Location: The Northern Ash Wastes (The Frost-Line).
Time: 14:15.
The silence after the explosion was brief.
Dante stood panting over the shattered skull of the Boreal Thresher. Steam rose from his mechanical arm, the thermal shock of the Uranium discharge having cooked the frost right out of the air.
"Bag it!" Dante ordered, his voice cracking from the strain. "Havoc, get the teeth! Silas, drain the thermal glands! We have five minutes before the scent of blood draws every scavenger in the hemisphere!"
Havoc and his crew scrambled out of the wrecked Psychopomp. They wielded crowbars and saws, hacking at the crystal maw of the beast.
"Boss!" Skid yelled, prying loose a serrated tooth the size of a tombstone. "This thing is worth a fortune in Sector 1! It's solid mana-crystal!"
"Focus!" Dante snapped.
He knelt by the creature's flank, using his dagger to carve out a chunk of the fatty meat. He needed mass. The Chronal Glimpse and the Uranium punch had burned him down to the wire.
Rumble.
The knife slipped.
Dante looked at the ground. The ice wasn't just vibrating; it was churning.
"Silas," Dante said slowly. "Is the car running?"
"Fuel line is patched!" Silas shouted from under the hood, his face smeared with grease. "But the axle is bent! She'll drive, but she won't sprint!"
CRACK. BOOM. CRASH.
The horizon... moved.
A ridge of ice three hundred meters away collapsed. From the white dust, blue shapes emerged. Not one. Not two.
A dozen. Then twenty.
A colony of Boreal Threshers, drawn by the death-scream of their kin, breached the surface like a pod of whales. They were a wall of spinning crystal teeth and armored muscle, churning the snow into a tsunami of death.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Havoc dropped the tooth.
"It's a migration," Valerius whispered, gripping his scrap-metal spear. "We are standing in the middle of a stampede."
"Into the car!" Dante screamed. "Now!"
They scrambled toward the battered hearse. But even as they ran, Dante did the math. The car was damaged. The Threshers were at full speed.
Probability of Survival: 0%.
"Prime," Dante thought. "Any miracles left in the tank?"
"Negative," Prime replied coolly. "Mana reserves depleted. Suggest you write a very fast will."
Dante stopped. He turned to face the oncoming wall of monsters. He raised his mechanical arm. It was empty.
"Well," Dante muttered. "It was a good run."
WHOOSH.
A sound cut through the roar of the Threshers. Not a roar, but a high-pitched whine of turbines.
"Incoming!" Valerius shouted, pointing East.
Three vehicles tore over the ice dune. They weren't tanks. They were Ice-Skiffs—sleek, bladed catamarans carved from black obsidian. They didn't run on gas; their engines glowed with a pulsing, orange geothermal light, venting heat that shimmered in the cold air.
They moved with terrifying speed, carving aggressive arcs in the snow. They didn't slow down. They drove straight at the Threshers.
"Are they suicidal?" Silas shrieked.
The lead skiff swerved, drifting sideways. A figure standing on the hull threw a cluster of black spheres.
POP. POP. POP.
The spheres didn't explode with fire. They exploded with Smoke.
Thick, oily, purple smoke expanded instantly, creating a wall of fog.
The lead Thresher hit the smoke and screamed. It wasn't in pain; it was confused. It thrashed wildly, turning on its own pack, biting its neighbor in a frenzy.
"Pheromone disruptors," Dante realized. "It blinds their thermal sense."
The skiffs drifted past the confused monsters and screeched to a halt in front of Dante's group.
"Get on!" a voice commanded.
The pilot of the lead skiff stood up. She was tall—nearly seven feet—with skin as pale as the snow itself. Her hair was jet black, a stark contrast to the white world, and she wore form-fitting armor made of woven black leather and fur.
But it was her ears that caught Dante's attention. They were long, pointed, and elegant.
Just like Valerius.
"Move, surface-dwellers!" she barked. "Unless you want to be worm-food!"
Dante didn't argue.
"Abandon the car!" Dante ordered. "Grab the gear! Go!"
Havoc, Torch, and Skid threw their crates of explosives onto the skiff's cargo net. Silas grabbed his bio-bag. Valerius vaulted onto the deck with elf-like grace.
Dante jumped last, his coat fluttering.
"Go! Go! Go!"
The pale woman slammed the throttle. The crystal engine screamed. The skiff shot forward, g-force pinning them to the deck.
Behind them, the Boreal Threshers recovered. They surged forward, ignoring the smoke, and slammed into the only target left.
The Psychopomp.
Silas watched from the back of the skiff. He saw the massive jaws of the Alpha Thresher clamp down on the roof of the hearse. The brass armor crumpled. The V-12 engine exploded in a ball of fire as the fuel tank ruptured.
The car—his masterpiece, his home, his stereo system—was torn to shreds in seconds, reduced to scrap metal and memory.
Silas watched it burn. A single tear froze on his cheek.
"My stereo," he whispered brokenly. "I just calibrated the bass."
They rode in silence for an hour, cutting deep into the jagged foothills of the Spine of the World. The wind was brutal, but the black clothes of their rescuers seemed to absorb the scant sunlight, radiating a faint heat.
Dante studied them.
There were six riders total. All tall. All pale. All black-haired. All with the pointed ears.
And they ignored Valerius completely.
Valerius sat near the edge of the skiff, staring at the woman piloting. He touched his own ears self-consciously.
"They look like the progenitors," Valerius whispered to Dante. "The genetic stock Gorm used to create my strand. But... purer."
"They're natives," Dante noted. "Adapting to the cold. The black hair absorbs solar radiation. The height preserves core temperature."
The skiff slowed.
"We are here," the pilot announced.
They drifted through a narrow canyon of black obsidian. The walls rose thousands of feet high, shielding the valley from the wind.
And there, nestled in the crater, was the village.
The Obsidian Enclave.
It was massive. Far too big to be called a village. It was a fortress-city carved directly into the black volcanic rock. Towers of obsidian spiraled up the canyon walls, connected by rope bridges and carved walkways. Geothermal vents provided heat, creating a micro-climate where strange, pale lichen grew in abundance.
But as the skiff docked at the main platform, Dante activated his Prime-Enhanced Perception.
He scanned the crowd gathering to meet them.
Warriors with spears. Artisans carrying baskets. Children peeking from behind crates.
Hundreds of people.
Dante's eyes narrowed.
"Silas," Dante murmured. "Do you notice anything... statistically improbable?"
Silas adjusted his goggles, wiping away the frost. He scanned the crowd. He blinked.
"They're all tall," Silas said. "And pale."
"Look closer."
Silas looked. He saw the faces. Sharp, angular, beautiful.
"Wait," Silas whispered. "Where are the men?"
Dante scanned again.
Target 1: Female.
Target 2: Female.
Target 3: Female.
Target 100: Female.
There were no males. Not in the warrior caste. Not in the worker caste. Not even among the children.
"It's a matriarchy?" Havoc suggested, checking the safety on his rifle.
"No," Dante said, a cold feeling settling in his gut as he looked at the glowing mountain above them. "A matriarchy implies men exist but don't rule. This... this is a monoculture. Or a quarantine."
The skiff docked.
The pilot jumped down. She walked up to Dante, towering over him. Up close, her eyes were a piercing violet—the color of the First Axiom.
"I am Commander Lyra," she said. Her voice was like cracking ice. "You have breached the perimeter of the Onyx Guard. You carry the scent of the Rot and the Garden."
She looked at Valerius with undisguised disgust.
"And you have brought a Male abomination into our home."
Valerius stiffened. "Abomination?"
Lyra drew a black obsidian dagger.
"Surrender your weapons," she commanded. "You will be taken to the Matriarch. She will decide if you are worth the air you breathe, or if you will be recycled into the compost."
Dante looked at the hundreds of spears pointed at them.
He looked at Havoc, who was reaching for a grenade.
"Stand down," Dante ordered.
He raised his mechanical hands.
"We surrender," Dante said, the Silvergrin flashing a diplomatic smile. "Take us to your leader. We have a lot to talk about. Especially about your demographics."