The colossal skeleton stood motionless, its inverted ribcage pointing at the grey sky—a cathedral of white bone held together by black sinew.

  Trenn pushed himself out of Mara’s arms, but Vavnaar stepped into his path.

  The Wolf Kin leader loomed over him, his scarred snout twitching with a mix of aggression and calculation. He didn't push Trenn back, but he didn't move aside either.

  "We move," Vavnaar rumbled, "on my command."

  He raised a clawed finger, pointing past Trenn’s shoulder toward a thin, grey column of smoke rising against the horizon.

  "There’s a Ratling settlement nearby. If we're going to hunt an armored god that swims through stone, we can't do it with sticks and prayers. We need to outfit your giant undead with Husk-killing weapons. We need Ratling cannons and Ratling alchemy. Black Powder. Black Liquid."

  Ezy hobbled past them, the metal joints of her leg clacking against the stone. She stopped at the base of the massive skeletal structure, craning her neck to analyze its bone structure. The floor was just open air between the ribcage’s bone-studs.

  "If the village has timber, we can build a heavy-duty deck across the spinal ridge," she called out, calculating the angles.

  "I can't just balance the Crusher on bare bones during a fight. We need a reinforced platform."

  Zeen walked up beside her, squinting at the structural layout. "If we’re mounting artillery, we need feed systems. Hoppers for the cannonballs, racks for the powder charges. We can’t be hand-loading while the Red God tries to sink us into the ground."

  Trenn stared at the distant smoke. The smell of wet mud and old blood haunted him, overriding the scent of the pine forest.

  "I know that place," Trenn whispered. He looked down at his hands, then at the massive golden tail coiled behind him. The memory was a strobe light in the dark—a collapsing water tower, a scream cut short, the feeling of absolute, golden power.

  "I didn't just pass through," he said, his voice tight. He looked up at Vavnaar, the green fire in his eyes dimming with shame.

  "There were soldiers there. Wolf Kin." Trenn swallowed, the words sticking in his throat. "There was a fight." He touched his throat, wincing at the phantom vibration of the word DIE.

  "I killed them, Vavnaar. All the Wolf Kin soldiers…"

  The Wolf Kin pups behind Vavnaar bristled, their ears pinning back at the confession. Vavnaar’s hand rested heavily on the hilt of his sword. The silence stretched, heavy and dangerous.

  “You… just killed them?” Vavnaar asked, baring his teeth. “Alone?” He stepped forward.

  Mara’s hand went instantly to her kris knife. Zeen shifted his weight, shouldering his musket. Ezy rushed toward the Crusher while Trenn stepped back and pulled Skate off his head.

  Vavnaar’s lips pursed, but not in a scowl. He smiled and then broke into a low, cruel laugh. He let go of his sword and crossed his massive arms.

  "Impressive for a Piggy! You’re stronger than you used to be.”

  He turned to Wutren and Janaree, who were smiling and shaking their heads.

  “Calm down, he’s messing with you," Janaree sneered, looking at the tense group. "Let me guess. Blue armor markings? It was Tribane’s pack. He’s an overripe bastard."

  Wutren paced a short line in the dust, his ancient eyes scanning the tree line for movement that wasn't there. "We are exiles," the elder rumbled. "Vavnaar challenged Tribane—the Alpha of this region—and failed to take the throat. They kicked us out of the pack to starve." He let out a dry, hacking scoff. "Technically, we’re bandits in this territory."

  Vavnaar looked back at Trenn, a dark amusement in his eyes. He leaned in, the scent of old blood and musk filling Trenn’s senses. "If you thinned Tribane's herd, you did me a favor, Wild Mage. But understand this: my pack is trespassing. If Tribane finds out we’re at the Ratling village, taking his weapons, he won’t send scouts."

  He mimed a pulling motion with his clawed hand. "He’ll send riders. With guns."

  “So, the Ratlings supply Tribane’s pack with weapons?” Trenn asked.

  "Yes. Ratlings belong to the Wolf Kin. We don’t eat them. They provide labor. Tribane is entitled to anything the Ratlings who occupy his territory produce—and he needs weapons," Vavnaar explained.

  “When the One-Eye abducted Dawn, it lifted the Morning Mist from the nearby valley. But that fog was a wall. A natural border that the Husk never crossed. Now, it’s gone."

  He pointed a claw toward the distant horizon. "That means the Husks are expanding into the Valley of Dawn. They must be pouring in as we speak. If Tribane’s pack doesn't contain them, they'll spread to the Dam and beyond."

  Zeen froze; Ezy’s eyes went wide. Trenn adjusted Skate on his head, thinking about the Beaver Kin city—still recovering from the One-Eye’s attack.

  "The Dam is in danger?" he asked, the words choking his throat.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "It will take time for the Husk colony to spread," Wutren stepped in. "And the Packs have crawlers, motorcycles, tanks. They won't let their ancestral enemy colonize the world without a fight.”

  “Killing giant bugs is what they do,” Janaree said, clicking the hammer of her pistol back into place with a sharp clack. "Provided the twitchy little cowards keep the ammunition flowing.”

  "We fought Husks," Mara said, her hand unconsciously drifting to her mended ribs. "They’re formidable. But the Red God? That thing swims through bedrock. Are cannons going to be enough?"

  Janaree shrugged, checking the load on her pistol. "If they aren’t, then we’re already dead," she said flatly.

  "The songs about the Red God are short on poetry and long on body counts. It’s not a monster; it’s a natural disaster. It rakes the land looking for food. If we don't put it down, the Mainland won't be a continent anymore. It’ll be a patchwork of broken ravines, and every city in the giant mole’s path will be turned to rubble."

  “Then it’s settled,” said Trenn. “We hunt the Red God—we bring its ichor to the Grimoire Mages—and they’ll owe us? They’ll help me go home?”

  Mara’s eyes flashed; Trenn felt a shot of anger and fear from her, but she held her tongue.

  “Help us, go to my home,” he corrected, tentatively.

  Vavnaar lifted a scarred eyebrow at the mention of "home." He shared a look with Janaree, who had begun loading fresh paper cartridges into her belt.

  "I don’t know about your home, Wild Mage," Vavnaar grumbled. "But if we kill the god and deliver its ichor to the Mirror, the Grimoire Mages will pay us a king’s ransom."

  He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "Our cut will be enough to ensure my whole pack, pups included, never has to hunt in the mud again."

  Wutren’s ancient eyes shimmered, the faint light within them sharpening into a piercing stare. He went deathly still. "You need the Grimoires to go home… You’re a Wild Mage?"

  The air in the clearing seemed to turn brittle. Janaree and Vavnaar recoiled as if Trenn had suddenly burst into flames. The three pups scrambled behind Wutren, whining low in their throats, sensing the sudden spike of primal terror radiating from their elders.

  Mara and Ezy smirked.

  Janaree’s face went pale beneath her russet fur. Her hand, which had been resting casually on her pistol, jerked away as if the weapon were hot iron. She leaned toward Vavnaar, her voice a trembling, jagged whisper. "Vavnaar... you’ve been calling a Wild Mage 'Piggy.' By the First Pack, we were poking a sleeping sun with a stick."

  Vavnaar didn't answer. His entire musculature was locked in a state of tetanic contraction. The swaggering Alpha was gone, replaced by a warrior who had just realized he’d been shouting insults at a storm. A bead of sweat traced a path through the scar on his snout, and his yellow eyes held a look of profound, superstitious dread.

  “That explains a lot,” the grey-fur said, turning to the giant crocodile skeleton. “First step is making this thing move, Wild Mage. I assume you know what you’re doing?”

  Vavnaar’s musculature remained tense, his eyes fixed on Trenn.

  Trenn looked at the white, bony thing. He took a few steps towards the skeleton, ignoring Janaree, Wutren, and Vavnaar. Arms at his sides, he analyzed its bleached skull—and Giant Moth—the only splash of color on the undead’s head.

  “You’re a loyal friend,” he whispered to himself before closing his eyes. He reached for the cold, green cord of necromancy in his mind. He focused on the pitch of his Mana Radiation, the constant humming in his bones.

  He forced it, bent it, and violated it with the discordance of the Necrosis Element. It resonated in his tail and immediately snapped into place.

  The tether was a frictionless wire of green frost. When the Gem-Croc lived, their bond had been a warm, pulsing vein of animal static—a constant wrestling match against fear and hunger. Now, there was only a haunting, hollow silence. It was just a bone puppet, waiting for his will to empower it.

  Trenn projected a single thought: Walk.

  The massive Gem-Croc lurched into motion with mechanical rigidity. It moved differently than it did when it was alive. It barely swayed. Its bone-tail didn't swish.

  Zeen watched the spinal ridge move. "It’s as steady as Spider-House was," the gnome said with a twinge in his voice.

  Stop, Trenn thought. And it did.

  Wutren gave an approving nod. “Impressive.”

  "It’ll make an ideal gunnery platform," Ezy chimed in.

  "That’ll never happen if we're standing here chatting about it. Mount up," Vavnaar ordered, pointing at the nearby bony leg.

  He was the first to move, his heavy boots crunching on the vitrified soil. He didn't hesitate at the sight of the unnatural threads. He grabbed a handful of the black, pulsing sinew and hauled his massive frame upward, his claws finding purchase in the sanded bone.

  Janaree followed him instantly, vaulting onto the base of the joint with a hunter’s grace.

  Wutren nudged the pups forward with the butt of his spear, but they hovered at the edge of the shadow cast by the towering animated corpse. They whined, ears flat and tails tucked, the scent of the grave making their noses twitch in revulsion.

  Zeen strapped his musket to his shoulder and offered a sharp nod to Mara. "After you, Fox Kin."

  Mara gripped a thick, cold tendon. She winced as the reach pulled at her sensitive ribs, but her climb was efficient, her black chitin armor clicking against the white bone. Zeen scrambled up after her.

  The Wolf Kin pups continued to whine until Vavnaar leaned down from the hip and snarled a command that sent them clawing upward in a blind panic.

  Ezy remained in the Crusher’s cockpit, looking up at the skeletal mountain. She leveled the machine’s forearms, and two harpoon-style grappling hooks erupted from its opened palms. With a violent pneumatic crack, the hooks bit deep into the porous white bone of a dorsal vertebra.

  The winches shrieked as the five-foot Red Metal suit hauled itself up the massive skeletal flank. It settled into a low, wide crouch, straddling the yard-wide spinal ridge. Ezy drove the machine’s hydraulic fists downward, clamping onto the bases of two inverted ribs—bone pillars as thick as ancient oaks—effectively shackling the engine to the god's massive frame.

  The "deck" was a nightmare of cavernous, open space. With the ribs inverted and pointed at the sky, the interior of the Gem-Croc was a hollowed white cathedral nearly thirty feet across.

  There was no floor—only the central spinal ridge and the ladder-like ribs curving upward like the hull of a capsized ship. Zeen, Mara, and the Wolf Kin looked like insects clinging to a cage.

  Trenn climbed last, his tail heavy but his movement practised. He ascended to the front of the vessel, taking his place on the flat plate of the right shoulder blade—a platform of sanded bone the size of a small room. He sat near the edge, his legs dangling over the precipice, using the massive weight of his golden tail to anchor himself against the bone plate like a living counterweight.

  He projected the command. The massive white skeleton lurched. The movement was seismic; a thirty-foot-wide stride that snapped pine trees like dry kindling and sent a jarring shudder through the spinal ridge.

  From his vantage point on the shoulder, Trenn watched the massive skull and front paws plow a road through the forest, clearing a path toward the black industrial smog of the Ratling village.

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