A chill clings to the grass as Naomi blinks slowly and uncertainly, the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders before she can even sit up fully. The air is thick with silver motes, drifting like pollen, catching in the folds of her tunic and the translucent sweep of her wings. She flexes them carefully, testing the healing she didn't expect. No ache, no tear, not even a bruise left behind—only the living pulse of magic knitting her together, cool and electric, as if the Illyrasel has poured every drop of its ancient grace into her blood.
Above her, the dome of the grove flickers with hidden light, stars swimming through the boughs. Two figures loom impossibly tall and impossibly close, shapes blurred at the edges by the force of their presence. Their voices—low, familiar, yet vast—roll across the clover in a rhythm older than the earth itself.
Lady Thirsyn stands at the ring's edge, her bare feet shining when they touch the moss. She moves with a stately, unhurried grace, each shift of her gown sending rivers of constellations tumbling across midnight-blue fabric. The filigree in her silver crown curves upward in delicate spirals, thin as breath, adorned with teardrop sapphires that hold a sky full of stars in miniature. Eyes like faraway galaxies catch Naomi's gaze, cool and full of sorrow, yet kind.
Oses seems made from contradiction: a frame both solid and flickering, changing with every blink. Sometimes he's tall, narrow, and sharp as a blade, and then with a subtle shift, he appears broad-shouldered and boyish, hair tumbling in unruly black ringlets, then bleaching white at the tips, He is clothed in chaos— layers of velvet and roughspun, all marked by curling glyphs of fate, one sleeve embroidered in copper, the other fraying at the seams. His face is quick, eyes never still, the left one a dull, familiar brown, the right flickering gold. Mischief and melancholy sit side by side in his half-smile, and he stands in the sunbeam, half in the star-dappled shadow, as if he can't decide which side of the night to claim.
Their quarrel flows around Naomi, sparking the air with tension and tenderness alike. Thirsyn's voice rings clear as glass, woven through command and caution. "You are not using her as your conduit, Oses. I forbid it. You do this every age, always with the ones who already bleed."
The god of fate snorts, circling her, never quite standing still. "And you would wrap her in starlight and let her drown in her own fear? That is mercy to you? There is a price for every moment borrowed, sister. This one at least is worth the wager."
"Fate is not a wager. She is not a thread in your loom," Thirsyn replies, eyes flaring with light. She glances at Naomi with a tenderness that aches. "Be not afraid. You are safe within this ring. He cannot touch you, not here."
Oses makes a small, frustrated sound, kicking at the moss like a child might. "Let her speak forever herself. She has teeth, this one, even if you keep trying to cradle her." He shifts, hands in his pockets, gold embroidery catching the light. "Elora, you know what waits for your captain. You know what it costs to step outside your circle. Are you willing to let him bleed in the dark when you could be his lantern? Even if it means sharing the weight?"
The words fall between them, sharp as the edge of a blade. For a long moment, Naomi cannot move, fear warring with hope, awe in the bone-deep ache to do something, anything, to help the man who brought her across the sea and risked his life to keep her safe. Every lesson her mother taught her presses at her mind—never bargain with gods, never let them see your need.
Thirsyn kneels, her gown pooling around her in a spill of silver and midnight. She cups Naomi's face with hands that feel like moonlight and warm water, voice soft and ancient. "Do not let him trick you. You do not owe the world your own burning. You are enough as you are."
A hush follows, the breathless pause at the heart of every great storm. Oses tilts his head, eyes flickering between irritation and something almost like pride. "It is your choice, Elora. Mine to offer, never to take. But time is running thin, and the shadows are already stirring in places even I cannot predict."
A subtle tension lingers in the starlit air, one Naomi cannot quite name. As Oses and Thirsyn regard her, there's a hush beneath their kindness, a current that feels as if it's slipping just out of reach. Naomi shifts her weight, wings trembling with a shiver that's not entirely from cold. Her eyes flick from Thirsyn's gentle face to the shadowed, sharp lines of Oses' jaw, searching for reassurance, but there's a tightness at the corners of both their mouths, a sadness too carefully hidden.
She tries to ignore it, tries to believe them when they say she'll see her friends, that she'll be safe. Yet some part of her, some ancient fae instinct, senses the edges of grief pressed flat between their words. The way Thirsyn's hands linger just a moment too long on Naomi's cheek, the way Oses' gold eye dulls as he promises to help. Naomi holds her breath, her question rising—but she cannot give it voice. She feels too small, too much like a child among legends, and there is something about the silence between them that warns her not to ask.
Still, the feeling gnaws at her, an ache she cannot soothe. When Thirsyn embraces her, Naomi feels warmth and cold all at once, as if the goddess is wrapping her in a farewell as much as a blessing. Oses avoids her eyes for the briefest instant, his jaw working, before his crooked smile returns. The gods exchange a glance, an entire conversation passing in the tilt of a brow, the line of a mouth, before Oses finally lays a hand atop Naomi's head.
"You are braver than you think," he murmurs, voice low, almost apologetic, "and much stronger than you know. Remember, if the darkness presses too close, call for me." His fingers tighten just slightly, as if he would hold her back a heartbeat longer if he could.
Thirsyn's smile dims, eyes shining brighter for an instant, and her voice carries a note of sorrow. "There are things we cannot always say, not until the right time. Even among the stars, some secrets must wait. Trust your heart, little one. Trust what you feel."
Naomi tries to meet their gaze, but the weight of unspoken truth presses her eyes to the mossy ground. She swallows, throat thick, letting the question wither before it leaves her lips. Whatever waits below, whatever sadness these gods are carrying, she must face it as herself, without answers or certainty. The thought frightens her, but she stands tall anyway, fingers twisted tightly in her braid.
Light gathers at her feet, swirling up her legs, dizzy and cold. The Illyrasel's ring of mushrooms pulses, bathing her in shimmering blue and silver. The grove spins, stars wheeling overhead, and Naomi feels herself sliding from one world to the next. The last thing she sees is Thirsyn's hand raised in silent farewell, Oses' eye shining gold with worry and hope.
As she falls, she hugs the gods' worry close, knowing it means she is loved, even if the truth stays hidden a while longer. She does not ask what it is. She does not want to know—not yet. Instead, she clings to courage and the last warmth of the star goddess' blessing as the world tilts and she descends into the waiting dark.
Naomi's wings catch the dim light, brushing dust from the stone as she slips through the ragged mouth of the mine. The weight of the island wraps tighter around her shoulders with every heartbeat, the air thickening with the hush that can only be found among the dead. Her breath comes fast, too loud in the echoing dark, but she pushes forward. A trembling hand brushes a braid behind one ear, fingers fumbling with the silky strand as if it might anchor her to the world she's always known. Each beat of her wings stirs up old dust, sending motes swirling through the beam of her lantern.
She follows the footprints pressed into blackened grit. Her mind repeats one thought—find them, find Jareth, make sure he's safe—but a deeper worry nags at her ribs. The mine stinks of rot and iron. Each echo sounds wrong. Naomi tries to steady her heart, tries to remember the songs her mother used to sing about the gentle dead. That faith feels thin here, stretched by fear and the press of a hundred ghostly eyes she can feel but not see.
It takes longer than she expects to find the break in the silence. A heap of cloth and something more sprawled ahead, broken and wrong. Naomi lands, stumbling, boots scraping the rock. "Thalro?" She calls out, voice small and wavering, hope fighting with dread. She blinks away the sting in her eyes. Her friend doesn't answer. The silence answers for him, heavy and absolute.
At first, she kneels beside what's left, her mind refusing to piece the shapes together. A shoulder, a hand, torn fabric. She reaches, still calling, "Thalro, please—" Her hands close on his head, fingers sinking into thick hair matted with blood. It takes a moment for her brain to register what she's holding. It takes another heartbeat for her stomach to drop, the realisation breaking her open from the inside. The head lolls in her grip, lifeless, mouth half open in a final, silent plea.
A raw cry breaks from her lips. Naomi's hands shake as she gently, carefully, lowers Thalro's head back to the stone. Tears cloud her vision, and the air tastes of salt and metal. She leans over him, closing his staring eyes with trembling fingers. "I'm sorry," she whispers, voice shattering as she wipes the blood from his brow. "I'm so sorry. I should have come sooner."
Grief floods her, sharp and childlike, burning away any sense of purpose. All the bravery she clung to on the flight here deserts her, leaving a hollow ache and the urge to run. But Naomi stays. She forces herself to stay, to breathe, to honour her friend with a moment of stillness.
A shuddering breath leaves her chest as she sits back on her heels, pressing the heel of her palm to her lips to muffle the sound of her sobbing. The mine offers no comfort. Only the whisper of spirits and the memory of hands once warm, now cold and silent.
Light ripples at her side, gentle and starlit, banishing the harshest of shadows. Thirsyn emerges from the darkness with every movement, weaving new constellations into the air, her presence transforming the cavern's suffocating cold into something just shy of bearable. She kneels in silence beside Naomi, cloak trailing galaxies along the stone, and the hush that falls is deeper than before. Even the spirits seem to retreat, shrinking from her quiet, impossible grace.
A hand, delicate but steady, comes to rest on Naomi's trembling shoulder. Thirsyn's touch is warm, grounding Naomi when everything else feels like it's slipping away. The goddess's eyes reflect a sorrow so ancient and complete it pulls at Naomi's own pain, drawing it out into the open, baring it for the darkness to see.
"You did not come too late," Thirsyn whispers, her voice soft as starlight on a frost-laced field. "He is beyond pain now. Duta, Dasmas, and Olnia are with him, child of the sky. No ghost in this mine will trouble him again." The comfort in her words is gentle, but it is a comfort that only twists the ache deeper, making the loss sharper, more unbearable. Naomi can't help but wish that all the gods in the world could give her back the friend lying in pieces at her feet.
Salt tears well up, spilling over as she turns to Thirsyn, desperate for something to cling to, for some piece of hope that will let her breathe again. "Did Jareth see?" The question trembles from her lips, cracked and barely audible, threaded through with guilt and dread, her eyes full of a pleading that needs the answer to be no.
Silver hair, shimmering with the light of distant stars, falls over Thirsyn's shoulders as she shakes her head, sorrow weighing heavy in her voice. "No. Not as you see us, Elora." She says it quietly, each word carried on a sigh older than the world itself. "He saw loss. He saw more than he should, and enough to scar him. His road has grown harder, and faith is a brittle thing in hands so young. You know him well—perhaps too well. His trust in us is not strong enough to weather this." The goddess gazes at Naomi with an ache that spans ages, understanding the cost of watching hope die in another's eyes.
The ache inside Naomi deepens, cold and sharp, settling in her chest where no warmth can reach. She kneels there, arms wrapped tight around Thalro's hand, his fingers already stiff with death. It's not just Thalro she mourns, but the wound she knows has opened anew in Jareth—a wound no healing can touch, not from gods, not from time, not from anything but the love that will have to fight to survive the emptiness of this death has carved into him. All around her, the mine feels vast and hollow, filled with shadows that stretch and linger, watching in silent sympathy but offering no comfort.
She bows her head, tears running unchecked down her cheeks. The grief pours out in shuddering breaths, every sob a release of something she cannot name. Thirsyn stays at her side, her presence anchoring Naomi even as her wings droop, dull and leaden, brushing the cold stone. The goddess's hand never leaves her shoulder, and together they mourn for the boy torn apart, the captain too young to bear it, and the crew that will never be the same.
In that dark, ancient mine, Naomi's grief is the only living thing. The echoes of her sorrow drift up toward the ceiling, mingling with the ghostly whispers that once filled the halls. The spirits remain silent, watching with empty eyes, and the goddess who holds her does not flinch from the weight of this mortal heartbreak. In the hush, the line between mortal and divine blurs, and for a moment, all that matters is the simple ache of loss, the starlit hand on her shoulder, and the hush that settles when tears run dry.
The cold air hangs thick in the tunnels, full of the copper tang of old blood and the ash-sweet chill that lingers after a spirit has passed through. Naomi stands in the thin, flickering torchlight, heart hammering so hard she feels it everywhere—her ribs, her throat, the arches of her bare feet pressed to the stone.
"Jareth!" she calls again, louder, voice pitching higher as her wings fan out behind her. The sound pulls at something in the dark, echoes off the walls, brings the answering clatter of boots. He nearly barrels through his own men, towering over them, eyes wild with hope and fear.
When he finally sees her, Jareth's steps falter. He looks as though he's not sure she's real, as if he's seeing a ghost or some wish born out of grief and guilt. The uncertainty lasts a heartbeat. Then he closes the distance with two long strides, arms scooping her up, crushing her to his chest with a kind of desperate strength. She lets out a small gasp—surprised by the force of it, by the heat of his trembling body.
Her feet swing clear off the ground, toes grazing the scuffed leather of his boots before she wraps her arms around his neck, clinging to him as if he might vanish. Jareth's hands move up and down her back, rough palms checking for injuries, for broken bones, for proof that she is solid and breathing and whole. He's never held her like this before, not with the crew looking, not with all the world watching, and for a moment even Naomi forgets to breathe.
When he pulls back, she catches his face in her hands, her fingers cool and gentle on his burning skin. Tears have carved bright tracks down his cheeks, catching in the scruff of his beard. His eyes, red and swollen, stare at her with such naked relief and pain that it breaks her heart a little. Naomi wipes a thumb over his cheek, voice trembling with the effort to sound brave. "You're okay," she whispers, nodding as if the words could make it true for both of them. "I'm okay. Really. Thorn's ring worked—kept me safe, just like he said."
He squeezes her tighter, as if he can press the fear out of his body by holding her close. She can feel his chest shuddering, his breath ragged. "Shouldn't have left you," he rasps, voice cracked and younger than any of the men have ever heard. "This place is wrong. Didn't know what'd happen—should've made you stay on the ship. Should've kept you safe."
Naomi shakes her head and smiles softly, her own tears shining in the low light. "I needed to be here. With you. I trust you, Jareth. And I'm still here." She looks down,
Noticing the grime and dried blood on his hands, the rough way his knuckles have split. She takes one in both of hers, pressing it between her palms until he looks at her. "You did your best. You always do."
He can't hold her gaze. There's a tremor in his jaw, and when he tries to pull back, Naomi keeps her grip steady, refusing to let him turn away. She brings his forehead to hers, closing her eyes. "We'll get out together. I know we will."
Behind them, the crew keeps a wary distance. Thorn lingers at the mouth of the tunnel, arms crossed, silent but smiling with relief. Borin stands watchful, making sure no one interrupts. None of them have ever seen their captain like this—broken open, crying, holding someone as if the world might end if he lets go.
Naomi finally steps back, brushing dirt from his coat, her thumb tracing a path over his collar. "You're still captain, you know," she whispers, letting the weight of that settle between them. "They all look to you. I do, too."
For a long moment, Jareth simply nods, too raw for words. He wipes his eyes on his sleeve, gruff and clumsy, then presses his forehead to hers again, as if by doing so he can anchor both of them here, in this one unbroken moment.
Naomi shifts in his arms, burying her face into the fabric of his coat as she tries to steady her voice. "I… I saw Thalro. I'm sorry you had to see that, Jareth." Her fingers shake as she wipes a tear streaking down his cheek, her palm warm against his cold skin. "If it… if it helps at all, I—" She falters, unsure if she should say it, her gaze dropping. "He's at peace. I promise you that. Duta, Dasmas, and Olnia—he's with them now." Her words come out trembling, as if she's afraid to make it real. She can feel him tense, shoulders bunching, the weight of it all bearing down. She knows that pain; knows it is a wound not easily soothed by words alone.
Jareth stands frozen for a moment, his grip tightening as the ache wells up again, raw and sharp. Tears burn in his eyes, but he blinks them back, jaw working. The image of Thalro—his friend, his crewmate—ripped from the world by something none of them understood, flickers through his mind again. He hates the helplessness most of all. Naomi's touch grounds him, her presence quiet and stubborn, refusing to let him drift into that dark place alone.
Her voice grows quieter as she presses closer. "We'll get the Heartstone, and then we leave. I don't want the Oath Tree anymore. I just want everyone safe. I just want you safe." She looks up at him, mauve eyes shining through her own tears, her voice carrying a strange, fragile hope. "That's all I want."
He shakes his head, a harsh laugh breaking out, rough and full of something he can't name. "You're barefoot, y'know that? Bare damn feet in a place like this." His hand moves to her shoulder, thumb tracing slow circles just to make sure she's really there, alive and solid and warm. "Ought to make you wear boots. World's too cruel for bare feet." His words are gruff, but they're full of tenderness, a kind he rarely lets slip.
Naomi tries to smile for him, her hands finding the sides of his face, cool fingers gentle against the bristle of his beard. "I'm alright. The Illyrasel kept me safe. Thorn was right. I always feel the difference when I step out of it." She brushes away another tear, voice firmer now. "You don't have to worry about me. Not so much. I'm here. I'm not hurt. We're together, Jareth."
He bows his head, pressing his forehead to hers for a breath. "I always worry about you. It's just what I do." His voice is nearly a whisper, full of things he's never been able to say.
A hush settles between them, heavy and deep, carrying the sorrow and all the exhaustion of the past hours. Somewhere in the dark, the others call out for their captain, their voices bouncing off stone and bone, pulling Jareth back to himself. He blinks, breathes out hard, and finally lets her go—though not all the way, one big hand staying at the small of her back, needing the reassurance of her presence.
Naomi, still trembling, gives him a shaky smile. "We'll get through this. I promise." She laces her fingers with his, their hands tight, as if neither wants to let go.
The mine seems darker than before, the grief hanging in the stale air, the echoes of the dead close at hand. Yet, in this small space, with Naomi pressed to him and her certainty ringing in his ears, Jareth finds something that almost feels like hope. He wipes the last of his tears with the back of his hand and squares his shoulders, voice rough as gravel but steady. "Let's go. They need us. And I'll be damned if I let this cursed place take anyone else."
He keeps Naomi close as they move down the hall, every step forward a quiet act of defiance against the darkness, against grief, against everything that tried to tear them apart. Their shadows flicker across the stone, and for a moment, as they vanish into the gloom, the world feels just a little less broken.
Fenn straightens a little at Naomi's gentle touch, brushing the last speck of dust from his shoulder. He stares up at her, cheeks colouring beneath the layer of grime, then lets his gaze dart away. "Not much you missed, miss," he manages, trying for cheer. "Mostly just Captain barking at everyone to keep moving, Morveth squinting at walls like they're going to talk back, and the rest of us wishing we'd brought a second shirt." He glances at her bare feet, curiosity sparking, but he doesn't dare say anything—he's heard Jareth snap enough times about her shoes.
At the front, Jareth's hand lingers at the small of Naomi's back, a constant reassurance as the corridor widens and swallows them in shadows. "Keep close, Naomi," he mutters, eyes shifting across the black stone. "These halls bite harder than anything we've faced at sea." He watches the flicker of lantern light glinting off a patch of quartz in the wall, nostrils flaring as he tastes the air; hot, stifling, and tinged with metal. He resists the urge to wipe the sweat from his brow, unwilling to show any sign of weakness in front of the crew.
Borin grumbles as he passes, thumping his axe against a loose stone. "We found another vault door back there," he reports, voice pitched low. "Looks sealed tight. Too heavy for ghosts, too ancient for most locks. Might be where the old clan tried to hide when the end came." His gaze finds Naomi for a moment, concern creasing his face. "You look pale, lass. If the poison gets worse, you call out. No shame in it."
Naomi nods, swallowing the pressure building in her chest. She hovers an inch above the floor, wings keeping her afloat. For a heartbeat, she closes her eyes, letting the cool shimmer of air beneath her toes shield her from the burning stone. The sense of dread crawls up her spine; every distant echo makes her flinch. Thorn strolls by, hands in his pockets, and tosses her a crooked grin. "Missed a fine display, Naomi—Captain here nearly fell on his arse when a ghost clattered a chain at him. Braver than most, but I reckon even giants don't like things that rattle in the dark."
The line draws a snort from Morveth, who stands tall and broad beside the tunnel's entrance, eyes ever watchful. "We're not lost, if that's what you're wondering. I can smell the fire up ahead. Wyrm's heart must be close." His voice rumbles with certainty, but his fists clench and unclench at his sides.
Naomi glides forward, catching the attention of a few other crewmen—Neddin, Berin, even Loddin—who all quickly look away, afraid of whatever magic might cling to her after the ring. Fenn follows her with a mixture of relief and unease, clearly more comfortable with Naomi in sight than with only Jareth's gruff commands.
She turns, letting her eyes sweep over each face. "Thank you, Fenn," she says softly, trying to put the boy at ease. "And thank all of you for looking after each other. We'll be out of here soon." The words float in the heavy air, a fragile hope.
Jareth grunts, rubbing his palm against his coat. "Just stay with me, all of you. No one gets left behind." He shoots Thorn a look, and the fae responds with a lopsided shrug. "Don't worry, Captain. I know how to keep my head down. Mostly."
Silence settles in as they walk, broken only by the soft flutter of Naomi's wings and the shuffling of boots on stone. The poison in the air grows thicker, and every breath tastes of old ash. Naomi presses on, refusing to let the darkness swallow her courage. She keeps Jareth within arm's reach, determined not to lose him in the gloom.
Borin leads the way, axe at the ready, every sense straining for trouble. He glances back now and then, checking on Naomi, then at Jareth—searching for signs that either might falter. Fenn shuffles close to Naomi, shoulders hunched, trying to make himself small.
No one speaks for a long stretch, each step echoing louder as if the mine itself resents their presence. Naomi feels eyes on her; shadows shifting just beyond sight, silent witnesses to the living. But she holds her chin high, knowing the crew draws comfort from her calm. They move as a single body, united by loss and hope, pushing forward into the unknown, carried by the faintest thread of starlight that lingers at Naomi's back.
The path narrows, forcing the crew to move in a staggered line. Naomi floats along just above the dust, her wings beating slow and steady, brushing old cobwebs from the air. She glances between Tomas and Jareth, noticing the subtle way both men scan the shadowed corners, eyes sharp in a way that feels almost inhuman. Lantern light glimmers across ancient carvings, each detail leaping out in relief for the two Thrundeli, while most others squint or stumble, lost in the thick gloom.
Naomi keeps close to Tomas, watching the way his gaze picks out faint patterns in the stone that she can barely discern. With dark hair tied at the nape, his face carries a patience she rarely sees in the rest of the crew. After a long silence, she finds her voice, weaving it into the hush.
"I… I wanted to ask, Tomas," she says, her tone hesitant but curious, "Why do you and Jareth see better than the rest of us? Even me. Everything's clearer for you, isn't it?"
Tomas slows, adjusting his grip on his weapon, eyes flicking to Naomi with quiet consideration. For a moment he seems to measure her, weighing her need to know against the habits of a lifetime spent keeping such things private. Eventually, he speaks, voice soft enough to vanish under the heavy air.
"Thrundeli eyes are built for places like this," Tomas explains, one hand tracing a hairline crack that runs like a vein through the wall. "Stonework, metalwork, anything that hides its secrets up close. We see in the dark, spot flaws others miss. My grandfather said it was our gift and our wall. Sight for the now, not for what's far away."
She nods, listening, her eyes flicking to the glow of a moss patch, then back to Tomas. He continues, quieter, "Jareth's got a sharper edge to his sight, but he has something extra. We call it Split-Eye. Makes the lines bend, doubles the marks—harder for him than for most. Helps with some things, hurts with others. Not every Thrundeli has it. He hides it, best he can."
A pause drifts between them. Naomi's thoughts catch on the memory of Jareth and his glasses, the way he'd snapped them open and muttered, "Stonewall sight's a curse on old blood. These help with the details." Even then, he'd watched her for a reaction, not wanting her pity or her questions, just a quick understanding and silence.
Tomas glances forward, eyes lingering on Jareth's silhouette. "He'll glare at me if I say more. He's proud, but not foolish. He's got tools, habits. Knows how to cover it up when he needs to."
Naomi's face softens. "He doesn't like anyone knowing. I remember the first time he showed me those glasses. Thought I'd laugh at him." She smiles at the memory, small and secret. "But it just made me feel closer. No one's perfect."
The mine around them seems to hush, as if listening. Tomas's lips twitch with a subtle smile, one Naomi wouldn't have caught if she weren't watching so closely. "You asked a good question," he tells her. "I suppose it's easier to keep going when you know why you see things differently. Most of the crew don't notice, but it's the reason Jareth and I walk in front."
She gives a quiet nod, wings fluttering as she floats a little higher. "Thank you, Tomas. For telling me." The weight of the secret feels lighter between them now, and she tucks it away, a private thread of trust woven through the darkness.
Their footsteps echo onward, the path bending deeper into old stone. Ahead, Jareth glances back, meeting Naomi's gaze for a heartbeat before looking away, something complicated flickering behind his eyes. She wonders if he knows how much she understands, how much she notices; the quiet aches, the fierce pride, the ways he keeps moving, even when the world blurs at the edges.
A hush sweeps through the tunnel, thickening the air as Morveth's shout draws every gaze. Naomi freezes, wings trembling, as lantern light flickers in uneasy hands. Morveth, usually one of the quieter figures among the crew, stands out now—his whole body rigid, copper hair plastered to his brow, jaw set like stone. A faint shimmer crosses his irises, betraying his Wyvern lineage, as he presses both palms to the rough wall. Steam seems to rise in the cramped dark, the scent of minerals sharpening into something acrid.
Jareth moves toward him, boots crunching grit, posture wary. Every line of his frame says he's ready to draw steel, but what confronts them isn't something he can cut down. "Morv? Talk to me. What are you feeling?"
For a heartbeat, Morveth's lips press into a hard line. He draws a breath through his teeth, and the words come slow, as if he's weighing each one. "This isn't what I expected. There's heat, but it's strange. When you get close to magma or a Heartstone, you feel the burn right there, underfoot. Here, it rolls through the air, crawls under your skin, but never settles." He pulls his hand away, fingers twitching. "I grew up learning how to tell fire from stone, but this… it's wrong. Like fire with no flame."
Reddin the Bramble, with his patchwork vest and quick, darting eyes, shifts on his feet. "Could it be some sort of vent, then? Or a spell left to scare folks off?" He tries to keep his tone even, but the tremor in his voice betrays the knot of fear tightening in his chest.
Morveth doesn't look at him, instead staring into the gloom as sweat beads on his brow. "If it was just a vent, you'd smell sulphur, feel it rising from one spot. But this…" He trails off, eyes narrowing. "This heat breathes. It moves with us, like it's waiting for something."
The crew closes ranks. Tomas scans the ceiling, hand on the hilt of his heavy blade. Vaelorin, one of the Elven chart keepers, squints into the black, lips moving in a silent prayer. Even Borin's bravado dims as he wipes sweat from his nose, glancing at Jareth for direction.
Naomi drifts a little higher, peering ahead into the twisting dark. She feels the pressure now, a pulse under her skin, prickling along her nerves. The tunnel walls sweat, veins of glimmering ore slick with moisture. Every breath tastes of ash and copper, catching rough in her throat. Heat seeps up through her feet, and the longer they stand, the more it steals strength from her wings.
Morveth shakes his head, uncertain. "A Heartstone's warmth is steady. This is like standing in the breath of a dragon, just before it decides whether to burn you alive or let you go." His words hang heavy, coiling in the silence that follows.
Jareth turns, his voice rough. "No wandering. Nobody so much as brushes the wall without telling me. I want eyes sharp and feet light. If anyone feels the heat spike, or sees something the rest of us don't—speak up. We go slow and close, and nobody gets clever."
Tomas steps forward, boots scraping on slick stone, his gaze lingering on Morveth. "If it moves with us, then it's waiting. Or watching."
The lanterns flicker again, as if a wind passes, though the air stands thick and stifling. Sweat beads along Naomi's temples, and the wings at her back feel heavier, weighed by more than exhaustion. She glances around, catching the faces of her crewmates; fear written bold in every line, from elves to orcs to halflings.
Borin shifts his grip on his axe, trying for humour. "If we get out of here alive, I'll buy ye a round, Morveth. Ye can tell us more about fire that breathes."
Morveth gives a dry, humourless snort. "If we get out."
The crew presses onward, each step more cautious than the last. The heat presses in, an invisible tide, forcing every living thing closer together as if herding them toward something unseen. The tunnel narrows, stones gleaming wet and red in the uncertain light, and ahead, somewhere beyond vision, something waits: hungry, patient, and very much aware of every breath they take.
Every man and woman in the tunnel feels that hush as a living thing; something coiled and patient, watching them. Lantern light shrinks back from the corridor, drawing tight shadows that creep along the cragged walls and settle on the faces of the crew. Even the strongest among them, those who've braved siege fire and kraken storms, now seem small beneath the ancient, suffocating dark.
A single bead of sweat crawls down Morveth's temple, vanishing in the collar of his shirt. His tail, half-glimpsed beneath his cloak, flicks in agitation as he edges back, lips parted, breath coming short and harsh. Further down the line, Kellam, one of the newer humans, shifts restlessly from foot to foot. His fingers tighten on a rusted cutlass, knuckles pale, but he doesn't dare speak again. The echo of Harvin's muttered prayer hovers in the silence, carried by a dozen men who have no gods left to trust.
Every sound in the mine feels amplified: the distant groan of settling timbers, the irregular drip of water, the hard, wet swallow of someone trying not to choke on fear. Tomas leans forward ever so slightly, onyx eyes locked to the dark, brow furrowed in calculation. Naomi hovers just behind Jareth, wings trembling, senses aflame with the smell of old magic and scorched earth. Even Thorn, never one to lose his poise, looks uneasy as the heat presses in, skin damp with sweat that glistens along his sharp jaw.
Borin shifts his stance, axe hanging ready at his side. The Bramling's eyes are sharp, never straying far from Jareth's profile. He knows the captain's tension, sees how Jareth's jaw works, and notes the faint tremor in his broad shoulders—more than vigilance, something close to dread.
Farther back, two of the orcs, Drumm and Skarn, quietly exchange glances, lips peeled back in silent warning. Even the brambles fall silent, Reddin's earlier bravado vanished, leaving only wide eyes and hurried breaths. A damp chill seeps into boots and under collars, mingling with the furnace heat radiating from deeper in the mine. Somewhere close, a faint ringing starts in the ears, a trick of nerves or something far older.
The stranger's form grows clearer with each step; a silhouette impossibly tall and warped by chains, broad as any giant but carrying the weight of something more than flesh. His movements are unnatural, smooth but heavy, as if each footfall shakes loose the memory of every death that happened here. Flickers of firelight reveal glimpses of twisted scars on skin that doesn't seem wholly alive, and the scent of charred blood fills the air. The stranger's hair, black as a starless void, hangs lank across his brow. His eyes, set deep and ancient, gleam with something cruel, an anger older than language.
Every heartbeat draws the crew closer to panic. Fenn stares, frozen, mouth open in a silent plea as Naomi draws him back by the sleeve. Jareth stands taller, making himself a wall between the figure and his people, the broad line of his back steady, but sweat runs from his brow all the same. He risks a look behind, giving a wordless command for the others to keep their distance.
No one breathes deeply. No one blinks. In the shrinking glow of lanterns, the figure's chains rattle with every step, a low and terrible music that promises nothing good. The tunnel feels smaller now, pressed in on all sides by a weight that has nothing to do with earth or stone. Even time itself seems to slow, each moment stretching, waiting for someone—anyone—to move first.
The stranger does not hurry. He does not falter. Every step he takes is claimed by the mine as if it's his by right. The old, cold gods feel close in the hush, and every soul in the crew, for the first time in a long while, prays silently for light.
Stone grinds beneath the newcomer's boots, old gold and blackened iron leaving streaks along the mine floor. His approach is slow, unhurried, the deliberate stride of a thing that has not been rushed in centuries. Chains drag behind, the links gouging the stone with a sound that sets every tooth on edge. Lantern light glances off ruined flesh—pale, knotted scars ridged over muscles that look too dense, almost carved from bone and ash. Some wounds gape raw, never quite healing, and the dark stains of old blood mar his exposed skin, glinting dully in the shadows.
Each step seems to weigh heavier than the last, pressing the very earth beneath his feet. The air draws close, thick as mud, and for a moment it feels as if the mine itself is shrinking, trying to pull away from his presence. The tattered remnants of his robes—what might once have been regal—drag along behind, blue and white threads catching the meagre light. They shimmer faintly, constellations stitched in silver and gold now reduced to broken, tangled knots. The fabric clings to his frame as though afraid to let go.
A heavy ring of ancient, misshapen keys dangles at his waist, the metal dulled and pitted with rust. Each key is a different shape—some delicate as a faerie's finger-bone, others jagged and cruel. The chain at his throat glimmers with a single, massive fang, worn smooth by centuries of touch. No one needs to say that it's not an animal's tooth; the way it glows tells its own story.
Jareth's shadow cuts across the stone, a silent warning between the intruder and the rest of his crew. Every muscle in his body coils tight, sword poised to block, strike, or die on the spot. The space behind him becomes a shelter. Naomi held in the narrow safety of his frame, while Tomas, Borin, and Morveth form a living barricade at his back. All bravado has vanished from the crew, replaced by a thick, animal fear that seeps through the ranks. Reddin clings to his lantern, knuckles white, lips working soundlessly. Even the bravest are silenced.
The newcomer pauses just at the edge of the lantern glow. Eyes black as burnt coals scan the faces before him, and for a breathless moment, his ruined mouth curls into a smile, sharp and mirthless. His voice scrapes through the silence, cold and ancient, the sound so dry it seems to flake away even as he speaks. There is no language Naomi knows, only the deep, shuddering pulse of something that predates speech.
Shadows lengthen, crawling up the walls, clinging to the boots of every crewman. Nails bite into palms, beads of sweat run into eyes that dare not blink. Borin stands steady, axe in hand, his jaw set in grim defiance. Kellam mutters something to himself, a plea to any god who might still listen, though the words falter and die in his throat.
No one moves. No one even breathes. It is as if the mine has become a grave, holding them all in that first moment before the coffin closes. Each heartbeat is a drum in the silence, louder and louder until it is almost unbearable.
The stranger's chains rattle once more, echoing into the endless black, and Naomi feels the taste of copper on her tongue. Every instinct screams at her to flee, but Jareth's back is firm and steady in front of her, a wall she trusts not to fall.
Lantern light shivers across the floor as the stranger comes to a stop, his shadow thrown huge and warped across the tunnel walls. The air tightens with every heartbeat. His presence is wrong, bruising, like a splinter driven beneath the skin of the earth. All around, the crew shrinks back, boots scraping, weapons at the ready but hands trembling. Even the bravest among them look to Jareth for what to do next.
Jareth sets his stance, towering but young, the sword drawn with purpose but not bravado. He squares his shoulders, keeping Naomi behind him, and forces his voice to cut through the stagnant air. "Who the hell are you?" The question rings out, every word edged with the command of a captain, but there's a raw, restless note beneath it—a flicker of uncertainty that only Borin and Naomi could hear.
Chains rasp as the stranger's head tilts, his gaze dragging over Jareth and the crew like a butcher sizing up livestock. His eyes shine with a hatred so old it has fermented into something almost sweet. Then, with no warning, he throws back his head and laughs, the sound cracking like a rusted bell in the blackness. It's not the laughter of a man. It's the jagged outpouring of a soul left to rot for centuries, torn up by bitterness and a wound that never healed.
"Who am I?" he spits, words thick with venom and spit. "You look at me and see a man in rags and chains. You think that's all there is? Gods, you're even dumber than you look. What do they teach you in those pretty little cities now—how to beg? How to die with your boots on?" The mockery in his voice rolls through the mine, scraping nerves raw. He jerks at his shackles, making the iron scream. A few men flinch, but no one dares to run.
He stalks closer, dragging the stink of burnt metal and old blood behind him. "You want a name? You want a story for your bedtime? There were ages when my name made the moon hide and the sea boil. My kin lit the sky on fire. I had power, I had worship, I had a throne made from the bones of those who crossed me. And now—" He bares his teeth, voice twisting into a growl. "Now I rot in the dirt, forgotten, chained by cowards and liars who couldn't look me in the eye as they threw me down."
His hand lifts, chains jangling, pointing at Jareth with a knotted, burned finger. "You think you're the first to lose everything? Think you're the first to wear exile like a crown? Boy, I've been here longer than you were swimming around in your father's balls. I was here before your ship's timbers even grew roots. You think your pain is special? You don't know what pain is."
A deep breath rattles in his lungs; the sound dry and ancient. "You want the Heartstone? You want to play at hero? I have seen braver men than you try to steal from this tomb. I have seen children of gods reduced to screaming meat." He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper that cuts sharper than any scream. "We are not so different, you and me. Both broken. Both cast aside. Both left with nothing but memories and scars. They called me traitor, murderer, worse—left me here to stew in what I'd done. What did they call you, boy, when they drove you out?"
Jareth's jaw works, rage and shame twisting in his chest. His sword is steady, but his knuckles are white, breath caught tight in his throat. Behind him, Naomi stares, wide-eyed, at the horror before them.
The stranger's laugh slithers through the heat, echoing back on itself. "No answer? That's the way of it. The world forgets, but the walls remember. The bones remember. You'll remember, too, Captain—every mistake, every face you couldn't save. That's what this place does. It grinds you down until you're nothing but regret and bone."
He lets the silence hang, chains swaying gently. The Wyrm lurking somewhere deeper in the mine lets out a guttural rumble, as if in agreement. All the while, the stranger's eyes burn holes in Jareth's armour, and every man in the crew feels their courage shrivel.
At last, the stranger gives a smile that is all hate and broken teeth. "Welcome to my hell, boy. Let's see what you bleed."
Lanterns flicker and retreat into deeper shadow as Naomi studies the twisted man before her. She blinks, heart hammering, a memory from the Spirit Tree vision clawing to the surface. She remembers a face carved by pride and fury, handsome and godlike, a betrayer's face. Now, the same features stare back at her—ravaged by time and hate, but unmistakable in the tilt of the jaw and the gleam of malice.
"Jareth…" Naomi's whisper barely carries, but the fear in her voice is enough to draw his attention. "I know him. From before. He was—I saw him when I touched the tree. He did something terrible." Her voice shakes as she looks back at the figure. "He killed someone. I—he's not a man."
The stranger fixes his gaze on Naomi, his eyes glowing with a cruel delight. Each word lands like a stiff hand on her throat. "Ah, the little Sylvani remembers," he sneers. "You're sharper than most. Most fae die before the memories reach them. You taste it, don't you? The island digging under your skin, eating away at your soul. You can already feel the weakness in your veins."
He moves forward, dragging his chains, each clink setting the crew further on edge. His voice slides from mocking to hungry, every syllable drawn out with relish. "How many of your kind have rotted here, faerie? You will not be the last."
Jareth takes a single step forward, planting his boots with all the stubborn weight of his Thrundeli blood. The sword rests easily in his massive hand, but his gaze burns brighter than the edge of any steel. He spits, the sound sharp and contemptuous. "You talk too much for a ghost with nothin' left but chains and rot. Maybe you should try dyin' with some dignity this time." His words cut through the hush, tone so defiant it's almost reckless.
A shudder passes through the stranger's ruined body, the last shreds of humanity burned away from rage. His eyes widen, black and endless, and the skin along his neck splits as something inside him fights to be free. Bones crack. Flesh bulges and sags, then splits open in a dozen places. From his jaw and ears, from the hollows of his eyes, thick cords of darkness slide forth. They writhe like living tar, twisting and unfurling with a slow, gluttonous hunger.
Each tendril glistens as it stretches, damp and black as old oil. Some crawl over his cheeks, pushing aside torn skin, while others coil down his arms and split his fingertips, curling out from beneath his nails. More rupture from his ribs and spine, slithering down his back in a curtain of slick, undulating shadow. The smell that pours out is fetid and chemical, enough to make stomachs twist and eyes water. It is the stink of rot, of centuries trapped in a grave, of all the things that never found peace.
He arches his back, chains rattling, and the tendrils snake outward along the floor, seeking. They creep between boots, stroke across the stones, and curl lovingly around bits of broken bone. Naomi recoils, wings pressed tight against her back, fighting the urge to gag as the darkness stretches toward her.
Crewmen scatter, all bravery forgotten in the face of this living horror. Morveth, eyes wide and shining, lets out a strangled hiss, hands braced for a fight. Reddin, frozen where he stands, presses himself against the wall, every ounce of colour drained from his face. Tomas's jaw tightens, eyes never leaving the creature, axe trembling slightly in his grip.
Jareth does not move, though his jaw clenches so hard it aches. He does not let his crew see fear. "You want us?" he growls, voice hoarse and raw. "You'll have to do better than old parlour tricks." The air itself seems to warp, thick with the stink of old gods and bad blood. Every shadow on the wall crawls with movement, every echo in the tunnel carries the threat of violence.
The creature—once a man, now nothing but hunger and venom—draws himself up, the single fang at his throat catching the lantern's dying light. His voice gurgles out, thick and furious. "I have waited longer than you will ever live, little captain. I will peel your name from your bones and wear your fear like a crown."
Jareth's shout blasts through the chaos, raw and commanding. He charges forward, voice booming with a fury that cuts through terror like an axe through bone. "Blades out! Strike for your lives! Don't let them near you!" The crew rallies, every man and woman gripping weapons so tightly their knuckles bleach white, throwing themselves at the writhing blackness that pours from the stranger's body.
Steel flashes in every direction. Cutlasses, axes, pikes—they hack and hew at the living tendrils, slicing through slick coils that whip out with impossible speed. Each severed limb gushes tar-black blood, staining the floor in oily rivulets, filling the tunnel with the stench of burning iron and old graves. The shouts of the crew become a wall of noise, curses and battle cries mixing with the shrill sound of blades glancing off stone and bone.
Naomi hovers above the melee, eyes wide with horror. Her wings tremble, too frightened to flutter, holding her a hand-span above the ground. The press of bodies, the crash of metal, the hot, breathless air make every second dizzying. Sweat beads at her brow, sticking her dark hair to her temples, and the air thickens with a copper tang she tastes on her tongue.
A scream cuts through the uproar—a high, terrible sound. One of the crew is surprised, a thick tendril snapping around his ankle and hauling him from his feet. He claws at the stone, boot heels leaving streaks as he is dragged backwards, but another tendril flashes through the dark and loops around his throat. Naomi watches, frozen and helpless, as the monstrous limb tightens. The man's eyes bulge, his mouth working for breath, but there is no mercy. A brutal twist. The sound is sickening—a wet pop, a spray of blood, and his head wrenches free. It tumbles across the stone, coming to rest at Naomi's bare feet. The body is left crumpled, twitching, emptied of life.
For a moment, time slows. As Naomi's vision narrows, the world reduced to the slack-jawed mask at her toes, its lips twisted in a last, silent plea. Blood seeps between her toes, warm and sticky, and she finds she cannot move, cannot even scream.
All around her, the battle grows more frantic. Crewmen duck and weave, blades red with gore, faces twisted in terror. Shadows surge and fall. Morveth spits fire from between his teeth, eyes wild, while Tomas lays about with his war-hammer, every swing leaving deep dents in the darkness. Reddin, the Bramble, slips in blood and is yanked upright by Borin, who shouts orders in a voice pitched with desperation.
Jareth fights at the front, his sword cutting down tendril after tendril. He throws himself between Naomi and the creature, shielding her with his bulk. The stranger's laughter fills the tunnel, ringing from every wall, taunting them as they struggle. "You think you can save them?" he sneers, voice raw and inhuman. "You will all join the bones beneath this island."
Naomi clutches the wall, tears streaming down her cheeks. As the heat rises, the air thick with the stink of blood, rot, and unspent magic. Every sense screams for escape, but her feet refuse to move. All she can do is watch as another crewman falls, his life torn away in a spray of shadow and red, while the head beside her stares upward, blank and unseeing.
Naomi hovers in place for a single, desperate heartbeat, caught between terror and the need to act. The carnage around her closes in, bodies crumpled on the stone and screams ricocheting from wall to wall. She blinks away tears, biting hard on her lip until she tastes blood. She knows if she falters, even for a moment, someone else will die. So she forces herself to move.
Her wings flare, carrying her in a blur above the writhing black tendrils. She dodges wild lashes of living shadow, heat prickling along her skin and the smell of burning hair thick in the air. Crewmen yell and curse as the monster's laughter rolls over them like a wave. Naomi sees an opening—a narrow path between a toppled column and the slick, stinking pile of corpses. She darts through, feet barely touching stone.
Her mind is blank with fear, every thought replaced by the urge to reach the Wyrm heart. A part of her clings to the hope that, if she can just get to it, something will change. She does not let herself look at the faces of the fallen, cannot bear to see eyes that will never close.
A sudden, brutal scream pulls her gaze to the left. Borin is down, caught beneath the swing of a massive tendril. The world narrows to a single moment—Borin's face twisted in pain, blood gushing from what's left of his leg, the thing's black flesh writhing around him. Naomi does not think. She dives, wings straining, her body landing hard on the ground beside him. Hands scramble over his shirt, searching for wounds she can heal, but the truth is already written in blood on the stone.
"Borin!" The word tears from her throat. "Borin, stay with me!" She presses both hands to the stump where his leg ends, light flickering at her palms as she tries to call up whatever healing magic remains. It's no use—the poison in the air, the deep, twisting shadows, the sheer violence of the wound all fight her at once. Her magic sputters, fading out before it can knit bone or muscle. Her breath hitches, chest tight, panic threatening to overwhelm.
Borin's face, grey with pain and shock, still manages a thin, lopsided smile. He reaches up and touches her wrist with a hand sticky from his own blood. "Sprite," he mutters, voice shaking but still stubborn, "go. Can't waste yerself on me." His eyes flick to the battle, to the others who need help. "You find that heart. Do what you came for."
Naomi shakes her head, tears slipping free as she struggles to focus on anything but the horror at her feet. "I can't… I can't just leave you—"
Naomi's vision blurs as she struggles to keep her wits. The chaos in the tunnel churns all around her: the clang of weapons on stone, the shrieks of men swallowed by shadow, the monstrous roar that rattles her teeth. Borin lies crumpled on the ground, half-pinned by debris, his leg a ruin of bone and shredded flesh. Blood pools out, hot and sticky, staining the ancient dust. Naomi's hands tremble as she presses them to the wound, magic sparking weakly and failing, the corruption in the air snuffing it out before it can take hold.
A sob claws out of her throat. "Borin, please—hold on!" The Brambling's eyes are half-shut, mouth twisted in pain. He tries to lift himself, but sinks back, face ashen and slick with sweat.
Naomi glances up, frantic, searching for help in the haze of battle. She spots Thorn darting along the edge of the cavern, keeping to the shadows, blade flashing as he watches for crew who fall behind. "Thorn!" she cries, her voice ragged with desperation, the sound barely carrying above the din. "Get over here—now! Help me! Take Borin back to the ship—please! Wren can help him just get him out!"
The lookout reacts at once, ducking a swipe from a stray tendril before scrambling to her side. His face is pale, eyes wide at the sight of Borin's leg. For a moment, he falters, but Naomi's voice cuts through the panic. "You have to—please, Thorn! Get him to the Sunlit Rose! If anyone can save him, it's Wren. Just—just go!"
Borin, teeth gritted, tries to argue, but Thorn doesn't waste a second. He grabs Borin under the arms, hauling him up despite the older man's protests and curses. Naomi helps as much as she can, hands pressed to Borin's chest, wings trembling with the effort. The smell of blood and burnt air makes her dizzy.
"Don't you dare let go of him!" Naomi pleads, voice cracking as she meets Thorn's eyes. "Don't leave him behind, not here, not like this."
Thorn nods, jaw clenched, and half-drags, half-carries Borin away from the fight, weaving through the chaos as best he can. Naomi tries to cover them, standing between them and the nightmare creature for a few moments longer, wings outstretched and body quaking, tears streaming down her face. "Go! Run!" she shouts, watching until they vanish into the darkness beyond, heading toward the distant, faint hope of the surface and the safety of their ship.
Thorn vanishes down the tunnel, Borin's weight slung awkwardly over his shoulder. Naomi's eyes follow them until the pair are swallowed by the darkness, their shapes shrinking to nothing beneath the raw, flickering light. A thin, broken wail escapes her, but it's lost in the bedlam that fills the cavern.
She hovers where she landed, breath shallow and hands pressed hard to her lips, desperate to quiet the rising sob. Around her, chaos reigns. The floor is a sprawl of the dead and dying—crewmen who only hours ago joked and grumbled, their bodies twisted in shapes that speak of fear, of sudden pain. Ash smears the stones, streaked with blood that catches the lamplight in dull, glimmering pools. Bits of torn cloth and splintered wood drift through the haze, settling atop arms and faces that will never move again.
Everywhere she looks, the wreckage grows. Halflings, elves, and Brambles lie side by side with orcs and dwarves, the boundaries between them erased by violence. The copper stench of blood is thick as syrup, mixing with the burnt tang of magic and the heavy musk of terror. Her vision blurs, tears stinging her eyes as she tries not to count the fallen. Some are missing limbs; others are half-buried beneath broken timbers or slumped together, their fingers still tangled in weapons or each other's clothes.
Somewhere in the distance, the great beast lets out another roar, deep enough to shake dust from the ceiling, loud enough to make Naomi's teeth ache. Its echo is answered by the desperate yells of her crew, voices cracking as they fight not just the monster, but the madness of the island itself. The sound of steel on stone, the scrape of boots dragging bodies, the moans of the wounded; every noise stacks atop the last, building a wall of dread that makes it hard to breathe.
Naomi's wings tremble against her back, sticky with sweat and flecked with soot. She wants to run. She wants to fly back to the safety of the Illyrasel, or after Thorn and Borin, or anywhere that isn't here among the carnage. The urge to flee is primal, a scream in her blood. But the memory of Thalro's broken body, and the look in Jareth's eyes when she found him, roots her to the spot.
For a long moment, she stands among the corpses, shivering. She tries to catch her breath, to steady her racing thoughts. The promise of the Heartstone—of warmth, of survival—feels almost meaningless against the price they've paid. Still, some stubborn spark in her chest refuses to let go. If she gives in to panic, there will be no one left to help the others. She swallows hard, wipes her tears with the back of her hand, and forces herself to move forward.
Each step is agony, but she glides across the stone, hovering just above the ruin, careful not to touch the ground. She steps over the bodies of friends and strangers alike, whispering silent apologies, her voice catching with every name that dies on her lips. There is no comfort here, only the grim reality that she must keep going, that someone has to survive; if only to remember.
Light shivers ahead, beckoning her deeper into the heart of the mine. Naomi sets her jaw and pushes on, mourning every life spent on the pyre of the gods' cruelty, praying that what little courage she has left will carry her through the darkness to come.
Steel flashes in the murk as Jareth drives his blade through another whipping mass of shadow. The air is thick with the stench of rot, every swing tearing through tendrils that erupt from the stranger's body, black as pitch and twice as fast. Each cut sends splatters of oily ichor across Jareth's arms and chest, sticking to his skin and soaking into the fabric of his coat. It drips down his jaw, bitter and cold, reeking of old magic and something fouler.
He doesn't let it slow him. Boots planted wide, shoulders hunched, he slashes again, splitting a snaking appendage just as it lashes for his neck. The weight of his broadsword strains the muscles in his arms, but he moves like the weapon is part of him, built for this sort of brutal, up-close war. Tendrils hiss as they strike the ground where he stood a heartbeat before, gouging furrows in the stone.
All around him, the crew battles for their lives, but the stranger's focus stays fixed on Jareth. Chains drag with each step the thing takes, grinding sparks from the cavern floor. The man's ruined mouth pulls back in a sneer, exposing teeth stained black, his laughter bubbling up like tar. "Think you can bleed me, boy?" The words are a dare, guttural and wild, echoing through the chaos.
Another lash whips toward Jareth's waist, forcing him to twist, sword rising in a brutal arc. He grunts with effort, the blade biting deep into flesh not quite mortal, the sound a wet crack. Black blood splatters across his cheek and into his beard, sticky as glue. Each drop that touches his skin burns faintly, a sensation like frostbite mixed with fever.
He spits, clearing the taste of death from his mouth, then steps forward, pushing the attack. Muscles flex beneath his coat, every movement practiced from years of fights that left him scarred but not beaten. Stonewall sight keeps his focus tight—he reads the rhythm of the tendrils, tracks their movement through shadows and glimmers. Up close, the stranger's skin looks like old candle wax, puckered where wounds have never healed, a living warning that whatever god once ruled this flesh is gone.
Jareth swings low, blade carving a clean path through a cluster of writhing limbs. Each one falls twitching to the stone, still reaching for his boots. He stomps on one, grinding it beneath his heel, and a shudder passes through the entire tunnel, as if the island itself feels the pain.
Roaring in his fury, Jareth brings the sword around again. This time, the steel bites into the stranger's collarbone, wedging deep. The thing staggers, but instead of falling, it grins wider, ichor pouring from the wound. "You bleed, too," it rasps, voice cracking like a bone. "All you little kings bleed, and it's never enough."
Sweat trickles down Jareth's back; the heat suffocating, the stink unbearable. He knows he can't let up. Not for a second. He swings again, breaking through another mass of black, ignoring the spray of foulness that splashes his arms. The sword grows slick in his grip, but he holds fast, refusing to step back, eyes narrowed, every breath a vow to hold this line no matter the cost.
With each blow, the black ooze climbs higher, painting him in streaks of death and defiance. The stranger's laughter falters, replaced by a guttural growl. Still, Jareth fights on, every muscle burning, every movement a testament to stubborn, desperate will. For a moment, there is nothing but him, the stranger, and the relentless, choking dark, where only one of them will come out standing.
Jareth barrels forward, boots pounding over the broken stone. Every instinct screams to keep a distance, but he ignores it, drawing on the raw force that has always set him apart. He pushes past another lash of tendrils, shoving the blade aside with his free hand. Thick, oozing black splatters across his chest as he muscles closer, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the stranger.
A guttural roar tears from his throat as he slams a shoulder into the creature's midsection, throwing every pound of muscle into the impact. The force sends the man crashing backward, chains clattering across the stone. For a split second, the world tilts—the cavern shakes as the stranger's back hits the ground, sending up a spray of dust and ancient bone.
Jareth doesn't wait for a reaction. He straddles the man's chest, knees braced tight on either side, one massive hand clamped down on the tattered rags at the stranger's throat. His broadsword rises, catching the glimmer of lantern light, and then he drives it down hard. The blade sinks deep, cutting through flesh that's cold and rubbery, not like any living thing he's ever fought. Black blood bursts up around the wound, burning as it lands on his skin, but he stabs again, and again, each thrust more desperate, more brutal.
The stranger's body convulses under him, but the eyes don't blink. Chains writhe, scraping against Jareth's shins, trying to coil and pull him away. He digs in, pinning the thing down with all his weight, slamming the sword through chest, shoulder, stomach. No matter how deep he drives the steel, the wounds close almost as quickly as they open, sticky black fluid bubbling and reforming. The flesh splits and knits, never staying broken, as if the sword is slicing through mud.
Sweat drips down Jareth's face, stinging his eyes. Muscles scream with the effort. Still, he plunges the sword again, watching the stranger's twisted face stretch into a wide, gleaming grin. That grin never fades, even as the broadsword nearly splits the head apart. The mouth splits wider, laughter choking out in gurgling fits, eyes gleaming with hate and hunger.
He knows, even as he pounds the blade down, that none of it matters. There's no pain, no fear in those eyes. The man underneath him is not alive, not truly dead, and every cut is a mockery. The black ooze soaks Jareth's hands, the sword handle, his coat. The stench grows worse, like burning pitch mixed with rot. Chains clatter louder, pulling, tugging, refusing to let go.
He hammers the sword one last time, all hope draining away, feeling the hopelessness settle in his gut. The creature doesn't fight back—it only laughs, a sound that scrapes at Jareth's mind, as if it knows something he doesn't. The edges of Jareth's vision blur. For the first time since he drew breath, he feels small, like a boy trapped in a nightmare that has no end. The weight of every failed blow crushes his spirit, as the dark, ruined god beneath him promises that nothing here can die, and nothing will ever be free.
Stone splits under their weight, the clash echoing through the ruined mine. Jareth throws himself forward, driving his broadsword toward the stranger's chest. The blade sinks deep, black ichor spilling out, but the figure barely flinches. One ruined hand comes up, grasping the blade with fingers that leave rust where they grip. A smile full of old malice cracks his lips. Shadows writhe across the stranger's skin, bulging and splitting, and a dozen thin tendrils spear out, lashing for Jareth's arms, his neck, his side.
A sharp pain blossoms as the first tendril punches through Jareth's biceps, slick and cold as river mud. Another jams between his ribs, and a third wraps around his thigh, digging in with barbed hooks. For a moment, the world narrows to agony; heat and acid, a wild throb in his skull. Blood wells up around the wounds, running down his arm and pooling at his feet.
He does not yield. He snarls through his teeth, vision swimming, and reaches with his free hand. Fingers clamp down on the quivering tendril embedded in his shoulder. With a brutal yank, he tears it out, the black substance spattering across his face and coat. The stranger's eyes widen in shock. Jareth doesn't stop. He tears another from his side, the sound wet and awful, flesh peeling but refusing to let go. More tendrils pierce him, scoring lines of pain through his body. Still, he tears them free, one after another, ignoring the sticky blood that soaks his hands.
The crew shouts somewhere behind him, their voices distant. Naomi's scream cuts through the haze, but Jareth's world has tunnelled to this single fight, the old rage flaring in his chest. His feet slip in the black muck, and the sword clatters to the stone as he loses his grip, but his hands keep working, prying tendrils away, slamming a fist into the stranger's face. There is a sickening crack as old bone gives way, but the man just laughs, that hollow, choking sound echoing in the gloom.
Chains rattle and swing, catching Jareth's leg and sending him crashing to his knees, more tendrils worming for his throat. Breath hitches in his lungs. He snarls again, tearing at the shadows, spitting blood and curses in equal measure. The pain grows sharper, clearer, driving every other thought out of his mind. He drags himself up, face twisted with defiance, pulling yet another tendril from his chest.
A flash of confusion flickers in the stranger's eyes. He staggers back, watching as Jareth stands tall, black blood running in rivers, refusing to die. For the first time, it dawns on the ancient being that something is wrong. The pirate captain, battered and bleeding, stares back at him with fury that outlasts pain.
Nothing in the mine is silent now. The stranger's confidence wavers, his gaze darting to the wounds that do not put Jareth down. He opens his mouth to speak, but Jareth is already moving, heedless of the blood pouring from his arms, jaw clenched, eyes burning. The fight is not over—not while breath still fills his lungs.
A crooked smile pulls across Jareth's face as he straightens, blood pooling at his feet. He spits onto the stone, lips curling into something close to a snarl. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he rasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Another tendril bursts from the stranger's chest, spearing through Jareth's side with a hot, tearing force. He grunts, pain flickering across his face, but his hands move quickly and surely. Gripping the writhing black coil, he twists hard until it snaps with a slick, nauseating sound. He hurls it away, the severed end still twitching in his grip.
"You come in here with all your threats and curses," Jareth growls, shoulders squared, breath coming ragged and fast. "But for all your talk, you sure don't know how to end a Thrundeli fight. My kin were built for pain, for storms, for battles that last until the stone cracks. You're not the first monster I've bled for. Won't be the last, either."
The stranger reels, his fury burning through the gloom. "You worm," he spits, chains rattling in time with his rage. "You think brute strength will save you? You think that meat and bone and muscle will last when the earth itself has cursed this place?"
Jareth snorts, the sound thick with contempt. "Save your speeches. I'm not afraid of a dead godling chained to his own grave. I've buried worse nightmares than you, and I'll put you down too." He lunges forward, driving his shoulder into the stranger's chest, forcing him back. Their weight sends cracks spidering across the stone, the cavern shuddering beneath them.
Another tendril slices through the air, aiming for Jareth's throat. He ducks, jaw clenched, swinging his fist up and slamming it into the stranger's jaw. Bone crunches under the blow. Black ichor spatters across his arm, stinging where it lands. The stranger howls, mouth stretched wide, shadows twisting through the scars on his face.
With a hiss, he lashes out, sending two tendrils wrapping tight around Jareth's legs, yanking him off balance. Jareth crashes to the ground, vision sparking. Pain wracks his body, but his hands move without thought, fingers digging into the tendrils. He bites down a roar as he tears them off, flesh splitting beneath his nails, ichor running hot down his wrists.
The cavern echoes with their struggle. Stone grinds, old bones shatter underfoot, blood—both red and black—spatters the wall. Jareth drags himself to his knees, face slick with sweat and grime, every muscle screaming. His broadsword, lost in the chaos, glints in the muck a few feet away. He lunges for it, grabbing the hilt, swinging up as the stranger charges.
Metal bites deep into corrupted flesh. The stranger howls, voice rising like the wail of an ancient storm. "You think you're different from me?" he spits, voice shivering with hate. "You'll rot here, just like the rest!"
Jareth's eyes burn with a wild, stubborn light. "Then I'll rot standin'. I'll rot fightin'. Better than crawling in the dark, beggin' for mercy." He hauls himself upright, blood running in thick lines down his side, refusing to break.
The stranger falters, surprise flickering again as Jareth stands tall, battered but unbowed. It is clear now—he has never faced a Thrundeli, never faced a monster who fights with the full, reckless fury of one born to the forge and the mountain.
Behind them, Naomi's terrified gasp echoes through the cavern, but Jareth barely hears it, lost in the moment. The mine thrums with the energy of old magic and fresh blood, the air thick with heat, pain, and the defiance that keeps Jareth on his feet when most would have surrendered to the dark.
Something shatters in the stranger's eyes when Jareth spits the words "dead godling." Rage flares—pure, bottomless and ancient. Chains rattle, and the black tendrils erupt in a frenzy, slicing through air with the speed and hunger of wild things unbound. The stranger's face splits at the seams, jaws distending, more tendrils surging from the wound, writhing and whipping around the cavern like a nest of serpents let loose.
A dozen or more plunge for Jareth all at once, stabbing through coat, muscle, and flesh. The pain burns white-hot and impossible to ignore. He howls and swings, sword slicing through several, but more latch on, wrapping around his chest and dragging him closer to the abomination in the blue-threaded rags.
His teeth are bared in pain, blood streaming from gashes down his arms. With a guttural roar, he jams a hand into his coat and yanks out the battered flintlock. "Eat this," he snarls, pressing the muzzle to the stranger's throat and firing at point blank. The explosion is deafening in the stone chamber. Smoke and black blood spatter the walls.
For a heartbeat, the thing stumbles. The hole through its neck yawns wide, ichor pouring out in rivers. But the moment flickers and is gone—flesh knits together before Jareth's eyes, the wound closing with the slow, obscene patience of something that will not die.
The tendrils tighten, tossing Jareth up like a rag doll. He smashes against the wall, stone cracking beneath his bulk. The breath is knocked from his lungs, stars burst behind his eyes, but still he claws for his sword. Before he can stand, the tendrils descend again, pinning him to the ground. These feel different now—hot, pulsing, almost alive. A numbness spreads out from each wound, seeping through muscle and bone, heavy as lead.
Jareth struggles, dragging in ragged breaths, teeth gritted in defiance. He wrenches one tendril loose, black goo splattering across his cheek, only for two more to snake around his arms, squeezing until the joints creak. Another wraps around his throat, pressing hard enough to make his vision blur.
Something inside him stutters. His body, always so sure and relentless, fails him. The Veyldorm—the Thrundeli name for The Resting Phase—creeps in at the edges. Limbs grow sluggish, blood cooling in his veins. The exhaustion isn't just physical. It is ancient, a callback to the bloodline that survived by knowing when to rest, when to let the mountain claim them for a time.
Still, Jareth fights. He twists, snapping at the bonds with everything left, wild eyes searching for any weakness. He gets a leg beneath him, slamming his boot into the stranger's knee, but the tendrils only squeeze harder. His lungs burn. The world swims, every sound distant and warped.
The stranger leans in, chains dragging, the glow of the fang at his neck reflecting in his ruined face. "You don't even know what you are, do you?" he hisses, voice thick with contempt and triumph. "You're already halfway to the grave. Shall I show you how easy it is to finish the job?"
Jareth can't answer. He fights to keep his eyes open, fingers clawing for purchase, fury and fear mixing as the shadows draw tight around him. His vision narrows to a tunnel of dark and light, his thoughts heavy and muddled.
Somewhere, through the suffocating grip, Jareth feels the last stubborn beat of his heart—slow, defiant, refusing to yield, even as everything else slips away.
A guttural scream claws its way out of Naomi's throat, echoing through the dark like a living thing. It cuts straight through the howling chaos, a note so sharp it pierces stone. Jareth is a broken silhouette in the lantern glow, his body battered and bloodied beneath the onslaught. Every tendril that pins him writhes, almost feeding on his stubborn refusal to yield. The darkness gathers around him, pressing closer, hungry for another life.
Naomi's vision warps as she hovers above the battle. Shadows unravel at the edges, magic flickering in the corners of her eyes. For a heartbeat, she considers calling Oses, feeling his name burning in the back of her mind, but rage and fear swallow her prayers. There is no god coming. No one else will die on her watch.
Her magic pulses, raw and wild, breaking free from every restraint she's learned. Wings shiver as she lets the scream roll out, a banshee's wail that cracks the very bones of the mine. The air vibrates. Old stones tremble, veins of petrified root along the walls and ceiling snap awake, curling through the chamber like the fingers of a corpse reanimating. The roots twist and thicken, lurching out of the walls with explosive force, reaching for the thing that once was a god.
The stranger's laughter dies in his throat. Head cocked, he glares at Naomi, his confidence flickering. "You have no idea what you're doing," he spits, but the earth moves against him. Roots coil around his legs and torso, pulling him away from Jareth, the pressure enough to pop joints. Black slime oozes down his body where the roots dig deep, and for a moment, even his twisted form shudders.
All around, the crew falters, blades raised but stunned by the shift in the fight. Tomas shouts for the others to fall back, eyes never leaving the roiling mass of roots and tendrils. Morveth snaps orders, his scaled arms catching two fallen crew and dragging them behind a crumbling pillar.
Jareth, freed for a moment, forces himself to a knee. Blood streaks his face, and every breath is ragged, but the sight of Naomi—her wings lit from behind with a ghostly silver fire, her face twisted in a fury he's never seen—shakes something loose in him. He grins through blood, shoving himself upright even as more tendrils whip toward him.
Naomi hovers above the chaos, her scream dying to a hoarse, shaking whisper. All she can feel is magic burning in her veins and an ancient grief echoing in the roots. The mine shakes, stones cracking apart, dust billowing in churning clouds. Even the lanterns sputter as if the darkness is trying to swallow their light.
The stranger twists in his bonds, the mass of roots and tendrils writhing together in a nightmarish dance. His voice, warped and guttural, fills the chamber. "You think the land remembers you, little fae? It remembers me. It will always remember me. You're nothing here."
Naomi clenches her fists, rage and terror mingling in her throat. "If you know the land, then you know it wants you gone," she spits back, her words shivering the air. "This place was never yours."
Roots tighten, grinding bones beneath the stranger's skin. The earth itself seems to groan, the sound rolling up from the deepest chambers.
Roots and dead veins pulse around Naomi's feet, the cavern shuddering with every tremor of her power. Sweat stings her eyes, her fingers curling as she channels the last of her magic into the choking earth. Air hitches in her lungs, each breath harder than the last. Shadows dance at the edge of her vision as the world narrows to the sight of Jareth—bloodied, battered, still pressing a shaking hand against the stone to force himself upright. The shape of him is blurred at the edges, his breath ragged, but there's no mistaking the stubborn tilt of his jaw or the refusal in his posture. He would rather die fighting than let this thing win.
Yet Naomi feels herself failing. The land drains her with every heartbeat. Power slips through her fingers like water, and a sick, gnawing emptiness grows in her chest. Even with every muscle locked in resistance, the poison of the island crawls higher in her veins. A cold certainty settles over her: if she pours anything more into the spell, it will take everything. She is outmatched. She is not a warrior. She is not enough.
Unseen by any living soul, the world shifts to a different rhythm. Somewhere outside time and flesh, Thirsyn stands with her cloak of stars, watching through eyes luminous as frost. Her brow furrows, concern written in the delicate lines of her face. "You see what happens when mortals fight against fate?" Her voice trembles with sadness, her hands tightening at her sides.
Oses paces behind her, the edges of his silhouette blurring as if he can barely hold himself together. Every so often, starlight glances off the mask of detachment he wears. "If I do nothing, both die. Elora's fire will gutter out, and the Thrundeli will join the rest." His fingers tap restlessly against his palm, betraying his nerves. "Fate's meant for weaving, not for wasting. I must do something."
Thirsyn turns to face him, her eyes dark and wise. "You would risk unravelling the Veil for one girl? This is a cursed place, Oses. Even gods are not immune to its hunger."
He steps closer, urgency boiling in every movement. "I would rather unmake a thousand destinies than watch her soul flicker out for nothing. If she falls, the pattern fractures. Her thread and his are tangled now. If one snaps, so does the other."
Her silence weighs heavy, filled with centuries of old wounds and unspoken warnings. Finally, she breathes, "If you guide her hand, the price may be greater than you imagine."
"I know," Oses whispers, "but I can't do less. Not for her. Not for the one beside her."
Down below, Naomi staggers, vision blurring with pain and exhaustion. The weight of divine attention is lost on her, but a strange calm settles into her bones—like a distant hand steadying her shaking heart. Somewhere deep in her mind, a soft whisper, barely felt, lends her just enough clarity to keep standing.
Jareth pushes to his feet with a guttural growl, sword dragging lines through the blood and dust at his boots. His jaw sets with fresh resolve, his eyes fixed on the monster ahead. Naomi, her magic near spent, clings to that last spark of borrowed courage. Neither of them knows how thin the line has become, how closely the gods weigh the choice between intervening and letting fate run its course.
The mine crackles with tension. Roots tighten. The dead watch in silence. The battle hangs on a knife edge—every breath, every heartbeat, a plea for hope. And above, two immortals argue in starlight and shadow, their decision the only thing standing between salvation and the end.
The very air warps around Naomi as something ancient moves through her veins. Her eyes roll back for a heartbeat, and then return glowing brighter, fierce and merciless—her own, yet not her own. She stands motionless in the chaos, her small frame suddenly crowned by a cold radiance, as if the stars themselves have seeped through her skin. Light threads pulse beneath her hands, silver cords winding around her fingers, coiling and tightening with a slow, inevitable certainty.
The cave itself seems to tilt toward her. Shrieks, groans, and the roar of battle hush into a reverent stillness, every face turned toward her with a mix of dread and bewilderment. Naomi's wings, battered moments before, now fan open, luminous and perfectly still, haloed by an unnatural aura that whispers of the void between worlds.
Within her mind, Naomi's awareness contracts—pushed gently but inexorably to the edges, a passenger in her own body. She feels Oses move behind her eyes, his presence vast and cold, an intellect that bends her magic into something unyielding, flawless. All her panic, all the ragged wildness that usually colours her spells, has been leashed, drawn taut and silent. Power pools beneath her skin, sharp and poised for command.
Kulan, already wounded and thrashing, freezes mid-lunge. Chains rattle at his wrists, iron teeth scraping the stone, as he takes in the new threat. His gaze lands on Naomi, then narrows, recognizing the truth. "You," he spits, every word laced with centuries of hatred. "The Weaver's hound. Fate's filthy little parasite."
Her lips curve, her voice now a ringing, layered harmony that chills every ear in the mine. "You have spun this agony for too long, Kulan. The pattern ends tonight. You will not poison this earth a moment longer."
He staggers, trying to rally his broken might, but Oses draws Naomi's hands together. Starlight whips from her fingertips, sigils etching the very air. Roots erupt from the cavern floor, grabbing Kulan by the arms, the throat, the shattered remnants of his crown. The magic is not green, not soft, but harsh and cold, burning with the justice of inevitability.
The roar of the Wyrm collapses into a final, hollow gasp as the threads of Kulan's influence snap. The mine trembles with the force of it, stones shedding grit and dust from the ceiling. The intense, smothering heat falls away, replaced by the raw chill of fate itself.
Oses stands sentinel inside Naomi's flesh, her feet rooted firm as the last echoes of power snap the mine into total submission. Chains of white-gold light snake from her wrists, wrapping Kulan tighter, every coil drawn from a place deeper than ordinary magic. The ancient betrayer thrashes, his body no longer wholly his own. Stone crawls up his calves, devouring muscle and bone. The texture of his skin shifts, roughening as it merges with the rock, his scream fading to a bubbling snarl as his lower jaw vanishes into the stone.
Heat from the slain Wyrm ebbs at the edge of the cavern, its dying embers painting everything in sickly red. Morveth, jaw clenched and eyes wild, gives one last terrified glance at the fused god before yanking his blade free. His hands shake as he carves the Heartstone loose, sweat streaking down his brow, but Oses' presence leaves no room for hesitation. Two Brambles help him, one with bloodied knuckles, another biting his lip so hard he nearly draws blood. Even the air seems thinner, the living world pressed down by the aftershock of what's happened.
Jareth slumps on the ground, sword across his knees, muscles trembling. His breath comes in short, uneven bursts, the stone beneath him spattered with blood. He lifts his eyes to Naomi's form, searching for any trace of the woman he knows, but finds only Oses staring back, eyes like glass caught in the tide. His hand drags across his chest, smearing blood, as the crew huddles behind him, each man struggling to find his feet.
Oses walks toward Jareth, the borrowed shape moving with eerie precision. A ripple of divine power warps the air, tightening the shadows, forcing the wounded captain to look up. Naomi's mouth opens, but the words that pour out are not her own. "Winsler. You court disaster every time you draw breath. Always pushing further, always searching for what should remain hidden." The voice rings across the hall, vibrating through the bones of every survivor. "Did your mother teach you nothing about listening to warnings?"
Jareth grits his teeth, shoulders squared in open defiance. "I never liked lessons from godlings," he spits, his accent heavier now, his pain raw and unfiltered. "Get to your point. We don't need your sermons."
Oses leans down, cold fury flickering across Naomi's face. "You were born under my stars. I expect you to know your limits. But if you cannot heed wisdom, then you will obey force." His hand sweeps behind him, gesturing to the shivering crew. "This is your one chance. Take your prize. Leave. If you come back, not even I will save you. The sea is your only home now."
Morveth's arms strain as he heaves the Heartstone into a sack, the artifact throbbing with lingering fire. The others crowd around, battered and bloody, everyone desperate to be away from this place. Boots scuff on gravel, gear clatters, and someone lets out a ragged sob.
The pressure in the cave grows until even the air feels slick and heavy. Naomi's silhouette turns to Jareth, the goddess's presence behind her eyes for a brief, aching moment. "You'll find no peace here, Winsler," Oses murmurs, voice low and final. "Take your crew and go."
Pain and defiance war for space on Jareth's battered face, but he nods once, the gesture sharp and sure. "Just put us on our damn ship."
A faint smile flickers across Naomi's lips, Oses' last sign of amusement. "That much, I will grant." The room spins as threads of fate coil outward from Naomi's hands, latching onto every man, every wound, every lost hope. The world rushes sideways. Sound disappears, replaced by the roaring of blood in Jareth's ears.
Stone, fire, and death vanish behind them. Naomi stands watchful in the dark, chains still binding Kulan, as the world folds in on itself—spitting the battered, haunted crew back onto the cold, rolling deck of the Sunlit Rose. The stink of salt and blood floods in. Jareth staggers, then looks up at the stars, uncertain if they're a blessing or curse.
The Sunlit Rose rocks gently in the night, its old timbers groaning with each distant wave. In the captain's quarters, lamplight flickers against the walls, throwing long shadows over Jareth's unmoving form. He lies flat on his back on a bed built wider and longer than any sailor could ever need. Even stretched out, arms at his sides and legs half-bent to fit, there's space on every side—enough that, for once, Jareth looks small despite the sheer bulk of him. The mattress itself was custom made by dwarven hands, as broad as a banquet table and easily twice as long, set deep against the far wall and covered in sturdy blankets meant for colder seas.
Naomi sits beside him, perched at the edge, dwarfed by the immensity of the bed and the man who fills it. Bandages crisscross his chest and stomach, binding up wounds that ooze not just blood but a thick, tarry blackness left by the stranger's tendrils. The stains have crept through every layer of cloth, smudging her fingers as she works. With each breath he draws sounds ragged, the rise and fall of his massive ribs slow and unsteady. His hands, larger than her head, rest palm-up, the calluses visible even in the soft glow of the lantern.
Sometimes she glances at his face, searching for any sign that he might wake. His beard is matted with sweat and dried blood. One side of his mouth twitches now and then, but his eyes never flutter open. She wonders if he is dreaming, or if his mind has simply retreated somewhere deep inside, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
The last hour is a blur in her memory. Oses' voice still echoes in her skull, strange and cold. Tomas and Thorn shouting for help. Fenn carrying bandages. Borin's grey face as Wren shouted orders on the lower deck. The ship's world turned frantic, then silent, then frantic again as Jareth collapsed just inside the door; like all his strength vanished at once, the moment he knew he'd made it back.
Tomas called it Veyldorm, the Thrundeli's deep resting phase, and warned her gently that Jareth could sleep for days or weeks. "Best let him be. Only thing to do is keep him clean and wait."
She does her best, though the work feels endless. Each time she wipes blood from his temple, it's replaced by another dark smear. When she presses cool cloth to his brow, her own hands come away shaking. The cabin is quiet, save for the tick of the ship's old clock and the low groan of boards shifting. Outside, the night is black and starless; inside, the wide bed feels like a raft adrift on a sea of silence.
At one point, she leans closer, folding her legs underneath herself, letting her hair fall forward as she works a stubborn knot free from a bandage. He doesn't stir, not even when she whispers his name, just to test the stillness. It strikes her then how huge and alone he looks—how much space his body fills, and how much space remains, waiting for someone to anchor him back to the world.
She swallows, blinking back tears. Naomi whispers a promise to him, low and urgent, voice barely audible over the creak of the ship: "You're safe. I'll be here until you wake up, Jareth. I'm not leaving."
Her palm rests on his chest for a moment longer, feeling the faint, stubborn thrum of his heart beneath her hand. All around them, the world is too quiet, too wide, and the bed seems even larger in the half-light; an island within an island, waiting for its captain to rise.