Chapter Thirteen: Ashes of the Living
Doran sprinted through the winding streets of the city, his boots hammering against cobblestone with such force that faint scorch marks trailed behind him. Each step hissed, heat licking at the stone—embers blooming in his wake before fading into the smog-choked air. The ground beneath blackened with every strike, as if unwilling to forget the weight of his urgency.
The city was moving.
He could hear it—gears grinding behind the walls, ventilation shutters shifting open and closed, ducts whispering with redirected wind. A thousand unseen eyes blinked in the gloom. A thousand locks slid shut just before he reached them.
It was adjusting.
"It knows," Doran muttered, low and sharp. "It knows where I'm going."
A spiral of ash curled off his shoulder as Avon emerged from flame, wings folding in like a smoke-wrapped cloak. The small phoenix hovered near his ear, voice dry with disapproval.
"Then why aren't you flying? You could've been above all this by now."
Doran didn't slow.
He rounded a sharp corner, flame licking the rusted edge of a pipe as he passed. The city hissed in response, but he kept moving.
"Because it'll lead me away," he said. "The city wants to misdirect—keep me chasing it decides it's ready."
Avon narrowed his ember-glow eyes, smirking.
"Ooh, smart. Using it against itself."
Doran gave a quick nod. "The harder it pushes me back, the closer I am to what it's protecting."
"So… how do you plan on getting back to the robot? Or better yet, your ship?" Avon asked, wings pulsing with heat.
"Leyla's the best rune engraver there is. The Allasupa family wouldn't just throw her away if she's useful."
"So if you take him down, the city stops being a problem?"
"That's the idea." Doran's voice was tight, flames cracking faintly along his armors edges.
"So you think he's guarding Leyla?"
"Not necessarily," Doran admitted. "But I don't think he's keeping me away from her location out of caution. He's planning something."
Avon fluttered with a dismissive huff, embers drifting from his form.
"Well, watching you run is exhausting. I'm going back inside."
A flash of flame. A coil of smoke. The phoenix burst into embers and vanished, his ash spiraling gently down to settle on Doran's shoulder once again.
Doran didn't slow.
Didn't blink.
The city groaned around him. Above, pipes hissed with redirected steam. Ahead, one of the alleyways slammed shut with a heavy clang—loud enough to rattle the metal signage overhead. Another path sealed. Another block rerouted.
Doran grinned.
"Got you now."
With a hiss of ignition, flame surged from the runes along his back. Two wings of fire unfurled behind him—radiant, unstable, beautiful. In a single searing rush, Doran launched upward, clearing the rooftops in seconds.
The skyline greeted him like a machine's jaw.
Smokestacks belched gray clouds into the sky. Neon signs flickered and pulsed. Antennae rotated in slow, mechanical sweeps, tracking movement far below—but never quite fast enough for him.
And towering above it all—
The clock tower.
It loomed over the city like the eye of some long-dead god. Brass frames corroded with age. Spires jagged like a crown bent by war. Its face, huge and sunken, stared blankly into the night.
But the hands…
They hadn't moved.
Not since he landed.
Doran hovered in the air, flame wings beating softly against the wind.
"I've been running for hours…" he muttered. "It has to be close to midnight."
A chill crawled beneath his armor—not from the air, but from the creeping weight of realization.
"What a way to trap the living…" he murmured, eyes narrowing. "Put one massive clock in the city and freeze it. Everyone keeps looking up, thinking they've got more time."
His jaw clenched.
"But the ones that are forced to live here… they don't need to look."
He let the thought settle—bitter, sharp, and too plausible.
"What a way to grow a population…"
Doran hovered in midair, flame wings gently beating against the smoky updraft. His eyes narrowed against the haze—steam rising from chimneys, metal plates groaning under shifting weight, the city alive and watching.
He scanned the rooftops, one by one.
"Now where are you…?" he muttered under his breath. "Not in any of these buildings…"
His gaze dropped lower.
"…Has to be underground."
He lingered in the air for another second, holding his breath, letting the noise fade into background. Beneath the city's clamor—beneath the hiss of steam and mechanical churn—he felt it.
Something wrong.
Not heat. Not movement.
Stillness.
A hollow pocket in a city that refused to stop moving.
"There," he whispered.
His eyes locked on it. A building that didn't belong.
Too plain. Too symmetrical. No signs. No rooftop ducts. No glowing vents or rotating fans. Just a box of concrete and silence—like the city had forgotten it existed.
Or was made to forget.
He descended.
The air shimmered behind him from the residual heat of his wings. His boots touched down softly atop the dust-coated roof. The silence up close was worse—oppressive. Too complete. Even the wind seemed to avoid it.
Doran exhaled slowly.
"She's here."
His hand reached over his shoulder, drawing the sword in a smooth motion. The steel caught flame immediately, heat pulsing along the edge in bursts of molten orange.
"Fire Fall…" he whispered, his stance shifting low, power building beneath his boots.
"Talon!"
He shot upward—wings bursting wide, fire trailing behind him like a comet. And then—
SLASH. SLASH. SLASH.
Three rapid strikes carved through the air, each one igniting a trail of compressed flame.
Pillars of fire roared downward—screaming arcs of red and gold that split the smog like divine judgment.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
The rooftop shattered under the force.
Concrete erupted into smoke. Dust exploded outward in thick, choking clouds. Beneath the impact, metal ribs groaned—twisting, bending, refusing to collapse.
But the damage had been done.
The roof buckled… then caved in with a grinding wail of fractured steel.
Doran dropped through the smoke.
His sword was drawn. His eyes glowed with molten fury.
He landed on a steel catwalk with a heavy clang, the metal groaning beneath his boots. Below him, the facility stretched out like a graveyard for the living—rows upon rows of pods, stacked like coffins in a morgue.
Some lay open.
Empty.
Others pulsed faintly, blue light leaking from their seams like breath from a corpse. Inside them—civilians. Or what used to be. Skin too perfect. Limbs too still. Eyes closed as if dreaming someone else's life.
"So this is where the civilians 'live,'" Doran muttered, voice barely audible above the hum of unseen machines.
He moved slowly along the catwalk, blade gripped tight. The heat from his body warped the reflections in the pod glass below, distorting faces into ghostly echoes.
No alarms.
No guards.
Just the hum of systems that didn't need to sleep.
He stopped.
One pod near the edge hadn't sealed properly. Its surface was fogged, the figure inside flickering like a broken hologram. An old man. Motionless. Face twisted not in pain, but something worse—
Stillness.
Doran clenched his jaw.
"They weren't preserved…" he whispered. "They were overwritten."
Click.
A red glow flared behind him. The catwalk lit up.
He turned fast, sword raised.
From the far end of the corridor—a hiss. Mechanical. Purposeful.
And then—
Footsteps.
Just one pair.
Measured. Unhurried.
"Doran!" Gar's voice rang out, calm and annoyingly cheerful.
The man stepped into view, polished and poised like he'd just returned from a business meeting, not an ambush.
"I've got a meeting in the morning with some associates," he called, flexing his fingers. "I'd prefer to get some rest beforehand."
Gar's hand dropped to his side.
Then, with a smooth upward swing—like an uppercut made of molten will—he struck.
From his fist, liquid metal erupted like a geyser, lashing toward Doran in a seething arc.
CLANG!
The metal slammed into Doran's blade with a hiss like boiling blood. He slid back—boots skidding along the catwalk—but it wasn't enough.
He was launched.
The impact sent him flying up—back through the smoke-scored hole in the ceiling. The city night greeted him with cold air and scattering ash.
Twisting mid-air, Doran caught himself—flames igniting along his limbs to steady his form. He hovered just above the ruined rooftop.
GONG—!
The clock tower rang out.
Its bell shook the skyline, vibrating through bone and metal alike.
The hands on its face hadn't moved.
Not one tick.
From below, Gar rose through the breach—silent as a ghost. He ascended like a god pulled from the wound of the earth, the metal edge of the roof bending inward, welcoming him with obedient tremors.
No fire. No flash.
Just presence.
"I plan on leaving now," Gar called, lifting his left arm with a casual swing. "Have fun with the city!"
FWOOSH!
Another stream of liquid metal shot out—punching toward Doran in a gleaming spear.
Doran met it mid-air, blade flashing. He parried the blow and followed with a swift counter—slicing upward, carving off a sliver of the shifting metal mid-flight.
"Oh, and I also fixed your ship."
Doran's eyes widened.
"I liked it," Gar went on with a grin, "so I thought I'd take it."
From behind him, Doran's ship rose.
It emerged from the shadows like a stolen crown—its sails clean, its hull repaired, its engine purring in perfect rhythm. No makeshift repairs. No patchwork plates.
Pristine.
Perfect.
His.
Doran's pupils flared—bright, furious.
Gar saw the flicker and laughed.
"Figured you wouldn't need it anymore!" he shouted. "HaHaHa!"
The laughter echoed as Gar's legs extended—stretching, reforming—liquid metal cascading down like wax from a lit candle.
He stepped back onto the ship, the metal fusing to the deck beneath his boots.
"If you survive," he called, one hand raised in parting, "meet me at the Meteor Fall Casino."
VRRRRRMMM—
The ship turned. Its thrusters pulsed with stolen power.
Doran surged forward, flame spiraling behind him—
But Gar was already gone.
The ship blasted upward, the deck warping from the force. Doran was left floating, the contrails searing through the air.
FWOOOOOOOSH.
A shockwave of light split the sky as the ship vanished into warp, tearing across the clouds in a blink.
Below, the windows of a dozen towers shattered from the force of its departure.
Doran remained where he was, hovering.
Alone.
His fists trembled.
Doran hovered above the ruin, the city groaning beneath him like a wounded beast. Smoke drifted lazily from the shattered rooftop, curling upward into the night sky.
He looked down.
The hole he'd made still yawned open—jagged, raw. Below, the tomb of glass pods continued to hum like a heartbeat on life support.
He inhaled once.
Held it.
Then dropped like a comet.
CRASH.
He landed hard, shattering into the floor like judgment made flesh. The room trembled. Dust exploded outward in a ring around him.
Before the impact could settle, he was moving.
Doran sprinted forward, blade in hand. The first door in his path ignited under his swing—SLASH!—its frame erupting into flame, shards of metal and heat tearing through the air.
On the other side—
Leyla.
Alive.
Grease-smeared and wide-eyed, crouched beside a console.
Behind her stood the robot—its frame half-assembled, wires spilling like veins—and beside it, the twin girls. Jade and Ruby. Their synthetic faces painted with perfect calm.
"Doran! Help please!" Leyla screamed as she ducked behind the console, sparks flying from her tools.
The twins looked up.
Jade and Ruby blinked in sync, then turned their heads toward him like dancers moving to a rhythm only they could hear.
"What are you doing here?" they said together—soft, curious.
Doran didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
His sword answered for him.
WHOOM.
A pulse of heat burst from his blade, the air shimmering violently around him. Flames licked his arms, the metal beneath his boots groaning as it warped.
His eyes locked onto them.
The twin monsters in a child's skin.
Jade tilted her head slightly.
"You weren't supposed to be here yet," she said.
Ruby blinked. "Daddy said you'd be next."
Doran stepped forward. The light of the blade swelled—blazing. The temperature spiked, making even the shadows recoil from him.
"Then Daddy was wrong."
Jade smiled, her expression unfazed—but her fingers twitched, mechanical movements barely visible. A signal. A threat.
Ruby moved protectively in front of the unfinished robot, arms spread like a wall of innocence.
"You shouldn't interrupt," she said, voice flat. "We're almost done."
Leyla yanked a thick cord loose from under the panel with a snap! and a burst of sparks.
"Doran!" she shouted. "Don't let them put the energy core inside!"
Jade's eyes flashed—brilliant red in the dim room.
"That wasn't very nice," she said, voice still syrup-sweet.
Ruby's tone dropped, metallic and cold.
"We worked hard on this one."
Doran surged forward—BOOM!
Flames erupted behind him like a rock crashing into still water, rippling outward in molten waves. His blade dragged beside him, glowing brighter with each step.
SLASH.
His sword came down clean.
Absolute.
Ruby didn't scream.
She couldn't.
The first strike sliced her diagonally—shoulder to hip—severing her right arm in a burst of white-hot sparks. Her body hadn't even hit the floor before the second blow carved through her core, splitting her cleanly into four smoldering pieces.
Burnt plastic. Fused wire. The scent of scorched metal.
Jade spun toward him—still smiling.
But her eyes widened.
Too late.
SHUNK.
The third strike tore through her at the waist, bisecting her in one fluid motion. Both halves collapsed in opposite directions, crashing against the floor with dull, mechanical thuds.
Static crackled from the wounds. Wires twitched like nerves caught mid-scream. One hand spasmed.
Then silence.
Leyla stared from behind the console, her eyes wide—frozen somewhere between horror and relief. Her hands still clutched the severed power cord, knuckles white.
Doran exhaled slowly through clenched teeth, his breath steaming in the scorched air. The room crackled—walls warped, floor tiles curled. Residual heat shimmered in the air like a mirage.
At the center, the half-finished robot twitched… then stilled.
Its core dimmed.
The faint blue pulse went out.
Darkness.
Leyla finally stood, tears brimming in her eyes as her body trembled with adrenaline.
She stumbled forward and collapsed into Doran's arms, burying her face into his shoulder.
"I knew you would come…" she sobbed. "It's been so long—I didn't know if you were even alive—but I knew. I knew you'd save me!"
Doran looked down at her.
A small, soft smile touched his face.
"I'm glad you're okay."
But the smile faded.
Memories returned, sharp and heavy.
"I didn't come alone," he said, voice quieter now. "I came with two others. A soldier—Kellon. And a Flipad I was hoping you could look at… maybe even fix."
Leyla froze.
Her fingers clenched against Doran's jacket, trembling.
The tears didn't stop.
But her breath did.
Locked.
Held somewhere deep in her chest—afraid of what would escape if she let it go.
"Kellon…?" she whispered.
The name cracked against the silence like thin glass under pressure.
Doran felt it instantly.
The shift in her body.
The way her heartbeat stuttered.
The way grief returned like a second pulse beneath her skin.
His jaw tightened.
"What happened to him?" he asked, voice low but laced with steel.
Leyla didn't speak.
She looked up at him—eyes glistening, throat locked with guilt—and then turned to the half-finished robot still strapped down behind them.
And just like that—
She broke again.
Collapsed into sobs.
Doran followed her gaze.
His eyes fell on the machine.
The one almost complete.
The one missing only its core.
His breath caught in his throat.
"No…"
The word escaped like fire cooling too fast—cracked and scorched with disbelief.
He stepped forward, gently releasing Leyla from his arms.
Each step toward the machine felt heavier.
Each footfall louder in the stillness.
He stared at the thing that was once Kellon—or might still be.
He gripped his sword tighter, the heat returning to the blade in slow, searing waves.
"I won't let him live like this." His voice trembled with quiet rage. "I'll destroy it. Let him die. Let him rest."
Flames curled along the edge of his blade.
He raised it.
"No—stop!" Leyla scrambled after him, grabbing his arm.
Doran shoved her back—not hard, but firm, the weight of his grief too much to hold alongside hers.
"Why shouldn't I?" he snapped. "He never thought he was enough. Always carrying burdens he didn't deserve. Always blaming himself. He didn't ask for this. Don't make him fight more."
Leyla hit the ground, knees slamming against the metal floor with a dull clank.
She looked up at him, eyes burning with grief.
"He called himself a puppet…" she choked out. "And it broke me. Because it felt like he was talking about me too."
Her voice trembled.
"I couldn't stop them. I couldn't fight. I just followed commands. I was—"
Her words cracked.
"I was just holding on to hope. That you would come. That somehow you'd save us both…"
Doran turned toward the robot's inert frame.
"The Flipad I mentioned earlier—it got hit bad," he said, voice quieter now. "Do you think you could put him in this body?"
Leyla didn't answer right away.
She stared at the shell strapped to the table. A machine. A vessel. A weapon. But also…
A grave.
And maybe…
A second chance.
She wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve. Her voice, when it came, was steadier—but laced with weight.
"If we do this, he might not be the same. Even with the Flipad's neural matrix, merging it with Gar's design could fry it."
Doran stepped closer, resting his palm lightly on the cold edge of the machine.
"He was inspired by them. It shouldn't be too different."
Leyla's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"The Realm of Viora created the Flipads," Doran said. "Same kind of machine you used to fry his brain… and everything else."
Leyla's gaze flicked to the EMW machine—the one she had used too many times before. Her hands trembled at her sides.
"The amount of times I've done this…" she whispered. "I'm a terrible person."
She lowered her voice even more.
"I should've died."
The words hadn't even finished leaving her lips when WHAM—
Doran's foot struck her in the gut, sudden and brutal.
She hit the ground hard.
Her breath ripped from her lungs. The pain wasn't sharp—but it didn't need to be.
Her eyes snapped wide, raw with disbelief. Her body curled instinctively, but the anger rising in her chest was louder than the pain.
"What the hell was that for?!" she coughed, rage flooding through her voice.
Doran didn't move.
He stood over her—jaw tight, sword still faintly glowing with restrained flame.
"Because I've heard enough of that." His voice was bitter. "From Kellon. From myself. And now you?"
He pointed—not at her—but at the lifeless robot across the room.
"That's why he gave up. Why people like Gar win. Because the ones who should fight… start thinking they're too broken to matter."
Leyla sat up, clutching her chest. Her breath was still shaky, but her eyes burned with defiance.
"You think I want to feel like this?" she snapped. "You think I asked to live with guilt—carving death into everything I touch?"
"No," Doran said. "But you chose to survive."
He turned his back on her, eyes locked on the machine.
"And that means you can still choose what kind of person you want to be."
Silence followed.
Thick and hot, like smoke curling from a battlefield.
Leyla looked down at her hands again.
Not with loathing.
With thought.
Long, hard thought.
She finally spoke—softer now, but clearer.
"If a Flipad can still believe that… then maybe I can too."
She let the words settle.
"I just wish Kellon could've believed it." Her voice wavered. "That's another reason I want to save the Flipad…"
She looked at the broken drive resting nearby—small, scorched, and silent.
"Because he's more human than any of us," she whispered.
The city hummed softly around them.
Gears grinding.
Steam hissing.
The flickering yellow light pulsed overhead, steady and faint—like a beating heart.