The transition from the roar of battle to the silence of the tunnels was jarring.
The "Vein of Sorrows" was a narrow, winding throat of stone that bled the group out into a different world entirely. They emerged miles away from the Cathedral, standing on the edge of the Rust-Wastes—a graveyard of fallen sky-isles and discarded machinery that stretched further than the eye could see.
The sky here wasn't white or purple; it was a hazy, smog-filled orange.
Kiron collapsed into a pile of rusted iron shavings. The adrenaline that had kept him conscious during the "March" was gone. The black veins on his arms were no longer just a color; they felt like jagged glass under his skin.
I saw them vanish, Kiron's thoughts were dark and heavy. I saw my army die again just to buy me a few miles of tunnel. What kind of King am I?
"He's slipping again," Nyra muttered, her voice tight with exhaustion. She looked at his hands. The skin was peeling, and the "Authority" he had used was clearly eating him from the inside out.
"We need a healer," Taz said, looking around the desolate landscape of scrap. "A real one. Not just salve."
"In the Rust-Wastes?" Nyra let out a hollow laugh. "The only thing people heal here is engines. But..." She paused, looking toward a plume of dark smoke on the horizon. "There's a Scrapper-Conclave nearby. If we can hide his 'Mark,' we might find someone who knows how to treat Taint-burn."
She looked at Kiron, who was staring blankly at the orange sky.
"Kiron, listen to me," she said, grabbing his face. "The army is gone. The sword is 'sleeping.' You are a nobody again. If you show that gold in your eyes, or if anyone sees the 'Mark' on your palm, the Wastes will sell us to the Zen-Zun for a week's worth of clean water. Do you understand?"
Kiron nodded weakly. A nobody, he thought. That's the only thing I'm actually good at being.
As they began the long, limping trek toward the smoke, Kiron felt the weight of Lament on Taz's back. It was quiet now, but the memories of the "March" remained. He had seen his power. He had seen his people. And now, he had to learn how to live with the guilt of surviving them both.
"Wait," Kiron whispered, stopping by a jagged piece of hull-plating.
"What is it?" Nyra asked, her hand on her knife.
Kiron looked at a group of refugees huddled under a nearby scrap-tent. They looked like he used to—tired, hungry, and covered in grease. But one of them, an old woman, stopped eating her meager ration. She looked at Kiron, her eyes widening as she noticed the specific way he held his arm.
She didn't scream. She didn't point. She slowly touched her forehead and then her chest—the same gesture the villagers of Koda used before a prayer.
Someone knows, Kiron thought, his heart leaping into his throat. Even here, in the trash of the world... they're waiting.