The grand hall they were led to was less a dining room and more a mausoleum with a table. Faded murals of orchestras and dancing crowds adorned the walls, their vibrant colors bleached by time into ghostly pastels. The figures seemed to watch them, their painted eyes holding a sorrow that the silence amplified. A long table, carved from a single, massive piece of petrified wood, dominated the space. It was set with simple, sturdy pottery that looked as old as the ruins themselves. The air, though still, carried the faint, sweet-and-decay scent of the black night-blooming flowers that pressed against the broken stained-glass windows.
Vesta was a live wire of excitement, her rainbow hair a shocking burst of color in the sepulchral gloom. She practically vibrated in her seat next to Uta, her words tumbling out in an unstoppable torrent.
"—and then after I mastered the basic chord progressions of 'New Genesis,' I started diving into the real classics, you know? The foundational stuff! Like, have you ever listened to Siren-a's work with The Tejano Tempo? The way she blends traditional rhythm with those soaring vocals? Or Jorn 'Imagine' Leghorn's early protest ballads? And 'Jangle' Jin-Jin's use of the twelve-string? Pure genius! Don't even get me started on Bé-Oncé Divalore's stage presence, or the raw energy of The Bug-Beat Pirates! And the legends! Jimi Henden, Captain Soul Cooke, Sole King! Their music is just… it's everything!"
Uta listened, a genuine, warm smile gracing her features, a stark contrast to the melancholy surroundings. "Yeah, I know them," she said, her voice soft but clear. "I've recorded covers of their music. We can play some later if you like."
Vesta's jaw dropped. Her eyes welled up with shimmering tears of pure joy. "Would you…?" she breathed, clutching Mikasi to her chest. The guitar gave a soft, sympathetic hum. "To think… I'll get to listen and play music with the Diva herself…"
The moment was broken as Eliane and Gordon emerged from a side archway carrying platters. Eliane moved with a purposeful, cheerful energy, her petite frame handling the heavy tray with practiced ease. Gordon followed, his movements stiff, his eyes darting nervously around the table.
"Lunch is served!" Eliane announced brightly, placing a steaming pot of stew in the center. It was a simple but fragrant meal of root vegetables and herbs, a testament to survival in this barren place. As bowls were passed, Jannali, who had been unusually quiet, rubbed her temples with a grimace.
Gordon, settling into his chair at the head of the table, noticed. "Is everything okay?" he asked, his voice a low, rumbling note in the quiet hall.
Jannali waved a hand dismissively, her accent strained. "Yeah, nah, it's just a ripper of a headache. This place… the song's all static and feedback. It's givin' me the proper howling fantods."
Before Gordon could formulate a response, Marya spoke. Her voice was calm, but it cut through the air like her sword's edge. Her golden eyes, so like her father's, were fixed on Gordon. "Where are all the people?" she asked, gesturing vaguely to the empty city beyond the walls. "Why is this place a ghost town?"
Gordon chuckled, a dry, nervous sound that seemed to stick in his throat. He sat down, folding his large hands on the table. "There was… an incident. Several years ago. Uta and I are the sole survivors."
Marya's gaze didn't waver. She took a slow sip of water, her stare unwavering. "And Uncle Shanks?" she asked, her tone deceptively casual. "You never thought to have him come get you?"
Across the table, Uta's hands, which had been resting in her lap, balled into tight fists. The knuckles turned white. She forced them to relax, laying them flat on the table, and offered a smile so strained it looked painful. "Shanks," she said, the name sharp on her tongue, "won't come here."
Marya's brow furrowed slightly. It was Galit, his emerald eyes analytically scanning Gordon's face, who asked the logical next question. "One of the Emperors of the Sea… won't come to a deserted island?" His tone was flat, disbelieving. "That seems… strategically illogical."
Gordon's head swiveled between Uta and her inquisitors like a spectator at a tense match. He stammered, "I-I have been assisting Uta with her music. Here, she has been able to focus on her talent, away from… distractions."
Marya narrowed her eyes, leaning forward just enough to make her presence loom larger. Her voice took on a new, sharper tone, one of quiet accusation. "She has been here. Alone. With you and no one else?"
Gordon nodded, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. "Uta is my most talented protégé."
Marya's reply was instant and cold. "That's not saying much, since the island is destitute."
Gordon floundered, "Well, I—"
Marya turned her full attention to Uta, her expression softening by a fraction, a rare show of directness. "Come with us."
The table rattled as Vesta slammed her fists down, leaping to her feet. "That is a great idea! YES! You should come with us!" she cried, her rainbow hair bouncing. "Then, we can play all over the Blue Sea! We'll be legendary!"
Gordon's jaw dropped open, any pretense of composure vanishing. "But… ah… her training…"
Uta simply blinked, her wide violet eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The sheer, unexpected offer seemed to have stolen her breath. The hope in her face was so raw and vulnerable it was almost painful to witness.
The screech of a chair leg against the stone floor shattered the moment. Jannali stood up, one hand pressed to her forehead. "Right, I'm gonna head back to the sub and lay down," she announced, her voice tight. "My head is absolutely killing me."
Eliane was on her feet in an instant, her instincts overriding everything else. "Oh no, Jannali! I'll go with you." She rushed to the older woman's side, taking her hand.
"I will escort you back," Galit said, rising smoothly. His long neck was held in a tense curve as his sharp eyes gave Gordon one final, suspicious glance before leading the two women out of the hall.
Marya turned back to Uta, her gaze intense. "What do you say?"
Uta sniffled, rubbing her nose and face with the back of her gloved hand. She took a shaky breath, trying to force herself into a state of composure that was clearly crumbling. "I… I appreciate the offer, but," her voice hitched, "I can't."
Vesta whined, "Oh, but why?"
Marya's voice was low, pushing gently against Uta's resolve. "Uta… there is nothing here for you."
Something in Uta snapped. She jerked to her feet, her chair scraping violently against the floor. "I just CAN'T!" she yelled, the sound raw and desperate, echoing through the vast, empty hall. Without another word, she turned and fled, her footsteps a frantic staccato that faded into the oppressive silence.
Marya watched her go, her jaw flexing, a muscle twitching in her cheek. For a moment, the only sound was Jelly, who had remained blissfully unaware of the tension, happily slurping up the leftover stew from everyone's bowls with a contented, "Bloop!"
Gordon let out a heavy, weary sigh. "I do apologize for her…" he began, but Marya cut him off with a death glare that could have sliced through flesh.
She stood from her seat, the movement fluid and deliberate. She walked around the table, each step of her combat boots a definitive thud, until she was looming over the seated king. Gordon had to crane his neck to look up at her, his brow now glistening with a fine sheen of panic-sweat.
"Who are you?" Marya asked, her voice dropping to a menacing, threatening whisper that promised dire consequences.
Gordon swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I… I am King Gordon of Elegia."
Marya closed the final gap between them, leaning in so close he could likely see the golden rings in her irises. "You don't actually think I am naive enough to believe that, do you?"
From the other side of the table, Atlas let out a low chuckle as he chewed on a piece of bread, his predator's smile full of sharp teeth. Vesta looked between them, confused. "Who else would he be?"
Without another word, Marya straightened up. Her expression was a cold, final warning. She turned on her heel and strode purposefully towards the door.
"Hey!" Vesta called out, scrambling to grab Mikasi. "Where are you going? Are you going after Uta? I'm coming too!" She dashed after Marya.
Atlas stood, licking the last of the stew from his fingers. "Come on, Jelly ball," he rumbled. Jelly gave a final, happy bounce and wobbled after them, leaving King Gordon alone at the massive table. He sat in the profound silence, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated panic, watching as the storm that was Dracule Marya Zaleska went in search of its eye.
*****
The passage they had slipped into, leaving the raucous energy of the market behind, was not so much a tunnel as a throat. The walls, floor, and ceiling were a seamless, fused mass of crystalline structures that glittered with a captured, internal light. This was the Whispering Galleries. The air was cooler here, carrying a dusty, mineral scent, like the inside of a geode. And it lived up to its name. The constant psychic static of Styx was concentrated here, focused by the crystalline formations into a murmuring chorus. It wasn't just a hum in the mind; it was a tapestry of half-heard words, fragmented conversations, and emotional echoes that brushed against the soul like cobwebs.
Emily led the way, her steps growing slower, more hesitant. The silvery lines on her temples seemed to glow faintly against her paling skin. A fine sheen of sweat made her brow glisten in the eerie light. She stumbled, her hand shooting out to brace against the smooth, cool surface of the wall. The moment her skin made contact, she flinched, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as if she'd touched a hot stove.
Souta was immediately at her side, his hand firm on her elbow. "Don't push yourself," he said, his voice low, its usual critical tone softened by genuine concern.
Emily shook her head, her white hair swaying. "I can feel it," she whispered, her voice strained. She brought her other hand to her temple, pressing her fingers there as if trying to hold her skull together. "The resonance is louder here. It's… it's pain. It's as if the moon itself is in agony." Her storm-grey eyes were wide, reflecting the glittering anguish of the walls.
"Maybe we should go back," Souta urged, his gaze flickering from her pained expression to the seemingly endless, whispering corridor ahead. The logical part of his mind screamed that this was a hostile environment, an unquantifiable risk.
"No," Emily insisted, her voice gaining a sliver of strength from her conviction. "It's trying to say something. To convey a message. I have to…" She trailed off, swallowing hard.
Souta studied her face—the determination warring with the physical toll. He saw the archivist, the empath, the woman who believed understanding was the highest form of protection. With a resigned sigh that was unlike his usual calculated responses, he nodded. "Okay. But be sure to take breaks. We proceed on your terms, not its." It was a compromise, a way to impose a fragile order on the overwhelming chaos of feeling.
Meanwhile, on the surface, the world was a brutalist contrast to the organic caverns below. The Aegis Spire was a jagged spear of dura-steel and ceramic composite thrust up from the icy rock, its angular lines a deliberate insult to the shifting aurora that swirled around it. The air was bitingly cold, scoured clean by artificial atmosphere processors, but it couldn't erase the electric tang that was Styx's birthright. The ground, a mix of permafrost and crushed rock, crunched underfoot.
Ember moved like a scrap of colorful fabric caught in a gale, her neon-pink space buns a blazing beacon against the monochrome landscape. She wasn't running in a straight line, but in a skipping, zig-zagging pattern, her tattered Lolita dress flapping around her. A nonsensical, off-key song spilled from her lips, a twisted nursery rhyme set to a frantic tempo. "Fast as fast can be, you can't catch me! The cake is baked for all to see!"
Kuro, his charcoal-gray suit and trench coat making him a swift, dark shadow, cursed again, the words ripped away by the wind. He recognized the stark CUA emblems mounted on the Spire's outer barricades. This was the heart of the enemy's presence on the moon. Every logical fiber of his being told him to retreat, to regroup, to plan. But Ember was a live wire, and her chaos was now the variable that overrode all his schemes.
He poured on a burst of speed, his leather gloves creaking as his fists clenched, attempting to close the gap before she crossed the point of no return.
She skipped right through it.
Two CUA soldiers in bulky, insulated armor, their helmets making them look like featureless insects, stepped from their posts, raising their powered-down pulse rifles. "Halt! Identify yourself! This is a restricted zone!" one of them barked, his voice distorted by his helmet's speaker.
Ember didn't even break her skip. She tilted her head, her mismatched eyes wide with a mock-innocence that was more terrifying than any snarl. "I'm just here to play!" she chirped, her voice carrying that manic, singsong edge. "Do you want to play a game? It's called 'What Blows Up Next!'"
The soldiers exchanged a glance, their training clearly not having covered this particular scenario. That moment of hesitation was all the invitation Ember needed. With a final, gleeful cackle that was swallowed by the vast, empty landscape, she darted past them, heading straight for the Spire's heavily fortified main entrance.
Kuro watched, his jaw a hard line, as the carefully drawn lines of his strategy were not just dissolved, but set on fire and danced upon by a laughing pyromaniac. The game had just changed, and he was no longer the player holding the cards. He was chasing them as they scattered in the wind.
The docking bay echoed with the final, satisfying thunk of a replaced hull plate. Bianca wiped a greasy forearm across her brow, leaving a smudge that perfectly matched the streaks on her overalls. She watched as the last of Nash's repair crews packed their tools, the Mule now looking markedly less like a derelict and more like a ship that might actually survive another jump. The air was thick with the smells of fresh weld-seams, hot metal, and the faint, ever-present psychic dust of Styx.
The relative peace was shattered by the whining hum of anti-grav units and the sound of a heated debate approaching at speed.
"—because if you'd just set the inertial dampeners to a seven-point-three oscillation instead of a rigid five, we could have fit the entire load in one trip!" Tony Nutter's voice carried over the mechanical din. He was walking backwards, gesticulating wildly at a stack of four massive hover-crates that floated behind him.
Peter, guiding the crates with a remote control, looked as if he were herding particularly disobedient metal cattle. His face was a mask of long-suffering exasperation. "A seven-point-three oscillation would have shaken the primary stabilizer right off its housing, you absolute philistine! I've told you, you can't just ignore the harmonic resonance of duralloy under load!"
"Harmonic resonance? Harmonic resonance?! Pete, we're hauling boxes, not performing a symphony! This is why 'Prestige Galactic' will leave you in the dust! You're thinking like a mechanic, not a visionary!"
"I'm thinking like someone who doesn't want to be scattered across the asteroid belt as a fine paste!"
They breezed past Aurélie, Bianca, and Charlie as if they were part of the scenery. With a series of grunts and more bickering over the optimal angle of approach, they maneuvered the bulky crates up the Sea Serpent's ramp and into the cargo hold. The sound of heavy things being secured with a great deal of clattering and muttered insults echoed from within.
A moment later, Tony popped his head back out, his hair a mess from running his hands through it. "Alright! The precious cargo is securely stowed for its journey to… well, wherever! So, where's the rest of your merry band? We're on a tight schedule here! The CUA waits for no one!"
Bianca, halfway inside an open access panel, didn't look up. "They went for supplies," she mumbled, her voice slightly muffled as she tightened a connection. "Like, the edible kind. And other stuff."
Aurélie was perched on a crate of spare parts, her notebook open on her knee. The end of her stylus was between her teeth, her brow furrowed in concentration as she stared at a line of verse, completely unmoved by the brothers' arrival.
Peter emerged, dusting off his impeccably clean flight suit as if the very act of loading cargo had contaminated him. "They what?" he asked, his voice tight. "We have a departure window. A schedule. It's a beautiful, beautiful schedule, and we are currently bleeding margin!"
Charlie, who had been observing the brothers with the academic fascination of an ethnographer studying a bizarre tribal ritual, cleared his throat. "Ahem. My associates are correct. The procurement of supplementary provisions was deemed a necessary, if poorly timed, expedition."
Tony's eyes widened in theatrical horror. He threw his hands up. "Poorly timed? It's a catastrophe! This throws the whole cosmic ballet out of whack! The gravitational slingshot around Jörmungandr's seventh moon, the silent-running passage through the Indrexu Spiral—it's all timed to the second! We can't just 'wait for soon'!"
"Soon is not a unit of time, it's an admission of failure!" Peter chimed in, his knuckles white on the remote control.
Aurélie, without lifting her gaze from her poetry, spoke, her voice cool and flat. "They will return soon. Do not concern yourselves." She made a tiny notation in the margin of her book.
This only fueled the brothers' frenzy.
"Do not concern ourselves?" Tony repeated, his voice scaling octaves. "Pete, she says 'do not concern ourselves'! Our beautiful, beautiful schedule!"
"I'm concerning myself, Tony!" Peter shot back, pivoting to face his brother. "I'm concerning myself very much! This is a level of concern that will require paperwork! Incident reports! Explanations to Nash Weiner about why we're sitting ducks in a CUA dock with a hold full of… of…" He gestured wildly at the ship.
"Of dreams, Pete! Of potential!" Tony countered, grabbing Peter by the shoulders. "Can't you feel it? The adventure?"
"I feel a migraine! And my rhythm is off!" Peter shook him off, beginning to pace in a tight, agitated circle, his boots tapping a staccato rhythm on the deck plating. "You've disrupted my flow! My pre-flight checklist is in shambles! I had a system!"
"Your system is a straitjacket for the soul! We need to be fluid! Like water! Like solar wind!"
"I'll show you solar wind when I vent you out an airlock!"
As the brothers descended into a full-blown argument over the philosophical implications of punctuality, Bianca finally slid out of the access panel and slammed it shut with a satisfying clang. She ignored the squabbling duo, instead giving a thumbs-up to Aurélie. "Primary power coupling is, like, green across the board. We're good to go."
Aurélie gave a single, slight nod, her eyes still on her verse, a small island of calm in the storm of brotherly melodrama. The ship was ready. Now, they just had to wait for the rest of their crew to return from a moon that seemed hell-bent on swallowing people whole.
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