The void shattered.
Reality crashed back like a wave, bringing with it sensations both foreign and overwhelming. The first thing they felt was pain—deep, residual aches from battles their borrowed bodies had fought. Then came the smells: ash and blood and something chemical and bitter.
Light filtered through their closed eyelids, dim and gray. The air felt thick, almost solid, as it filled lungs that somehow felt both familiar and strange. Even gravity seemed different, pressing against them with unexpected weight.
Through the haze of reorientation, they became aware of movement nearby. Footsteps crunching on gravel. The rustle of robes. A sharp intake of breath.
"Survivors!" The voice cracked with age and fear. "Survivors here!"
Their eyes snapped open simultaneously—eight pairs of eyes finding focus in a world of ash and shadow. Above them stood a monk, his weathered face twisted in shock as he stumbled backward. His basket of personal effects scattered across the ground, trinkets and dog tags tinkling against stone.
Through the gray light, they could make out the battlefield stretching endlessly around them. Bodies lay everywhere, some already being consumed by makeshift pyres. Figures moved through the carnage like shadows—looters and estimators, priests and scavengers, each playing their part in this grim aftermath.
The monk's cry had drawn attention. An estimator approached, his thick-rimmed glasses reflecting what little light penetrated the ashen sky. He peered down at them through those glasses, his notepad forgotten in his hands as he studied their impossible condition.
They lay in a peculiar cluster—the Zelion's massive red form, the Malara's purple-tinged skin, the Pathos with her porcelain complexion, and the five unridden with their ordinary appearances. All bearing wounds that should have been fatal. All somehow breathing.
None of them spoke. What could they say? They were strangers in borrowed flesh, trying to understand bodies that carried memories of a battle they hadn't fought, of a world they didn't know.
The estimator's assistant appeared beside him, and together they began discussing preparations for transport. Around them, the work of dealing with the dead continued, but now there was something else in the air—a tension, a sense that something impossible had occurred.
In the distance, pyres burned bright against the gray sky, sending columns of ash toward heaven. The smoke carried the essence of the dead, transforming their remains into something precious. But for these eight, death had become something different—not an end, but a doorway to a purpose they were only beginning to understand.
They were no longer who they had been. They were no longer where they had been.
They were in Sveethlad. And Sveethlad was waiting.
The estimator withdrew his examining hand, its surface stained with various fluids—blood both crimson and purple-black, unknown secretions, and substances that seemed to defy medical understanding. He ordered his team to transport them, his voice carrying an edge of barely contained excitement beneath its professional tone.
As hands lifted them onto stretchers, their new bodies screamed with pain from wounds they hadn't earned. Each movement revealed new agonies, new awareness of unfamiliar flesh. Through the haze of disorientation, they caught glimpses of each other—faces both strange and familiar wearing expressions of shared confusion.
The Zelion's massive red form required four bearers, while the Malara's slight frame needed only one. The Pathos they handled with excessive care, as if her porcelain skin might shatter at any moment. The five unridden they moved with efficient indifference.
Above them, the sky hung low and gray, pressing down like a burial shroud. The air tasted of ash and something else—something chemical and sweet that coated the back of their throats. Breathing felt wrong, as if their lungs were learning the process anew.
Through the blur of movement, they saw the battlefield in fragments: Pyres burning with unnatural colors, their flames casting strange shadows. Groups of figures huddled around the fires, jealously guarding their claim to the dead. Priests moving between the bodies, performing hurried rites before the looters could strip them bare. Mountains of equipment piled like offerings—weapons, armor, and things they had no names for yet.
The estimator's voice drifted over them, recording observations: "Subject shows signs of dissid lung, yet breathes..." "Unusual scarring patterns, possibly pre-existing..." "Blood composition irregular, requires further study..."
Their stretchers were loaded onto what appeared to be a steel-frame carriage, its surface gleaming with an almost surgical cleanliness amid the surrounding filth. As the doors closed, sealing them in antiseptic darkness, the last thing they saw was the monk who had found them. He stood watching their departure, his expression haunted, his hands still clutching the scattered personal effects of the dead.
Inside the carriage, the air changed. It became sharp with the scent of alcohol and antiseptic. Lights flickered on—harsh, white, and probing. The estimator moved between them, making notes, taking samples, his fascination growing with each discovery.
None of them spoke. What words could capture this moment? How could they explain that they were strangers wearing the flesh of the recently dead? That they had been sent here by something called the Axis? That they had a mission they barely understood?
Instead, they lay in silence, each lost in the strange sensation of inhabiting bodies that carried memories they couldn't access, wounds they hadn't suffered, and a history they would have to uncover.
The carriage began to move, its motion smooth despite the ruined landscape it traversed. Through small windows, they caught glimpses of a city rising in the distance—tall spires and strange architecture half-hidden by a perpetual haze.
They were being taken somewhere. To hospitals, perhaps, or something that passed for them in this world of sickness and ash. But as the battlefield receded behind them, one thought became clear: their mission had begun, ready or not.
Sveethlad had claimed them. Now they would have to learn its rules, its dangers, and its desperate need for salvation.
The carriage windows offered fragmented views of their destination. Through the smog, Sveethlad revealed itself in pieces: crumbling towers wreathed in steam, streets crowded with the walking sick, plumes of ash rising from countless chimneys. The architecture seemed to blend organic and mechanical elements—buildings that might have been beautiful once, now retrofitted with pipes and vents like medical equipment keeping a dying patient alive.
Inside the carriage, their Axis terminals flickered to life for the first time since their arrival, appearing as translucent screens visible only to each of them. Data scrolled past: statistics about their borrowed bodies, warnings about maintaining cover, fragments of information about this world's history. But the text was hard to focus on through the haze of pain and disorientation.
The estimator continued his examination, moving between them with methodical precision. His assistant followed, noting down observations in quick, sharp strokes:
"Subject exhibits extensive Ashblight scarring, yet vital signs remain stable..." "Unusual cellular activity in the Malara specimen, possibly mutation..." "Zelion musculature shows signs of recent enhancement..." "Pathos bloodwork indicates... interesting... most interesting..."
They passed through different districts, each revealing new aspects of Sveethlad's nature. In one area, people wore elaborate masks with filters and tubes. In another, the buildings were draped with white banners bearing the image of a man on a hospital bed—some kind of religious symbol. Everywhere, the sick gathered in varying states of desperation.
The carriage turned down a wider street, and suddenly they could see their destination: a massive structure that dominated the skyline. It wasn't quite a hospital, though medical equipment bristled from its walls. It wasn't quite a temple, though religious iconography decorated its facade. It was something in between—a monument to the intersection of medicine and faith.
"The Central Treatment Facility," the estimator announced, noticing their attention. "Though most call it the White Spire." He adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses. "You're fortunate. Most survivors of the raid are being sent to field hospitals. But your... unique conditions... warrant special attention."
The carriage passed through tall gates marked with the same symbol they'd seen on the banners. Guards in white uniforms stepped aside, their masks more elaborate than those they'd seen on the streets. As they drew closer to the building, they could see that what had appeared to be decorative patterns on its walls were actually thousands of small tubes and pipes, carrying unknown fluids throughout the structure.
The estimator's assistant spoke quietly to his superior: "Sir, the Doctor is waiting in the east wing. He's... very interested in these cases."
"Of course he is," the estimator replied, his voice carrying an edge of something like fear. "This is unprecedented. Eight survivors, each displaying impossible resilience. The Operating Theatre will want—"
He cut himself off as they pulled into an enclosed reception area. The carriage doors opened to a rush of artificially purified air. More masked figures approached—nurses, orderlies, or perhaps priests. It was hard to tell the difference in this place where medicine and religion seemed to blur together.
As they were wheeled out of the carriage, their stretchers separated, being taken in different directions.