The hall was too tall for comfort.
Shadows draped the walls like curtains, broken only by lines of pale light slipping in through cracks high above. Pillars, cracked and endless, held the roof as though straining against a weight the eye couldn't see.
Dust drifted in the air, heavy and slow, like the place had been waiting centuries for this moment.
Two figures were bound near the center.
Sassy Star and Vincent Chilham.
Ropes dug into their arms, leaving angry red grooves. Their faces were swollen with bruises, blood crusted around lips, the occasional cough wracking their bodies. They looked exhausted, but their eyes were still sharp, still alive.
Standing before them was, a shadow carved into flesh—Azmaik Veyric.
He didn't pace, didn't fidget. He simply stood between the pillars, his form rigid, his voice almost calm. That calmness was worse than rage.
"You thought me a friend," he began, voice low, carrying like an echo inside stone. "You thought we were companions in this world of ruin. How foolish of you… and how merciful of me to let you hold that thought for so long."
Sassy's laugh was weak, broken. "You're… insane. That's what you are." She spat blood to the side, forcing her eyes to lock on his. "We trusted you. Look, you're here, playing prophet."
Vincent said nothing. His reddish hair hung over his eyes, jaw clenched.
Azmaik leaned closer. "I am no prophet." His lips curved into a half-smile. "I need to find it. It wants me to find the Vessel. My resurrection was not random, do you understand? The Sun Presence called me back. It has an order. It has a design. Where you—" he pointed, his finger like a blade in the air. "— are in the way of that design."
Sassy's voice trembled, but not from fear but anger. "You think whatever's whispering to you gives you truth? It doesn't. It's using you."
Azmaik tilted his head, almost curious, like a teacher listening to a student struggle. "You've seen the signs. You've felt the air split skies, didn't you? The Sun Presence is stirring. It wants rebirth. It wants to seeks
the Sixth Vessel of Artorias's body to take control over. Do you grasp the weight of that? The very axis of fate bends when such vessels move."
Vincent finally spoke, his voice quieter than Sassy's but heavier. "And you want to help it."
Azmaik didn't hesitate. "Yes. It is what must be done. It gave me life again. It revealed to me a Face. One you cannot even dream of touching." His tone sharpened, reverent and fevered all at once. "Polar Highness. A Face that stands where heat dies, where breath stills, where even gods would hesitate to step. Do you understand? The cold majesty of eternity itself bends to me."
Vincent's lip curled. "You're just dressing chains in poetry."
Something flickered across Azmaik's face. Annoyance? Maybe sorrow? He came closer, kneeling so their eyes met. "You misunderstand, Vincent. You think I speak of madness. But no.... madness is pretending the world has order without us. Madness is Elior Jones standing in defiance when he should have rotted. Yes...." His eyes narrowed, teeth showing. "He lives. Against all logic, he lives. Even the Presence doesn't understand why."
At Elior's name, both Sassy and Vincent stiffened. The memory of that night, of his face, his terrifying shift, flickered in their minds.
"You see," Azmaik whispered, "that is why I need you. You know where the Bizarro Solace of Sun rests. I can feel it in you. You carry that knowledge like a thorn in your skin. Give it to me, and this ends mercifully."
Sassy's voice cracked but stayed firm. "If I knew, I'd burn it before handing it to you."
Azmaik stared at her, almost pitying. His words softened, but it made the air heavier. "Do not make me kill you. I may bear the Polar Highness, but the Sun Presence is crueler than me. It will not simply kill. It will strip your flesh, burn you in black flames for eternity, rip your veins, layer by layer, until even your shadow begs for mercy."
The bruised pair looked at each other, breath slow, shallow. Between them passed the same thought, This man isn't who we knew. He's gone.
Azmaik stood straight again, lifting his face to the ceiling as if listening to something beyond the hall. "The Presence is awakening. Time is thinning. If you resist, you become the first offerings. If you speak, you walk beside me in the coming dawn."
His voice dropped into a whisper, one final murmur before he turned away.
"Choose wisely. Dawn has no patience."
....
The air above was wrong.
Red-black whirlpools pulsed in the heavens, stretching and shrinking like open wounds stitched into the sky. Every so often, the light bled into streaks, staining the desert horizon with sick colors.
Tom sat on the roof of the bunker, running a rag over the small yellow rune he still hadn't figured out. Its surface glowed faintly under his touch, no answers, just quiet hums.
His veins no longer ached. The herb had done its work. Still, the tension in his mind felt heavier than the infection ever was.
From inside, he heard faint movement. Grace had stayed back, busying herself with small chores, though Tom could tell it was just to keep her hands from shaking. He climbed down, careful, and stepped into the dim bunker corridor.
She was there, sitting cross-legged on a mat, her fingers folded in her lap, eyes cast to the floor. When she noticed him, she tried to smile. It was fragile.
"Sky's tearing itself open again," Tom muttered, lowering himself beside her. His canteen clicked open, and he took a sip before passing it toward her. She refused, shaking her head.
Her voice came quiet. "Tom… what if everyone's gone one day? What if this place empties out until it's just silence?"
The words sat between them like a stone. He didn't answer right away. He let her breathe. He listened to the hum in the walls, the weight of everything pressing down.
Finally, he looked at her. "If that happens," he said softly, "then we'll just keep talking until the end of the time."
Grace let out a breath that trembled, almost a laugh but not quite.
Tom studied her, noticing the tired lines on her face, the way she was still holding back tears. He leaned a little closer, his tone lighter, almost careful.
"Grace… would it be fine if I…" He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, searching for words. "If I called you… big sister?"
She blinked, startled.
His voice dropped, softer now, like he didn't want to scare the moment away. "Not to bother you. Just… feels like you're the one keeping me standing half the time."
Grace's lips curved a bit forging a smile, but no words came out.
Tom stretched his arms and stood, brushing his palms against his trousers as though dusting away hesitation.
"I'll… cook steak tonight," he announced suddenly, almost with forced confidence. "From what's left in the stores."
Grace, sitting near the supply crate, blinked and tilted her head. "You? Cooking?"
He shrugged, grabbing a pan and fumbling with it like it was some complicated puzzle. "Yeah. How hard can it be? Meat, fire, done. Easy."
"Easy," Grace repeated, lips curving faintly. She rose, brushed her dress straight, and walked over to him. "You've never cooked before, have you?"
Tom scratched his head, grinning faintly. "Nope. But hey, first time for everything." He set the slab of meat on the table, examining it as if it were a dangerous enemy. "So…. do I stab it or talk to it first?"
Grace sighed, but there was warmth in her tone. "Neither. You season it." She took the small box of herbs, pinched a bit of spice, and showed him how to rub it across the surface. "Like this. Gently."
Tom mimicked her movements, awkwardly at first. "Feels like I'm massaging a corpse."
She looked at him, exasperated, then laughed softly in spite of herself. "Don't say things like that while cooking."
Heat rising as Tom set the pan down. Grace handed him oil, guiding his hands to pour just enough. He leaned closer to the pan, squinting.
"When do I flip it?" he asked.
"You'll know," she answered, folding her arms with a faint smile.
52:30—52:29