Chapter 6- Hold Fast

Drayke stood on the rotting deck of a flat-bottomed boat as it creaked across the black waters of the Strait of Styx. There was no ferryman—only silence and current, as if the river chose its course by memory alone. Mist clung to the surface, thick as smoke, tasting rust and rot.

All around him were passengers that were not people—hollowed figures with no eyes, no mouths, only sagging flesh where faces should be. They clutched remnants of what they'd been: a locket, a snapped rifle, a child's toy. The boat did not rock under their weight. It didn't need to. They weren't truly there. They were echoes of disasters he'd lived through—villages glost to fire, squads wiped out to a man, a city crumbling beneath its scream.

None of them spoke, but he could feel their want—an endless, gnawing hunger that wasn't for food, but for rest, meaning, and memory to make sense.

Drayke's hands were bloody, always. Even when he looked down and saw them clean, they dripped in the reflection.

The boat never docked.

There was no other side. Just the river, just the faces, just the shore—

Where his mother stood in the dying light, a sack of herbs slung over one shoulder, dirt on her skirt, and a smile that didn't know it was her last.

She raised her hand.

And then the adventurer stepped from the doorway, all leather armor and arrogance, a sword glinting at his hip like it had a name. He said nothing. He didn't have to.

He grabbed her by the hair.

She didn't scream. She never did.

Drayke lunged toward the boat's edge, but his legs wouldn't move. An invisible force yanked him back, as if the river knew this scene too well—had etched it into its flow.

The house swallowed her whole. The door closed.

The faceless passengers turned toward the shore in unison, as if to witness the moment again. As if it were a ritual, not a memory.

The boy inside Drayke screamed, but the man he'd become just watched because that's all he could do, now. That's all the dream would let him do.

The boat kept drifting. The river didn't care.

Flustered, he fell to his knees.

The deck groaned beneath him like a dying thing. His breath came in shallow bursts, but the air was too thick to swallow—like smoke from a pyre he'd long forgotten.

He stared into the river, hoping to see himself, some proof he still existed beyond the memory. But the water held no reflection.

Instead, it opened.

The surface split like silk, revealing the endless churn of stars beneath—a spiral galaxy shaped into a vast, lidless eye. Its iris burned with the pale fire of dead suns, and its gaze was unblinking.

It watched him.

Not with judgment. Not with mercy. Just the cold certainty of something that had always been watching.

It pulsed.

The cosmos shifted, and in that blink of motion, Drayke saw every moment of his life folded into its center—the laughter, the battles, the screams behind closed doors, the boy he'd been. The man he'd become. The things he had done. The things he'd never undo.

The eye knew it all.

And in knowing, it reminded him:

There is no waking from this harsh reality.

"C'mon, man. Wake the hell up."

Grayson's voice cut through the haze like a blade—frantic, grounded, real.

Slap.

Again.

Drayke's head snapped to the side. The stars in the river shattered like glass. The eye blinked once, slow and cruel, before falling into the abyss.

Slap.

He gasped—air hitting his lungs like fire.

Drayke jolted upright, drenched in sweat, chest heaving, eyes wild and unfocused.

"Woah… You found yourself a friend, four eyes?" Drayke muttered, his voice slurred, wobbling between sarcasm and stupor.

The silhouette stood still in the doorway—tall, lean, human-shaped but not quite right. Shoulders are too high. The neck is a little too long. It didn't move. It didn't answer.

Grayson muttered, his voice low and tight as his hand slid toward the knife at his side.

"What are you looking at…"

He reacted quickly—muscle memory taking the reins before his brain could catch up.

The figure lunged through the doorway with unnatural speed, limbs snapping forward like a beast unhinged. Its mouth tore open wide—too wide—revealing jagged, glassy teeth, not meant for speaking, only for ripping.

Its skin was the jaundiced green of rot-stained parchment—goblin-colored, but the structure was wrong—human bones under warped flesh. Long fingers twisted into claws. The thing shrieked, a sound like steel dragged over stone, and Drayke saw them—glowing, writhing—

Grayson didn't hesitate—he drove the blade into the thing's neck with a grunt, twisting hard as the steel hit bone.

The creature spasmed violently, its shriek cutting off into a wet, gurgling rattle. It collapsed to the floor, limbs twitching, blood pooling like oil beneath it.

For a breath, there was silence. The kind that makes you think it's over.

Then the runes flared.

From a dull pulse to a blinding blaze of red, like molten veins igniting beneath its skin. The creature convulsed, its spine arching, mouth opening in a silent howl as the wounds began to close, fast, sloppy, as if the flesh itself refused to acknowledge death.

"What the fuck…" Grayson stepped back, knife still slick with blood.

Drayke watched in disbelief as the slit across its throat stitched shut before his eyes, sinew writhing like worms beneath the surface.

"Regeneration," Drayke muttered. "But… that's not standard."

"This isn't standard anything," Grayson snapped, his voice edged with panic. "The reports said they were fast. Tough. Not—this. Not glowing rune-freaks that heal."

The creature twitched again.

Drayke limped over to the twitching, unsightly creature on the floor, sword dragging behind him. He stared at it—at the runes still flickering faintly beneath its skin—then drove the blade down into its chest.

The body shuddered. Twitched again.

"Well, that's not right," Drayke muttered, freeing the blade.

He stabbed it again.

And again.

Each strike followed by another grotesque spasm, each thrust a prayer to a god that wasn't listening.

Grayson watched from behind, his face twisted in disgust. "What the hell are you doing, man?"

Drayke didn't look up. "This thing's gotta have a weak spot. All monsters have a magic core—some kinda anchor."

He stabbed again. "But this one…"

Another strike.

"No core."

Another.

"Something else has to kill it."

Blood sprayed across his forearms, soaking into his sleeves. The creature's twitching slowed, but didn't stop.

Grayson took a step back. "Drayke. You're not just fighting it anymore."

Drayke ignored him. He clenched his teeth and drove the sword down with a snarl. Again. Again.

The runes pulsed—then dimmed.

On the twelfth strike, the blade punched through the creature's heart.

It went still.

Not limp. Not unconscious.

Still.

Like something had left the body in that moment.

Drayke stood over it, chest heaving, knuckles white on the hilt.

He didn't say anything for a long time.

Then:

"I think I killed it."

Grayson raised a brow. "You think?"

Drayke's balance faltered, his knees buckling for a heartbeat before he caught himself against the wall. The world swam. The wound in his shoulder pulsed with white-hot agony, each heartbeat sending another wave of fire down his arm.

He clenched his jaw, breathing through the pain.

No time for Mirelle. No time for rest.

No choice.

With his good hand, he summoned the mana—just a whisper of it, focused tight. A flicker of flames sparked to life at his fingertips, trembling in the air like it already knew what was coming.

He didn't hesitate.

Pressing the flame to the open gash.

The sound was worse than the pain—a sickening sizzle as skin and muscle cooked, smoke curling up in ghostly tendrils. The stench of burning flesh filled the room, thick and metallic.

Drayke grunted, biting down on the scream that clawed up his throat. His whole body trembled, sweat pouring down his brow.

The flame died as quickly as it came. The wound blackened and sealed, raw but no longer bleeding.

He leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, eyes glazed with pain.

Grayson stared at him, wide-eyed. "You're insane."

Drayke gave a half-laugh, half-wince. "No… just not ready to die today."

"Here, let me help." Grayson picked up Drayke by his good shoulder and walked him upstairs. The walk felt treacherously long, and despite how short it was, Drayke felt like he was losing his mind. 

"Here—let me help."

Grayson's voice was low and strained as he slipped beneath Drayke's good shoulder and lifted him up. Drayke staggered, teeth clenched, the pain in his shoulder still burning like coals beneath his skin.

They moved down the corridor, the dim lights above flickering against stone and rusted metal. As they approached the stairs, the screaming began.

It was real.

The cages lining the walls—open, visible, built into the very bones of the place—held prisoners. Dozens of them. Men, women, barely-recognizable figures hunched in agony, limbs trembling, eyes wide with fresh pain.

They wailed. Sobbed. Clawed at themselves. Some slammed their heads against the bars, trying to escape what was happening inside their minds.

The fog that once dulled their senses—gone. The drug had kept them quiet, compliant… had burned off during the chaos.

Now they were awake.

Fully.

And they remembered.

Their screams followed Drayke and Grayson down the hall like a tide. Grayson didn't flinch, but his jaw was tight, eyes scanning forward.

"Don't stop," he muttered.

Drayke nodded once. Just kept walking.

The pain in his shoulder was sharp, but the sound of those screams…

That cut deeper.

"Grayson! What happened?"

Mirelle sprang to her feet, leaving the rows of patients who lay still, their wounds mostly closed and their bodies under heavy sedation. Her eyes locked on Drayke, and her expression shifted instantly from alert to alarmed.

Drayke looked half-dead.

His skin pale, his shoulder blackened and scorched from a crude cauterization, blood still crusted down his arm. He barely registered her voice, barely kept his feet under him.

Grayson helped ease Drayke down against the wall, careful not to jostle his injured shoulder. He glanced out the cracked window, the grey light of early morning just beginning to creep across the horizon. The rhythmic thump of distant artillery echoed like a ticking clock—too close, too fast.

"We need to hurry," he muttered. "Or we're all gonna get caught in the barrage."

But then he hesitated.

His jaw clenched.

"There's a bigger problem…"

Mirelle turned from Drayke, her hands still glowing faintly with healing magic.

Grayson looked back at her, eyes hard.

"There are thousands of victims still alive downstairs. In cages. Screaming their lungs out."

Mirelle froze.

"We can't start artillery here," he continued, voice low but firm. "Not until we get them out. Not unless we're ready to kill every last one of them."

The room went still, the only sound now the faint, ghostlike wailing rising from the stairwell behind them.

Drayke shifted, groaning faintly, his breath ragged.

Mirelle looked between the two of them, then toward the hallway.

A decision had to be made—and fast.

"Ironheart's with Sergeant Kaldros out front," Mirelle said, barely above a whisper. "I don't know how much longer they can hold."

Drayke suddenly let out a jagged laugh, raw and wild.

Everyone turned to him.

"We can't let artillery fire on this location," he said through clenched teeth, eyes still hazy with pain—but burning with conviction. "Hand me the flare gun."

Grayson hesitated. "One shot starts the barrage."

Drayke nodded. "Then I'll fire two. Back-to-back. From the roof. The Haelwyn twins are smart enough to figure it out—it's a delay signal."

Sergeant Hawkins stepped forward, tension in every line of his face. "And what if they don't understand? What if they think it's misfire protocol? We all die in that barrage. Is that a risk you're willing to take?"

Silence dropped like a hammer.

Drayke scanned the room—each face marked by exhaustion, fear, hope.

"This isn't for me," he said, voice firm now. "This is for you."

He looked at Hawkins.

"Because your damn conscience won't let you sleep if we leave a thousand people in cages to die in our mess."

A beat passed. No one spoke.

Drayke's gaze hardened.

"So ask yourself: would you rather live with regrets… or spend your life making sure you never have to?"

The crew hesitated, but one by one, they relented.

Grayson handed Drayke the flare gun.

It was cold in his hand. Heavier than it looked.

He stood, teeth grit against the pain. Mirelle started to protest, but he shook his head. There wasn't time. Not for doubts. Not for comfort.

Despite everything—despite the bodies, the blood, the screaming from the basement—Drayke didn't care for these people. Not really. Not in the way a hero should.

But as he limped toward the stairs leading to the roof, the sounds of the prisoners echoing in his ears, he felt something gnawing in his gut.

Disgust.

Not with them.

With himself.

Seeing them suffer like that—stripped of dignity, left in cages, screaming like animals—it turned his stomach. And not because of their pain.

Because of what it reminded him of.

A door in his memory creaked open. He saw her—his mother—standing at the shore, the adventurer's hand twisted in her hair. Her eyes never left his, not even as she disappeared into the doorway of a stranger's house.

That was supposed to stay buried.

That memory had no place in the man he was becoming.

He shook it off, jaw clenched, forcing the image back into the dark corner where it belonged.

He had a flare to fire.

A future to protect.

And a past that refused to let him go.

~

Mirelle and Hawkins didn't waste a second. With a glance at one another, they turned and rushed back down the stairs, the echo of tortured screams growing louder with every step. Mirelle's heart pounded—not just from fear, but from the sheer magnitude of what they were about to face. A thousand victims. A thousand lives they'd have to move, stabilize, save.

And time was running out.

Grayson, meanwhile, headed for the front.

Ironheart stood his ground, unmoving, a mountain of obsidian armor fractured with glowing fault lines. Every strike against him rang out like a hammer on stone, chips of black glass splintering off his frame. Cracks spread across his body, but still, he didn't fall.

Behind him, Sergeant Kaldros lay motionless—his body splayed across the rubble, weapon silent in the dirt.

Ironheart didn't turn. Didn't speak.

He just stood there, as if his will alone could keep the enemy at bay.

Until Grayson reached him.

A firm hand on his massive shoulder—a gesture that barely registered against obsidian, but carried the weight of brotherhood.

"You're not alone," Grayson muttered.

Ironheart's glowing eyes flickered. The trance broke.

Grayson stepped forward, twin daggers already drawn.

The goblins surged. Warped. Rune-covered. Snarling.

Grayson met them head-on, each dagger slicing cleanly through their chests—through the pulsing glow of their mana cores. Not out of knowledge or precision.

But because the blades wanted it.

They guided him. Pulled him.

Each strike answered an instinct he didn't fully understand—something buried deep beneath muscle and memory.

The goblins fell in twitching heaps.

Behind him, Ironheart's cracked frame looked once more—ready to move and fight.

And for now, the line held.

~

Drayke stood atop the building, only to collapse onto the cracked concrete roof.

The world spun around him, sharp edges blurring into the bruised sky above. Every breath came with pain. Every heartbeat echoed the weight of the decision he'd just made.

He wasn't Halvyr.

He wasn't a tactician with a mind like a battlefield map.

He didn't have the genius's arsenal of spells, runes, and clever contingencies.

All Drayke ever had was his pride. And a stubborn refusal to die before the job was done.

He forced himself up to one knee, the flare gun trembling in his hand. The screams from below still echoed faintly through the building. The sounds of battle crackled in the distance. The clock was ticking.

He raised the gun and aimed it skyward.

One shot.

A red flare burst into the darkening sky.

He slammed another round into the chamber with shaking hands.

Two shots.

The second flare soared after the first—twin streaks of blood-red light cutting across the heavens like a warning, a plea, a desperate signal to the pair of geniuses at the artillery line.

Drayke lowered the gun, letting it clatter beside him.

"All I can do now," he muttered, lying back against the concrete, "is hope they're smart enough to get the damn message."

He closed his eyes.

And waited for the sky to answer.