The Scra-Valkun was a sprawling, airless hive of corrugated alloy and salvaged hulls, built into the hollowed-out carcass of a fallen Dreadnought. The air was a thick slurry of oil-mist and the acrid tang of welding torches. Here, thousands of "Void-Drifters" lived in the shadows of the machinery they spent their lives dismantling for the Celestials above.
"Keep your head down," Nyra muttered, pulling Kiron's hood lower. "And keep your hands in your pockets. The charcoal-vines look like rot from a distance, but up close, anyone with a brain will see they're too deliberate to be a common sickness."
Kiron didn't argue. He could barely stand. Every step felt like he was dragging his marrow through wet silt. His "Pulse" was a jagged, fractured thing in his chest, flickering like a dying wick in a gale.
They reached a makeshift infirmary—a repurposed shipping container smelling of fermented herbs and ozone. The healer was a man named Kic-Rag, a "Gear-Doc" with a mechanical eye that whirred as it scanned Kiron's limp form.
"Taint-burn?" Kic-Rag asked, his voice like gravel grinding together.
"High-voltage discharge," Nyra lied, her voice steady. "He was prying a live core on the Eul-Siv when it blew."
Kic-Rag's mechanical eye zoomed in on Kiron's forearm. He stayed silent for a long time, the lens clicking and resetting. Lightning doesn't map the geometry of the soul like this, the doctor thought, a cold sweat breaking out on his neck. This boy hasn't been hit by a core. He's been hosting a star.
"I can't cure this," Kic-Rag said, his voice dropping to a low rasp. "I can only dull the ache. He needs 'Salt-Filters' and rest. And you need to get him out of the open. There are 'Vulture-Drones' circling the upper rim. They aren't looking for scrap metal today."
Kiron sat on a rusted stool, his vision swimming. I'm a King who can't even hold a spoon, he thought bitterly. He looked at his hands—the hands that had sent a Goddess screaming into the sky. Now, they were just shaking, stained with the common grease of the Wastes.
To pay for the medicine, Kiron had to work.
While Nyra scouted for an exit and Taz guarded the wrapped sword in their "rat-hole" of a shack, Kiron spent the next three days in the Pit. He sat among hundreds of other children, using a small hammer to knock the "Rust-Scale" off ancient bolts.
It was grueling, mindless work. The heat of the Pit was suffocating, and the constant clink-clink-clink of hammers was a far cry from the rhythmic drumming of the Revenant army.
This is the reality, Kiron realized, wiping soot from his brow with a trembling hand. The 'March' was a moment of glory. This... this is the life I'm trying to save. And right now, I'm just as helpless as they are.
On the third evening, as the orange suns dipped below the horizon of junk, a shadow fell over Kiron's workspace.
He didn't look up, keeping his rhythm with the hammer. Clink. Clink. Clink.
"The strike is off," a voice said. It wasn't the harsh bark of a foreman. It was smooth, cold, and carried a strange, melodic lilt.
Kiron froze. He slowly looked up.
Standing over him was a man dressed in a long coat of shimmering, multi-colored scales—the hide of a Sky-Serpent. He wore a mask that covered the lower half of his face, and at his hip hung a pair of long, curved daggers. He didn't look like a scrapper. He looked like a predator.
A Bounty Hunter, Kiron's heart skipped a beat. Did the Goddess send him? Or is he just a vulture looking for a prize?
"The wrist should stay loose," the man continued, leaning down. He reached out a gloved hand as if to correct Kiron's grip, but his eyes weren't on the hammer. They were locked onto the small sliver of charcoal veins peeking out from Kiron's sleeve.
"I'm fine," Kiron rasped, pulling his arm back.
"I'm sure you are," the man whispered, his eyes crinkling in what might have been a smile. "But the Celestials are offering a bounty that could buy this entire Conclave. Ten thousand sky-credits for a boy who 'glows.' That's a lot of clean water, isn't it?"
Kiron felt a cold prickle of "Authority" try to rise in his chest, but his body was too weak. The spark sputtered and died, leaving him gasping for air.
"Don't bother," the hunter said, straightening up. "You're empty. A hollow vessel. I could take your head right now and be a rich man by midnight."
Kiron looked the man in the eye. "Then why haven't you?"
The hunter looked around at the thousands of desperate, starving people in the Pit. He looked at the old woman from the camp, who was watching them from a distance with a hand pressed to her heart.
"Because," the hunter said, tossing a small, silver coin onto Kiron's pile of bolts. "I want to see if the rumors are true. I want to see if a King can truly rise from the trash. My name is Nel-Eak. Sleep with one eye open, 'Your Highness.' I'm not the only one who knows you're here."
As Nel-Eak vanished into the steam and shadows of the Conclave, Kiron gripped the silver coin.
The world is closing in, he thought, his jaw tightening. I can't hide in the grease forever. I have to wake the sword.