Chapter 6 - Gravity's Pull

  The settlement shrank behind them, metallic structures dissolving into memory. Reygel's boots found rhythm against the dark grass—soft thuds that the earth seemed to swallow, as if this world preferred silence. Each step carried him farther from Grelchn's corpse, from the accusation in Laksd's eyes, from the weight of a bridge that would take a decade to rebuild.

  If only it were that simple, Grelchn had said, and he'd defended Sinsgridt anyway. Defended the destruction of something irreplaceable because he'd been too ignorant to understand what irreplaceable meant.

  His throat tightened. Two days of existence, and he'd already helped kill someone who'd shown him nothing but blunt honesty. The irony wasn't lost on him—his first real connection in this strange world, severed by his own stupidity. He kept seeing her expression when she'd discovered the ruined bridge, that particular species of horror that had nothing to do with dead enemies and everything to do with lost futures.

  Krewgt maintained her ground-eating stride ahead of him, never looking back. The warrior moved like water finding its course—efficient, unhurried, inevitable. She hadn't spoken since they'd left the south gate, and Reygel found himself grateful for the silence. Words felt like weapons right now, each one sharp enough to draw blood he couldn't afford to lose.

  The forest thickened around them. Dark trunks rose like pillars in some abandoned cathedral, their branches heavy with those strange blue fruits he'd eaten in what felt like another lifetime. The three-tailed creatures watched from above, their blade-tipped appendages catching the red sunlight as they sliced through stems and caught their prizes mid-fall. One locked eyes with him, chewing messily, juice spattering its small face. It didn't flee. Didn't even seem concerned.

  Nothing here feared him. Why would it? He was barely a threat to himself.

  "Your breathing is too loud," Krewgt said without slowing. "Control it."

  Reygel tried, forcing his lungs into a slower rhythm. The effort made him hyperaware of every gasp, every ragged inhale. His body protested—legs burning from the climb to the council chamber, shoulders aching from gripping his spear wrong, throat raw from smoke he'd inhaled during a battle that seemed weeks past despite happening yesterday.

  Or was it yesterday? Time felt slippery here, unmeasured by anything except death and resurrection.

  "Better," Krewgt acknowledged. "But you're still thinking too much. Your mind is elsewhere."

  "Someone died because of me."

  The words escaped before he could stop them. Krewgt halted so abruptly that Reygel nearly collided with her back.

  She turned, studying him with those amber eyes that seemed to catalog everything. "Grelchn died because a Minmor put poison through her neck. You didn't fire the needle."

  "I defended the choice that put her in position to receive it."

  "Yes." No comfort in the word, no absolution. Just acknowledgment of fact. "You made a decision with incomplete information. It happens. You learn, or you repeat the mistake until it kills you permanently." She resumed walking. "Guilt is fine. Paralysis is not. Choose which one you're carrying."

  Reygel wanted to argue, to explain that it wasn't that simple, that the weight in his chest wasn't something he could just decide to shed. But Krewgt's tone made it clear she had no interest in philosophical debate. She'd stated reality; what he did with it was his concern.

  They walked in renewed silence for what might have been an hour. The forest pressed closer, branches forming a latticework overhead that filtered the red sunlight into something dimmer, almost tolerable. The heat lessened slightly—still present, still pressing against his skin like a physical thing, but no longer quite so oppressive.

  Krewgt finally slowed, surveying a small clearing where the dark grass grew thicker, almost lush. She dropped her pack against a tree with practiced care. "This will do."

  Reygel set down his own pack—lighter than hers, containing only dried meat and a waterskin Laksd had provided. He straightened, rolling his shoulders to work out the knots.

  "Dismiss your Arbiter," Krewgt said.

  He focused on the Red Cardinal, willing it away. The weapon flickered and vanished, leaving his hands empty and strangely light. The absence felt wrong, like missing a limb he'd only possessed for a day.

  Krewgt pulled out the spare spear she'd been carrying and tossed it to him. He caught it with both hands, the weight unfamiliar compared to his Arbiter. Heavier somehow, though that made no sense—they looked identical.

  "Show me your stance."

  Reygel positioned himself the way he'd seen soldiers hold their weapons during the battle. Feet apart, weight distributed, spear angled forward. It felt right, or at least not catastrophically wrong.

  Krewgt circled him with predatory slowness. Once. Twice. On the third rotation she stopped directly in front of him, close enough that he could see the faint scars along her scaled neck—thin white lines that spoke of near-misses and lucky survivals.

  "That," she said, "is possibly the worst stance I've seen in forty years of training."

  "I've been alive for two days."

  "And in those two days, you managed to kill quite a few Minmors." She tapped his leading foot with her spear—not hard, but firm enough to make her point. "Move it back. Further. Your weight is too far forward. Any competent fighter would sweep your legs before you finished your first thought." She adjusted his grip on the shaft with surprising gentleness. "Here. And here. Don't strangle it. The weapon should be an extension of your arm, not something you're trying to murder."

  For the next hour, she drilled him without mercy. Basic thrusts that felt clumsy and wrong. Defensive positions that left his shoulders screaming. Footwork that turned his calves into knotted ropes of fire. She demonstrated each movement once—perfect, economical, devastating—and expected him to replicate it immediately.

  When he failed, which was often, she simply repeated the correction. No frustration. No disappointment. Just mechanical precision, as if she were adjusting a machine rather than teaching a person.

  "Again," she said for what felt like the hundredth time. "And this time, don't drop your shoulder when you thrust. You're announcing every strike like a town crier."

  Reygel adjusted. Thrust. Felt something click into place—not perfect, not even good, but less catastrophically wrong than before.

  Krewgt nodded once. "Acceptable. Now do it a hundred more times."

  By the time she called a halt, Reygel's hands were blistered, his shoulders burned with a fire that had nothing to do with the red sun, and sweat soaked through his robes despite the cooling air. He collapsed against a tree, gulping air while Krewgt looked as fresh as when they'd started.

  She pulled dried meat from her pack and tossed him a piece. "You're not completely hopeless."

  Coming from her, it felt like high praise.

  "Your body remembers more than your mind does," she continued, settling cross-legged with enviable ease. "Muscle memory, perhaps. From whatever life you had before."

  Reygel paused mid-chew, the meat tough and heavily salted against his tongue. "Why do you assume I had a life before this? Maybe I was just... created. Formed from nothing when I woke on Ephevret."

  Krewgt's expression shifted—something between sympathy and certainty. "Because from what I've heard, every Deathless says the same thing. They all feel it—fragments of something distant, just out of reach. Knowledge they shouldn't have but do." She gestured broadly at their surroundings. "You understand language instantly, as if it were always yours. You know tactics, concepts, ways of thinking that suggest experience you can't remember. That doesn't come from nowhere. The scholars believe all Deathless come from distant worlds they can't quite remember. It's part of what you are."

  The words settled into Reygel like stones dropping into still water, creating ripples that spread outward into implications he couldn't quite grasp. She was right. He did know things—fundamentals that felt institutional, given rather than learned. The word "giant" had surfaced unbidden, carrying with it a sense of massive scale he couldn't place. Concepts like horizon, proper skies, things that had no place in this floating world of Riftshores.

  "So I'm not from here." The statement carried more weight than he'd intended. "None of the Deathless are."

  "No. And you never will be, not truly." Krewgt took a drink from her waterskin. "But that doesn't mean you can't find purpose here."

  Purpose. The word tasted strange, almost bitter. What purpose could he serve except getting people killed through ignorance?

  As if reading his thoughts, Krewgt continued. "Grelchn's death wasn't meaningless. Neither was the bridge's destruction. Both bought the Laderos time—time to regroup, to rebuild, to prepare for the next assault. Sinsgridt made a tactical decision that saved hundreds of lives in the immediate moment. That it cost strategic value doesn't erase the tactical victory." She met his eyes. "War is full of such trade-offs. The question is whether you learn to make better ones, or whether you freeze up and make none at all."

  Reygel wanted to ask how she could be so clinical about it, so detached. But he suspected the answer would be something like "forty years of experience" or "because emotion doesn't win battles." So instead he asked, "What am I working with? You mentioned elements earlier."

  "I did." Krewgt pulled out a worn leather journal, its pages stained and creased from heavy use. "Most people never manifest elemental affinity. Those who do typically have only one. The eight elements fall into two categories—the four powerful elements: Fire, Water, Air, and Lightning. And the four lesser elements: Nature, Poison which also governs Healing, Gravity, and Time."

  She opened the journal, revealing sketches of geometric patterns that hurt to look at directly. "Let's start with the basics. Can you describe any unusual sensations you've experienced? Anything that felt... unnatural?"

  Reygel thought back. "When I first woke here, I touched a fallen branch. I saw—" He paused, trying to find the right words. "Mist formed. I saw how it had broken from its tree. A Minmor—bulky, moving fast—climbing the trunk and colliding with the branch. Severing it. Like watching its death."

  Krewgt's expression shifted, something like recognition crossing her features. "Thanomnesia. That's what you experienced. It marks you as a Nature element user."

  "So I can see how things died," Reygel said slowly, processing the implication.

  "Thanomnesics can read the final moments of dead matter," Krewgt confirmed. "Plants, bodies,—anything that once lived or held form. It's rare, but not unheard of. Nature governs connection to the physical world. Thanomnesics see the echoes that remain."

  "You said Nature is one of the lesser elements."

  "The strongest of the four lesser elements," Krewgt corrected. "They're considered weaker because they're less directly combative. Fire burns, Lightning strikes, Water overwhelms, Air cuts. Nature grants endurance and connection. Still valuable, just differently so."

  Reygel processed this, cataloging the information the way his mind seemed compelled to do. "And the Red Cardinal—you said it gets its default ability based on the wielder's strongest element."

  "It does." Krewgt closed the journal. "Tell me what happened when you swung it during the battle. Any unusual sensations?"

  He thought back to the bridge, to those desperate moments when the Minmor had lunged at Sinsgridt. "There was a distortion. Like heat shimmer, but wrong. The air warped where I'd swung. And the Minmor—" He paused, making sure he had the details right. "It slowed down. Not like it was moving slowly on its own, but like something was holding it back. Fighting it. The creature had to use its air ability to push through, and I could see the effort. The strain."

  Krewgt's expression shifted—something almost like resignation settling over her features. She exhaled slowly, the sound carrying weight. "Your strongest element isn't Nature."

  Reygel waited, sensing something significant coming.

  "It's Gravity."

  The word hung between them like a pronouncement. Reygel turned it over in his mind, finding it oddly fitting despite never having considered it before. Gravity. The force that held things down, that pressed against everything constantly. Invisible, ever-present, fundamental.

  "What you created," Krewgt continued, "is called a Gravity Well. It's the signature ability of Gravity users—a localized distortion that increases gravitational pull in a specific area. Everything within that space has to work harder to move, to act, to exist." She paused, and something almost like pity entered her voice. "Gravity is considered the weakest element of the eight. It's also the rarest elemental affinity to manifest."

  "Weakest and rarest." Reygel couldn't help the bitter smile. "That's quite a combination."

  "In theory, Gravity should be powerful. It's fundamental to reality itself. But in practice..." She shook her head. "Every power associated with it is diluted. Weak. Gravity Wells slow enemies, but rarely enough to be decisive. Gravity users can make themselves slightly heavier or lighter, but not enough to matter in most situations. All that theoretical potential, none of it realized. And perhaps because of that cosmic irony, fewer people manifest Gravity affinity than any other element."

  Reygel looked down at his blistered hands. Two days of existence, and already he'd been assigned the weakest element in the world. The universe's sense of humor was apparently consistent across realities.

  "But," Krewgt said, and the single word made him look up. "You have two elements. That's exceptionally rare. Most people never manifest even one. Having two marks you as unusual."

  "How unusual?"

  "One in millions, perhaps. I've met three dual-element users in my lifetime, including you." She pulled out her waterskin and took a drink. "And I'm old enough to have met a lot of people."

  The information settled into Reygel's analytical mind, creating new frameworks, new possibilities. "Have there been people with more than two?"

  Krewgt's expression closed off, becoming carefully neutral. "Yes."

  "How many?"

  "One person. In recorded history, one individual has wielded four elemental affinities." She recapped the waterskin with deliberate care. "Three of those four were from the strongest elements—Fire, Lightning, and Air. The fourth was Poison."

  Reygel leaned forward despite his exhaustion. "Who—"

  "Someone you don't need to know about right now." Krewgt's tone turned firm. "We're here to focus on your abilities, not learn ancient history. What matters is that you have two elements and an Arbiter. That combination gives you options."

  "What kind of options?"

  "Runes." Krewgt moved to her pack, pulling out the journal again and flipping to a different section. "Arbiters can accept up to ten runes. Each rune grants an elemental power—sometimes from elements the wielder has no natural affinity for. The Red Cardinal is unique in that it always provides one default ability based on your strongest element, but with runes, you can expand far beyond your natural limitations."

  Reygel felt his curiosity intensify. "How do runes work? Where do you find them?"

  "Finding them is the challenge. Runes appear randomly throughout the Riftshores—in caves, in ruins, sometimes just sitting on the ground in the middle of nowhere. They're incredibly rare. Most people search their entire lives and never find one." She showed him the sketches—geometric patterns that seemed to shift when he looked at them directly. "As for how they work—that's difficult to explain to someone who's never encountered one. But when you carry an Arbiter and come within proximity of a rune, you'll know. Instinct will guide you. The knowledge of how to bind it to your weapon will simply... exist in your mind."

  "That's frustratingly vague."

  "It's the best explanation I can give." Krewgt closed the journal. "What power you choose to bind from a rune—now that's where strategy comes in. Each rune offers multiple potential abilities. You have to decide which best complements your fighting style, your existing powers, your goals."

  Reygel processed this, questions multiplying faster than he could articulate them. "So I could theoretically gain Fire abilities through runes, even though I have no natural affinity for Fire?"

  "Exactly."

  "And these powers would work the same as if I were a natural Fire user?"

  "Not quite." Krewgt settled back against a tree. "Powers granted through runes are actually easier to use—they're given to you, artificial but functional. A Fire rune might grant you the ability to throw fireballs, and you'll be able to do it almost immediately, instinctively. But that's all you get—just that one specific power. A natural Fire user, on the other hand, has access to potentially every Fire ability that exists. Fireballs, flame walls, fire breathing, combustion touch—all of it. But each ability requires dedicated training to master. Natural affinity opens all the doors; it just doesn't unlock them for you."

  "So runes are easier but limited. Innate affinity is harder but comprehensive."

  "Exactly."

  Reygel stood, pacing slightly as his mind worked through the implications. A thought crystallized, unwelcome but logical. "Doesn't that make the Red Cardinal one of the worst Arbiters? It always grants a power based on your strongest element—something you could theoretically learn on your own anyway. Other Arbiters probably give powers you'd never have access to otherwise."

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Krewgt's expression shifted—something almost like approval. "That's good tactical thinking, but you're missing the advantage. Yes, the Red Cardinal gives you a Gravity power you could eventually learn. But consider this: instead of having to focus, channel your will, and manually create a Gravity Well—which takes concentration and effort—you can create one simply by swinging your spear. It becomes automatic, effortless. That frees your mind and your other hand to cast a different power simultaneously. Maybe a Nature ability that complements the Gravity Well. Or a rune power you've acquired." She gestured with her own spear. "Combat isn't about having the flashiest abilities. It's about efficiency. The Red Cardinal turns your strongest power into something you don't have to think about, letting you layer additional tactics on top of it."

  She paused, then added, "There's another advantage to consider. When you bind runes to your Arbiter that match your elemental affinities—Nature or Gravity in your case—those powers require significantly less energy to use. An Arbiter acts as a conduit for your natural elements. You could cast those abilities repeatedly with minimal fatigue. But a rune from, say, Fire or Lightning? Those will drain you quickly since you have no innate connection to them." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "It makes rune selection a strategic choice. Do you diversify and gain powers from elements you'd never otherwise access, knowing they'll exhaust you? Or do you specialize, collecting Nature and Gravity runes that you can spam endlessly in combat without tiring?"

  Reygel paused mid-stride, processing that. She was right. The ability to create a Gravity Well with a simple weapon swing while his mind focused on something else entirely—that was worth more than he'd initially recognized.

  Ten runes meant ten specific powers bound to his weapon. But his innate affinities for Gravity and Nature? Those offered potentially limitless abilities, limited only by time and dedication to learn them. The tactical possibilities branched out exponentially in his thoughts, each combination creating new strategies, new approaches to combat.

  "You're thinking like a tactician," Krewgt observed. "That's good. But don't get ahead of yourself. Finding even one rune requires extraordinary luck. Most Arbiter wielders go decades without locating a single one."

  "But they do exist. They can be found."

  "Yes." Krewgt rose as well, picking up her training spear. "And if we encounter one during your journey to find Sinsgridt, you'll know what to do. Until then, focus on what you have. Your Gravity Well, when you learn to control it consciously, will be your most reliable combat ability. Your Thanomnesia offers strategic value—reading how enemies died, understanding their tactics. Both are worth developing."

  Reygel summoned his Arbiter, feeling it materialize in his palm with that familiar weight. "The Gravity Well—I still need to think about activating it when I swing, right?"

  "Of course. Every Arbiter ability requires intent." She raised her own spear. "The advantage isn't that it's automatic—it's that it's effortless. When you swing and want to create a Gravity Well, the Red Cardinal does the work for you. No complex hand gestures, no lengthy focus, no draining yourself to channel the power manually. Just intent and execution. But you still have to choose it." Her eyes narrowed. "Especially once you bind runes to your weapon. Imagine having ten different powers available—if they all activated simultaneously with every swing, you'd destroy yourself and everything around you. The tactical skill lies in deciding which ability to use, and how quickly you can make that decision in combat."

  "So I need to learn Gravity powers independently?"

  "If you want true mastery, yes. The Arbiter gives you the capability—like having a muscle you never knew existed. But you still need to learn how to flex it consciously, deliberately. How to create a Gravity Well without swinging your weapon. How to adjust its strength, its radius, its duration." She shifted into a ready stance. "And that requires training. Difficult, frustrating training that most people fail to complete even with years of practice."

  Reygel mirrored her stance, adjusting his grip based on her earlier corrections. "What about the Thanomnesia? You said some abilities come naturally."

  "Passive abilities like Thanomnesia tend to manifest instinctively. You don't have to learn to activate it—you already can. But there are advanced applications. Thanomnesics who've trained for decades can read older deaths, extract more detailed information, sometimes even experience the emotional state of the dying. That level of skill takes time to develop." She began circling him slowly. "Your Gravity Well is different. The Arbiter makes it effortless when you're wielding the Red Cardinal, but that's artificial mastery. Real control requires understanding the element itself."

  "And you can teach me that?"

  Krewgt's smile was thin. "I can teach you the fundamentals. I'm not a Gravity user myself—I have no elemental affinity at all. But I've trained enough wielders to understand the principles. Whether you can actually learn it..." She shrugged. "That depends entirely on you."

  Reygel felt the challenge settle into his bones, adding to the weight of everything else he carried. Two elements—one common enough, one apparently rare in ways he didn't yet understand. An Arbiter that granted him a power from his strongest elemental affinity, which unfortunately happened to be from the weakest element. The potential for more through runes that might not even exist in any accessible location. And beneath it all, the fundamental question that had haunted him since waking: who was he, really, beneath this borrowed body and fractured memory?

  "Ready for round two?" Krewgt asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  "Do I have a choice?"

  "No." She lunged without warning, her spear blurring toward his chest.

  Reygel barely got his weapon up in time, the impact reverberating through his arms. She disengaged and struck from a different angle. Then another. Each attack came faster, more precise, testing his defenses and finding them inadequate.

  "Your footwork is sloppy!" she called out between strikes. "You're thinking too much—move instinctively!"

  Easy for her to say. Reygel tried to find a rhythm, to anticipate where the next attack would come from, but Krewgt seemed to exist in multiple places at once. Her spear struck high, low, from the side, each blow calculated to expose a new weakness in his defense.

  "Use your environment!" Another strike, this one forcing him to backpedal toward a tree. "Don't just stand there accepting everything I give you—make me work for it!"

  Reygel sidestepped at the last moment, putting the tree between them. It bought him half a second before Krewgt simply went around, her attack never wavering. But that half-second let him see the pattern—or the beginning of one. She favored high strikes after forcing him to defend low. Not every time, but often enough.

  He blocked low deliberately, leaving his upper body exposed. When her spear swept toward his shoulder exactly as predicted, he twisted aside and counterattacked for the first time since the drill had begun.

  His strike went wide. Krewgt had expected the counter and adjusted, her spear already repositioning to exploit his overextension. The shaft of her spear caught him in the ribs—not hard enough to injure, but enough to sting.

  "Better," she said, pulling back and resetting her stance. "You're starting to think tactically. But you committed too fully to that counter. Always keep something in reserve—a failed attack shouldn't leave you vulnerable to immediate retaliation."

  They continued for another hour, Krewgt gradually increasing the intensity while pointing out every mistake, every missed opportunity, every moment where instinct should have overridden thought. By the time she called a halt, Reygel's entire body screamed in protest. He collapsed onto the dark grass, chest heaving, arms trembling from exhaustion.

  Krewgt stood over him, not even breathing hard. "You're weak. Untrained. But you have something most beginners lack—you don't freeze in the face of danger. Whatever life you had before, it taught you that hesitation kills." She offered her hand, pulling him to his feet with surprising strength. "That's a foundation we can build on."

  "How encouraging," Reygel managed between gasps.

  "Don't mistake honesty for cruelty. You asked what you're working with—I'm telling you." She moved to her pack, pulling out more dried meat and a waterskin. "You have two elements, an Arbiter, and combat instincts that let you fell multiple enemies despite dying twice. The question is whether you have the discipline to sharpen those advantages into something that matters."

  Reygel accepted the offered food and water, letting his muscles relax gradually. "You mentioned mastering elemental powers requires hard training."

  "Years of it, typically. Decades for true mastery." Krewgt sat down across from him, her posture relaxed but her eyes alert. "The Arbiter makes your Gravity Well function effortlessly when you wield it. But conscious control over Gravity manipulation outside the weapon's influence? That's different. That requires understanding the element at a fundamental level, learning to manipulate it through will alone."

  "And you think I can learn that?"

  "I think you have the capacity. Whether you have the dedication..." She shrugged. "Time will tell."

  Reygel looked down at his blistered hands, feeling the ache in muscles he didn't remember having. Two days of existence, and already his body felt like it had lived a lifetime. But beneath the exhaustion, something else stirred—a determination he couldn't quite name, rooted in the simple fact that he'd survived this long and refused to waste the opportunity.

  "What about the person with four elements?" he asked, returning to the question Krewgt had deflected earlier. "If mastering even one element takes years, how did they manage four?"

  Krewgt's expression closed off again, that same careful neutrality descending like a mask. "That individual was... exceptional. In ways that transcended normal limitations." She stood, clearly signaling the end of that line of inquiry. "But they're not relevant to your training. What matters is that you focus on your two elements—weak as they may be—and learn to leverage them effectively."

  "You keep dodging that question."

  "Because it's not a productive conversation." Krewgt's tone turned firm. "Learning about someone who existed at a completely different level of power won't help you master Gravity Wells or understand Thanomnesia. It'll just give you an impossible standard to measure yourself against." She picked up her spear. "Now, before we lose the light, I want to see if you can consciously create a Gravity Well without swinging your weapon."

  "You just said that takes years to learn."

  "It does. But we might as well see if you have any natural inclination." She gestured for him to stand. "Dismiss your Arbiter and focus on the space in front of you. Remember the feeling when you created the Gravity Well during combat—the distortion, the weight of it. Try to recreate that sensation without the weapon as a conduit."

  Reygel dismissed the Red Cardinal and extended his hand, focusing on the air before him. He tried to remember that moment on the bridge—the shimmer, the resistance, the way reality had warped under his unconscious command. But without the weapon, without the adrenaline of combat, the power felt distant, inaccessible.

  Nothing happened.

  "Again," Krewgt said. "Don't force it. Feel for the weight that's already there—gravity exists everywhere, always. You're not creating something from nothing; you're amplifying what's present."

  He tried again, reaching for that sense of weight, of presence. Still nothing.

  "Good," Krewgt said, which confused him until she explained. "You're not forcing false results. Some beginners convince themselves they're manipulating elements when they're really just wasting energy. The fact that you're honest about your failures means we can work with genuine progress when it comes." She shouldered her pack. "We'll try again tomorrow. And the day after. Eventually, something will click. Or it won't, and you'll rely on the Arbiter exclusively. Either way, we adapt."

  As the red sun began its descent toward the horizon—a process that didn't quite make sense given the black void above them—Krewgt led them deeper into the forest, searching for a defensible position. The quality of light changed, becoming less harsh, more diffuse. Shadows lengthened until they seemed to reach toward the void itself.

  They'd been walking perhaps twenty minutes when a sound cut through the forest—distant but distinct. The crack of breaking wood, followed by something between a snarl and a howl.

  Krewgt was moving before Reygel fully processed the sound, her spear appearing in her hand as if it had always been there. He summoned his Arbiter, feeling it materialize with that familiar weight, and followed her lead.

  "How many?" he whispered.

  Krewgt held up three fingers, then tilted her head, listening with the kind of focus that came from decades of survival. Four fingers. Five.

  The sounds grew closer. Not trying for stealth—whatever approached wanted them to know it was coming. Reygel's analytical mind cataloged the implications. Either arrogance, or numbers large enough that stealth didn't matter.

  The first Minmor burst through the tree line thirty feet away. Then two more. Then four. Then more than Reygel could count in the span of a heartbeat. They spread out with tactical precision, creating a semicircle that trapped Reygel and Krewgt against a dense thicket of thorned undergrowth.

  Around twenty. And unlike the savage horde he'd faced during the siege, these moved with coordinated purpose. A patrol, he realized. Or a hunting party.

  "Stay behind me," Krewgt said quietly. "And for once in your short life, don't argue."

  She moved forward with liquid grace, her spear already spinning in complex arcs. The first Minmor lunged—she sidestepped and opened its throat in a single motion. The second tried to circle—she pivoted and drove her blade through its eye socket. Third and fourth came together—she ducked low and swept their legs, finishing them before they could rise.

  It was the most beautiful violence Reygel had ever witnessed. Economy of motion turned deadly, each movement serving multiple purposes. She wasted nothing—no energy, no time, no opportunity.

  But there were too many. For every three she killed, five more pressed forward. They learned from watching their companions die, adjusted their approaches, began working together in ways the battlefield horde never had. These weren't mindless beasts. These were soldiers.

  A Minmor slipped past Krewgt's guard, angling straight for Reygel. He raised his spear, managed a clumsy thrust that went wide. The creature's claws raked across his arm, drawing blood. Pain bloomed bright and immediate.

  He swung again, this time with intent—willing the Gravity Well to form. The air distorted. The Minmor stumbled mid-leap, suddenly fighting against invisible weight. Reygel's blade found its neck while it struggled.

  "Better!" Krewgt called without taking her eyes off her own opponents. "Keep using it! Make them work for every step!"

  Reygel focused on the next attacker, swung, created another warping in space. This one adapted faster—saw the distortion and tried to go around it. But the deviation cost momentum, gave Reygel time to adjust. His blade caught the creature's shoulder, not fatal but enough to slow it for Krewgt's finishing blow.

  They fell into rhythm. Krewgt handled the majority, her experience and skill creating a wall of death that kept most Minmors occupied. Reygel protected her blind spots, using his Gravity Wells to create hesitation, to disrupt attacks, to buy split-seconds that Krewgt converted into kills.

  It still wasn't enough. More kept coming, pouring from the forest as if the trees themselves birthed them. Reygel's arms screamed with fatigue. Each swing of his spear felt heavier than the last. His Gravity Wells grew weaker, the distortions less pronounced.

  "We need to move!" Krewgt's voice carried urgency for the first time. "Back toward that outcropping—get high ground!"

  They retreated in coordinated steps, never turning their backs, maintaining the defensive formation. Reygel's heel caught on a root. He stumbled, and in that moment of imbalance, a Minmor lunged. Its jaws closed around his shoulder, teeth punching through cloth and skin. Agony consumed him.

  He screamed—not planned, not tactical, just pure animal reaction. His free hand grabbed the creature's spike-covered back, ignoring how the barbs tore his palm. And in that moment of contact, of touching something that was about to die, his Thanomnesia activated.

  Mist formed. He saw through the Minmor's eyes—saw himself from the creature's perspective, saw the fear in his own expression, saw the Red Cardinal coming around in a desperate arc—

  The vision ended as his blade found the Minmor's skull.

  Reygel collapsed, blood pouring from his shoulder. The wound was deep, possibly fatal. His vision tunneled. Krewgt stood over him, her form silhouetted against the red sun, her spear a blur as she held the line alone.

  "Not yet," she growled—unclear if she was speaking to him or the Minmors. "You don't get to die yet."

  Something in her voice pulled Reygel back from the edge. He forced himself upright, shoulder screaming protest, and rejoined the fight with a thrust that was more reflex than technique.

  And then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. The surviving Minmors broke and ran, melting back into the forest as if they'd never been there. Reygel counted seven corpses scattered around them. Seven out of twenty or more.

  The rest had retreated. Why? They'd been winning.

  "They weren't trying to kill us," Krewgt said, breathing hard for the first time since he'd met her. "They were testing. Probing. Seeing what we could do." She knelt beside him, examining his shoulder with clinical efficiency. "This is bad. Deep. You might have hours, might have minutes. Can't tell with Minmor bites—their saliva carries bacteria that complicates everything."

  "So I'll die and resurrect." The words came out weaker than intended.

  "Yes. But not here, not now. We need distance first." She pulled bandages from her pack and began wrapping his shoulder with surprising gentleness. "If you die this close to where they probed us, they might see your body disappear. Once they witness that, they'll know a Deathless has fallen—and that gives them a full day to attack the settlement before you can resurrect and return."

  The tactical implications cut through Reygel's pain-fogged mind. His death wasn't just personal anymore—it was strategic information the enemy could exploit.

  "Can you walk?"

  Reygel tested his legs. Everything hurt, but nothing was broken. "Yes."

  "Then we move. Now."

  They gathered their packs and headed south at a pace that made Reygel's earlier complaints about hiking seem laughable. Every step sent fresh agony through his shoulder. Krewgt stayed close, occasionally grabbing his good arm when he stumbled.

  The red sun continued its descent, sliding toward the edge of the world. The quality of light changed—less harsh, more diffuse. Shadows lengthened until they seemed to reach toward the void itself.

  "We need to find defensible ground," Krewgt muttered, scanning their surroundings. "Before full dark."

  "Is night that dangerous?"

  "Night makes everything dangerous. You've never experienced true darkness, Deathless. No moon. No stars close enough to matter. Just the void pressing down from above, the lava glow from the mountains, and whatever hunts in that darkness." She pointed to a rocky rise ahead. "There. We can see approaches from multiple angles."

  They climbed with Reygel's remaining strength fading with each step. By the time they reached the top—a flat expanse of stone perhaps twenty feet across—his vision swam. Blood had soaked through the bandages. He could feel the infection spreading, a cold fire working its way toward his heart.

  "I don't think I have hours," he said.

  Krewgt nodded. "No. I don't think you do either."

  "Will you be safe? If they come back?"

  "I'll manage." She began arranging stones, creating a small barrier around their position. "I'll stay out here. When you resurrect, explain what happened to the Council—the probing attack, their tactics. Rest the night at the settlement." She gestured south. "The morning after tomorrow, make your way back to this location. I'll spend tomorrow hunting down any remaining Minmors from that patrol and tracking Sinsgridt's path. Day after tomorrow, at dawn, I'll make sure I'm in this vicinity. When you get close enough, I'll find you."

  "What if they attack the settlement while you're traveling back?"

  "Then I'll rush to join the fight." Simple. Absolute. No doubt in her voice.

  Reygel settled against a boulder, feeling his strength drain away like water through cupped hands. The sun touched the horizon—or what passed for a horizon on this floating disc. And then it dipped below.

  Darkness fell like a curtain.

  Reygel had experienced night on Earth—or thought he had, somewhere in those fractured memories that felt more like dreams than history. But this was different. This was darkness absolute.

  Above, the void stretched infinite. Stars scattered across it like distant, dying embers, too far away to provide light. They didn't twinkle. Didn't warm. Just existed, cold and indifferent. From somewhere in the distance, the lava flows cast a faint orange glow—enough to suggest shapes but not reveal them. Enough to create deeper shadows that could hide anything.

  The temperature dropped. Not dramatically, but enough that Reygel felt it through his blood loss and creeping infection. He'd been warm since waking on Ephevret, sometimes uncomfortably so. This was the first time he'd felt cold.

  "It's like the universe is watching," he whispered.

  "It is." Krewgt struck flint to steel, coaxing flames from tinder she'd produced from somewhere. The fire caught, pushing back the darkness in a small circle. "Everything watches everything here. The void especially."

  The flames cast dancing shadows across her scaled face, making her look ancient and young simultaneously. She fed the fire carefully, building it until warmth reached Reygel's position.

  "I'm going to try something," he said. The words felt thick in his mouth, heavy with dying. "Before I go."

  "Try what?"

  "Gravity. Without the weapon."

  "You're delirious from infection."

  "Probably. But I'm going to try anyway." He dismissed his Arbiter, leaving his hands empty. The loss of weight felt significant, like shedding an anchor. He extended his right hand—the one that wasn't ruined from grabbing the Minmor's spikes—and focused on the air before him.

  Krewgt had said Gravity existed everywhere, always. That he wasn't creating something from nothing, just amplifying what was present. So Reygel reached for that presence, that weight that pressed down on everything constantly. Tried to feel it the way he'd felt it on the bridge, when the distortion had appeared unbidden.

  Nothing happened.

  He tried again, remembering the sensation—not visual, but visceral. The way reality had warped under his unconscious command. The resistance, the weight, the fundamental wrongness of space folding in on itself.

  Still nothing.

  His consciousness flickered. The infection had reached deeper, spreading its cold through his veins. He was dying, and he knew it. Minutes left at most.

  But he tried one more time.

  This time, he didn't reach outward. He reached inward—felt for the weight inside himself, the constant pull that kept his blood flowing down, his organs settling, his bones pressing against the stone beneath him. Gravity wasn't just around him. It was him. Part of the fundamental structure of his existence.

  The air in front of Reygel's hand shimmered.

  It was barely perceptible—a tiny distortion no larger than his palm, lasting less than a heartbeat before dissolving. But it had been there. He'd felt it form, felt the weight gather and compress, felt reality bend to his will for that single instant.

  "You did it," Krewgt said softly. "Dying, delirious, barely conscious—and you did it."

  Reygel tried to smile, but his face wouldn't cooperate. The darkness at the edges of his vision was spreading, consuming everything. His last thought before consciousness fled wasn't fear or regret.

  It was wonder.

  Pure, childlike wonder at the fact that he'd made something impossible happen through nothing but will.

  The void pressed down. The fire crackled. Krewgt sat vigil over the spot where a Deathless had fallen, his body already vanished, leaving no trace except the memory of someone who'd managed one small miracle in his final moments.

  She fed the fire, kept watch through the absolute darkness, and thought about all the warriors she'd trained over forty years. None had ever manifested an elemental ability while dying. Most never manifested them at all.

  This one was different. Weak, untrained, barely two days old—but different.

  She looked up at the void, at the cold and distant stars, and wondered what else Reygel Sireg might become if he survived long enough to matter.

  Dawn would come eventually. Reygel would wake at his Altar, confused and disoriented, trying to piece together how he'd died this time. And she would make her way back to coordinate, to plan, to continue the impossible task of making him into something more than dead weight.

  But for now, in this moment of perfect darkness, there was only silence. Only the void. Only the tiny shimmering distortion that had existed for less than a heartbeat but proved that even the weakest element could answer when called by someone desperate enough to try.

  Somewhere in the south, Sinsgridt walked alone, carrying her own burdens. Somewhere in the settlement, the Laderos rebuilt what they could while wondering if their Deathless would survive long enough to matter.

  And somewhere between life and death, Reygel learned what true darkness felt like—and discovered that even there, even in that absolute absence, gravity still pulled.

  Still called.

  Still waited.

  The stars watched. The void pressed down. And the fire burned on through the night, a small defiance against the crushing weight of everything that existed beyond its light.