Of Flesh & Bone

PROLOGUE: THE FLESHWEAVER

Inked again. Tez couldn't believe that he would yet again let the needle pierce him, feeling Ink crawl into his skin and veins. As always, Tez hated it. But he couldn't go without it. He needed it. The pain, so familiar, shot through his right arm.

The piercer worked, and Tez found his gaze drifting, studying the man's hunched silhouette. Of course Tez couldn't remember his name, but the short man moved with a meticulous precision that always seemed out of place to Tez. Their hands were surprisingly steady as they maneuvered the fine needle. 

The small, cramped shop, hidden away in the outskirts of the Sinews slum, was lit by flickering red lights, casting long shadows that danced across the walls cluttered with strange tools and vials. 

Despite the piercer's rather… outdated gear, there was an undeniable aura of competence about him. The air was thick with a mix of antiseptic and something metallic, a scent that Tez had come to associate with the necessary yet unwelcome ritual of Ink. Every now and then, the piercer would mutter something under his breath. Tez preferred not to know what insanity it was.

Once the piercer put down the needle to let him rest, Tez examined the new Ink on his skin. Glowing red, the runes he had selected looked… less accurate than he had requested but nevertheless, the piercer did good work. 

Rejuvenated, the voice in his head responded. Flesh was pleased.

"Good," Tez said, receiving the final approval, and then began covering the new Ink with his cloak sleeve. "How much?"

"Mhm? Two-thousand," the piercer responded. What was his name again? Tez couldn't keep track anymore.

"Higher than normal, but fine." Tez said, dropping a few silver cubes in the man's open hand. "I pay extra for discreteness." 

"Mhm."

"Understood?" Tez looked at the piercer with a faint suspicion. He was covered head-to-toe in dirtied rust plates, face covered with a flat steel mask. A piercer this poor wouldn't reveal much about their clientele, though Tez - for good measure - dropped a few extra cubes in his hand.

"Mhm," the piercer responded. A man of few words.

Tez left the piercer's shoddy underground shop, stumbling through littered hallways of scrap before finding the familiar, haunting stench of the surface. As he ascended the long-winded stairs, Tez was met with the sight of the Viskris slums.

Oh, how Tez had missed the Sinews. Now that his… itch was taken care of, he could finally focus on why he was back in his old home. His rather traumatic upbringing still haunted him. Tez didn't have a lot of time for himself, so this visit was personal. 

He would finally kill Father. 

Yes, Flesh sounded in his head again, Kill Father!

Tez ignored the voice, and delved deeper into the Sinews as if nothing had changed. In reality, much had changed: they had become even dirtier, run-down and slimier than before, with plague-ridden and dead bodies piling up around every filthy corner. 

Tez felt disgusted by it. It took a lot to truly disgust the man, and even he felt nauseous at the sights. He could barely tell where buildings started and bodies ended. It seemed the Veinborne had neglected the Sinews more than Tez thought was possible. 

Truly remarkable, Tez thought. Viskris was dying quicker than he imagined, and this… display of pure neglect in the Sinews was only a symptom of the entire city's final demise. He wished he had more time to fight it. But unfortunately, Tez had everything but time. 

So with hood and mask up, cloak covering every fiber of his body, Tez made his way through the familiar streets. He saw the pale, dying faces of the infected, laying inches away from their dead comrades. Tez tried to not listen to their moans and pained wails, but it was hard not to. There were so many of them.

It seemed he was the only healthy person walking the streets in this part of the Sinew. The few others that could walk seemed to stumble and wander in confusion, their sickness clouding their minds. Tez thought he had passed the worst of it, until he saw the market.

When he was a child, it was filled with the yells of traders and merchants, hustling their wares to who they could. He loved coming to the markets - it was a respite from his rather peculiar home life. Now, however, the markets were… completely empty. Only the thick fog of pollution from the Gutterways hung in the atmosphere. No yells, no maniac laughter, or even sometimes horrifying screams rang through the dead air. 

It was empty and silent. Tez didn't like that at all. The sick and dead, he could deal with. He saw those all the time, even if the state of these ones was particularly bad. But emptiness? No, Tez wasn't a fan. 

With nostalgia and vengeance in mind, the man made his way through the polluted, empty market. The only sound was the heavy steps of his boots echoing on the cobblestone. Though it was empty, he somehow felt watched. Tez hurried his footsteps and navigated to the orphanage at the very edge of the market, nestled away between spikes of bonetree and dead shrubs. 

His home. 

The building was more run-down than thirty cycles ago, but it still stood tall, powering over the edge of the market like an obelisk of doom. The wooden facade was torn down, replaced by odd protrusions of stone, the roof slanting even further to the wrong direction. 

He could feel Father's presence, oozing all it touched. 

It was the image he had seen countless times in his nightmares. It just wouldn't leave his mind, so Tez decided to do something about it. Just as he opened the worn-down gate to enter the 'garden' of the orphanage - in reality just barren dirt - Tez felt his right arm sear with pain. His new Ink flashed red through his clothes, before the pain stopped as quickly as it appeared.

Tez stopped at the gate, rolling up his sleeve to examine his Ink. It wasn't glowing any further, though a bit of blood now seeped out of the edges of the runes. He frowned. That had happened occasionally before, but usually only on bigger pieces. 

Tez shrugged. He couldn't get distracted too much, at least right now. His eyes were solely focused on the wide double-doors of the orphanage. Those doors - carved of beautiful, sanguine wood, somehow always looking pristine - haunted him.

Tez stood before them for a long time.

Memories came back to him that he didn't want to remember.

Father's screaming. Making them fight. Inking them.

Making them kill. 

No, Tez really didn't want to remember. He managed to suppress the overwhelming anger burning within him. Now was not the time. Not yet. So Tez opened the pristine sanguine door, seeing a sight he wished he didn't have to.

The Orphanage was still running. 

While the Sinew was dying, it appeared the Orphanage was even busier than normal. Children of all ages - looking sick though not actively dying - walked the house like Tez remembered. For a moment, he felt as if he was one of them, in awe and hopeless at the desperation in the air.

The air inside was stale, heavy with the scent of mildew and old wood, hanging thick like curtains around Tez as he stepped further inside.

Just like it had never changed.

 Flickering red light cast long, sinister shadows across the peeling wallpaper, where images of playful children once danced now seemed to contort in agony. The floorboards creaked underneath Tez's boots, each step a sharp echo in the hushed corridors. Murmurs of the sickly children wove through the air like the whispers of Breathstealers.

Indeed, the depression choked the air in the main hall of the Orphanage. There was an immediate sense of dread, of doom, that just didn't leave. 

That's how Tez knew Father was still alive, doing what he always did: destroying all hope and goodness in the world, drenching and drowning it in a thick mist of fog and pollution until one lost one's sense of self. 

The children he saw reminded him so much of himself when he was their age, it sickened him. Their skin was pale and crusty, their bodies thin and emancipated. He imagined most of them hadn't eaten in at least a week. Some had actively bleeding wounds, bruises the size of fists and visible broken bones. 

Here and there, a soft sob broke through the oppressive silence, quickly stifled by a cough or a whimper. The tension was broken by the occasional clink of spoon against bowl, as the older children fed the younger, their movements robotic, eyes hollow. Tez passed by a series of rooms: beds crammed too close, linens threadbare and stained, the weak lamplight barely touching the corners.

Tez felt the rage try to escape within him. He felt his muscles tensing, his heart racing, Ink pumping. Sooner or later, he wouldn't be able to contain his rage anymore. He felt Flesh yearn to be unleashed, unusually excited to shed blood. He had to find Father. Quickly. 

The children finally noticed the enormous figure, staring at them with pure anger. Tez was - by all means - a frightening sight when he wanted to be. Taller and much more muscular than an average man when he was freshly Inked, Tez immediately scared the children, who scattered into various rooms and hallways.

Only a tall youth remained, looking to be in his late teens. 

"Who… who are you? Dania! Come quick!" The youth shouted, an audible stutter to his croaky voice. 

Tez immediately recognized the name Dania. He couldn't believe that old hag was still alive, either. Before the boy could shout any further, Tez placed a gloved hand gently over his mouth.

"Pssst. Silence, I mean you no harm, boy. What's your name?" 

Tez saw the boy's panicked, green eyes stare back at him. They looked to consider something, before the boy nodded quickly. Tez released his hand from his mouth. 

"R-Renir–"

"Renir, tell me: Father still in the Auditorium?" 

The youth frowned, before nodding again. 

"Good. I want you to find all the children and hide. Understood?" 

"U-Understood," The boy whispered back before scampering off with fright. 

Flesh didn't appear to like that, for it bulged beneath. 

Should've killed him, the voice in his head said. Tez ignored it, as he always did. 

Slowly, Tez began looking for Father. The Orphanage's layout hadn't changed besides its deteriorating condition. Indeed, it became only bigger in its population, not size. Tez even saw bedrolls and hammocks laying in the open hallways, navigating carefully so as not to wake any unaware children.

Then, he stood before the auditorium door, half-way opened, hearing the screams of a familiar voice. It was Father's, but no one else was with him in the auditorium. Tez couldn't understand his unhinged rant, but it didn't sound sane. Perhaps Father had also deteriorated. 

Just as Tez was about to turn the door knob and confront Father, Tez felt a creeping shiver crawl down the back of his neck, ending at his spine.

"Look who's back. My, my. Tezran - my boy - you've grown quite big!" a sickly sweet voice said, coated in lies and hatred. 

That voice.

Tez turned, his eyes narrowing as he faced the source of the voice. There stood Dania, leaning against the wall, her eyes gleaming with a mix of surprise and sadistic amusement. Age had etched even deeper lines into her ancient face, but her presence still oozed the same evil authority Tez remembered.

"Dania," Tez said, voice cold. "I expected you to be dead."

The old woman shrugged, a suspicious smirk playing on her lips. "And miss all the fun? Never."

Dania approached closer, examining Tez. He felt that shiver creep down his spine again as her black eyes looked him over. Tez suppressed his budding rage. He really didn't expect Dania to be alive.

"I've heard about your accomplishments, Tezran. Our little Tezran… a Weaving-Lord! Very impressive… shame you've not credited Father for much of it. Even shed your true name." Her voice dripped with a venomous mix of mockery and pride.

Tez ignored her. His hand instinctively moved towards the scars hidden beneath his clothes. Dania's marks. He turned around, facing the auditorium door. Father's crazed screams still echoed. He was so close… 

"My, Tezran! I don't believe it. Is this how you treat family? You might be a Lord now, but that doesn't mean you can be rude, child!"  

"I am going to kill Father, and you're not going to stop me." Tez's voice was a low growl, a sound foreign to the weak boy he once was.

Dania - unexpectedly - began laughing. 

"You think you're the first to try?" Dania said, catching her breath as she stopped her cackling. 

He couldn't hold his rage back any longer.

Tez felt his muscles tighten again. This time, they felt… out of control, wiggling underneath his skin. The intricate Ink that was pierced on his muscles began to pulse. A red glow enveloped the runes. He looked - one last time - at the caretaker that had ruined so much of his childhood.

"No," was all Tez said to her. "But I'll be the last." 

His veins engorged. Tez's arm muscles began bulging and writhing, his new Ink burning with fire. Skin broke. Blood seeped. His arm was now a whirlwind of mangled flesh, tendons and ligaments. Suddenly, with inhumane speed and force, the mass of sinew exploded through Dania's chest, catapulting the caretaker's body onto the opposite end of the hallway. 

Tez saw nothing but red. 

His Fleshform activated - as always - with impure rage, cursing adrenaline and Ink through his veins. His transformed arm burned with pain. Now, Flesh was in control. The part of Tez that remained, hoped that boy got all those orphans to safety.

CHAPTER ONE: THE BLACK RIVER

Darkness and pollution fell upon the faint, foggy outline of Viskris. The city spread ominously and endlessly across the horizons; spires of bone penetrating into the black clouds above. Though a respite from seeing fields of walking corpses, it was a sight of pure dread to Askala. She was heading straight into the heart of her enemy. 

She couldn't believe her family would come to Viskris for refuge from the Deadrot. 

Askala looked in-front of her, the endless line of refugees snaking their way through the gray, lifeless wastes. The outskirts of Viskris were a sickly brown, the vegetation withered and twisted, as if in pain. The air grew so thick here, heavy with a stench that burned the back of her throat. Askala tightened the scarf around her mouth and nose, trying to filter the air she breathed, her eyes stinging from the pollution. 

Askala felt so exposed. Her and her family were safe within Seraph Ephros' walls. She didn't understand why Mother made them all leave. 

"Never get used to the stench," Cemire said. She had been mindlessly babbling next to Askala for a long time now. Too long, as Askala had completely forgotten about her older sister. 

"Askala! Are you still there?" Cemire inquired, slightly revealing her bright blue eyes beneath her thick silken scarf. 

"Uh–" Askala jolted. She was entranced by the desolation before her. Truthfully, the stench also made it hard to speak.

"We'll be alright, little sister. Don't you worry," Cemire said, her usual cheerful demeanor diminished by the stark contrast of the Wastes. "We just have to make it over that river."

Easier said than done, Askala thought. Crossing the Black River was apparently notoriously difficult, if the rumors and gossip Askala had heard were true. Though she didn't know how much she could trust the other refugees. Besides her family, none of them were from her Seraph - which meant most of them were traitors. 

She knew her family felt the same way - her sisters and mother - unease growing as they journeyed, traveling to the heart of their enemies with… well, more enemies. Oh, how Askala wished she could just hear Ephros' voice again. 

Why did they have to leave? Everyday, Askala prayed for the answer. Instead, she received more disappointment and frustration, more questions without answers, riddles without clues–

At some point, she lost hope that their Seraph would respond. Now, seeing the distant shape of the enormous Black River creep up out of the wasteland, Askala felt a part of herself dying. 

"We can and will begin a new life here," Mother Irehna stepped close to her daughters, sensing their unease. "Do not worry about this river, children. Just follow the trail." 

"Oh, I'm worried." Cemire responded. 

All eyes were now on the river. It had a sluggish, tar-like flow, cut through the landscape like a wound. It was wider than she had imagined, its banks steep and treacherous, the water—if it could be called that—emitting a faint, sickly glow in the dim light.

"The bridges... they're gone!" shouted one of the refugees close to her, a man with a weary face and fading silver Ink surrounding his eyes. Askala couldn't see anything from this far away - the man surely had to be a Senseweaver - but true enough, as they approached the river where once sturdy bridges stood, now only broken remnants clung to the banks.

Waves of shocked whispers and stunned expressions spread amongst them. 

Mother Irehna looked upset, though she tried to hide it. As always, she failed miserably at it. Her youngest daughters, bundled up in cloth, began crying as they felt the shift in the mood.

"That's… not great," Cemire said. 

The refugees stopped walking in an orderly fashion, and countless of them began to murmur and whisper with disappointment and frustration. Soon, most of them clumped around the wide banks of the Black River, a massive crowd of sick and dying now becoming quite upset as Askala watched. 

If the nights out here were anything like Askala's home, they weren't safe, exposed in the shivering cold by the river bank. Who knew what terrifying creatures this city's outskirts attracted? Many of the refugees appeared to have come to the same conclusion, as they saw the horizon darken and the air chill. Quickly, their disappointment and frustration turned into fright and unease.

What could they do?

Hundreds of refugees, stranded before the city of their enemies. The last supposed haven of refuge. 

Couldn't they just have stayed home? Askala still didn't see a point in leaving. They were safe with their Seraph. Why did Mother make them do this? The girl felt a budding rage within her. 

Her bones ached in response. 

"Children, stay here. I'm going to talk to this… guide. Cemire, watch them." Mother broke the tense silence between them. Without further warning, she left through the dense crowd of frightened and frustrated refugees. Cemire suddenly no longer looked chipper. 

"Think they did that on purpose?" Cemire asked Askala, a frown on her face as she herded her two baby sisters away from the riled up crowd. Askala didn't know how to respond.

"What do you mean?"

"The bridges. I mean… what if the Viskrins destroyed them when they heard we were coming?" Cemire responded. There was a scared innocence in her tone that surprised Askala. 

"They hate Ephros." Cemire added after a tense pause.

"Which is what I don't understand… we're enemies. I suppose they did destroy them. Why is Mother doing this to us?" Askala finally verbalized the strange thoughts forming in her head. 

Cemire sighed loudly as she picked up Sephe, their youngest sister, and heaved her up on her shoulders.. 

"She thinks she's protecting us." 

 Which – in part – was the truth. Unlike her home, Askala didn't see any walking corpses around that tried to kill her. At least not yet. It seemed the Deadrot hadn't gotten to Viskris.

Askala had a terrible realization.

"They're not going to let us in. Ever. It's not about our Seraph. They think we carry the Deadrot with us." Askala suddenly felt so stupid. Cemire also appeared to come to the same realization.

"... You don't think it's because of Ephros?" 

"Something tells me these people don't know much of our Seraph," Askala answered her sister as her eyes drifted over the black river, spires of bone rising menacingly behind. The river looked endless from their perspective at the bank, like a massive ocean of black sludge. 

"I suppose the rumors of us and the Rot made it here then," Cemire said, contemplating. To them, the Deadrot was an affliction that haunted the walls outside of their Seraph's castle. They saw the corpses walking - The Deadrotten - trying to break in, both day and night, endlessly wailing and screaming outside their shelter. 

Truth be told, it was fairly normal to them. As long as Askala could remember, the Deadrot had always been around. Frightening - of course - but it was a way of life from where she was from, just another 'regional' oddity. Never had Askala thought that outsiders wouldn't see it as such. 

"Has it really gotten so bad that Mother decided it was time to go?" Cemire asked. 

Askala truthfully didn't know. They were safe inside the walls. She never liked looking at the walking corpses beneath. Gazing into the distance where the broken remnants of the bridge lay, she felt a cold knot of dread in her stomach as she recalled watching the Deadrotten when she was little, fearing for her life.

"I... I don't know." she admitted softly. It was true: they were safe within the walls, but had that always been the case? How many had died defending the keep, while the family dined, slept and lived in safety? 

"She always said the walls wouldn't hold forever…" Askala added, more of a murmur to herself. Cemire wrapped an arm around Askala's shoulders. Sephe started giggling on her back. 

"I-I thought we were safe. '' Askala whispered, a few tears now rolling down her cheek. 

The night they fled the castle was still a haze to her. They had traveled for over two days to reach Viskris, yet she still couldn't think about that night. It was a blur. Something her mind wouldn't let her recall. 

"And now it comes back to haunt us," Cemire said "I can't believe they would actually destroy some bridges 'cause they think we… got the Rot?! Ugh! Do I look like a walking corpse to them?"

Askala listened to her sister's rant with sadness and shared frustration. Sephe started crying a bit, carried on the oldest sister's shoulders, before Askala quickly handed her a milk flask.

"But we're not like those... those things. At all. Everyone knows you need to be dead first - then infected by the Deadrot - for your corpse to start walking. We're fine!" Cemire said, wildly gesturing her hands as she often did when she was particularly angry. This only prompted further curiosity from Sephe. 

"Burn the dead, that's all you have to do. Just an… inconvenience, really." 

Askala remained quiet, letting her sister continue her rant and juggle a crying toddler on her shoulder. Losing attention quickly, she watched the crowds gather, argue and murmur: now, the dark blankness of night enveloped them. Only the occasional red torch flickered through the darkness, shimmering off the black river that ominously stretched out before them.

Mother still hasn't returned. It had been a while since she left, and Askala began to worry a little. Though Cemire's increasingly louder rant made it hard to focus. 

She could only notice the other refugees. Some were arguing even louder than her older sister; others were silently praying to their traitorous Seraphs. Most seemed to understand the reality of their situation, one way or another: if they didn't find a way to cross the river soon, they would be exposed to the ruthless nights of the wastes. 

And whatever other horrors came with them. 

Askala didn't want to think about it. She had tried to avoid learning about the terrors outside their shelter as much as possible. She never thought her family would end up in these wastes, stranded at night. 

We were safe, her mind whispered. It was the only thought in her head, seeing the darkness envelop them. Now, the flickering red torches did little to stave off the thick blanket of night that wrapped around the refugees.

"Askala," Cemire's voice broke through, seemingly completed with her rant. It was much softer now. "My point is: we need to stick together, okay?" 

A thin thread of courage in the stifling dread. Askala nodded, the action more reflex than anything else. 

"Right." Her limbs ached again. They did that more now, as they approached Viskris. When she felt especially worried - like right now - it was if tiny spikes stabbed them. Before Askala could ask Cemire about Mother, anxiety bottling up within, she heard a voice. Unfamiliar, but loud enough to get their attention.

"Make way," the voice cut through the din, authoritative and calm despite the circumstances. The crowd parted, a sea of bodies giving way to multiple more figures.

Mother Irehna was one of them. Instantly, Askala felt a sense of relief wash over her, though suspicion followed as she watched the strange group of people accompany her. 

"This is Gergoteth O'guram," Mother approached her daughters, gesturing to the stranger beside her. "He knows a way across."

Askala didn't ever remember seeing the man; there were multiple guides around, and their faces all blended together after a while. This Gergoteth, however, did look remarkably out-of-place, so Askala was surprised she didn't recognize him.

Taller than the others, Gergoteth was spindly thin and very much looked like a walking skeleton. Large runes of Ink were stretched across his gray skin and bald head. Immediately, Askala recognized them as skinweaving runes: raised golden Ink that lined his entire body, swirling beautifully in patterned geometries that indicated the man had been a practiced weaver for a long time. 

He certainly wasn't of Seraph Ephros though, and Askala immediately distrusted the man, no matter how calm or authoritative his voice might sound. The stranger grinned at the girls.

"Please. Call me Gergo. Your Heiress-Mother and I have crossed paths before, it seems. I am a Heir-Walker of Seraph Atriul. I have walked much produce between our lands and this city," Gergo said. He noticed Sephe, the angry-looking toddler perched on Cemire's shoulders, and immediately handed her sugared fruits.

"You might not know this, but we were neighbors. Fort Atriul always had good relations with Fort Ephros. Our fruits, your wheat. A long-lasting friendship, if I dare say." The guide had an odd way of speaking; his words delicately chosen, long pauses interspersed. Though strange, his smile looked sincere to Askala. 

"Long we have fought the Rot together," Mother said, "Now we need to get into the city. Together."

"Indeed." Gergo said. "It is - of course - not a simple task. But my associates and I have thought of a way to cross the Black River."

Askala saw three more tall, bald people behind the skinweaver, though they lacked the runes of their leader. Unlike Gergo, they did not look friendly. Instead, they looked severely annoyed at this entire situation. 

"Please, come. We must talk in private. Only few can make this journey, and I rather not have spies," Gergo said with humor, though there seemed to be a hint of paranoia in his voice, as if his quip wasn't entirely unfounded. Quickly, the man led them away from the river bank, further out towards the wastes they came from. Gergo crouched down, unraveling the large sack that was on his back. As he did so, Askala exchanged unsure looks with Cemire. 

Mother avoided her daughter's gaze entirely. 

"The Old War gave rise to many… abnormalities within this terrain. As Heir-Walker, I have uncovered a few that were beneficial to my associates and I," Gergo said. He removed several maps from his sack, before unraveling them carefully, as if they were the most valuable thing he owned. 

"Here," the man's spindly finger pointed to schematics of the Black River and the surrounding wastes of Viskris, drawing a line straight across. 

"This vein goes beneath the river–"

Vein? Askala thought, confused by Gergo's peculiar choice of words. 

"-underneath the wall, and right to the Mesenkyme." The man's finger moved to a crudely drawn gate on the map. Askala looked at Mother, whose face maintained a sternness new to her. 

"After this, my work is finished. We will make new lives in the city." Gergo said with an uncanny smile wandering on his lips. Askala wasn't sure why Gergo was helping them. There was more to it than just friendship, she thought. How did Mother know this man again?

"And you are sure the vein still remains?" Mother asked.

"As Thick as Skin," Gergo mysteriously responded, maintaining his rather odd smile. The three hooded figures behind him repeated the phrase in hushed tones. Cemire laughed in response, quickly stopping herself. Askala was equally as confused.

"Daughters of the Heiress Ephros," Gergo turned to face them. Suddenly, the man's spindly face… morphed into a young and handsome man's, his skin turned a tan hue - so much unlike the drab gray - and the golden Ink seamlessly disappeared. "We are embarking soon. I must ask of you this: silence, little ones. Your voices must be unheard, your fears must be hasted away! We must not draw the attention of Umbrals."

Umbrals?

Askala and her sisters could only nod their heads in stunned response after witnessing Gergo… change. The man's smile - oddly enough - remained the same. 

"Come along now, girls. Stay close. And please… be quiet." Mother said, not acknowledging their new friends' odd chant or the fact that Gergo transformed his face.

"Never," Cemire whispered, beyond earshot of anybody else. 

It took Gergo and his men a long time to locate the entry to this supposed 'vein'. Askala still wasn't quite sure what that meant. Eventually - after more strenuous wandering through the river bank and wastes - they found it. 

At first, it looked like a decently-sized cave opening, with gray rocks mudding the entry-way. Though once they got closer, Askala saw that this cave wasn't actually a cave. Instead, examining the entry-way of the structure, the walls of the opening seemed unnatural, too perfectly round. The stone itself had the texture of flesh that writhed and pulsed quietly the moment the Skinweaver moved closer. 

No, this was an actual, giant vein.

Askala and Cemire exchanged looks of pure disgust. Cemire looked like she wanted to scream, but thankfully remembered to stay silent. Gergo walked with a strange confidence as he approached the entrance, his hands tracing the stringed texture as if to reassure the stoney flesh. 

"This vein," Gergo whispered, "Remembers the blood that has been given."

Askala felt a shiver run down her spine. Blood given? What did that mean? She glanced at her mother, hoping for any kind of reassurance, but Mother Irehna's eyes were fixed on the opening, her expression - once again - unreadable. Askala saw the pitch-black darkness before, and her limbs shivered. She hated that sensation. 

Beyond the circular entrance, the vein extended like a tunnel deep beneath. It was an endless hollow channel carved out through the earth, yet it appeared to be lined with a sticky substance that pulsed and throbbed. Its walls were slick, glistening under the dim red light from Gergo's torch, casting eerie shadows that twisted around them. 

Askala - most notably - noticed the smell. The air was so thick, heavy with the scent of iron and earth—a metallic tang that filled the nostrils and left a lingering taste of copper on the tongue.

Like blood, Askala thought. 

With his creepy smile still on his lips, Gergo signaled the group to follow him. It took every bit of fight left in her not to immediately turn around and run away. Cemire shared her disgust; she looked very hesitant to enter the vein. Askala couldn't believe Mother would make them do this; freezing by the river bank seemed like a more preferable option to her now. 

But it appeared they didn't have much choice in this matter. 

 She watched as Mother quickly blindfolded Sephe and carried her closer to her chest, as not to perturb the child's slumber. Then, with a look of determination on her face, Mother followed their strange guide into the darkness of the vein.

Askala and Cemire - very reluctantly - did so as well, trailed by the three cloaked strangers. Oh, how Askala wished their Seraph would finally answer her prayer. Instead, she only felt her bones shiver with pain in response.

CHAPTER TWO: INKED

Flesh-Lord Tez I'zimare still felt sick. It had been a week since his rampage in the Sinews, and he could not stop thinking of it. It should have made Tez stop having nightmares, but of course, they were worse than before.

Much worse. 

Tez had killed Dania. Then, he killed Father. After that, the lord could no longer remember. Flesh had taken over, Ink unable to contain the fury within. Tez - truthfully - had never experienced anything of this magnitude before. Weaving was tied to one's emotions, but he had never let his emotions command Flesh to such a degree. 

That worried him deeply, though he didn't know what to do about it. He thought seeking revenge against Father would easen the intense anger inside of him, but it did the opposite. It only fueled the sickness. 

Tez thought of asking Flesh what he had done, but normally, that was a bad idea. Besides, the voice in his head was quiet. For now.

As the Lord sat in his chambers within the Citadel, hidden away from the rest of the world, there was that fear that crept in the back of his mind. The fear of becoming the very thing he had promised to destroy. He had seen it before, in the eyes of Father, the deranged grip of Dania—the power that turned protector into predator, caregiver into executioner. 

And now, as Tez looked upon his own reflection in the dimly lit mirror of his chambers, he could swear he saw his nightmare become reality: a Weaver becoming mad with power, insanity swallowing one's mind into the abyss.

Tez closed his eyes. 

Father was in the auditorium as expected, and Tez rushed in to see a familiar sight: the grotesque assemblage that was once a man, now reduced to a head in a glass sphere, sustained by intricate weavecraft. Tubes and pipes extruded from the neck, creating macabre fusions of flesh and metal, pumping life where none should be. The apparatus hummed quietly, a strange dichotomy to the twisted screams of Father. 

Tez's left arm now began to bulge and writhe as well. Pain shot through him. Ink began to burn. 

Suddenly, Father became quiet. His eyes, though void of a body, were not void of expression. They immediately darted to Tez with recognition—and fear as he saw his Flesh. His lips moved, a crude mimicry of speech.

"Tezran." Father said - not screaming this time - and Tez watched the grotesque face squirm. Immediately, Tez felt his mind attacked. The mental onslaught was sharp and invasive, a very recognizable sensation to Tez, who had been subjected to it throughout his entire life. Tendrils of Father's thoughts attempted to entwine with Tez's own, seeking to dominate and subdue as they had done so many times before.

"What are you doing here son?" Father's voice now echoed in Tez's mind, viciously searching his thoughts for answers. 

But Tez was no longer the frightened child cowering beneath Father's Mindweaving. He was a very talented Weaver. And very talented Weavers did not succumb to a head in a glass bowl. 

His anger was simply too strong.

Tez opened his eyes, jarred by a knock on the door. A cloaked figure peeked through the door, wearing the patterns of one of Tez's officers. Agolio, his East-Watch commander, entered the room with the usual rigidity Tez expected from him. 

"Lord Tezran," Agolio said in his surprisingly low-pitched voice, "I come bearing news. The Mesenkyme Garrison reported more cultists on the Black River ba–" 

Agolio stopped himself as he saw the state Tez was in: his lord looked like a skeleton. Almost unrecognizably weak, the usually muscular and tall man was now but a skinny, shriveled form of himself, scrawny arms and sunken face, Tez imagined it would be a shocking sight if Agolio hadn't seen him like this already a hundred times. Perhaps this time it was a tad worse. 

"Lord, you still haven't been Inked?"

Tez sighed, leaning back in his far-too comfortable silk chair. He hated being in weak form like this, but Tez was too preoccupied with his budding insanity to visit the Flesh-Piercer. 

Truthfully, Tez needed rest from Flesh. Its voice was quiet when he was like this.

"Do I need to bring Kozrin up here? We could do it, you know… it would make him upset, but he could stand to get out of his laboratorium once in a while," Agolio said, a look of concern painted on his normally stoic face. 

"No, no. I'll visit him. Soon," Tez responded weakly. He hated how his voice changed in this weakened form. It reminded him of a child.

"... Right. Lord, about the cultists," Agolio resumed, regaining his composure as he reverted to his duties, "They've been sighted just now. Several hundreds, it looks like, coming from the eastern Wastes. Senseweavers just shot it through the tendrils." 

Tez sighed - again - this time much deeper and audible. Agolio ignored his input, and continued: "Numbers indicate that three or four of their enclaves must've finally been overrun." 

"Remind me again: did we not destroy the bridges last time one of their enclave's fell? What's the issue?" 

"Some of them are attempting to cross via make-shift boats and bridges, lord." 

Tez scoffed. Good luck with that, he thought. The Black River was almost impossible to sail with military-grade ships. No cultist could cross. Though Tez felt like he had enough blood on his hands already. Perhaps he should intervene. 

"Send a tendril to Lady Adera," Tez said, feeling his throat tighten and dry up the more he spoke, "Have her Plagueweavers examine the cultists from across the river. If they carry the Deadrot, they'll know."

Agolio nodded, "Then what, lord?" 

"If they don't carry the rot… well, the Court will decide tomorrow." 

"And if they do?" 

Tez cringed a bit inside. They both knew the answer. He wouldn't let it go too far this time. Before Tez could speak up to dismiss Agolio, he felt his head stab with pain. Since Father, his headaches have gotten worse. Rubbing his temple, Tez rested his eyes–

His anger was too strong, too visceral. The attempts by Father to pierce Tez's mind failed. Nothing could stop his fury. 

Tez saw red, as the muscles in his arms deranged themselves into massive contortions of flesh and sinew. The pain he felt was overwhelming, but it grew inside him, and he welcomed it. For once. 

"Tezran, I am your Father!" The voice became louder, both in the auditorium and in Tez's mind. He sensed a pleading desperation coated on Father's words. The weavecraft apparatus that gave him life began to whir and steam; lights flickering wildly and pipes hissing.

"You were never my father," Tez said, words like venom. "You were my jailer. That bond will now be severed. Forever." Tez barely recognized his own voice. It sounded demonic. 

"Lord?" Agolio's voice woke Tez. The man jolted upright, immediately disoriented. He tried to gather himself. 

"You… can go," Tez said weakly, barely a whisper escaping his lips. 

Agolio raised an eyebrow. His concern was evident, but overshadowed by discipline. 

"Very well, my lord. Shall I leave orders for the Flesh-Piercer to be ready for your arrival?" 

Tez waved a dismissive hand, head pounding. "Yes, and Agolio..." He paused, mustering the strength to articulate his next command with the authority that befitted a lord, even one in this state.

"Guards on high alert for East-Watch. I can't afford any disturbances." 

"It will be done," Agolio said. The commander turned on his heels, leaving Tez - once again - to stew in his sickness. 

With a guttural roar that shook the Orphanage, Tez unleashed Flesh. It wasn't a simple punch; it was the physical manifestation of every ounce of hatred, every moment of suffering, and every memory of torment inflicted upon him by Father. 

Flesh shot forward with terrifying speed and force. Raw, unleashed power connected with the glass sphere. It exploded open, shards of glass catapulting throughout the auditorium at deadly speeds. 

It killed Father immediately. 

Tez felt hundreds of shards cut into his body. But the madness inside dulled the searing cuts. The anger he felt was now his fuel. And it wanted more.

Tez couldn't contain Flesh any longer. It broke out of him, veins engorged with deadly Ink. Skin ripped. His muscles swelled to an enormous size, each fiber rippling like they were alive. 

He was no longer human. He was a monster, seeing nothing but red, a brutal contortion of Tez's former self. An instrument of raw destruction. 

Flesh needed to kill more. 

The Flesh-Lord sat in silence for a long time. The night had set in; his chamber was bathed in pitch-black darkness. He felt so weak. What had he done? After his rampage in the auditorium, the lord couldn't remember anything. 

That was a big problem. He hoped the orphans survived, or hid well enough to escape from Flesh–

Tez was too afraid to return to the Orphanage, finding nothing but rubble and death in the already dead Sinews. And that wasn't even his biggest worry: he also couldn't stop replaying the murder of his Father, the face he made when he died. Tez thought it would give him closure, satisfaction, or… something. But there was only more anger. 

Only more madness. 

Tez knew the city murmured with gossip. Word of the Flesh-Lord's fury had made it far. He had heard the Veinborne's whispers, even the other Weaving-Lords seemed to know about his strange affliction. The Ink in his veins made him different. More than a lord but less than a man. Somehow, that wasn't always the case. He remembered when he followed the proper forms of Flesh - and not just let it take over. 

Had he lost control of his weaving? 

Tez felt… guilt. For just a moment, he saw the face of that older orphan again, so pale and sickly. What was his name again? No. He couldn't do this again. This is all he had been doing since killing Father: stewing in madness and guilt, thinking of that cursed orphanage. 

His anger.

Tez had to leave, or at least do something. Too many people depended on him. He might be a monster, but he still had a heart nonetheless. So for the first time in a week, Tez hobbled out of his lord's chambers, pain accompanying his every step.

The night had taken hold of him. Limping through the crimson-lit halls of the Citadel, Tez felt that weakness again; muscles burning with pain, bones aching and head pounding. He could barely walk. He had to rest and catch his breath multiple times, using the damp redstone facade of the hallways as support. Thankfully, Kozrin would still be awake. The piercer worked at odd hours; even odder than Tez. The lord never felt the need to sleep too much. Kozrin never slept. 

A normally short journey for Tez, going to Kozrin's laboratorium took far longer than expected. He felt as if he would collapse at any moment, before he finally saw the gloomy green lights of the piercer's chambers. 

"You are late," the heavily-accented voice of Kozrin echoed through the sickly green haze that seemed to permeate the laboratorium. "And look at you: weak like an Ossifrax, skinny as bone. You would be dead by sunrise if you had not come tonight."

"But… here I am," Tez tried to smile, but instead, grimaced with pain. He gasped for air, barely able to string together a coherent sentence. Maybe Kozrin was right: Tez did feel like he was actively dying. 

"How can a Flesh-Lord not receive the Holy Ink within a week?! You shame me," Kozrin said. Tez still couldn't see the man throughout all the green. 

"It's no offense to you, Koz. I'm… a little neglectful of myself, sometimes. As you can tell–"

Suddenly, a hand reached out and grabbed Tez by the arm, holding him tight. Kozrin appeared out of nowhere, the piercer looking as strange as ever: hunched and gaunt, his skin a pale shade of gray, almost translucent. His eyes, deep-set and piercing, glowed faintly in the eerie green light and they looked angry. 

"Neglectful?" Kozrin hissed. "You, a lord of Flesh, neglecting the essence that sustains you? It is not just neglect, it is blasphemy!"

Before Tez could respond, the piercer's eyes narrowed even further, a look of disgust now washing over his intense expression. 

"What is this cheap imitation of Ink on your arm?!" Kozrin said, a deep worry in his tone. 

Tez sighed. He - unfortunately - had the bad habit of seeking out any piercer that would Ink him, to great offense taken by Kozrin. 

"I had no choice, Koz," Tez said with a mixture of exhaustion and resignation. "It was urgent. And you weren't available. I had to resort to… less skilled hands."

Kozrin's grip tightened. His fingers felt like cold iron against Tez's skin. "Less skilled hands? You jeopardize your life with such recklessness! Do you not understand the delicate balance of the Ink? The precise harmony it must maintain with your Flesh?"

Tez didn't meet Kozrin's intense gaze.

 "Sit. We must purge the impurities. Quickly." the Flesh-piercer said, letting go of Tez's arm. 

Tez followed Kozrin's command and sat on a metal chair that looked more like a torture device than a weavecraft instrument. Wires, needles, and tubes were attached to various parts of the chair, and a large glass cylinder filled with a murky liquid stood next to it.

The Flesh-Lord gulped.

"Ready?" Kozrin asked, his voice sounding more like a threat than a question. Tez hesitantly nodded.

"Do it," he whispered, feeling fear and anticipation. He knew what was coming. He had done this before, many times. But it never got easier.

"You will not like this." Kozrin flicked a switch on the weavecraft apparatus beside him, and the chair came to life. Tez felt a jolt of pain as the needles pierced his skin, injecting him with the liquid from the cylinder. He gasped, his eyes widening. Ink coursed violently through his veins, burning and cleansing him at the same time. 

Tez clenched his teeth, trying to endure the agony. He could feel the Ink reaching his arm, where his most recent runes had been applied. He screamed, as the liquid reacted violently with the design, causing his flesh to blister and bleed.

"A Sinews piercer's work, judging by the quality of Ink. Disappointing," Kozrin murmured underneath, guiding the weavecraft needles that sunk themselves into Tez's flesh. 

"And why might a Flesh-Lord find themself in the humble Sinews?" Kozrin asked, louder this time. Tez could barely listen; the pain was too intense.

"Unfinished… business," Tez grunted weakly in response. 

Kozrin didn't pry any further. 

Tez writhed under the excruciating process of Ink purification, and his mind wandered back to the Sinews, to that night in the Orphanage. The memories were hazy, obscured by the red fog of his rage, but certain images remained painfully sharp: 

The way Father's grotesque, preserved head had looked in its glass prison; the moment his Flesh, uncontrolled and monstrous, had torn through the air, shattering that sphere and ending Father's twisted existence. He felt glass shards biting into his skin, the hot splatter of blood, and the silence that followed the carnage. 

And then… nothing.

But it was the face of the older orphan, the one with the panicked green eyes, that haunted him the most. Had the boy survived? Had any of them? The thought of innocent blood on his hands… made Tez feel sicker than ever.

Kozrin's voice cut through. "Focus. Control yourself! The process requires cooperation."

Tez tried to obey. But the pain made it hard to. It reminded him too much of when Flesh took over. There were multiple instances where he blacked out again. Though always in the back of his mind, the image of that scared looking orphan just wouldn't leave him. 

"Arms, legs and torso. All runes corrupted," the piercer's foreign voice startled Tez, who felt… so drained. He finally found himself getting used to the pain, before it completely changed again: this time sharper, more fierce, coming from deep within. 

"Almost…" he heard Kozrin whisper. Tez was starting to drift in and out of consciousness again, the pain unbearable. He felt like he was about to take his last breath, before–

His muscles… bulged with energy. The pale, dead runes of Ink flickered with a bright glow, before bathing the normally sickly-green laboratorium in an intense red. 

Tez's eyes opened wide. He snapped out of his delirium instantly and… suddenly, his pain was replaced by pure euphoria. A surge of power rushed through the Fleshweaver, causing his body to erupt with strength. 

"Yes… the new Ink is taking hold," Kozrin said, and for the first time, the man sounded pleased. 

Tez's muscles tensed and relaxed in rapid succession, and each time, grew in size. The transformation was terrifying as it was exhilarating: Tez was about to wither away. Now, his body exuded primal power. 

Reinvigorated by the new Ink, Tez rose from the chair, his body still pulsating with strength. The Fleshweaver took a moment to steady himself. Somehow, he felt a bit like himself again. 

Unfortunately, his madness was still there. Hidden for now, but he still sensed it. 

"Steady," Kozrin hissed, though there was a relieved expression on the piercer's hardened face. Tez could see why. He saw his own reflection in the metal shimmer of the weavecraft apparatus: a man reborn. Muscles bulged with an unnatural might, his skin shimmering with the glow of fresh runes. 

Somehow, the memories of the Orphanage seemed more distant, as if the new Ink had washed away some of the pain. Right now, Tez felt… free. He knew that wouldn't last, but he enjoyed the sensation for as long as he could. 

"I have cured the impurities… connected a second Shoulder-Rune to the Arm. The Heel-Runes are now activated, too–" Kozrin said, examining his work. The piercer kept talking about the modifications he had made, though Tez could barely pay attention. 

He was brimming with power. Underneath, he felt Flesh try to break through, trying to take over once more. I won't let it this time, Tez thought. 

"--which would power the new stance, allowing for a modified Verathir-technique of the upper extremities. Better sigils than those cheap runes–" 

Tez held up a hand to stop the piercer. He felt vibrations - like footsteps - echoing of his muscles. 

"Someone's coming." Tez said, his voice back to being powerful and deep. Kozrin looked surprised, but just as the Fleshweaver predicted, the doors of his laboratorium opened. 

"Flesh-Lord," a fresh-faced messenger said, seemingly ignoring the lord's naked, new appearance. "Incoming tendril from Commander Agolio." 

Tez frowned. He had almost forgotten about those cultists, trying to cross into Viskris. The Fleshweaver ran to the nearest nerve tendril in the laboratorium. He grabbed the slimy communication device, letting it connect to his forehead. 

Tez heard the distant thoughts of Agolio clearly in his head: Flesh-Lord… I'zimare… Black River… They have the Rot! Umbrals… 

The connection cut off. 

Tez stood motionless, trying to process Agolio's thoughts. His mind raced. The anger, the beast within, pulsed just beneath his skin, eager to be unleashed. He couldn't let it. 

"I must go to the Mesenkyme. Immediately," Tez said, looking at Kozrin's rather surprised expression. The messenger next to him simply nodded. 

Tez knew he could trust Agolio's message. He sounded… panicked, for good reason: It appeared the cultists carried the rot. And the Plaguelady was just about to take measures in her own hands. Possibly by releasing Umbrals. 

Tez hated that idea. 

He had seen the aftermath of an Umbral attack only a few times, and it haunted Tez. The beings were created from weavecraft to be monstrous amalgamations of murder; indiscriminately killing friend and foe alike. 

As all Weaving-Lords could, it was within his authority to release them during great times of unrest. 

Tez had never done it. For good reason. He couldn't believe Lady Adera would resort to such extreme measures. The Sinews were barely recovering from their latest 'cleansings'. Releasing Umbrals so close to the walls would destroy the last living there for good. 

Meaning Viskris was one step closer to its end. 

"I need to stop her," Tez said. Without another word, the newly empowered Fleshweaver left the laboratorium, half-naked, and began running through the halls of Citadel like a maniac. Stop her! Kill her! Flesh hissed in Tez's head, finally awoken from its slumber.

CHAPTER THREE: MESENKYME

Tez - for the first time in a week - felt alive. The Ink cursed through his flesh like fire. Wind whipped against his muscles, raw power surging through his every fiber of being. 

The Flesh-Lord didn't have to break through a Citadel window and launch himself onto the rooftops of the Veinborne districts. He barely had time to grab his cloak in the process. But Tez was still, at least outwardly, a Fleshweaver. Which usually involved breaking a few things. Besides, matters were urgent. 

Lives depended upon him. He couldn't let Lady Adera release those… beasts. He just couldn't. 

Leaping over the spiked rooftops of the Spires below him, Tez used his new Heel-Runes in tandem with his Thigh-Runes, catapulting the cloaked Flesh-Lord through the misty night of Viskris. He only burned the Ink in the Heel-Runes when he was about to land, using the momentum of the fall to launch himself back into the chilly night air. 

This way, he wasted little Ink and time. 

This new Jump-Form enabled Tez to move fast and efficiently. Since he was just pierced, his leaps were powerful. Tez cleared five towers with ease, before he had to land and re-activate his Ink. He feathered his fall often, as not to draw too much attention onto himself, or break into one of the homes below. 

At last, Tez saw the blocky structure of the Mesenkyme gate, hidden partially by its enormous garrison. The gate looked menacing through the pollution from Tez's vantage point; almost impossibly large, just like the walls that rose around it. 

Tez climbed down the spiral staircase that led him through the last stretch of the Veinborne district. Then, he'd smell the Sinews before he could see them. 

He hoped he didn't have to return to them so soon. For just a moment, the gruesome face of Father flashed before his eyes. Immediately, Tez suppressed those thoughts. Again. Instead, he focused on trying to get to Lady Adera as quickly as possible; dodging through the surprisingly busy crowds of the district. 

Tez almost forgot to inactivate his Ink, and for just a moment, he caught a few shady looks as his bright-red runes shone through his cloak. Darting through a dark alley, he thought he managed to hide himself well enough from… more unwanted eyes. 

Almost at the border of the Sinews, Tez navigated his way through the deteriorating parts of the district. Then, he'd simply have to follow he main road to the Mesenkyme– 

"Fleshweaver! Halt," a voice barked from behind. He caught the glimpse of three enforcers, wearing the red cloaks of Bloodweavers.

It appeared Tez wasn't as stealthy as he thought he was being, for one of the enforcers removed a glove, revealing pitch-black runes that began to emit a strange, negative glow. 

"I'm Flesh-Lord I'zimare. Let me pass," Tez said, voice booming through the alley.

"... And I am Blood-Lord Geel," one of the enforcers responded with audible sarcasm. He looked young and fresh-faced. His two partners, however, continued to slowly weave their glowing hands in rhythmic fashion. Conjuring some strange Bloodweaving, Tez thought. 

"Stop. Reveal yourself. Last warning," the younger enforcer shouted. 

Tez didn't have time for distractions, nor did he particularly like arguing with Bloodweavers.

"I told you. I am Flesh-Lord Tez I'zimare–"

The guards came closer. Unconvinced. Tez had no time for this!

 So, he activated all his Leg-Runes, crouched down, and then catapulted himself forty feet high into the night sky. The Bloodweavers had no time to react, as the Flesh-Lord suddenly disappeared in front of them. 

Tez was instead high in the air, breaking through clouds of pollution, before his extreme leap forced him to barely cling onto protruding spires of a tower. He almost impaled himself, if it weren't for his Shoulder-Runes activating, the bulging new muscles taking most of the impact. 

It still hurt, but at least his weaving had saved him from a more grievous injury. Or fighting with Bloodweavers. Now, so high up, he felt like he reached the limits of his Jump-Form, though he still hadn't given his weaving full Ink since… the incident at the Orphanage. 

His eyes were drawn to the Sinews, where his old home should be. Tez tried to make out the shape of the Orphanage, hoping it was still standing after what he thought he might have done to it. Frustratingly however, the smog of the slums blended the buildings into hazy shapes, and Tez quickly gave up. 

Instead, he found more solid ground on a window perch, and focused his mind intently on his Jump-Form. Now was not the time to worry about himself. He had a plan to get to the Mesenkyme as quickly as possible. So, the adrenaline pumping through Tez's veins kept the Ink humming, pushing his new muscles beyond their limitations. He readied himself, felt his Leg-Runes begin to pulse, and locked onto that feeling. Then, he released the building Ink in his lower extremities.

Tez launched himself again.

Every leap was a calculated risk; a single slip on the high towers, a rune not perfectly attuned–

It was dangerous work trying to save this city. After a few close-calls, Tez reached the Sinews, attempting his best to not use the roads. Instead, the Fleshlord jumped over the haphazardly-built roofs of the slums, before seeing the large bridge that separated the district from the Mesenkyme gate and its military garrison. 

The dense smog and pollution of the city seemed to thicken as he carefully approached closer. Crouching on the roof-tops, he could barely see the guards that protected the bridge. Normally, they were Bloodweavers, but judging by their strange green glow, Plagueweavers had taken their place. 

Lady Adera was close. 

Tez knew he couldn't just approach. The Plague-Lady wouldn't grant him an audience. She was rather stubborn, and if she thought releasing Umbrals would save this district, she would do it. 

No, Tez had to find a way around the bridge. Then, confront Adera directly before anyone had time to react. The thought of those Umbrals angered him so much. He couldn't let her get away with this. Again, the Fleshweaver felt that tinge of madness creep into his mind. He tried to stop it, but it snapped back at him, penetrating his thoughts. 

Just kill them all, Flesh whispered in his ear. It sounded like Father, but more twisted and… different, a new form of evil.

Kill who? Tez responded. He hated indulging the voice. But sometimes, he couldn't stop himself. 

The guards. The Sick-makers. Just kill them all, Flesh hissed. He sounded excited by the thought of death. Send her a message. She will listen! 

Tez didn't respond. The voice was always full of bad ideas, which usually involved more violence and murder. He tried to ignore the thought, but Flesh had a point: Weaving-Lords did not listen to each other. They only listened to blood. Preferably their own, to really get the message across. 

Though Tez wasn't keen on starting another war within the already tender and fragile ecosystem of their current political landscape. When he became a Weaving-Lord, he swore he would stop blind bloodshed. Not listening to Flesh was a major part of his strategy. 

Instead, Tez chose the more 'diplomatic' option, a level of subtlety and finesse that Flesh seemed incapable of understanding: Simply avoiding the guards by leaping over them, hoping the pollution would cloud his approach. However, it seemed his Ink was burning too hot, for his bright-red runes shone through his cloak. And even through the thick smog above the guards. 

It didn't matter.

 Tez needed to stop Lady Adera from releasing the Umbrals. He landed precariously on the bridge's iron beam. Perched on top of the first segments of the bridge - above several oblivious Plagueweavers - he decided to use the rest of his Jump-Form to propel himself the last few hundred yards. Hopefully clearing the bridge.

His last leap was powerful, launching himself higher than any previous one, but he misjudged the amount of Ink needed to soften the fall, and the Flesh-Lord was forced to activate his Chest-Runes, which were still very fresh, in order to protect himself.

Tez broke a few ribs, the landing wasn't where he wanted but it was softer, and he managed to roll into the dark shadow of the last segments of the Mesenkyme bridge.

Suddenly, a dozen guards stared at Tez, all of them Plagueweavers.

Uh oh, Tez thought, and immediate panic shot through him. He had miscalculated his leap. Instead of landing on the walls of the Mesenkyme, the Flesh-Lord had directly placed himself in front of the garrison's heavily-guarded entrance. 

Tez began to feel sick. 

Two Plagueweavers readied themselves, their strange weaving at work: immediately, Tez felt his vision cloud, his throat tightened, vomit churning. He felt off-balance, dizzy, his legs wobbled, and he collapsed, Ink draining from his body, his chest suddenly aching from the impact of the fall.

The Flesh-Lord didn't have time to think, he just activated every rune, his vision blurring from the sudden influx of power. The Plagueweavers were stunned for a moment, watching the mad man that suddenly appeared in front of them writhe and contort his flesh into unnatural shapes.

I am in control. He fought back against Flesh's intrusions, trying to take over his weaving. Tez screamed as his back exploded with new, bulbous muscles. His head elongated, neck muscles bulging. The Plagueweavers couldn't move. They could only watch as the Flesh-Lord transformed.

Suddenly, a large fleshy arm, a new addition, swiped out. A guard went flying, bones cracking on impact.

Still… in… control, Tez thought, concentrating intensely on not letting Flesh ravage these guards.

A second swing.

Another Plagueweaver was hurled, crashing through the walls of the garrison. The Fleshweaver hoped he didn't cripple the guards too much.

Then, Tez used his new, enormous strength to pry apart the garrison's entrance. Guards scrambled, their minds too slow for the sheer display of brutality. The Flesh-Lord simply stepped through the door, ripping it clean off its hinges.

Inside the Mesenkyme, the hallways were eerily quiet, and Tez was still a beast - but in control. His senses were heightened, and his breathing came out ragged and labored. He could hear and feel everything, tiny vibrations bouncing off his muscles. The faint beating of his heart, the blood pumping through his veins, the sound of footsteps, getting louder and louder.

It seemed his presence was expected.

"Did you have to break down the door like that, lord?" A familiar voice echoed. His East-Watch Commander, Agolio - flanked by a platoon of Weavers - stood at the center of the enormous garrison's hall. A squadron of Fleshweavers looked very amused at the display, while Adera's Plagueweavers appeared shocked, their hands instinctively beginning to weave.

No sight of the Plague-Lady, however.

Tez inactivated his Flesh. There was a part of him that didn't want to, that wanted to continue the rampage by the bridge. But Tez was still in control. This wasn't about him or Flesh; it was about preventing the slaughter of hundreds.

"Where is she?" Tez's voice changed drastically as his Fleshform faltered, returning the man to his normal proportions. He shot one look at the Plagueweavers that were intricately waving their hands around, and they quickly stopped as they recognized the infamous Flesh-Lord. 

"On the main wall balcony, lord. But to warn you… she has begun the Luring," Agolio said. 

Tez frowned heavily. The Luring was the last step of unleashing Umbrals, one that Tez never wished to see. He couldn't believe Lady Adera would even dare go to such an extreme measure, especially now, after the last cleansing. She was actually going to do this.

Let them die! Run! Flesh whispered in his ear, and for once, the creature wasn't urging him to kill everyone. It was scared.

The voice rushed through his head, a mix of emotions bubbling up. Perhaps Lady Adera meant well, but the Luring would destroy everything. It would make the Orphanage look like a mere joke. 

No fun in killing the dead. Flee! Tez tried to ignore the voice of Flesh. He was in control. He could do this.

So, Tez did the most sensible thing in his mind: he activated his Ink and ran, but not to flee. No, he'd finally do something good.

The Flesh-Lord darted across the large, circular chamber of the Mesenkyme, his eyes locked on a large balcony that led out onto the walls of the city. Agolio followed closely, his squad of Fleshweavers running to catch up.

The Plagueweavers - obviously - didn't stop the menacing squad of muscled-up soldiers. Tez shot the sickly-looking weavers one last look. He couldn't let them do this. He stood idle too many times, letting the other Weaving-Lords destroy his city. 

The Flesh-Lord reached the balcony, and immediately, his eyes fell upon the outskirts beyond the walls, the toxic waters of the Black Rivers snaking their way through clouds of pollution. Tez forgot how high up the balcony truly reached; for he could barely scout the massive formation of crowds by the river's large banks, lit up only by hazy red lights. 

The cultists refugees had gathered, and by the looks of it, Tez could see the occasional red light attempt to cross the river. Many of the lights died out before reaching the other side. It was impossible to cross the water. Yet somehow, the Flesh-Lord thought he saw multiple glows of red on the opposite bank, hugging the wall.

Tez couldn't believe some of the cultists had actually managed to - somehow - miraculously cross the infamous Black River. He could see why Lady Adera was so worried now, though this situation didn't warrant the release of homicidal weavecraft monsters. 

"We can quarantine them still," Tez said, noticing as Agolio finally approached his side. Heavy winds lashed at them, so high up. 

"That was my thought too," Agolio responded. "The Plague-Lady did not listen to this suggestion, lord." 

Tez scoffed. 

"Of course not." 

His eyes lingered on the crowds of ragged cultists.

"You think they know?" Agolio asked, voice somber. 

"Know what?" 

"That they carry the rot. That they're all about to die 'cause of it," Agolio said, not mincing any words. Their lives would be a lot easier if they weren't infected.

Truthfully, Tez didn't know if these people were aware of their fate. He wasn't particularly fond of the strange cultists they worshiped - these 'Seraphs' of theirs - yet they were still people. Only a few humans were left in this dying world. His species was failing. They were all so divided. Tez couldn't let them destroy each other. Again. 

He didn't answer Agolio, instead, he burned his Leg-Runes, activated Jump-Form and catapulted himself towards the top of the enormous city gate. The wind whipped past Tez as he flew, the Ink coursing through his flesh like a fire. Finally, the Flesh-Lord could weave in the open air. No enforcers. No Bloodweavers. No Flesh in his head. Just Tez and the sky, trailed by his Fleshweavers.

He loved this feeling; Ink pulsing through his body, wind ripping through his robes. Then, he landed on a small perch high up the Mesenkyme walls, a balcony built for a Weaving-Lord. Agolio and his squad held back, landing beneath the railings of the balcony, hidden. Waiting. 

Lady Adera stood alone on the wall, looking out on the hundreds of cultists across the Black River. Tez Jump-Form faltered, and he activated his Shoulder-Runes, the bulging new muscles taking most of the impact from his fall.

Tez landed mostly quietly, eyes falling upon the Plague-Lady. The tall woman didn't notice him; her gaze locked on the cultists that had made it to the other side. He always thought she was beautiful in her own creepy way: gray skin that seemed to shimmer, weaves of green that bounced off her runes. She wore a flowing green robe with abstract designs, and was busy weaving patterns in the air.

Her hands danced intricately, Plague-Runes glowing a bright, green light. Tez felt… sick immediately. Plagueweavers didn't have to enhance their senses to defend themselves. Instead, they created a powerful weave of sickness surrounding them, slowing down anyone that would dare come too close. 

Tez dared. 

He ignored the feeling of plague and pain creeping on his skin, crawling into his body. He endured so much of that recently. It felt too familiar, in a way, Tez almost welcomed it. 

The Flesh-Lord stood behind Lady Adera for a good few seconds, the Plagueweaver seemingly completely ignoring him. Then, Tez coughed.

Her weaving stopped.

Adera slowly turned to the Flesh-Lord, an annoyed grimace forming on her lips. She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. Those eyes. They were so… inhuman. Black, piercing pupils. Penetrating into his soul.

Tez returned her grimace with a scowl.

Neither spoke at first, instead, the Plague-Lady shot the Flesh-Lord an impatient glare, before returning to the task at hand: weaving intricate runes through the air, Plague-Runes flaring a brilliant, glowing green.

Tez watched her, his eyes following her dancing hands. Strange patterns appeared in the air, before slowly evaporating, dissolving into the misty pollution. Adera did this repetitively, the same runes appearing, over and over. Tez felt sick again.

Then, Adera finally spoke.

"Are you here to stop me, Flesh-Lord I'zimare? You're doing a poor job of it." she asked.

Tez wasn't quite sure how to respond. The Flesh-Lord glanced briefly across the Black River again. The red lights continued to attempt crossing the poisonous waters.

"I am," Tez answered honestly.

She sighed, the weaving stopping again. Adera rubbed her temples, before facing Tez properly this time. He couldn't help but notice a look of… tiredness, plaguing the woman. For the Plague-Lady - like every Weaving-Lord in Viskris - looked worn out, the city taking its toll. Tez couldn't blame her for wanting to prevent unwanted entry: fighting outbreaks of disease and monstrosities took much from the Weaving-Lords. Adera was just trying to prevent another catastrophe, the same reason the council began the cleansings in the first place.

But Umbrals? Tez didn't quite agree with murdering innocent people.

"You don't even know what I'm doing," Adera said with obvious disappointment. "It would help if you informed yourself of these matters first before acting rashly, Lord."

Tez was taken aback for a moment. The Plague-Lady had a point: the Flesh-Lord always leaped into action before thinking of possible outcomes. It got him infamously into… trouble. Like his protest against the cleansings. Or breaking down the garrison door.

Or killing an Orphanage of innocents. Tez thought. Flesh chuckled at that one.

No. He was getting distracted. This was wrong. This wasn't about him. Tez knew what Adera was doing.

"You're completing the Luring to release Umbrals onto the cultists. Another cleansing'." Tez said.

"As is within every Weaving-Lord's rights," Adera said. Her expression remained unchanged. Cold eyes stared directly into Tez's soul.

"The walls are Flesh-Domain. My responsibility. I only ordered you to examine the cultists, not kill them!"

The Plague-Lady shook her head.

"I did. And they carry the rot. Need I remind you? The council has ordered all rot-carriers to be exterminated. I'm simply doing your job for you, Flesh-Lord. You should thank me, we all know you've gotten a bit… soft," Adera said, her voice drenched with an uncanny sharpness.

Tez clenched his fists at the woman, his runes heating up. He didn't respond at first, choosing instead to hold back Flesh, who was urging him to end her. Instead, the Flesh-Lord breathed in and out slowly, his heart racing.

The Plague-Lady wasn't wrong though.

Tez was soft.

"The veins don't just lead beyond the walls to the river, Adera. They end in the Sinews as well–" Tez said, visible frustration boiling on his face, "Our Sinews. Viskrins. Citizens, who we swore to protect. Don't you understand?"

A tense silence followed his words.

"The Umbrals will eradicate what's left of the Sinews! They don't discriminate, and you know all of this, so why–"

Adera's expression remained unchanged. Neutral. Lifeless.

Tez couldn't finish his question. He already knew why Adera would release such creatures into the homes of innocents.

She simply didn't care. There was no heart left beneath those green, sickly runes.

"The district has harbored city-ending diseases too many times," the Plaque-Lady said, "It's time for it to go. Only because of my measures have we prevented larger outbreaks. This is the only way to stop Viskris from falling to the Deadrot."

"There has to be another way. You can't just… just destroy an entire district because of a few hundred infected–"

"A few hundred? Flesh-Lord Izimare, there are thousands of carriers of rot beyond our walls. Each day, a new enclave falls. These cultists are only the beginning. More and more will come. All rotten. These walls have failed. More people will be the end of us. Unless I contain it. I am doing us a favor. We are too weak for this… soft approach."

"You need to stop this," was all Tez could say in response. He knew part of her was right. Disease spread endlessly beyond the borders. Only more sick would come. Perhaps Lady Adera did care - in her own twisted, morbid way.

Flesh whispered something about weavers… and murder. It always urged Tez to kill. It would solve everything, it thought.

Flesh wasn't entirely wrong. But it wasn't entirely right either. Killing wasn't the solution. At least not all of it. Tez knew he had to stop Lady Adera from releasing the Umbrals, that was the goal. If he could do that, he could buy the council time to figure out another way to fix this rot and know what to do with the refugees. A better way. One that didn't involve releasing insane weavecraft creatures onto the citizens of Viskris–

But part of Tez knew that was hopeless.

Lady Adera didn't respond with words.

She screamed instead. Tez tried to block the painful noise with his own hands, his Ink surging from the noise. Every rune lit up, Flesh screaming something similar. It felt… terrible.

He had only heard that scream a few times. It was the last step to complete the Luring. Coaxing the Umbrals from the veins that they inhabited deep beneath the city. It was the worst sound he had ever heard. Piercing into his soul. Tez didn't know how to respond. Lady Adera's face lit up with Plague-Runes, veins engorged, pupils completely black.

That scream paralyzed the Flesh-Lord. He wanted to move, but Flesh didn't react–

A wave of Plague-Runes hit Tez, a strong force knocking him off his feet and throwing the Flesh-Lord to the balcony floor. Somehow, he could still hear the scream although Adera's lips were no longer moving.

She had completed the Luring.

Tez lay on the balcony floor, ears ringing, Ink surging through his runes. Flesh whispered something. The Flesh-Lord couldn't quite hear, but he knew what it was saying:

He had failed.

CHAPTER FOUR: VEIN

Askala and her family, alongside their new strange companions, wandered through the slimy vein for what felt like an eternity. For what? To reach Viskris, a city filled with heretics and enemies? She didn't even know how to articulate her confusion in this silence.

The ironic part was, Askala almost missed Cemire's constant babbling. She was sure her sister had prepared an entire monologue in her head already. Now, there was just that eerie silence, followed by mudded footsteps and the occasional strange echo. 

The silence was not her greatest worry, however. The stench inside the vein was overwhelming: a pungent mix of decay and damp earth that clung to the back of her throat and just wouldn't leave. Her whole mouth tasted like… rotten iron. 

How did we end up like this? Askala thought, dearly missing the comfort of the fort, their home. Where was their Seraph? He was supposed to be omniscient, almighty. 

Askala didn't feel very blessed today. Worse, her bones still ached. It only seemed to get worse the closer to Viskris they got. Now, underneath the wastes, inside a gloomy vein, Askala's fingers throbbed for no apparent reason, her legs ached and somehow, her teeth had a very odd tingle to them. 

Back in the fort, her Mother had taken her to see the healer on many occasions. There wasn't a cure for her affliction, though they had some teas that helped. 

Not going to find much tea down here, Askala thought, her eyes lingering on the viscous 'rock' walls of the vein. Its flesh-like texture disgusted Askala, though apparently not as much as Cemire, who looked on the verge of vomiting. She still couldn't wrap her head around what the vein was.

Askala was overwhelmed. There were too many thoughts in her head, and her body hurt. She wanted to stop and tell Mother, though something told her that she wouldn't be very helpful. Indeed, Mother seemed unusually tense, even given in this situation. 

Askala's eyes lingered on the hooded figure of their caretaker, toddler Sephe bundled up to her chest. She had always immensely admired Mother. For the longest time, Askala wished she could become a Heiress just like her. Enacting the will of Ephros to humankind. Now, Askala felt… numb towards her. She didn't know whether to love or hate her any longer. This woman had completely uprooted their lives, and Askala couldn't understand why. 

Rubbing her forearms, Askala tried to suppress the pain that seemed to crawl all throughout her limbs, and the rage she felt at Mother. Both felt impossible to stop. 

With her mind not paying any attention to the uneven, slimy ground before, Askala suddenly felt her right leg give in, shooting up stale blood from a dormant vein puddle into her face. She almost slipped head-first into the hardened ground, before one of Gergo's accomplices caught her.

The cloaked figure conveniently also placed a hand on her mouth to prevent her from screaming, which worked. 

"Be more careful, child. Watch your steps," The strange man hissed, loud enough for her to hear. 

Askala wanted to apologize, but just nodded with terrified, wide eyes. The man had already moved on, anyway. Wiping the disgusting black blood off her face, Askala heard Cemire giggle faintly next to her. 

"Yeah, watch your steps, clumsy!" Cemire whispered with a mocking tone. 

"Shut up!" Askala hissed back at her older sister, who responded only with an amused grin. Askala blushed. Maybe she should pay a bit more attention to her surroundings. 

Then, she heard a loud thud.

It appeared that Cemire also should've watched her own steps, for Askala's older sister was suddenly flat on the slimy ground, half-covered in black blood. Cemire was apparently so distracted by Askala's slip, she stumbled way harder and unlike her younger sister, she was not caught by one of Gergo's mysterious companions. 

Askala wanted to laugh, but the moment she saw Cemire's pained expression, she worried instead. Their little group came to a standstill, and Mother Irehna kneeled immediately beside Cemire in the black puddle - making sure not to wake the sleeping toddler attached to her. Gergo's red lamp illuminated their section of the vein. Revealing larger pools of blood beginning to emerge, as well as the twisted visage of Cemire's right leg. 

It looked… awfully rotated, in a way that Askala thought shouldn't be possible. Apparently the puddle she stepped in was much deeper than it first looked. Her entire leg was covered in black liquid, her knee bent in an unnatural fashion, somehow turning inward. 

"Don't scream, okay?" Mother said, carefully positioning Cemire upright against the veiny wall. 

Of course, Cemire looked like she was about to scream. Askala had to commend her usually squeamish sister, she somehow didn't. Instead, she just let out a few muffled, pained grunts, pointing crazily at her broken leg. 

"This… really… hurts!" Cemire groaned. The sheer pain etched in her face refrained Askala from making any 'funny' comments. She too was kneeling next to propped up Cemire with Mother. Askala tried to not look at her sister's broken leg, but it was hard not to. She could feel the pain resonate within her own leg. 

"This is not ideal," Gergo's voice echoed behind. "We must carry her. Quickly," the skinweaver added, before approaching Cemire. 

"Can you not heal it?" Mother whispered. She wiped the stale blood off her daughter's ripped pants, revealing fresh, red blood and a large, blue bruise. Immediate concern shot in Mother's face, which Askala mirrored. 

Gergo shook his head. The red glow of the lamp flickered wildly. "No. More than Skin affected, muscle and bone. I cannot weave those."

"I can try and set the bone," Mother said, waving Askala to come closer. "Help me. Hold her–" 

"Make it very fast," Gergo begrudgingly stopped himself from heaving up Cemire.

Her sister groaned in pain and protest. Gergo and his companions did not like that, for they immediately shushed the girl with the broken leg. 

Very empathetic, Askala thought, scoffing at the skinweavers. She positioned herself in a way to lean Cemire back and hold her down. Mother began unpacking supplies from her pack. 

"Do we really have to do it this way?!" Cemire hissed, trying her best not to scream out in pain as Mother began to cut the cloth around her leg. 

"I think so," Askala hushed back at her increasingly paler sister. "Um… sorry." She didn't know what else to say as their Mother began to apply familiar smelling balms and oils on the injured site. 

"You cannot scream." Gergo looked at Cemire, his face intense. "I can feel them close." 

Askala wanted to inquire on who exactly 'them' entailed, but before she could even open her mouth to whisper, the girl heard a loud 'crack'. 

Mother appeared to have set Cemire's bone back into its proper place, albeit still fractured but less twisted. Cemire looked stunned for a moment, barely able to react, before–

Askala first thought it was her older sister's scream, but then quickly realized it was much too high-pitched, and Cemire's lips obviously weren't moving. It was the most horrifying sound she had ever heard. Hairs stood up immediately, panic set in even faster. 

The scream was so unnerving that it transcended physical discomfort. It stirred a deep, instinctual fear like a predator about to devour its prey. She thought the sound of Cemire's bone being set was bad, but this… Askala felt nothing but raw fright. Something very unnatural produced that scream. Something primordial. 

Immediately, Askala's gut instinct was to run. Run as fast as she could, the way opposite of the scream. She could only think of that first time she saw the Deadrotten, that terrifying wail somehow mirroring that feeling of pure hopelessness of the dead rising again. 

Yet, she couldn't move. Her muscles simply refused to follow her orders. It wasn't because Cemire was clutching her for dear life, though she was. The scream seized her.

Askala was paralyzed. Apparently, so was everyone else. Gergo was the first to break out of this paralysis; a spindly cloaked arm grabbing Cemire and finally breaking her grip on Askala. Her own muscles slowly awoke.

The scream had stopped but it still resonated within her. She swore she could still hear the echo.

What just happened?! Askala thought, mind racing. An unnerving silence emerged. The group looked at each other, half-paralyzed, Gergo's red lantern somehow having gone out throughout the ordeal. Now there was only darkness.

And silence.

No one dared to speak. Mother remained frozen, Sephe somehow not bawling her eyes out. Askala could barely see the pained, sweaty face of her older sister, but she thought she saw her praying. Whispering for Ephros to save us from… Askala didn't know from what exactly, but judging by that scream, it was something terrifying.

Gergo - for the first time - looked uneasy. The skinweaver's normally calm expression was now painted with an intense worry, and for a moment, Askala saw through the disguise of the fake, handsome face: the old, wrinkled man with golden runes engraved in his skin, desperation written underneath sunken, tired eyes.

Perhaps this vein wasn't a short-cut. More like a short-cut to death, Askala thought. She didn't know what to do. The scream came from outside the vein, the way they came in. But Askala felt less safe here than anywhere else. Part of her would rather confront the source of the scream than stay in the vein.

Before she could gather her thoughts, Gergo had reignited his red torch. Him and his skinweavers had already begun briskly walking further down the vein.

Ignoring that scream.

Askala had so many questions she wanted to ask, or at least check in with Cemire, yet she felt there was almost too much– No, she just wanted to get out of this horrible place.

Carefully, Mother and Askala began supporting Cemire. Quietly limping through the ominous tunnel of flesh, Askala cringed when Cemire tried to walk. Her sister tried to put on a tough face, but she too must have been terrified by whatever they just heard. She looked to be in absolute shock still.

Askala felt a twinge of pain in her chest. Cemire wasn't supposed to be this quiet. She was the optimistic, happy, annoying sister–

As Askala worried about her, she noticed that Gergo and his three companions were almost running now. It seemed that scream scared them fiercely.

Askala felt that panic again. Her and Mother could barely keep up, carefully supporting the toddler on her chest and the crippled girl by her side. It was almost impossible to avoid the odd holes riddled in the slick, bloody ground.

They were too slow.

Now, she could only see the faint, foggy outline of their four cloaked guides. They were so much further ahead in the vein. Grunting as she continued to heave Cemire over the hazardous terrain, Askala shot a worried look at Mother. She couldn't believe this!

Mother Irehna was staring ahead at the distant figures too, anger on her face.

"Are… are they leaving us?!" Askala couldn't help but raise her voice, bouncing echoes behind them.

Mother didn't respond.

Askala was very worried. That phantom scream resonated in her mind, making her want to run as well. But that would mean abandoning Cemire, here in this horrible, horrible place–

There it was, that pain again. Crawling through her limbs, burning in her bones. She watched the last of their guides disappear in the endless blackness of the vein, the last of their red light fading with them.

What is happening? They can't just abandon us! Askala's thoughts were panicked.

The darkness was now complete. Suffocating, without the red glow of Gergo's torch. Her entire body protested with pain. Limbs aching.

She shot another terrified look at Mother. Though she didn't look back, she responded this time.

"Don't worry. We'll find our way out, girls. Keep going." Mother's face, barely visible in the dark, still looked so… angry. They continued to slowly move forward, Cemire groaning softly with each jarring step.

The silence of the vein was so oppressive. Every sound magnified. The squelching of their feet in the muck, the labored breathing of Cemire, the occasional drip of moisture from above– Askala felt so vulnerable.

She didn't want to imagine how Cemire felt, unable to even properly walk. If they could just run after Gergo, perhaps there was still a chance. Though given their current situation, that still felt hopeless. Askala had to be realistic.

Are we going to die here? That thought seemed more of a possibility than ever.

No, Someone answered back. Perhaps Askala's brain was too tired, too exhausted, for she didn't recognize that voice as her own. Askala stopped in her tracks, Cemire tripping a little before Mother Irehna quickly stabilized her–

Seraph Ephros? Is that you? Askala found herself pleading with that strange voice in her head. Of course, she received no response back. 

Mother shot her an angry glare.

"Keep moving!"

Reluctantly, Askala continued. Maybe she was just imagining things. This darkness - and eerie silence - played tricks on her eyes and ears.

She now almost missed Gergo and his accomplices. Askala was mad at them, but while creepy, they had a steady sense of reality in this place of decay. They at least seemed to know where they were going, instead of Askala and her family, who were vehemently lost and abandoned.

And hearing phantom voices.

The desperation was palpable in the air. Neither Askala, Mother nor Cemire wanted to talk. They didn't need to - they knew their situation was different now, at least without their odd skinweaver guide.

They just… abandoned us, Askala thought. Why? They couldn't wait a bit longer to carry Cemire? That scream–

Anger seeped in her thoughts. The vein was a straight line - there was no reason to just start running, unless they were trying to leave them on purpose–

Then Askala saw it.

The faint flicker of a red torch, closing in on them. Gergo and his companions were coming back? Askala felt a rush of excitement and relief, the anger at them quickly dissipating. Perhaps they were just securing the vein for wounded Cemire and them–

Though the torch appeared to be approaching a bit too speedily. Now she could hear footsteps, and they sounded… less like Gergo and his companions.

More hectic, frantic and… much heavier.

Askala saw two red glows now. Quickly, she realized they weren't torches. They were enormous eyes. Coming at them with rapid speed, followed by a muscular, dark body–

Cemire and Askala began screaming simultaneously.

It wasn't a beast, but a giant man, or at least something that once resembled a man. Its pitch-black body was twisted and covered in what looked like red, hardened veins, and the eyes... they burned with an unnatural light.

Mother Irehna reacted instantly, pushing the girls behind her as she stood defiantly in front of the fast-approaching creature.

Its form was massive, shrouded in darkness, with only the glowing red eyes visible. This wasn't any Weaving-Form Askala had ever seen back at the fort, no, this was something else, something much more terrifying than weavers–

The monstrosity was about to crush them.

No! Askala panicked. She jumped before Mother, pushing her aside in the process. Instinct took over; Mother had Sephe tied to her chest, she couldn't let her take the impact–

She closed her eyes, and remembered that strange voice.

Crunch.

Pain engulfed Askala's body. Her limbs broke, indescribable sensations shuttering throughout. That pain she had in her body all these years erupted in one final explosion. Askala was surely dead. She was afraid to open her eyes, seeing the horrifying visage of that beast devouring her.

Instead, she was met by silence. Also suspicious, the girl was not dead. Askala opened her eyes with surprise.

She didn't comprehend what she was staring at.

Her right arm was no longer… a normal arm. Instead, it was just bone, with the end of it - where her hand should be - erupting into an enormous, boney shield. It made no sense.

Her Bone-Shield took the full impact of the charging monstrosity.

Askala stared at her arm. It had no flesh! It was just her skeleton, twisted into an umbrella of bone that engulfed the creature.

The creature recoiled in shock, its inhuman, red eyes widening in disbelief. The massive form stumbled backwards, giving the wide-eyed girl space. She stood there, dumbfounded, her skeletal arm extended protectively in front of her.

Askala had somehow transformed her arm into a shield made of bone.

She heard Cemire gasp behind her, Mother yelling something incoherent–

The beast-man recovered, and Askala saw it fully now: massive, bulky, with long, gnarled fingers, and a jaw protruding unnaturally. The creature was covered in an oily, black skin. Red, bulging veins pulsed through its body, and a strange, spherical object sat in its chest, where the heart would be.

It seemed equally surprised at Askala's bone shield - but not for long. Quickly, its monstrous, fanged mouth formed a twisted smile, an abnormal amount of teeth showing. Its deformed muscles tensed and writhed. Then, it charged again.

Askala was about to explode. She felt a surge of emotions begin to bubble up inside her, rage, fear and disbelief at the situation she was in all building and building and –

Time slowed down.

Askala saw the desperate faces of Mother and Cemire, screaming. She caught a glimmer of Sephe bundled to Mother's chest, her innocent eyes filled with tears. And she saw that giant beast-man charge at them again, something so unnatural, so primal, ready to destroy her and her family.

She didn't know what overcame her.

Askala let out an animalistic scream, the pain, the rage, everything bubbling to the surface. The girl let loose a barrage of emotions that somehow manifested into her arm–

Her bone-shield exploded into bone fragments, shooting a rain of shrapnel at the charging monstrosity. She watched the fragments embed themselves in the monster's flesh, its body covered in red dots–

It kept charging, seemingly unfeeling of pain.

Instinct took over. Askala let go of her rational thoughts - her fears, doubts and hesitations were cast aside. In that moment, she felt nothing but determination. She needed to protect her family.

"Run!" was all Askala could scream at Mother and Cemire before lunging at the Umbral. 

THE END… FOR NOW. WEEKLY CHAPTER RELEASES (4/28/2024 next chapter).