper into the vision. A god stands over the body, hands slick with blood. Another, darker god, stands at the edge, daring the rest to challenge him. Rage and grief ripple through the world, a sentence delivered by those who still stand, their power rising like a tide.

She chokes. The taste of iron fills her mouth. Pain pulses down her arms as the veins surge higher, circling her wrists, drawing her forward. The tree itself shudders, bark splitting as if to swallow her whole. Her wings beat frantically, veins lighting up in sickly white, the membrane stretched tight as parchment. A cry breaks out from her lips—part hers, part something else—an ancient sorrow echoing over the clearing. The blood from the vision runs hot and real, seeping into the earth at her feet. A single tear falls from a face she can't see, and wherever it lands, the roots blacken, twisting deeper, searching for an end to the pain.

Jareth finally breaks through the barrier, sheer brute strength dragging him step by step into the thick of the curse. He grabs Naomi by the shoulders, voice ragged, torn from his throat. "Naomi! Come back! Lass, come on, dammit—" His hands close around her arms, the magic burning his skin like frostbite, but he refuses to go. Borin yells something behind him, the Bramling's voice sharp and afraid, but it's lost to the ringing silence.

She turns her head, face contorted in something not quite human. Her eyes blaze white, rimmed in unnatural pink. The lips move, but the voice that spills out isn't hers. It carries a weight, old and commanding, a sorrow that chills the marrow. "You shouldn't have come here." The words tumble from her throat, raw, in a timbre that shakes the very roots of the earth. For a heartbeat, the mist recoils, the trees bowing low as if in awe or terror.

The Spirit Tree pulses. Power explodes outward, tossing Naomi back with a force that rips the vines from her limbs. She slams into Jareth, knocking them both to the ground. Her wings snap shut, the battered edges curling around her as if to shield her from the world. Her breath comes in broken sobs, eyes rolling back as the colour floods back into her gaze in a violent hush.

Jareth stares, stunned, holding her tight against his chest. The clearing is deadly quiet again, the air hanging heavy with everything unspoken. Borin and the crew gather at the edge, no one daring to speak first. Nothing around them moves. The Spirit Trees stands in the gloom, bleeding sap and shadow, its grief twisting up into the sky.

A ragged breath escapes as Jareth brushes the hair back from Naomi's brow, thumb moving carefully. Her eyes, when they flicker open, are pure mauve; clear and bright as he remembers. The relief that floods him is fierce, steadying his hands as he shifts upright in the churned earth, with Naomi cradled against his chest. The clearing feels colder now, the aftermath of magic clinging like a second skin. Mist drags low around their knees, and every ruined shadow seems to lean a little closer.

Naomi stirs weakly, her hand twitching at the bandaged wing. The sight of it—limp, the gauze already stained deeper with red—makes his jaw tighten. He should've made her stay on the ship. He should've known better than to let her near anything cursed, no matter how gentle her voice. Wren's warnings echo in his mind, sharp and certain: no flying, no strain, let the veins knit or risk losing flight forever.

All around the crew stands in uneasy clusters. Borin stands apart, old eyes calm but mouth drawing a thin, warning line. The rest of the lads watch with wide-eyed wariness. Fenn, who's barely grown, has the guts—or maybe the foolishness—to step forward. "Is she… is she alright, Cap?" His voice wobbles. "Should we—should you let her go? Or…?"

The others murmur, glances darting between Jareth and the bundle in his arms. No one's seen him hold anything this close, not a bottle, not a blade, not even a wounded mate dragged back from a fight. The quiet suspicion runs deeper than the fear. Jareth fixes Fenn with a glare sharp enough to gut a shark. "You got a problem, Fenn?" His voice is all gravel, the edge of command cracking through the hunted hush. "Anyone else wanna ask why I'm holdin' her, speak up now." The words bite, and every man on the crew takes a step back, none eager to meet his eyes.

Jareth stands slowly, careful not to jar his wing, every movement deliberate. He keeps Naomi close, her head resting just beneath his chin, one hand braced at the small of her back. The tension in his shoulders say he'll clear her to the sea if he has to, and gods help anyone who tries to stop him. "She needs time, not bloody questions," he growls, pacing slow circle so he can face every man. "You see what that tree did? You think any of you could've taken it better?" He spits on the roots for emphasis. "Keep your eyes forward and your mouths shut."

A faint whimper stirs against and his collar, and Naomi shifts, gaze pleading. The question plain: Can I stand? Can I walk? The answer is a shake of his head, firm but gentle. "Rest, lass. Ain't no sense in fallin' twice in one day." The hand at her shoulder presses softly, anchoring her in the present.

Borin takes a step, voice low but carrying. "Let's move, lads. No use standin' 'round like we're waitin' for the dead ta rise." He signals for the crew to keep well away from the spirit tree and its hungry shadow. The old Bramling gives Jareth a look, half worry, half respect, but doesn't press. He knows a captain's limits. He knows this one better than most.

The march away from the tree is silent but tense, boots crunching through debris, eyes flicking to every flicker of movement in the mist. Naomi's breathing evens out, but every so often she shivers, wings twitching in reflex; the pain is etched deep across her face. She's quiet, but her grip on his coat stays fierce, a silent plea not to be left behind. Jareth keeps her close, his voice rising every so often, barking orders or threats at any shadow that creeps too close.

Boots crunch through the grey undergrowth, every step away from the Spirit Tree drawing out the tension but never quite cutting it loose. Borin's small, sturdy form matches Jareth's longer stride, the old Bramling's axe propped against his shoulder as he studies the girl bundled in the captain's arms. Naomi's eyes are half-lidded, lips parted in a silent, shuddering breath. Her wings hang slack, darkening the bandage with fresh blood.

"Ye sure this Hearthstone's worth all this, laddie?" Borin's tone carries the weight of too many years and too many lost causes. "Lassie's magic almost killed her, looks like." His gaze flicks up, concern plain beneath the heavy brow.

Jareth shifts Naomi's weight, careful not to jar her wing. "Her magic?" He spits the words as if they taste wrong. "Felt like the tree was the one wringin' her dry. That thing wanted a price, Borin. More'n I bargained for." His blue eyes scan the ruins behind, suspicion alive in the set of his jaw. "You ever see fae magic do that?"

Borin's answer comes slow, full of history. "Aye, and worse. Nature sprites—aye, don't scowl at me, boy, that's what she is—are more tangled up with the earth than ye'd know. Not like yer hedge witches or water-dippers. It's in their blood, in the bones. Old world called 'em kin ta the stones and the sap." He walks a little closer, lowering his voice. "If the land's poisoned, or hungry, it'll find them first. I've seen it. Drove a friend half-mad, once, back in me green days."

The nickname stirs a fresh frown from Jareth. "Quit callin' her that, Borin. She's not some bloody sprite." Words snap out, sharper than he means. Something inside him bristles at the title, and he can't quite say why. "Name's Naomi. She's crew." The correction lingers, and Borin's only answer is a sly grin, the kind that says he's noticed more than Jareth wants to admit.

A breeze rattles the dead branches overhead, scattering dust across the path. Borin glances at the limp wings, the flush in Naomi's cheeks, and shakes his head.

Y'know, there's stories among Bramlings and the old fae. Says the land gives 'em gifts, but it takes too. Dryads don't feel it the same, not so deep. Nature fae—sprites, if ye like—carry the land with 'em. Ye saw what that tree did. Used her like a vein for memory and magic, drew the grief straight out of the ground and poured it through her. Few would survive it. Fewer still would want ta."

Jareth looks down at Naomi, worry flickering just behind his eyes. "If the land's poisoned, how long she got?" His voice is low, rough, meant only for Borin's ears. "She needs to be on her feet. We're not leavin' this island without that Ember Wyrm Heartstone. Crew'll freeze before we hit the deep water if we don't find it."

The Bramling gives a soft grunt, eyeing the blackened trunks and the restless way Naomi shivers in his hold. "Not long, if the poison's in deep. But she's strong… stubborn, too, like someone else I know." He spares Jareth a pointed look. "Get her away from these roots, back ta clean ground. Rest, water, sunlight, and she might just make up with her mind still her own."

A rough snort escapes the captain, half relief, half frustration. "Good. Not lettin' some haunted grove take what's mine." He glances ahead, the muscles in his arms tensing as he carries Naomi further from the ruins. "And Borin, if you ever call her sprite again, I'll toss your axe in the sea." There's no real heat behind it, just an edge of irritation he can't quite shake.

The old captain's grin widens, white teeth flashing beneath the bristled beard. "Aye, aye, Cap'n. Naomi it is. Never could argue with a man carryin' a fae in his arms." He swings the axe in a lazy arc, clearing the worst of the brambles. "Ye keep walkin'. I'll make sure nothin' follows."

Mist thickens at the edges of the path, curling around Jareth's boots, hiding the broken stones and the hungry gaze of the spirit tree behind them. With every step away from the roots, the cold seems to ease, just a little. Naomi's breath steadies even more, colour returning to her cheeks, though her eyes stay closed.

Roots curl beneath a drifting veil of fog, twisting through shattered stones and patches of ash-black grass. Jareth trudges onward, boots squelching in the loam, Naomi heavy in his arms. Every step feels like a curse; each tangle of branches feels like another maze set by a spiteful god. The trees all look the same, half-dead and looming, their bare limbs rattling together as if to mock him. "Bloody twigs. Bloody trees. Even dead, they never know when to stay out of the way. Why is it always a damned forest and not an open field?" he grumbles, glaring down at the roots in his path.

A soft giggle trembles against his sleeve, so faint he almost misses it. Naomi's voices catches and hiccups, breath fluttering in the space between exhaustion and amusement. The sound steals his irritation for a heartbeat. Her braids, dark and heavy, dangle over his forearm, and the tips of her battered wings shiver in the cold. Jareth stiffens, trying to hide the way her laughter under his guard. He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders, muttering, "You can laugh, but one of these days I'm leavin' you with the trees." His tone is gruff, but the words land softer than he means. She shifts, breath coming easier, and her smile is the only colour in the world of grey.

They don't get far before Borin's hand shoots out, yanking Jareth back so hard he nearly stumbles, boots skidding on moss-slick stone. Naomi gives a startled gasp, clutching tighter on his sleeve, her eyes glassy with fever. Jareth regains his balance with a curse. "What in the bloody waters was that for?" The look he shoots Borin is sharp enough to split wood, but the Bramling only points toward a patch of ground where the mist thins and the earth glows faintly.

A ring of pale mushrooms crowns the ground in a perfect circle, their caps dusted with silvery speckles that catch the light even in the gloom. Inside the ring, the grass grows impossibly green, untouched by the rot or the blight choking the rest of the forest. The air within the circle is so clear that every blade of grass is sharp as a blade, their shapes flickering in and out of sight as if unwilling to let any mortal gaze settle too long. The mist flows right up to the edge and then stops, repelled by some force older than memory. In the hush, even the ruined woods seem to hold their breath.

Borin lifts his axe, squinting at the Illyrasel with a wariness that speaks of stories half-remembered and warnings learned at a grandmother's knee. "That's a faerie ring if I ever saw one," he mutters, voice low, "and a nasty one at that. Non-fae who step inside tend ta vanish…. Poof. Or worse. Nobody knows what happens then. All the old tales say ye never come back." He glances up at Jareth, eyes narrowing with warnings. "Stay out of it. Just in case."

Jareth looks down at the circle, his face drawn and sceptical, but not dismissive. "Disappearin', eh? Sounds like superstition, Borin. You ever see it happen?" There's a challenge buried in his voice, but uncertainty lingers beneath it. He shifts Naomi in his arms, keeping her well clear of the glowing grass.

Before Borin can answer, a familiar voice cuts through the fog. "With respect, Borin, that's nonsense." Thorn steps out from behind a blasted oak, his stride light and sure even as he skirts the faerie ring. His pale, ashen hair is damp with mist, and his clever eyes glitter with a kind of confidence that borders on mischief. He studies the circle with the ease of someone who's seen plenty, then shakes his head. "Nobody disappears unless they're meant to. Illyrasel don't just gobble people up for fun. If anything, it's the safest spot on the island right now; old magic, older than half the gods left walking. Nothing bad gets in. Not curse, not spirit, not even the poison that's crawling through Naomi."

Borin's jaw drops a little, surprise flashing across his round face. He sizes Thorn up, squinting. "And how would you know, boy? You're not a full Sylvani. Not one of those stone-blooded Sylvani either. You're just a Rukali, all grit and pebbles, not leaf and breeze. What makes you the expert?" The suspicion in his tone is thick, and he leans on his axe like he's settling in for a story he doesn't expect to believe.

Thorn looks at Borin for a moment, struggling not to let his annoyance show. His mouth presses into a thin line as he fights the urge to roll his eyes. "You ever listen to a word that isn't your own?" he replies, patient but sharp. "Just because I'm a stone Faerie doesn't mean I was born under a rock. The Illyrasel is for fae, and all fae know it—doesn't matter if you're made of stone, root, or wildflower. Every village, every clan, everyone learns to respect these rings. Maybe you forgot, Borin, but the rest of us remember. I grew up hearing the stories. If you want her to heal, you let her rest in the ring. If you want her to rot, keep walking."

Jareth glances between them, irritation clear as thunder on his brow. "And what do you think my arms aren't good enough?" His voice is rough with pride, defensive without meaning to be. "You sayin' I can't keep her safe?"

Thorn doesn't back down. He steps to the edge of the ring, folding his arms. "You're strong, Captain, but not strong enough to fight what's crawlin' through her veins. This land wants to eat her alive, and it'll find a way unless you give her to the old magic. My arms can't fix it either, but the Illyrasel can. That's what it's for."

Borin grunts, shifting his weight. "I still say these things are more trouble than they're worth. Ye sure the ring won't swallow her too?"

Thorn's look turns serious. "If the land is what's poisoning her, this is the only chance she has. The Illyrasel isn't a trap. The worst it'll do is keep her until she's mended, or until the magic runs out. She'll be safer in there than anywhere else."

For a moment, no one moves. Naomi stirs weakly, the barest sound escaping her lips. Her face is slick with fever sweat, and the bandaged wing hangs twisted, useless, across her back. Jareth hesitates, the fight draining out of him as he looks from her pain to the shining ring of grass. He shifts her carefully, holding her close for a moment longer. "You better be right, Thorn. If anything happens to her, you answer to me."

With slow, careful steps, Jareth kneels beside the ring and lowers Naomi into the heart of the Illyrasel. Her hair falls over his wrist, the two front braids tailing across the glowing moss. The air inside the ring shimmers, as if it's alive, as her wings unfurl in a faint, trembling arc. The light from the mushroom pulses, and the mist retreats, drawing away from the circle's edge as if in respect. Naomi sighs, her breath growing deeper, the tension in her small frame slowly easing.

Thorn kneels nearby, watching her with steady attention. "She'll mend, Captain. She just needs time. The Illyrasel does the rest." He glances at Borin, who still stands on guard with his axe, uncertain but unwilling to break the circle's trust.

Jareth stays close, hand resting protectively near Naomi's shoulder, the lines of worry on his face finally easing. The woods hush, holding the moment in a silence that feels older than grief.

Jareth stands in the shadow of the faerie circle, boots planted wide in the half-lit gloom. His gaze lingers on Naomi for a heartbeat longer, still cradled in the delicate shelter of the Illyrasel, her hair wild around her face, the bruised shimmer of her wings blending with the mist. He wants to order someone to stay with her, but the land is far too dangerous for his crew to be stretched thin. Reluctantly, he grinds out a sigh and shifts his focus to the men clustered behind him.

He sizes up the group, picking out a figure standing apart from the rest. "Morveth." The name comes out sharp, demanding attention. "You're Ember-blooded, aren't you? That right? You got any sense where a Wyrm might have holed up on this gods-forsaken island?"

Morveth looks up, caught between surprise and discomfort at the sudden attention. He's tall for a Wyvern, build lean and long-limbed, the lines of his body too sharp for human comfort. The first thing anyone notices is his hair: a riot of red so vivid it almost glows in the gloom, wild and unbound, catching the sparse light in coppery ribbons. His skin is a warm bronze, unmarked by scales in his humanoid form, but with a lustrous finish that hints at something not quite natural. His jaw is strong, his mouth quick to a smile, but today the curve of his lips is tight with nerves. His eyes, normal at first, hold a gleam of gold near the pupil, a telltale spark that flickers whenever he blinks.

Morveth clears his throat, unsure for a moment, but then steadies himself. "Aye, Captain. Ember through 'n through, though you won't catch me showin' off on a day like this." His gaze drifts to the broken columns and scorched trees, wary of what lies hidden. "If there was a Wyrm here, a real one, it would have gone deep. Wyrms love old bones and heat. They'll find the last warm place left, somewhere the magic's thick or the stone's not turned to dust. They won't die in the open if they can help it."

Before Morveth can say more, Rambles—the wiry Bramble with hair full of leaves and a voice like a squeaking hinge—pipes up near the back. "How's a Heartstone supposed to work if it's been dead longer than the moon's been risin'? Doesn't magic spoil like old cheese?" He rocks forward on his toes, eager and sceptical all at once. "We're not lookin' for some mouldy old relic, are we?"

Morveth meets the question with a slow nod, his expression shifting into something more than serious. "Wyrm hearts aren't like anything else. When a Wyrm dies, the magic doesn't just seep away. It gathers, hardens, turns into living stone—hot as a forge, bright as a sunrise. That's why dwarves always sought them out, back before the wars. They say a true Heartstone can light a city for a year, or keep a ship from freezing even in the blackest winter." He glances sideways, voice dropping. "But that only works if the land hasn't killed it. If the ground is poisoned, the stone will turn black, like burnt coal, and you won't want to be near it. Still. There might be one here if the old beast got far enough below before the end."

Borin stands off to the side, resting his axe across his shoulders, his eyes fixed on Morveth with an appraising look. "And what makes you so sure, laddie? I thought only true Wyrms could sniff out another's bones."

Morveth shrugs, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "You grow up hearing stories. Ember blood keeps a memory, even in this shape. If the wind's right, I can smell the ash of my kin, even if all that's left is dust and a bit of gold in the roots." He glances toward the ruins. "There's a pull to it, like a song only Wyverns hear. You don't lose it just because you walk on two legs."

Jareth fixes him with a hard look, weighing every word. "That true? You think you can find us a heart worth taking?"

Morveth's face hardens with resolve as he nods. "If it's here, I'll know."

Rambles speaks up again, pushing his luck. "What about the rest of us? If the stone's rotten, does that mean it's cursed? Or do we just get a sack of rocks for our trouble?"

Morveth gives him a thin smile. "You'll know a cursed heart the moment you see it. It'll suck the heat out of your bones, turn your breath to fog and your skin to gooseflesh. But if it's good, it'll feel like summer breaking through a storm. Just don't get greedy. Wyrm hearts aren't for the faint of heart of the unwise."

Borin thumps the ground with the butt of his axe, drawing everyone's attention. "Nothin' here lives, lads. If a Wyrm left its heart behind, the earth buried it deep to keep it safe or to keep us from findin' it. Keep yer wits, and if ye see anythin' movin' in the dark, ye don't call its name."

Jareth grunts, the worry in his jaw easing. "Alright, Morveth. Lead on. Let's see if your nose is worth half what the stories say."

The Ember Wyvern moves to the front, shoulders tense as he sniffs at the ruined air, and the crew strings out behind him, weapons ready. Jareth brings up the rear, glancing back once at Naomi, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword as if by habit.

Stone crunches beneath heavy boots as the crew presses deeper into the tangled ruin, with Morveth still at the lead, his broad shoulders ripple with restless tension, every muscle alert. His gaze moves not just across the surface, but up into the cliffs where dark shadows slip between broken arches. The ground slopes toward a fissure, half-hidden by fallen banners and creeping moss; a wound in the earth where time and rain has dragged the last of the soil away.

The opening itself gapes wide, lined with slabs of carved stone set in patient rings. Runes have faded, their edged blurred by centuries of salt wind, but Jareth recognises the pattern in an instant. His bones feel it before his mind does, a sense of belonging that settles in the marrow, deeper than thought. There is a rightness to the slope, the angle of the arch, the neatness of the keystone set above the threshold. Evey line speaks of dwarven hands, proud and practical, shaping the world to endure long after memory has faded.

He draws a breath thick with the scent of old iron and colder secrets. Morveth glances back, eyes flicking between Jareth and the shadowed hole. "If the Wyrm made a den here, this would be the place," The Wyvern says, voice steady but tight. "Wyrms like stone. Deep, old places. The kind that holds history."

The others gather around the entrance, weapons drawn out more out of habit than hope. Braston, a halfling with a scar running the length of his nose, squints into the dark, fingers drumming on the hilt of his short blade. "Never trusted holes in the ground," he mutters, half to himself, half to the others. "That much dark brings nothing good."

Rambles, the Bramble with wild hair and nervous eyes, lets out a low whistle. "You think it's safe, Captain?" He wipes a sweaty palm down the front of his patched coat. "If that beast died down there, it won't have much left behind. Smells like a tomb."

Jareth takes a step forward, boots settling with certainty on a stone lip. He runs his palm across the worn runes, feeling the groove where generations of Dwarves must have passed, where prayers and curses would have soaked into the rock. The connection is immediate—like a memory out of place. He grunts, low and thoughtful. "Mines like these run deep. Deeper than the sea sometimes. If a Wyrm wanted to vanish, this would be the place." His words fall like stones, solid and unhurried.

Behind him, the Wood-Elf named Kaelis, who's the lookout's mate, pulls his cloak tighter and scans the tree line. "Feels wrong, all of it. The land's too quiet." His voice a sharp whisper, quick as a dart. "You sure the curse hasn't spread into the rock?"

Morveth shrugs. "Stone doesn't keep curses. Not in the way wood or water does. But it keeps secrets." He meets Jareth's eyes, and there's a flash of something ancient there; a shared understanding between two creatures who know what it means to be shaped by the old world.

Borin, axe resting on one broad shoulder, steps beside Jareth. His gaze flicks from the runes to the darkness below. "If we're goin' in, we'll want lights and a tight line. These tunnels turn on themselves, and I've seen men vanish without so much of a shout."

Borin glances at his first mate, the old, familiar feeling of dwarven places settling over him, which is a mixture of comfort and foreboding. He can almost taste the copper in the air, the tang of deep earth and the lingering heat of forges long gone. "I know these kinds of mines," he says, voice rough and sure. "Keep left when the way splits. If you lose the sound of water, you've gone too far." The advice is as old as the stones themselves, something his father might've said, or an uncle with soot under his nails.

Fenn, the cabin boy, peers between Jareth's arm, curiosity winning out over fear. "What if the tunnels are caved in, Captain?"

"Then we dig or turn back," Jareth answers, never taking his eyes off the darkness ahead. "But dwarves built this to last. The old ones knew what they were doing."

Morveth edges closer, his face set with grim purpose. "I smell old scales. Burnt hair. Something lingered here for a long time." His nostrils flare, eyes narrowing. "But I can't say if it's sleeping or gone."

Rambles bounces on the balls of his feet, voice trembling just a little. "Well, let's hope it's gone. I didn't sign on to be roasted by a Wyrm, dead or otherwise."

A ripple of uneasy laughter breaks among the crew, but Jareth silences it with a look. "Eyes up. If anything moves, call out. Nobody wanders. Thorn, you're at my side. Borin, take the rear. Morveth, lead on. We're not here to wake the dead."

The group clusters tight as they step into the mine. Shadows swallow them whole, and the outside world vanishes behind a veil of cold, damp air. Stone closes in, pressing against them. Every sound is amplified; the scrape of boots, the low mutter of curses, the steady, unhurried pulse of a captain who knows the feel of stone and danger alike.

In the dark, Jareth's senses sharpen. The earth speaks to him in a language deeper than words: the tremor of old walls, the weight of the mountain pressing down, the echo of his own heartbeat threading through the silence. This is where his blood feels strongest. This is where he belongs, even as the danger grows thicker with every step.

A single lantern swings high at the front, sending golden light shivering down the corridor. The mine yawns wide, old supports braced with iron bands, ancient tools marked still visible on the walls. Further in, broken timbers and scattered bones hint at collapse or violence, or maybe both.

Pale light seeps down from the mine's throat, glimmering across old stone and dust as Jareth pushes deeper, the heavy hush around him thick with age and memory. Every step bring a sharper clarity, the gloom peeling back beneath his Thrundeli eyes. Here, every fissure in the wall, every mark left by a pick and hammer, stands out as if etched only yesterday. The air changes, settling close and cool against his skin. He moves more carefully now, boots crunching across the gravel and the broken tile. He has always seen the world differently from his crew; where others see murk and shadow, he finds detail, the faintest glint of quartz, the old grain in the wood. It feels like the mine itself is drawing him onward.

He slows near a fallen timber, dust swirling at his boots, and then spots it: a half-buried skeleton wedged between two slabs of collapsed stone. The bones have lain undisturbed for centuries, twisted in a posture of last defiance. Cradling the skull is a helmet, dulled by time but mistakenly dwarven. Its brow is heavy. It's a crown decorated with ornate geometric knotwork. He brushes his thumb over the metal, clearing away years of grit until a sigil appears: three hammers over a shield, surrounded by stylised waves, each groove still deep and proud despite the rust.

A name tugs at his mind, pulled from memory like a fish from deep water. Durnvalir. The Durnvalir clans of old. He remembers being told of them back when he was a boy, during long, stuffy history lessons, when he was told to learn what it meant to be descended from giants and stone, but he was just a restless prince back then. He swore he never listened. But he remembers they had been coastal builders, their halls carved into the sea cliffs far from here. Their reputation for strength, stubbornness, and pride was legendary—he recalls a tutor warning that the Durnvalir never broke, never bent. When the tides rose, they stood their ground, even when the gods themselves whispered that the sea couldn't be mastered.

Jareth wonders, not for the first time, what really happened to them. Most say the sea finally swallowed them whole, a punishment they struck with spirits beneath the waves. Others say they were cursed within, torn apart by feuds and hunger for power. Looking now at the old bones, he wonders if perhaps not all of them stayed in their doomed city. Maybe a few, bitter and wise enough to know when to run, turned their backs on their kin and set out for new islands. Maybe they carried their secrets and their shame, ending their days beneath foreign skies, haunted by what they left behind. Pride and desperation both leave deep cracks in stone.

He kneels, voice dropping to a reverent hush as he settles the helmet straight atop the skull. The gesture is careful, gentle, a rare show of tenderness from a man more used to irons and storms. Old habits surface; he closes his eyes, drawing a steadying breath, and speaks in the thick, weighty tongue of his father's kin.

"Morik drauth ven Olnia, ithran dutil Duta, kamro vas Dasmas. Korun sa veltir, vehril savrun."

("Carry this soul to Olnia, watch it over Duta, and let Dasmas welcome what the world forgot. May the dead pass on, may the earth remember.")

The worlds roll through the tunnel, rough as gravel but carrying a steady warmth. They cling to the stone, a prayer offered to the three gods of the afterlife, a rare act of humility for one rarely caught speaking to the gods. His crew pauses behind him, a ripple of surprise passing through their ranks. They know Jareth as captain, fighter, and judge, but none have ever seen him speak for the dead.

Borin lingers close, eyes following every movement, while a few younger men shift uneasily, their hands tightening on axe and rope. Morveth hovers at the edge of the group, his crimson hair burning against the gloom, curiosity lighting his face. "That's old work, Captain. You know the mark?"

Jareth nods, his voice carrying the weight of his lineage. "Aye. Durnvalir. They built cities by the sea, further north than this. Some say they fell to the waves; others, to greed. Maybe some fled, wound up here, trying to start again. Sometimes pride drives a man to stay. Other times, it makes him run."

A hush falls again, broken only by the shuffling of boots and the faint drip of water deeper in the mine. The old bones have lain here long enough that time itself seems to curl around them, waiting for the living to pay their respects.

Fenn, the bravest among the younger crew, tilts his head. "What's it mean, Captain? All that about Olnia and the rest?"

Jareth doesn't look up, but there's a flicker of patience in his reply. "Olnia guides the dead to Duta, the lady who opens the last gate. Damas keeps those who have no token, no kin to remember them. The Silvra's for luck, but when you got nothin' left, you give a word instead. It's the only coin most of us ever have in the end."

Rambles, the Bramling with a mouth like a rusty saw, scratches his head. "You think they wanted to die here? Away from their kin?"

He shrugs, setting his jaw. "Sometimes a man makes his peace where he can. You see bones like this, you show respect. Might be the only kindness you got left. Move quiet now. Let the dead rest."

Borin gives Jareth's arm a squeeze, something proud behind the lines of his face. Thorn lingers back, his grey-blue eyes catching what little light filters down. He's always understood the gravity of old places, and he watches Jareth with a new respect, unspoken but clear as day.

It feels as if the darkness in the old tunnels thickens the farther they go. Every echo seems to stretch, crawling up the walls and crawling back down their spines. A dull, bone-white grow spills across the ancient flagstones, cast by the lanterns swinging from the trembling hands of the crew. Murdoc, the Drokhmir powder master, mutters something grim beneath his breath, words slipping into the hush as if afraid to be heard by the restless dead. Orick glances at every shadow as though expecting them to reach out and drag him away. Even Thorn, so often dry and amused, falls silent, his sharp gaze searching the gloom for threats beyond mortal sight.

The way opens at last into a cavernous chamber. Pillars climb from the cracked floor, their faces carved with dwarven runes nearly erased by centuries of neglect. The hall is wide enough to swallow the entire crew twice over. At its heart, the stone sinks into the pit where water once pooled, the smell of rot and metal clinging to every inch of air. It could have been a gathering hall, a vault, or the resting place of a thousand unspoken secrets.

But it's not empty. The air here vibrates with the presence of spirits—dozens, maybe hundreds. Their shapes flicker like firelight caught on mist, never fully settling into flesh. Jareth can make out warriors in battered armour, women clutching rag-wrapped infants, old men gripping walking sticks, and clusters of children holding hands with vacant eyes. Every one of them watches the living with a hollow, hungry patience.

Jareth's skin prickles, and his grip on his sword tightens. He halts, boots scraping across the stone, and gestures for the crew to stop. His voice comes low and hard. "Keep sharp. Touch nothing. Not a stone, not a scrap of cloth, not as much as a coin." His words ring in the silence, and every ear strains to hear.

A newish crewman, Kaelen, one deckhand—a human with a too-brazen attitude and an accent as thick as tar—cocks his head, scowling at the dark. "What's the harm in touchin' a few old bones, Captain? They're just ghosts, aren't they? What are they gonna do, moan us to death?"

Jareth turns, eyes hard as slate, his shoulders squaring the fill the space. "You ever seen a spirit tear a man apart, Kaelen?" The name lands heavily. "I have. Not just one or two, either. Touch the wrong thing, and you'll wish you never left your mother's skirts. These halls remember every soul that died here. They remember pain. They remember blood. And best believe they remember thieves."

Kaelen begins to reply, but falls silent at the look in Jareth's eyes. The air seems to thicken further; the chill growing more pronounced. A little way off, Aerik, one of the Elven topmen, mutters a prayer beneath his breath, his gaze never leaving the restless phantoms.

Jareth shifts his attention to the spirits gathered near the broken dais at the centre. Their faces turn as one, empty sockets glowing faintly, the suggestion of accusation heavy in the space. It feels like every sorrow ever suffered in this place is breathing down his neck.

The rest of the crew clusters closer, every man and woman suddenly conscious of the noise they make, the air they disturb. The ghosts don't move, but their presence presses in from every side: layers upon layers of memory and mourning, trapped between stone and silence.

Borin shifts his grip on his axe, his voice barely above a whisper. "Never seen so many in one place, Jareth. It's like the whole damned clan is waitin' for somethin'."

Orick edges closer to the circle of lantern light, his face drawn and pinched. "Maybe waitin' for us to leave," he mutters, too soft for any of the ghosts to hear.

Jareth glances around, the hairs at the back of his neck never quite settling. His gaze lands on Morveth. "Morveth, any ides where we go from here? I'd rather not linger in a hall full of the dead."

Morveth stands tense, eyes searching the pillars and broken altars. "If I were a Wyrm and wanted to die where no living thing could find me, I would keep going down. Deeper. The roots of the mine must reach the old magma chambers. That's where we'll find what we're looking for. The air will hotter. The bones will get older."

Something in the words makes Jareth's throat go dry. Every instinct tells him to move, but also to be careful. The dead watch, silent and waiting, their numbers only growing thicker as the path leads deeper. No one dares to touch the ancient banners hanging in shreds from the pillars. No one dates to set foot on the dais, where a long-dead dwarven matron still kneels with her hands pressed together in prayer.

Jareth draws in a slow breath and leads the way, careful to keep his boots clear of scattered bones and broken offerings. The rest follow in a silent procession, all eyes flicking over shoulders, every sense straining. It's not the dark or the echoes that frighten them, but the feeling that the living are only tolerated here by the narrowest mercy—a mercy that could vanish at the touch of a careless hand.

Heat creeps up from the stone underfoot, a slow, relentless breath that makes every footstep feel heavier, every inhale sharp and dry. The mine's entrance had felt almost a sanctuary after the gloom above; cool shadows, the familiar, solid weight of rock overhead. That sense is gone now, replaced by a thickening, oven-hot air that stings eyes and leaves a bitter metallic taste on the tongue. Sweat beads along every brow, rolling down the nape of Jareth's neck and sinking into his colour.

The walls themselves seem to shimmer, veins of some old mineral catching and throwing back the dull glow of the torches. It makes the stone look alive, skin crawling with faint veins of red and gold, pulsing with each movement of the flame. Deeper in, the air picks up a sour tang, something like burned iron and sweet rot, impossible to ignore. Some men cough behind their hands, others fall silent, eyes darting along the uneven floor as if expecting the bones of the dead to reach out and grab them.

Every step feels a descent, not just in distance but in time. Blackened pickaxes hang abandoned on walls, their wooden hands warped and twisted by an old, unnatural heat. A skeleton of a cart—its wheels melted into ragged lumps—blocks one side passage, frozen mid-spill, as though its last cargo had burned straight through it. Jareth catches the scent of scorched leather and tries to ignore the way the walls seem to pulse, every shadow stretching just a little too long.

Thalro walks at his side, the torchlight making his white hair grow eerily in the dark. "Do you think Naomi is faring all right?" His voice is quiet, but it bounces in uneasy echoes off the cavern walls. "I still don't like leaving her behind, Captain. Not when this place feels like it wants to take something from us."

Jareth keeps his eyes ahead, though every muscle in his jaw goes tight. The pulse of heat presses on his temples. "I hope she's safer up there than she would be down here," he says at last, voice pitched low so only Thalro can hear. "But nothin' about this island sits right with me. Not the spirits. Not the ground. If she were here, at least I'd know where she was, what trouble she's in." A hand flexes at his side as the other reaches up, tracing a nervous line across the pommel of the sword.

The further they move, the more the crew unravels. Orick, the Halfling bosun, wipes sweat from his brow with a trembling hand, muttering curses under his breath as his boots squelch through a puddle of something viscous and black. Torren, the Elven navigator, hisses in a sharp breath and points out a patch of stone that flickers in and out of focus, like a mirage or a wound in the world. Brokkar, one of the orc gunners, swears loudly as walls on his side warp, the rock bubbling with the heat of an old inferno.

A hush falls as the passage broadens. They find themselves in a wide, domed cavern, the ceiling disappearing into darkness above, its span lost in heat and smoke. All around, ancient mining tools have fused to the rock—shovels, hammers, even a skeleton's hand forever welded to the halt of a pick. The air vibrates with a low, throbbing sound, not quite a voice, not quite music; just a trembling pressure that sinks into teeth and bone. Small, shifting lights crawl along the ceiling far above, darting between the stalactites like the eyes of watching spirits.

Thalro leans in closer, voice barely more than a whisper now. "Something's wrong with this stone. My sting is prickling, Captain. We must be close."

Jareth's own instincts agree. The air burns hotter now, every breath shallow. He glances at the men, their faces twisted with confusion and fear, and feels a fresh wave of anger that Naomi isn't with him, and that he can't keep her in his line of sight. A tremor runs through his hands, part worry, part frustration. "Keep moving," he calls, voice gritty as gravel. "Nobody stops. Nobody splits off. We find what we came for, and we get the hell out."

Beneath their boots, the ground has changed. No longer is there just rough stone; there are veins of some darker mineral running through it, pulsing with heat, the edges faintly glowing. The walls deep with condensation, slick to the touch, but the moisture burns like salt in an open wound.

The crew presses forward, step by step, eyes wide and chests heaving. Shadows flicker at the corners of their vision, always gone when looked at directly. Here and there, a whisper of movement, the ghost of a child darting between ruined ore carts or a miner's cap lying in a puddle, its light still faintly glowing blue despite the centuries.

Jareth closes his eyes for a moment, feeling every beat of his heart echo in the stone. "We're close, lads. Stay sharp," he rasps, but the words feel empty, swallowed by the oppressive heat and the thickening sense of dread that settles on every shoulder.

Steam clings to every surface, turning breath into sweat before it even leaves the lungs. Far below the earth, the air tastes of metal and rot. The deeper the crew pushes, the more the darkness thickens, clinging like a second skin. The only light comes from the torch Jareth carries and the phosphorescent glow leaking from the cracks in the old stone, turning every shadow into something watchful.

Thalro wipes his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time, sweat burning a path down his cheek. The torchlight flutters, casting the bones beneath his boots into sudden, brutal focus. White fragments jut out from the black dust: curb ribs, a tiny, splintered skull, and a second smaller still, huddled beside the first as if for comfort.

He stops moving. For a moment the mine is silent but for the rasp of the crew's breath and the soft hiss of the heat.

When Thalro looks down, and his eyes widen in horror. He has stepped directly onto the remains of two children, the brittle bones shifting beneath his weight. The sight drains the blood from his face as his pointed ears droop and his lips tremble.

"Captain," he breathes, voice as thin as the air. "What do I do—"

Jareth's gaze sharpens, and an icy chill runs up his spine. Something stirs in the pit of his stomach as he takes a cautious step forward. "Don't move," he says, the words rumbling low. His eyes are locked on the bones and the dark shapes that are now gathering just beyond the firelight.

A pair of ghosts materialise in the gloom, small and translucent, their forms warped by the years between this world and the next. Childish faces peel into grotesque grins, their lips stretching too wide, eyes empty and endless. Their laughter is wrong—high, quick, sliding through the stone and the marrow both. It has a hunger to it, a note that shakes the older crew and gnaws at the mind.

Without warning, the ghosts dart forward. Their small hands latch onto Thalro's arms and shoulders, ice cold and feather light, yet unbreakable. He jerks, but their grip only tightens. The weight of their touch makes it feel like he's sinking, drowning in memories that aren't his moves.

"Captain! Please—help me!" Thalro's voice is no longer the steady song of the deck. Panic has hollowed it out, turned it sharp and desperate. He tries to twist away, but the spirits only pull him higher. His feet leave the ground, and dust rises in a choking cloud. His shadow dances along the wall, twisted and long.

The rest of the crew falters, weapons forgotten. Orick whispers a prayer, his voice snagging on every syllable. Brokkar grips his axe, knuckles bleaching to white. Even Morveth takes half a step back, all bravado gone from his face. All of them stand transfixed, caught in the cold, devouring gaze of the dead.

Jareth's jaw sets, heart thundering beneath his ribs. Every instinct screams to act, to swing, to break the stone with steel, but these aren't enemies he can cut. He watches as the children's ghosts lean close, their faces pressing into Thalro, eyes wide and unblinking. The light flickers, and it looks, for a heartbeat, as if their skin stretches, fusing with his own.

One spirit opens its mouth impossibly wide, and a choking, wet sob echoes through the cavern. "Cold," it whispers, the sound pressing down like nails drawn down a slate. "So cold. We want to go home." The second ghost repeats the word, turning it over and over until it's nothing but a broken wish, pulling the warmth from every living body in the hall.

A heavy silence settles across the grand hall, broken only by the sound of Jareth's own ragged breathing and the trembling boots of men too shocked to move. Shadows swim over the stone pillars, thrown wild by lanterns that suddenly seem too weak, their light failing to touch the furthest corners of the vast chamber. All eyes are fixed on Thalro and on the way his body hangs in the air, limbs drawn out like a puppet held by invisible strings, skin paling as the children pass through him again and again. The chill deepens, crawling into bone and marrow. Every breath steams in the air, but not a living soul feels warm.

Thalro's mouth opens wider and wider, his scream rising into a sound no living throat should produce. The spirits twist around him, hands sliding under his skin, digging beneath ribs, fishing for the light that flickers just beneath his breastbone. One ghost, a girl with tangled hair and empty eyes, slides her arm through his chest. Her face is blank except for the hunger in her black, endless gaze. Thalro's chest caves inwards, the skin dimpling and cracking, ribs creaking and snapping, each fracture sharp and wet. The second boy, no older than seven, drags his nails down Thalro's back, tearing away muscle and cloth in one long, shuddering strip.

A chilly wind rises, howling through the broken arches above, sending grit and dust spiralling around the hall. The ghost children keen—a wavering, rising chorus that fills the air with the agony of a hundred deaths. Their voices echo off the walls, repeating themselves until the sound is layered on itself, becoming a thick, suffocating fog. Thalro's head rolls limply, wide and sightless, mouth still stretched in that terrible, endless scream. It doesn't matter how hard he fights; his arms flail and claw at air, boots kicking at nothing. Each time he finds purchase, the ghosts pull harder, dragging sinew from bone, peeling him open like old bark.

Jareth staggers forward, boots scraping across the stone. His heart pounds in his chest, sweat pouring down his back even as the air freezes around him. Desperation claws its way up his throat. Prayers spill out, wild and tangled, words of old dwarven faith, half-remembered from his childhood. "Olnia, Keeper of the Gates—Duta, shelter him—Dasmas, see him home—" His voice cracks, but he forces the words louder, shouting over the ghostly wail. The prayers fill the chamber, echoing against the carved pillars, but the spirits pay him no mind.

The first ghost opens its mouth wider still, jaw unhinging, throat swelling until it seems to swallow the lantern light. A tendril of mist, pale and shivering, pours out of Thalro's lips, drawn by the suction of the child's endless hunger. The boy ghost buries his face in Thalro's shoulder, gnawing at the soul-light that seeps from torn flesh, his small hands squeezing, crushing, twisting. The soul fragments in the cold air, splitting into a thousand flickering motes that swirl and dance above the altar at the centre of the hall.

Bones crunch beneath Thalro's boots as the ghosts jerk him higher, spine arching backward, arms wrenched behind him at an impossible angle. There is a sickening rip as the left arm tears free, tumbling to the ground with a hollow smack, followed by a spatter of blood and shreds of blue cloth. Thalro's legs convulse, jerking in spasms that spray dust and fragments of bone across the floor. The ghosts twist faster now, laughter bubbling up from their ruined throats. One clambers up his side, fingers hooked in his jaw, pulling until it snaps with a sharp, brittle crack.

The rest of the crew stands frozen, eyes wide, mouths open, unable to look away. A Brambling named Bramwell vomits into his hands, the sound drowned out by the shrieks. Gorrik, one of the Grendel deck guards, turns away, squeezing his eyes shut, muttering a broken prayer for mercy. Even Borin's knuckles have gone white around the haft of his axe, lips drawn back in a silent snarl, face pale as chalk.

At last, Thalro's spine gives with a wet, final snap, and his body falls in pieces to the stone. His soul, torn in luminous threads, is snatched and devoured by the children, who vanish into the cracks of the hall, leaving only the echo of their mourning cry behind. The chamber is left with the stench of blood, the tang of hot metal, and a chill that settles into every joint. Thalro's remains are scattered in a haphazard circle, fingers twisted into claws, face frozen in an expression of endless pleading.

Jareth drops to his knees beside what's left, one trembling hand reaching out as if to gather the pieces together. His breath shakes in his chest. Every word of prayer dries up in his mouth. For the first time, he feels the full weight of the island's curse. He looks up and sees the crew, their eyes rimmed red, every man older for having witnessed this. Nobody speaks. No one moves to touch the bones.

The cavern presses in, dark and endless, heavy with the echo of what's just happened. Jareth's hand shake so badly that he almost drops the coin, knuckles scraped raw, blood smeared across every callus and scar. All around him, shadows writhe on the walls; shadows shaped like children, like soldiers, like the family he never had and the crew he can't save. He stares down at what's left of Thalro; the sight burning itself behind his eyes, making it impossible not to look away. There's no distance between horror and love, between captain and lost boy, not now.

Every part of him aches with the need to fix it, to change something, to have some grown man's answer that will make the pieces fit back together. But he doesn't. He doesn't know what to do except kneel and beg. His thoughts circle, frantic and childishly, a tangle of guilt and confusion. There's no wisdom, no plan, just a voice in his head crying over and over: why, why, why did it have to be him, why couldn't I save him? Why wasn't I better, older, stronger, and smarter, anything but this.

Tears run unchecked, splashing onto the back of Thalro's ruined hand, mixing salt with blood and the dark stain of the cave floor. Jareth rocks back and forth, not even noticing the weight of his own body, curling in on himself as if he could vanish. Every breath shudders, rattling through lungs tight with panic. He squeezes the Silvra so hard the edge cuts into his palm, leaving a new, bright line of red.

"He never even… He was just a—" The words break, jagged, slipping through his teeth. Jareth tries again, but it's no use. He can't say the word boy, can't let himself admit how young Thalro really was, how unready he was for death. "He was supposed to—supposed to go home after this, see his mum again, or… just live, gods damn it. Just live." His voice falls apart, nothing left but his sobbing.

He buries his face against the back of his wrist with his shoulders hunched; the motion is small and pitiful. The tears aren't the tears of a hardened man or a battle-worn captain. They're the gut-deep, unguarded sobs of someone barely more than a child, too young to wear all this weight, too soft to understand why the world takes and takes until nothing is left. He has no filtered, no practiced mask, just the raw, shaking pain of a twenty-three-year-old whose heart is still learning what it means to break.

Borin kneels close but doesn't touch him. Hands hover in the air, aching to comfort but knowing some things can't be fixed. The rest of the crew drift at a distance, stunned into silence, unable to look at the shattered boy who wears the captain's coat. They hear his muttered prayers, the ones his mother sang over scraped knees and lost pets, the words a litany of hope and helplessness. "Take him, Duta. Please. Don't let him wander. Give him peace. Don't let the ghosts take him. Please."

It's memory and instinct, nothing measured or wise, the rituals of a childhood that is not so far behind him as he pretends. His head spins, thoughts racing and looping, desperate for an answer that will never come. If he were older, maybe he'd know how to mourn like a leader, how to shield the crew from this grief, how to speak the right words. But all he can do is sob and whisper, clutching the coin and refusing to let go.

"I should have—should have gone first, should have… I don't know. Godlings, Thalro. I don't know." The confession breaks free, every syllable loaded with shame. He presses the Silvra into the cooling hand, trying to close the limp fingers, willing some sparks of life to return.

It doesn't.

He can't stop shaking. All the old bravado, the gruff orders, the iron promises, melt away, leaving only a terrified young man kneeling in the dark. With no mask left, no lessons deep enough to save him from the reality of what she's seen. Snot mixes with tears, breath hiccups and stalls, and still doesn't stop for him. No one moves, afraid that if they'd interrupt this grief, they would somehow be cursed.

He whispers a last, faltering prayer, voice hoarse. "Find your way, Thalro. Don't let the shadows take you. Wait for me if you can. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." The words dissolve in the stone and the cold, a plea from someone whose mind is not yet wired for loss, who can't fathom the weight of what has just been taken.

He straightens, wiping his face with a dirty sleeve. Jareth looks smaller than he ever has. The cavern presses close. The world seems thinner, as if a part of him has been left with the dead.

The others stand silent in the heat and gloom, shifting from foot to foot, eyes drawn again and again to the blood and bones left in the dirt. Borin steps forward, thick fingers white on the haft of his axe, voice pitched loud enough to break the spell. "Morveth. Get the crew movin'. Stay together. No wanderin' off, no touchin' nothin' unless I say. Keep sharp and be careful. We'll catch up."

Morveth nods, mouth tight, and signals the rest. Boots scrape and shuffle, one or two faces turning to glance at Jareth before looking away again. The Ember Wyvern leads them deeper into the mine, their figures swallowed by shadow and the stifling, molten air. The heat follows them, a tide of breathless pressure that only makes the silence heavier.

Borin lingers, keeping his eyes on Jareth. The Big man hasn't moved, shoulders drawn up and hunched around grief, attention locked to the spot where Thalro fell. Borin comes up close, boots soft in the dust, and places him squarely between Jareth and the wreckage, making sure the boy's gaze can't stray back. He blinks his axe head-down, folding his arms, and waits. He waits until Jareth finally blinks and drags his eyes away, wiping his face with the heel of his palm.

When Borin speaks, the tone is stripped rank of rank, of orders, of all that shipboard ritual. It is a father's voice, old and patient, thick with worry. "Look at me, Jareth. Not over there. Eyes here, laddie. Let the dead rest for a moment." He doesn't reach out, but every line of his stance invites comfort, solid as the earth. "Listen, boyo. Ye can't carry all of it. Ye can't. Even if ye want ta. Remember, lad; There are men, there are ghosts, and there are monsters in the dark. But yer still breathin'. Yer still here."

Jareth's hands clench at his sides, breath coming in short, uneven bursts. For a moment, he looks ready to bolt, a trapped animal searching for a hole to crawl into. Borin leans in a little closer, low and steady, voice softening further. "I know what it's like, son. I know how it feels when the world falls apart, and ye think you should have done more. That you should have known. But yer not a god. Yer a man. And yer young, Jareth. Too damn young for all this."

Tears threaten again, and Jareth looks away, lips pressed tight, jaw working as he tries to master himself. Borin lowers his voice, careful not to crowd him, but not giving ground either. "I want ye ta breathe. Right now, just breathe. Not as captain. Not as a Thrundeli. Not as anything but me, boy, who needs to remember he's still alive."

The tension in Jareth's arms, his chest, his jaw, holds for a heartbeat longer, then shakes loose, not quite a release but something close to it. Borin glances up, meeting Jareth's lost, reddened eyes with a look that is unflinching and kind. "He didn't deserve it, Jareth. None of 'em do. But what happens here—what happened ta Thalro—ain't your sin to shoulder. This place is wrong, twisted. No man, no captain, could've changed it."

A breath shudders out of Jareth, ragged and unsure, thick with the weight of everything he has tried to keep locked away. He opens his mouth, then closes it, the words turning in his throat to nothing. Borin watches him, small and unyielding, as if his own body could stand between Jareth and all the sorrow in the world.

For a long, endless moment, they kneel together in the haunted dark—one young and shattered, the other small and fierce, an anchor against the rising tide. There is nothing else for it. Borin waits as Jareth tries to breathe.

Borin stays right in front of the grisly remains, his small frame anchored between Jareth and what's left of Thalro. The bramling barely comes up past Jareth's waist, yet somehow he fills the space, a living shield, refusing to let Jareth's focus drift back to the blood and bone on the floor. All around, the shadows gather thick and restless, every surface smeared with echoes of violence that will never quite fade.

Jareth stands above him, shaking from the inside out, his hands knotted in fists so tight his knuckles go bone-white. His breath rasps in and out, loud in the hush, every inhale catching at the edge of a sob. The captaincy, the weight, the bravado—none of it matters now. He looks like a lost boy who's been told the world is safe, only to watch it fall apart right in front of him. Salt tracks stain his cheeks. He tries to stop it, but the tears just come harder, angry and helpless.

His voice shudders as he chokes out the words, "I did what I was supposed to. She told me the gods would hear. She made me promise, Borin. Every time someone was lost, every time someone crossed over, she always said that there's a way to help them home. If you say the right prayers, if you put down the silver, if you mean it, it works. It keeps the dark from taking what's left." He shakes his head, the grief raw and jagged, too big for his frame.

"She always sounded so sure." The words fall from him, soft and uneven, thick with disbelief. "She said Olnia would guide the lost. That Duta would hold the gates. She made me learn the words in both tongues, made me practice every night. I thought… I thought if I ever needed them, they'd work." His hand trembles as he wipes his face, and there's a childish, wounded frustration in the way he sucks a shaky breath. "But nothing happened, Borin. Nothing. He was right there, and I—" He stops, unable to finish.

Borin moves closer, putting a steadying hand on Jareth's arm, solid and grounding. "Lad, look at me. Sometimes, even the best words can't change what's already done. The world don't always listen the way we want. Doesn't mean yer ma lied ta ye. She just wanted ye ta believe ye could do some good, even when it's all gone to rot."

But Jareth shakes his head, pain flickering through every line of his face. "She did lie. Or she was wrong. I thought—" He clenches his jaw, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on a point far away. "What good are prayers if they do nothing? What's the point of all her stories, if all it does is make me stand here and watch him—watch him get ripped apart and know I can't do a fucking thing?"

A shudder rolls through him, fierce and young and lost. His fists slam against the stone wall, bruising his knuckles in a fit of helplessness. "He was just a kid, Borin. He shouldn't have died like that. Not here, not for nothing." The last words scrape his throat, barely making it out, more broken sound than speech.

Borin stands his ground, not flinching, not looking away. "It's not yer fault, Jareth. Ye did what ye could. Sometimes the gods are silent, and sometimes the world is just cruel. But you tried. Ye cared. That's not nothing. That's what keeps ye from turning into what this place wants ye to become." His words are steady, old as the stone underfoot, but Jareth hardly hears them.

All the fight goes out of him at once. He covers his face with both hands, shoulders shaking as a sob wracks his chest. For a long, wrenching moment, he lets himself break; lets every bit of rage, sorrow, and shame spill out where only Borin can see. The weight of command is too much for him now. In this hall of ghosts, he is just a boy, too young to carry so much loss, and too honest to pretend it doesn't tear him apart.

Nothing in the darkness offers comfort. The silence is heavy, suffocating, thick with the bitter lesson that even the deepest love and the best intentions can be shattered by fate. Borin does not move from his place, keeping Jareth turned away from the horror behind him, holding the line between the young captain and the pitiless cruelty of the world. They walk to the rest, Borin having a hand on Jareth's lower back to comfort him.