A slit opened along the Wyrm’s globulous body (red-rimmed, vein-filled eye glaring).

  The priests wilted under its gaze. Their god drifted between sleep and wake. They knew its desire.

  Sycophants wailed (low), chains clinking like broken prayers.

  The fleshy package twitched. Something stretched inside. It rose (slow, deliberate). Slime sloughed off in clumps.

  A giant unfolded (taller than any priest). Unrecognizable to the sycophants. To his two brothers. But Keigael knew.

  Tarmour. The Failure. The Tarnished.

  Delivered by his own hand.

  Drowned in tears. Reborn. Chosen.

  His helm gone (melted away). Face exposed (pale as northern ice, whiter than bone).

  Beautiful. Terrible.

  The face was flawless (high cheekbones, sharp jaw, lips full and bloodless). But the eyes…

  Swirling voids of stolen color (reds bleeding into blacks, greens twisting into sickly yellows). No whites. No pupils. Just endless grief reflected back.

  The priests felt it pull (sucking at their souls, promising the same emptiness).

  Keigael’s breath caught.

  This was no mere knight reborn. This was the Wyrm’s mortal manifestation. Its unclothed sorrow given form.

  Tarmour’s restored hand flexed (fingers long, elegant, deadly). Veins of blood pulsed beneath pale skin.

  He inhaled. The air chilled.

  The sycophants wailed louder. Chains rattled like teeth.

  The eye closed. The Wyrm slept again.

  A tremor ran the length of the Wyrm’s bloated body. Excitement? Satisfaction? Who could say.

  But its gift stood. Its will made flesh. The Unholy had been given Form.

  Anointed. Ready.

  The priests bowed deeper. The rebirth was complete.

  And its new blade was awake.

  Long flowing hair (white as his skin) framed hard chiseled features (high cheekbones, straight nose, prominent chin—perfect symmetry).

  The shifting white-black armor covered him (now ornate, hand-crafted contours). But still alive. In its own way.

  He was anything but fragile.

  Power pulsed beneath his breast (barely contained).

  Thin streams of deep red blood trickled from joints (branching veins across the surface).

  Tall as Mereque, broader than him.

  He looked down on the priests.

  His voice rumbled (malignant, burdened with unimaginable sorrow—the Wyrm’s will speaking through him).

  The sound wasn’t human. It echoed inside their skulls (wet, dragging, like drowning in tears).

  The air thickened. Heavy. Suffocating.

  The sycophants whimpered. Chains rattled soft and frantically (fear mixing with awe).

  Brother Balcarmos chewed on his lips until they bled. Brother Dynoinstein covered his face to hide his hysterical sobbing.

  Keigael felt it crawl under his skin (cold grief, endless).

  The Anointed’s eyes swirled faster (colors bleeding into black).

  No warmth. No mercy.

  Only their god’s unquenchable lament.

  The priests bowed lower.

  Spines bent. Souls offered.

  “Tell me, Brother Keigael. Are the Holy Warriors assembled?”

  Keigael remained head down. Deferential.

  “They are, Anointed One.”

  The priests knelt deeper. The sycophants wailed (quieter, afraid). There was no question or choice in the matter. For within him was their god.

  Keigael remained where he was (blind eyes unseeing, but feeling the divine weight).

  The Anointed radiated authority.

  Tarmour raised his hand (the lost arm restored, his body made whole, made better—sycophants tapped frantic descriptions).

  His voice thundered (malignant, sorrow-soaked—the will of the Wyrm speaking through him).

  “I will lead them to purge this world of the heretics, the sinners, the non-believers.”

  He pointed at Keigael.

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  “This is our Grand Crusade, the Wyrm has willed it, we will unleash our legions upon this Earth. But. First—the foreigner who wounded me. And any who stand with him. They must be punished for their sacrilege.”

  The priests knelt deeper. Contorting. Chests nearly touching ground.

  Keigael pressed forehead to stone.

  “As you will, Lord Tarmour.”

  Tarmour’s laugh cracked like breaking bone.

  “No. As He wills.”

  He stepped closer.

  “The Red Dragon broke the treaty. Our Master is unchained. We are unchained.”

  His finger stabbed toward Keigael’s hood.

  “I am to be Blanched King. I will tolerate nothing less than complete subservience.”

  The nail was pristine ivory (curved, shining, sharp, unnatural).

  Keigael felt the air part (cold wind from nowhere).

  The Anointed’s breath washed over him (rotting tears, ancient grief).

  The priests trembled harder.

  Sycophants wailed (silent now, twisting in the dirt).

  The Wyrm stirred below (coils shifting, pool bubbling).

  The chamber groaned. Dust fell like ash.

  Keigael’s blind face pressed hard into the stone. Skin split. Blood trickled out.

  He tasted fear. Real fear.

  The Anointed leaned closer.

  Voice dropped to a whisper (wet, and intimate).

  “Complete subservience.”

  The word crawled inside Keigael’s skull.

  Promising pain. Promising tears. Promising torture.

  The priests soiled themselves. Sycophants froze in place.

  The Wyrm stirred below. Pleased.

  Keigael had expected the Wyrm to choose a champion of might. A physical avatar. Not authority.

  He had delivered Tarmour believing the honor would fall to one of the cloth (higher devotion). To him. He had schemed for it. Patient. Practical.

  Now the reborn knight marched past (sneering down in contempt).

  Everything had changed.

  Keigael and the other priests were practically groveling on the ground (like lowly sycophants).

  “Blessed is our Great Wyrm. Blessings on our future King. We miserable grubs are your unworthy servants.”

  The three priests kissed the dirt around his feet. Tarmour kicked them aside.

  The blood veins on his armor pulsed.

  He did not stop. Did not speak.

  The sycophants wailed aloud again.

  The Wyrm twisted itself. Satisfied.

  The hierarchy had shifted.

  Keigael felt the chill. Not cold. Emptiness.

  The Anointed’s footsteps echoed (slow, deliberate). Each one a promise.

  Of tears. Of drowning.

  The hierarchy had shifted. Forever.

  Keigael felt it. He knew it.

  His time would come. Or not. As the Wyrm willed, it would be done.

  It mattered not. He would serve. Ever faithful.

  The Anointed marched on.

  The crusade waited. Famished. Yearning. Soon it would be freed.

  And the world would learn what grief really meant for a god.

  ? ? ?

  The oceans rolled (impossible volumes displaced). Water surged upward.

  Two tsunamis rose (kilometer high, hundred kilometers long). They raced outward.

  A mountain range moved beneath them (living, breathing). No natural force.

  The largest leviathans were specks against it. Crushed. Gone.

  No force on Earth could stand against it.

  Coastlines would break. Islands sink. Swept aside like flotsam.

  Dark clouds parted. Stars blazed (millions, cold and sharp).

  Above, the Machine God drifted silent (hull shifting, matching sky—invisible to mortal eyes).

  Beside it, the Great Red Dragon circled (wings wide, eyes scanning the depths).

  The Kraken hunted.

  The guardians watched and the night held its breath, while the sea answered with fury.

  They cruised beneath the stars (like silent birds of prey).

  The flying machine hummed low.

  It’s wedge shaped profile well hidden against the night sky.

  Revealed only by flashes of light stabbing the depths (probing, searching).

  They hunted the star-man, Mereque Ventrullis, from Leopold Seven.

  Grace’s words echoed.

  The dragon’s dreams burned hotter. Visions of fire. Of a world breaking. Of one man at the center.

  “Bzzz… Anything?”

  The tight-beam cut the night (on a wavelength only dragon ears could hear).

  Hexabulous turned (crimson eyes hooded).

  “Nothing. Salt. Dead weeds. Disgusting.”

  His rumble rolled like distant thunder.

  “You?”

  “Bzzz… Negative. Havenite hulls hide well submerged. Visual only.”

  The dragon banked. Wings caught starlight.

  The ocean stretched black below. Endless. Hiding everything.

  The Machine God pulsed another scan. Light vanished into depth. No return.

  The dragon growled low.

  “He’s down there.”

  The Machine God’s voice softened.

  “Bzzz… Or lost.”

  Hexabulous’s eyes narrowed.

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  The stars watched. Cold and silent. The hunt continued.

  Hexabulous sniffed the air (periodic, hopeful). Nothing.

  He shot the Machine God a pained look.

  “Swim?”

  “Bzzz… Not recommended. The sea’s rage suggests Old Father Kraken is active.”

  Below, waves churned (violently, unnaturally).

  The dragon snarled. Smoke curled from his nostrils.

  “This is the Wyrm’s doing. Stirring up that old bubble-sucker. That would be just like him, pain in my rear-end.”

  He banked left, slow and deliberately.

  “Bzzz… We knew what breaking the treaty would mean when you went down into the Weeper’s territory to attempt that retrieval. You went down anyway.”

  Hexabulous rumbled (almost apologetic).

  “Yes of course! I just didn’t think the Wyrm would move so fast! I mean, he’s gotten so big, I just thought he’d be slower to take note of us. Regardless, I had to try.”

  The Machine God matched speed (hull shifting camouflage).

  “Bzzz… He must have felt the breach..”

  The dragon’s wings beat once (heavy).

  “Faster than I feared.”

  The stars watched , cold and impassive, as the sea roared up at them.

  Old Father Kraken hunted. The guardians turned. Their own hunt continuing.

  “Bzzz… A miscalculation. Understandable. You are not ordered like me.”

  The dragon snarled (smoke curling) and banked.

  “He’s down there. I’m sure of it.”

  “Bzzz…Shall we intervene again?”

  “No.”

  The dragon’s eyes narrowed.

  “Old Father earned his place during the Final War. And again, during the Great Breaking. Without him, the world would have ended.”

  “Bzzz… Agreed. We watch.”

  They circled like predators, patiently gliding. The dragon scanned the sea.

  “How’s the Fay girl?”

  The Machine hummed. Panels extended (wings unfolding, sleek). Undercarriage tucked. Aerodynamic. Faster.

  The sea churned ahead of them. The Kraken’s arm was stirring. They watched it with a vigilance.

  “Bzzz… You do care. Reassuring to see an old dragon grow a heart.”

  The Machine's voice carried mirth (it was dry, mechanical, yet surprisingly personal).

  The dragon scoffed.

  “Don’t flatter yourself. We need him alive. She’s bait. That’s all.”

  He banked again, eyes narrowing.

  “So… how is she?”

  “Bzzz… Lady Grace sleeps.”

  The beast snarled.

  “Har! Don’t be so formal. Drop the ‘lady’. She’s no queen.”

  Smoke curled from his nostrils.

  The grudge was old. Fairyland had burned him once. Still, he had given them his grace. It was in his nature to protect things he considered his property.

  “Bzzz… Likely she is not, my friend. But is that any excuse for bad manners? She is our guest after all.”

  The dragon rolled his eyes (out of sight).

  “Protocol. Always protocol.”

  He flapped harder.

  “Bzzz… Protocol keeps us alive.”

  The dragon banked gently. The stars wheeled above and the sea churned below.

  Grace slept inside (blissfully unaware of their banter). Unaware of her role.

  Bait. Or savory treat. The dragon hadn't decided. The Machine matched his pace.

  “Harumph. You always must have the last word, RX.”

  The dragon’s rumble carried annoyance.

  “Bzzz… You know me too well, Hexabulous.”

  Names spoken.

  Old names.

  The machine—RX—moved with steady silence.

  The dragon—Hexabulous—banked wide with a flourish of leathery wings.

  They were ancient titans from a forgotten age. Now they were shepherds of a broken Earth.

  Mereque was no curiosity. No novelty. Humans like him didn’t exist here. Never had.

  The colony ships left before the fall. Before the wars that shattered everything.

  RX pulsed a scan. Hexabulous sniffed the wind.

  The sea churned below hiding Old Father’s anger.

  Keen draconic senses could feel the Wyrm’s stirring, even far away.

  A catastrophe was coming. Again. Hexabulous could sense it.

  Somehow the star-man was the key.

  To stop it. Or start it. Or both. He was unsure which.

  Thus, they hunted. Determined. While the night deepened.