Location: The Obsidian Enclave, Main Thoroughfare.
Time: 16:30.
The walk to the palace was a gauntlet of eyes.
The Obsidian Enclave was a vertical city, a hive carved into the volcanic rock walls of the canyon. As Dante and his crew were marched up the spiraling ramps by Commander Lyra's guards, the population came out to watch.
They were all the same.
Tall. Pale skin that seemed to drink the light. Jet black hair. Violet eyes. Only the subtle differences in age distinguished them apart. It was like walking through a hall of mirrors—a fractal nightmare of genetic perfection.
Women stopped their weaving to stare. Children climbed onto the obsidian railings, pointing at Havoc's beard and Silas's goggles with wide, confused eyes.
"Mommy," a child whispered loud enough to be heard over the wind. "Why do they look so... rough? Are they sick? Why do they have hair on their faces?"
"Hush," the mother pulled the child back, her eyes fixed on Valerius with undisguised disgust. "Don't look at the Broken Ones. It brings bad luck to the harvest."
Valerius kept his head down, his jaw tight. He was a Sword-Saint, a biological masterpiece engineered for war, yet here he was treated like a leper in a colony of his own kin. He shrank under the gaze of a thousand sisters who wanted him dead.
"Chin up, Valerius," Dante murmured, walking with his mechanical hands raised in surrender but his stride relaxed. "They aren't looking at you because you're broken. They're looking because you're rare. Scarcity creates value. You're a limited edition."
"They look at me like I am a cancer," Valerius corrected through gritted teeth.
"A cancer, a cure," Dante shrugged. "Depends on the doctor."
They reached the summit of the city. The Palace wasn't a castle; it was a geode. A massive, hollowed-out sphere of obsidian, polished until it reflected the grey sky like a black pearl.
The doors—slabs of volcanic glass ten feet high—swung open silently on oiled hinges.
The Throne Room
The interior was heated by geothermal vents, the air thick with the smell of sulfur and crushed pine incense. The floor was a mosaic of white and black stones depicting star charts that predated the Empire.
At the far end, on a simple throne carved from a single piece of raw, unrefined diamond, sat the Matriarch.
She was older than the others. Her hair was streaked with silver—the first sign of age Dante had seen here. Her face was sharp, lined with the kind of wisdom that comes from making hard choices in sub-zero weather. She wore a robe of woven shadow-silk and held a staff topped with a pulsing violet crystal.
"Kneel!" Commander Lyra barked, kicking the back of Havoc's knee.
Havoc grunted, dropping to the floor. Silas scrambled to his knees instantly, terrified of the woman with the stick. Valerius knelt slowly, retaining his dignity like a fallen prince.
Dante began to bend his knee.
"Oh, stop it," the Matriarch sighed. Her voice was like dry leaves scraping against stone. "My floors are cold, and you look like you've been dragged through a Thresher's gut. Stand up. I don't need theater."
Commander Lyra looked shocked. "My Lady? These are intruders."
"They are guests, Lyra," the Matriarch corrected, waving a hand lazily. "Intruders are dead at the gate. Guests are... pending."
She turned her violet eyes to Dante. She scanned his shredded coat, his glowing mechanical arm, and finally, the Silvergrin.
"You are the Alpha," she stated. It wasn't a question. It was a biological classification.
Dante straightened his coat, flashing a charming, metallic smile.
"Sharp observation," Dante said, his tone amused.
"Anyone with a bit of intelligence could tell," the Matriarch replied, leaning back in her diamond chair with the same relaxed vibe. "You walk in front. Your dogs check your reaction before they breathe. And you are the only one making eye contact with me."
"But you aren't just anyone," Dante added, stepping closer. "Most rulers would have executed us at the gate for carrying weapons. You let us in. That implies curiosity."
"No need to flatter a woman my age, Outlander," she countered, a small, wry smile touching her lips. "I let you in because you survived a Thresher migration without a vehicle. That implies competence. And I am always in the market for competence."
Dante laughed—a low, mechanical rumble. The Matriarch chuckled, a dry, rasping sound.
The court stared in shock. Their terrifying Queen was laughing with the surface-dwelling monster.
"I am Matriarch Nyx," she said, the laughter fading into a shrewd, calculating look. "And you are far from home, Iron-Man. What brings a chimera, a mechanic, and a walking arsenal to the Spine of the World?"
Dante didn't blink. He had the lie ready before he entered the room.
"We are contractors," Dante said smoothly. "We hunt invasive species. The Boreal Threshers have been migrating South, attacking the trade routes of the Iron Legion. My employer pays a bounty for every Alpha we kill."
He gestured to Silas, who was clutching his bio-bag like a shield.
"We were tracking the colony that attacked us. We didn't know we crossed into your territory. The Mana-Storm threw off our navigation."
It was a good lie. It explained the weapons, the violence, and their presence. And it hid the fact that they were here to crack open the mountain she lived on.
"A bounty hunter," Nyx mused. She tapped a finger on her crystal staff. "Plausible. The Threshers have been restless lately. The mountain is... agitated."
She looked at Valerius. Her expression hardened instantly.
"And him?" Nyx pointed her staff at the Elf. "Does your employer also pay you to traffic in Abominations?"
Valerius flinched.
"He is my guide," Dante lied again. "Found him in the Wastes."
"He is a Male," Nyx said, the word dripping with venom and pity. "A biological error. A mutation."
"That brings me to the question of the hour," Dante said, his voice dropping. "We walked through your city, Matriarch. We saw thousands of faces. All women. All identical. Like a xerox machine stuck on loop."
Dante took a step forward, ignoring the guards tensing up with their spears.
"Where are the men, Nyx? Did you exile them? Did they leave? Or did you eat them?"
The room went deadly silent. Even the geothermal vents seemed to hush.
Nyx stared at Dante. The amusement was gone. In its place was a deep, ancient sorrow that made her look a hundred years older.
"We didn't exile them," Nyx whispered.
She stood up and walked to the massive window behind the throne, looking out at the black mountain looming over the valley—The Spine of the World.
"The Mountain took them."
She turned back to Dante, her eyes glowing faintly with reflected starlight.
"You lie well, Outlander. But you are not here for Threshers. You are here for the Source. The thing that beats inside the rock."
She pointed at the mountain.
"The Geo-Titan emits a radiation. A specific wavelength of mana. It grants us power. It grants us long life. It grants us the strength to survive the cold. It is why we are tall, why we are strong."
She looked at Valerius.
"But the radiation has a cost. It targets the Y-chromosome. It unravels it. No male child has been born in the Enclave for three hundred years. Any man who stays here too long... withers. His DNA breaks down. He bleeds out. He dies."
She walked down the steps of the throne, stopping inches from Dante.
"The Mountain is female, Outlander. And she is a jealous goddess. She does not tolerate rivals."