The path stretched on, swallowed by dust.
The wind howled like a wounded beast, sand biting at Tom's cheeks, filling every crease of his coat.
He tightened the cloth around his mouth and pressed forward. Twice already he had felt his footing slip. Once nearly got boomed by that entity, another when that giant razorbug almost sharpenered him.
Each time, luck had grabbed his collar and yanked him back.
"...That makes twice," he muttered through clenched teeth. "One more and I'll start charging rent to Death for following me around."
Above him, his Face floated in its wooden chair, pale, still, void-eyed.
Tom squinted up at it.
"You know, you could—oh, I don't know—warn me before I break my neck? Or is silent treatment your whole gimmick?"
The Face stared.
"Right, stoic, mysterious. Must be exhausting, keeping up the act."
No answer. Just that eternal stare.
Tom pulled his coat tighter, trudging against the wind. His words kept tumbling out, less to be heard and more to fill the suffocating quiet.
The Face remained a statue.
Tom sighed. "Figures. I finally get someone to listen, and they're literally mute."
He yapped on anyway, his voice carried away by the sandstorm.
....
The bunker was quiet.
Most people had gone outside, chasing wind or work.
Radahn sat alone on a creaking bed.
Daylight slipped through the cracks above, a dusty ribbon cutting across his face.
His body was thin, bones pressing against skin.
A rough quilt covered him from shoulder to thigh, hiding more than his scars.
He pressed his right arm under the blanket, clutching it tight.
His eyes shifted, restless.
The sound of faint metal clinking echoed whenever he moved.
He winced but said nothing.
The boy's lips parted.
A breath. A whisper.
A single line in an old tongue spilled out.
It hung in the air, sharp and brittle, like glass about to crack.
Then, it was a sting. Not outside but inside.
His palm burned.
The quilt slipped as he jerked.
The mark revealed itself.
A golden falcon carved into his skin.
Above it, a sun broken into jagged halves.
Small stars scattered near its wings.
The edges wrapped in a circle that shimmered faintly, as though alive.
He stared uninterested.
Not at the mark but at the thought it dragged behind it. Symbols carred heavy weight.
A falcon does not fly for itself.
It flies for something greater.
But what happens when the sun it soars under is broken?
Words were forming in his head, though he did not know them.
Images spilled like floodwater.
A tower split in two.
Corpses piled higher than walls.
Rivers of blood running backwards.
The sky itself stitched together by chains of gold.
He clutched his skull.
Fingers dug into his hair.
The ache felt like knives drilling bone.
Radahn screamed but it was hollow, thin, as though his voice wasn't his own.
It was someone else's voice, echoing through him.
His back slammed against the wall.
Eyes wide.
Pupils trembling like loose glass in wind.
For a second, he saw himself standing in a throne room.
Not a boy it was.... something pure ancient.
Something wearing his skin like a mask.
The throne was empty. The banners were black and the empire… gone. Cities reduced to ash. Streets littered with the shadows of men who once stood tall.
Women bent like branches, children turned dust in their mother's arms.
It was knowledge, not memory.
Too much knowledge that he was continuously, forcefully devouring for years.
The kind of knowledge that bends the mind until it creaks.
The kind of knowledge no being should carry.
His chest heaved.
Sweat drenched his hair, dripping onto the cold floor.
His eyes rolled back. The mark glowed once, dim as dying embers, then dulled.
The boy slumped sideways, unconscious.
The quilt slipped off completely.
His thin frame shook once before settling.
Daylight still cut across the bunker.
Outside, voices faintly carried, alive, normal.
Inside, silence smothered everything.
Radahn's breath was shallow.
His hand twitched against the floor, the carved falcon faint but undeniable.
In that silence, if one listened close enough, he knew. The empire is still burning.
The desert air was soft that noon, carrying the faint smell of dust and burnt wood.
Grace sat cross-legged outside the bunker, a clay cup of tea warming her palms.
Beside her, Vera leaned against a rock, his posture upright, his voice as steady as ever.
"You know," Vera said, watching the horizon, "your Tom is… irritating. Loud and childish. The kind who laughs in places he should hold his tongue."
He sipped his tea without looking at her.
"If I'm being honest, he almost got killed in The Endless Black Ocean… if it wasn't for that old cowboy, he'd have been nothing but bones by now."
Grace laughed lightly, shaking her head.
"You don't hate him, Vera."
Her eyes caught the glow of the sunset, soft and forgiving.
"You like him. He's like a brother. You just don't admit it."
Vera's brow twitched, almost a frown.
"Brother? He's a storm. I'm not fond of storms."
"Storms make you stronger," Grace said, teasing, tilting her cup toward him.
"And besides… he may act childish, but you've seen it too. He's sharp, smarter than he lets people believe."
Vera stayed quiet, staring into his cup.
The steam curled between them, quiet like his breath.
Finally, he muttered, "Sometimes intelligence hides behind foolishness or foolishness hides behind intelligence. I can't tell which with him."
Grace smiled.
"That's Tom."
A silence settled, comfortable. Grace reached into the satchel beside her, pulling out bundles of leaves, roots, and a handful of strange red pods and some meats.
"These," she said proudly, "came from my personal quest. Cost me four hours and nearly half my patience, but I got them."
Vera turned his head slightly, curiosity tugging at his calm face.
"What are they?"
"Ingredients for food. Real food," she said, grinning. "No bunker bread or half-burnt soup. I can make something nice tonight."
Vera's lips curved. A quite smile, but close.
"Maybe Tom will choke on it. That would be peace for a while."
Grace laughed, leaning back on her hands.
"See? You do like him."
Vera let the silence answer, his eyes still on the blazing sun.
Grace only sipped her tea again, her heart lighter, the world briefly calm.
....
Vincent knelt in the sand, brushing away dust from a cluster of dull, half-buried stones.
"They look like iron," he muttered, pulling one free and weighing it in his palm.
Sassy crouched nearby, her brown hair tied back loosely, holding up a shard of glass-like mineral that caught the sunlight.
"Not iron. Something rarer.... Maybe, worth coins if we can drag enough back."
Vincent smirked, tossing the stone into his satchel.
"Everything's worth coins if you learn who to sell it to."
They moved slowly, step by step, the desert whispering with small gusts of wind. For a moment, it felt calm, almost normal.
Sassy spoke again, voice softer this time.
"Do you ever think about him? Elior."
Vincent paused. His jaw tightened, eyes falling to the sand.
"…Every night."
The wind cut sharper, rattling grains across their boots. A shadow slid across the ground, long, stretching. Both froze.
A presence pressed against them. It was cold, suffocating, familiar.
Vincent's hand went to his blade.
Sassy instinctively raised her shuriken.
From the heat-haze of the dunes, a figure walked closer.
Slow, slowly, slowly, step by step, one then two, repeat, until it reached them, a familiar beast, shadow, stepped in their sight.
.
.
.
Black coat brushing against the wind. Eyes glinting like knives in the sunlight.
The smirk was unmistakable.
Azmaik Veyric.
Was.... Alive.
The sands went icy, as if the desert itself had stopped existing.