The Ashen Market had once been a symphony of chaos—a sprawling bazaar where Dregs scavengers haggled over Oblivion shards and Spire elites slummed in silk masks, their laughter dripping with condescension. Now, it was a graveyard of charred timber and twisted metal, its skeletal stalls draped in layers of gray ash that fell like snow from the smog-choked sky. The Inquisition's firebombs had reduced it to a tomb, but tombs, as Kael knew, were never truly empty.
They approached at dusk, the Eclipse Belt's fractured light staining the ruins in hues of rust and bruise-purple. Talis led the way, their massive frame cutting through the ash-fog like a ship through dead water. Gutter prowled at their heels, her crystalline fur dulled to the color of charcoal, her muzzle low as she sniffed for threats. Behind them, Mira adjusted her shard-eye monocle, its green beam slicing through the gloom to map the safest path. Ryn lingered at the rear, his hands stuffed in his pockets, humming a tavern tune that died in his throat as they passed the first corpse—a scavenger half-buried under a collapsed awning, their fingers still clawing at a long-empty ration tin.
"Cheery place," Ryn muttered, kicking a charred doll head out of his path. "Like the Dregs, but with better interior decorating."
Kael said nothing. His corrupted arm throbbed beneath its wrappings, the black veins branching toward his throat like cracks in a dam. He'd stopped counting the days until the Bond's deadline. Numbers were a luxury for those who believed they'd live to see them.
The group split to cover ground, their footsteps silent in the ash. Talis vanished into the wreckage of a storage unit, their gauntleted hands prying open warped metal doors with a screech that set Gutter's fur bristling. Inside, they found crates of mold-riddled rations, their labels bleached by fire, and a cracked Oblivion battery still leaking faint traces of corrupted energy. Talis hefted the battery onto their shoulder, their face unreadable beneath their helmet.
Ryn drifted toward a blacksmith's stall, its anvil overturned and its tools scattered like bones. He sifted through the debris, pocketing lockpicks and a vial of liquid fire that sloshed like molten gold. "For those special guests," he said to no one, grinning at the way the fluid caught the dim light. A half-melted locket lay buried in the ash—a woman's face etched into the metal, her features blurred by heat. He hesitated, then slipped it into his coat.
Kael and Gutter found a medic's tent near the market's heart, its canvas roof collapsed under the weight of a fallen support beam. Inside, the air reeked of antiseptic and burnt flesh. Shelves lined with desiccated herbs and cracked vials of synth-blood lined the walls, and a rusted autosurgeon sat in the corner, its IV lines dangling like dead vines. Kael jammed the machine's needle into his corrupted arm, gritting his teeth as it pumped him with milky sedative. The numbness spread slowly, a cold tide washing over the rot.
"Buying time," he muttered to Gutter, though the dog's stare felt accusatory. She nosed his hand, her warmth a fleeting comfort.
Mira crouched beside a corpse near the market's center, its fingers still curled around a data pad. The screen flickered to life under her touch, casting a sickly blue glow over Project Phoenix files—blueprints of false flags, casualty estimates, orders to collapse the Forge district next. "They're erasing their own city," she whispered, her breath fogging the cracked glass. A hologram of the Spire's council flickered above the pad, their faces serene as they discussed "containment protocols." She pocketed the device, her jaw tight.
In a hollow beneath a butcher's stall, Ryn uncovered a mud-caked doll—one eye missing, its yarn hair matted with ash. He froze, the lockpick in his hand slipping to the ground. The doll's remaining eye stared up at him, glassy and unblinking, its porcelain face cracked into a lopsided smile.
Talis materialized beside him, their shadow swallowing the hollow's dim light. They signed slowly, their hands carving shapes in the ash-heavy air: Yours?
Ryn's throat tightened. "Liss's. She won it at the Summer Pyre games." His thumb brushed the doll's face, leaving a smudge of soot. "Inquisition torched her hab-block the next day. Guess it followed me here."
Kael leaned against a charred post nearby, his arms crossed. "Sentiment's a liability."
"Says the guy hoarding Jarek's old smoke grenade."
A beat passed. Talis knelt, their gauntlets creaking as they plucked the doll from Ryn's hands and tucked it into their pack. Ryn opened his mouth, then closed it, his usual sarcasm buried under the weight of memory.
They retreated at dusk, their packs heavy with scavenged supplies, but the market's silence shattered as a low, resonant hum vibrated through the ash. The ground liquefied beneath their feet, the ash swirling into quicksand as a Progenitor emerged from the ruins—a former market enforcer, its torso split into a geode maw that pulsed with corrupted light. Its song was a physical force, the melody vibrating in their teeth, their bones, their veins.
"Ears!" Ryn shoved Mira into the skeletal remains of a stall as the sound erupted. Kael's venom surged, forming a crude shield that dissolved under the sonic assault. Gutter lunged, her crystalline body refracting the sound waves, buying Talis seconds to heave a stall door at the creature. The impact staggered it, and Mira lunged, jamming a vial of liquid fire into its geode core.
The explosion blinded them, heat searing their faces as the Progenitor's scream echoed into a guttural roar. It collapsed, its geode fracturing into shards that peppered the ash like shrapnel. The market fell silent again, save for the hiss of cooling debris and Ryn's ragged coughs.
"Anyone else want to live in a nice, quiet grave?" he rasped, wiping ash from his eyes.
They sheltered that night in a drainage tunnel on the market's outskirts, its rusted walls slick with condensation. Talis sealed the entrance with a scavenged metal sheet, while Mira adjusted Kael's IV, her voice clinical. "The sedative's failing. The rot will reach your heart in weeks."
Kael stared at the doll in Talis's hands, its single eye gleaming in the dim light. "Enough time."
Ryn tossed him the vial of liquid fire. "For Jarek?"
"For closure."
Gutter pressed her muzzle to Kael's palm, her warmth a fleeting comfort. Above them, the smog parted just enough to reveal the Chain—the celestial anchor etched into the sky, its links glowing faintly with the names of the dead. Talis signed a question, their hands slow, deliberate: What now?
Mira activated the stolen data pad, its hologram painting the tunnel in cold blue. "The Forge. They'll collapse it next. Thousands will die."
Ryn leaned against the wall, his humor a brittle mask. "So we play heroes? Real original, Ghostie."
Kael flexed his corrupted hand, the veins pulsing black. "We survive. That's all."
Hours later, the others slept—Talis slumped against the wall, their breaths rattling through their helmet; Mira curled around the data pad, her brow furrowed even in rest; Ryn sprawled on the floor, one arm thrown over his face. Kael sat awake, Gutter's head heavy on his lap, and stared at the vial of liquid fire.
Jarek's face flickered in the dark—a smirk, a smoke grenade, a betrayal. "Better one of us alive than both dead, eh?"
The doll watched from Talis's pack, its eye reflecting the Chain's faint glow. Somewhere, the city groaned. Somewhere, the Inquisition laughed.
And the salt in their veins kept them moving.