And so the preparations for the move began. Yet with lingering work unfinished and a shifting balance of power in the port, the actual date of departure remained uncertain. Bayren’s importance to both the city and the research base made any quiet withdrawal nearly impossible; excusing himself without raising alarm demanded tact, patience, and a careful erosion of expectation. Beneath the polite negotiations and measured delays, the old Calamity strained under the weight of the locals’ scrutiny—and the pressure of staying when he was already halfway gone.

  Rusk, on the other hand, continued his training with or without Lord Bayren, throwing himself into anything and everything that might sharpen his general combat skills. He had never been a standout ranger at first, but with time—and a will that burned hotter with Bayren’s expectation—he exceeded expectations, growing far stronger than he had ever believed possible. Alongside his own regiment, he also began training the twins in basic Kyyr control, doing his best to understand the nuance of the strange, inherited connection Galene shared with her daughters.

  And only a couple of days after Bayren’s announcement, aboard the Nordos Starglider, training in earnest, we find Rusk, the twins, Veladonna, and Lady Galene enjoying a small lunch break.

  Lady Galene sat conscious, her eyes filled with clarity as she gently sipped tea from a crystalline cup. She watched the twins as they murmured over something playing on the crystalcomm.

  Lamia, curious and proud as always, put her desires and interests at the forefront of every choice and action. Beside her was Mera, a timid girl who found cuteness even in the most alien of organisms, her words few, but her misty pink eyes filled with the splendor of innocent wonder.

  Mera squinted painfully at the screen, struggling through the waves of Kyyr that singed her retinas—a weird conflagration of esoteric energy that ebbed and flowed without meaning or direction. Whisper-light, an alien ethos, a breath aspiring to tell the truth of neither here nor nowhere, a tangle of things to come and long since were—Kyyr. Teary-eyed, the young girl tugged her hood low, hiding her face as she struggled to keep her focus on the crystalcomm’s display.

  Rusk watched from nearby, uneasy, his hand held tightly by Lady Galene—who over the last couple of years had slowly regained more and more autonomy. Though by now it was clear that whoever she had once been was unlikely to return. An echo lost in a sea of regret, an unknowing, perhaps unwitting, sacrifice of the mind and soul for the two girls before her. And yet, from the confused remains of Galene's memory, a quiet clarity filtered up through the murk—a whimsical woman, her eyes and sensibilities not unlike a child’s, her tastes and interests faint echoes of the person she had once been.

  “Mr. Rusk…” Galene whispered, leaning into him, tilting her head back until her eyes met his. “It’s been long enough.”

  Rusk looked down at her, his face tightening in shared pain before he forced a fragile smile. Galene’s hands closed around his, Kyyr gathering in her palms; coalescing into a jagged rose blossom, that spread into an angular asymmetric crystalline mask that shimmered eerily in the light. A gentle smile lay on her dreamy face as Rusk gently took the glassy exegete from her. With a simple nod, he rushed over to the twins. Kneeling next to Mera, he gently drew back her hood and found her in tears. A desperate sorrow welled in his chest as he pressed the crystalline mask softly against her face.

  Mera cried into the mask, tears struggling to escape as she pressed her face into Rusk’s chest and wept. Rusk brushed her hair with a grimace on his face as he glanced back to find Galene staring at him, her pink eyes awash with a milky dullness.

  Lamia looked between her mother and Rusk, her Kyyr fluttering uselessly as she put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. Her heart stirred as she looked down, upset.

  “If it hurts, say something,” Lamia said with a tinge of annoyance.

  Mera only cried harder, and Rusk could do nothing but look down in quiet, aching helplessness.

  The connection between Mera and Galene stemmed from their Kyyr ability—King’s Retina. A shared manifestation, which though not unheard of was incredibly rare. To further the intrigue of their Kyyr, Lamia’s Kyyr shared a similar nomenclature.

  Unlike her mother and sister, whose Kyyr was based on insight, Lamia’s was one of touch. Her ability—King’s Phalanges, allowed her to touch the whims of the esoterica itself. By sheathing her fingers in crystalline claws not unlike the masks of her mother and sister, she could interact directly with the prima esoterica, the raw, natural essence of Kyyr.

  Rusk stared down at the whimpering Mera, his thoughts spiraling back to the same question that had haunted him since he first learned the names of their abilities. Who was this King? This being, whose presence and ilk were so deeply entwined with the primal confluence of all Kyyr. And why was his sight naught but a curse for mother and child?

  By the time Mera’s pain had eased, Rusk had found himself exhausted.

  Veladonna had joined Rusk on the floor, a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take care of lunch today,” she said softly. “Why don’t you go get some fresh air?”

  Rusk forced a smile. “No, it’s okay, it’s my turn today, so—”

  Veladonna met his eyes, her look subtle yet unmistakably firm. “Rusk,” she said with quiet authority. “I’ll take care of the twins.”

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  “But…” he started to protest.

  Lamia raised her voice. “You can go! I can help Vela with Mom and Mera, so get some rest! I know Daddy’s training is rough, so… please!”

  Rusk placed a hand on Lamia’s head, giving it a gentle pat. “Thank you,” he said.

  After easing Mera back onto her feet, Rusk left the training room. He hugged the twins goodbye and wobbled out into the hall, drawing in a shaky breath as he looked ahead to their remaining days on Himadri. Anxious and sleepless, with departure looming beneath Bayren’s shadow, he found himself caught in a confounding calm entwined with dread. And while his thoughts lingered on what was yet to come, not far away, another remained fixated, deathly so, on the cold, unforgiving now.

  Rusk’s mind was a mess of worries, his insecurity at the very forefront of his self-imposed failure. He made his way down the winding halls of the Starglider.

  Within his heart a kindling of inward revulsion. His Kyyr clicking and clattering under his skin, rippling with the possibility of numinous capability. He stepped out into the icy open, boots striking metal as the waters below popped and sizzled with fizz, the groan of vessels and distant chatter of people fading to a whisper around him.

  Rusk…

  A figure disembarking from a Starglider saw him walking away from the crowd alone. Eyes dilated, a faint, warbling bloodlust leaked from ámon Pax.

  “Hold this.” Pax shoved his bag into the arms of a fellow ranger.

  “Huh? What the hell man!” the ranger complained as Pax picked up his pace as he speed-walked after a disappearing Rusk that was meandering towards the lonelier edges of the dock.

  “Captain Pax! What about the meeting with the Navy?!” another ranger called out.

  But Pax didn’t react as he vanished into the crowd that riddled the dock like fleas on a dog. The crowd of men and beasts churned in motion as the group of rangers hopelessly searched for their captain.

  Pax pushed through the clumps of living figures, his instincts flaring wildly as he cut through the noise and emerged on the far side of the massive crowd. His poison-purple eyes locked on a distant figure walking aimlessly along the furthest dock.

  Pax stared at the lone man, a shrill warbling cry scratching at the back of his mind, aggravating his senses with a needling itch. A fretting, unreachable miasma filled his senses. Pax began to walk, the ring of his armored boots clattering against the metal as his desire to kill overpowered all restraint. Kyyr bubbled around his heels, black scales creeping over his skin, recasting his human form to match his spirit.

  Rusk reached the farthest reach of the dock, his tired eyes resting on the white waters crashing against the Rip Translate. He took a deep, frigid breath that stung his lungs in a desperate plight for warmth, seeping his senses into a soup of dreamy haze. Kyyr fluttered through his body, spreading through every millimeter of flesh and bone. He looked down into the dark water at the dock’s edge, the distant light creating a sōma, a mirror reflecting unease.

  A monstrous figure approached from behind, mind and body twisted into an unsightly thing. His beak dripped with saliva, teeth bubbling as harsh breaths rasped in and out. Purple eyes, deranged and deformed, marred with yellow horizontal slit alien eyes fixed on Rusk. Tendrils unfurled slowly into 4 armored limbs of poison plain death, a scaled beast, a malice-riddled fiend.

  Rusk lost in his senses, none the wiser, searched deep within himself for a sign—a flicker, an echo of what could be. He rooted through every part of himself in the blind pursuit of any sign of unique Kyyr. Energy coiled around his mind, desperately clawing at his cells, rupturing, tearing, killing him little by little. But there was only a hum. A noise. The distant crash of waves and the rolling thunder of an unseen storm. Nothing more. Only a glimpse of something far out beyond the murky waters of Himadri. Too far, too harsh, for a common man’s soul to reach. A tease of greatness. A doorway to something.

  Locked.

  A shoal of distant voices, the din of steel and machine, crashing water, the groan and hum of Kyyr engines, roaring surf—and the noise within. Rusk pushed harder. His Kyyr split his skull with agonizing force as he swayed on the edge of consciousness, inhuman claws stretching unseen behind him. The storm and the endless sea swelled louder than his rising hope, his thoughts tearing themselves apart into a tangled ruin of memory as he wavered, barely upright.

  Pax’s jaw spread wide over Rusk’s neck, saliva glistening in the low glow, eyes filled with warbling insanity.

  Rusk reached the edge of a cliff—he saw it. There. The storm and sea called for him, welcoming the weary man into their violent waters. He collapsed forward.

  Pax’s jaws clamped down.

  Starless cold.

  …

  Pax blinked, confusion snapping him back into his senses. His eyes went wide as he stared at Rusk, unharmed, his body swaying a meter away. Pax’s body recoiled as he stumbled in place, his bloodlust wavering against uncanny dread.

  Pax moved on instinct.

  He lunged, catching Rusk by the arm.

  ?????????? ?????? ??????? ?????????? ?? ?? ???????? The warbling screeched from within, his mind striking as he hauled Rusk back onto the dock.

  Pax fell back with Rusk in his arms, his thoughts skipping and emotions glitching as he stared down at him, stunned by his own actions.

  The fuck? Why did I?

  Rusk groaned as he rolled off Pax, coughing violently. Blood seeped from his eyes and mouth as he grunted through the pain.

  “F—uck!” Rusk coughed out. “I overdid it…” he muttered, turning to face a confused Pax. His eyes blurry with blood. “Thank you…” he managed as he heaved for breath.

  Pax didn’t answer, disgust and confusion overwhelming him as he scrambled to his feet and ran away. The warbling in his mind easing briefly as he disappeared in the crowd.

  Rusk remained at the edge of the dock, shaking and overwhelmed, before lying flat on his back. His body convulsing as strange Kyyr sputtered into nothingness.

  Huffs own vanilla-scented farts. Ah, I can’t wait to get to those answers.

  -L. Osric