The camp was a skeleton of what it should've been—what it once was. Torn sheets tied to bent poles served as tents, sagging in the island's breeze. Fires smoldered in shallow pits, more smoke than flame, the ash carrying the sour stench of roots half-burned. Supplies lay scattered in crates that didn't match, hauled from ruins, patched with rope. Children clung to their mothers' legs in silence. No one sang. No one prayed aloud. It wasn't a camp so much as a graveyard trying to pretend it wasn't one.
And within it, the humans of Menystria sat with what little remained of them.
A mother screamed into the sky, her voice breaking as she begged for the child and husband who weren't coming back. Her sister wrapped arms around her, rocking her against her chest, whispers drowned by the grief.
Not far away, a man lay half-dead beneath layers of old fabric. Not bandages—there was nothing left to stitch wounds with. Just scraps of cloth, darkening by the minute as his blood seeped through. His son, barely grown, sat at his side with hollow eyes, hands clutched at his knees, despair painted across his face.
An old couple pressed hands together, knuckles white, whispering prayers of a religion long abandoned. Words for a paradise they weren't sure existed, murmured in the hope that death might still have mercy. Their gazes never lifted, not toward the gods that had abandoned them, not toward the sky.
The whole camp cowered in silence, trying to shrink into themselves, to hide from the world above and the one that had burned them below.
Only the sound of crackling fires remained, and the shallow rasp of breath.
Then—footsteps.
From the bridge that cut across to the neighboring islands, a steady rhythm of boots striking stone carried into the quiet. Two figures walked side by side, their voices overlapping in low conversation. James and Noah—shadows of men, yet heavier than anyone else in the camp. All eyes turned as their steps echoed through the silence.
Noah exhaled long and slow, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as James' glare burned into him. Fury. Disgust. Words hissed out like venom.
"What you're doing is insane. What you did with Jasper—stupid. Reckless. You didn't even ask me. Didn't even tell me. That's my son, Noah."
The weight of it hung heavy between them, the sound of their boots crunching on the bridge filling the gap. Noah didn't bristle. Didn't snap back. He just tilted his head, voice low and even.
"You're the one who kicked your own damn son out. Threatened to kill him if he tried to take back the katana. If he still had the original… maybe he could've run. Maybe he could've landed a few hits." His tone tightened. "But you left him with nothing."
The bridge gave way to the island's skin—dirt tinted blue, broken into plates of purple glass that reflected their shapes like ghosts. The camp spread before them, makeshift, trembling, built on ashes of the underground Noah had watched burn. Not even Ariela had survived the flames. All that remained of her now was a fragment of her power, a vestige he clung to like memory.
He spoke again, sharper this time, repeating what James already knew. "I sent him on that mission, yes. But he wasn't meant to fight Evodil. He was supposed to run. He wasn't supposed to face him head-on like some idiot trying to prove something."
James huffed, lips curling, but said nothing back. His gaze swept across the camp instead—the shattered humans, hollow-eyed, desperate, clinging to scraps of life. His expression twisted, not with disgust this time, but something quieter. Anger. Not at them, but at what Evodil had become.
His eyes caught on the largest tent in the center, the one they'd set aside—the one Jasper should be inside, if he'd survived.
He looked higher, into the sky above the floating islands. It should've been snowing. The old Evodil had promised it once—snow between four and six, every flake vanishing without a trace by the hour's end.
But now, nothing. No stars. No sun. No life.
The glowing plants that once bloomed here had withered to husks. The people were dying with them. The city was already dead.
And soon, they would follow. All of them.
Noah coughed into his palm, the sound low, damp. He nudged James' arm as he passed, brushing against him deliberately, and stepped through the curtain without another word.
James stayed where he was. Pride rooted him in place. The humans nearby stared at him as if his very shadow spelled the end of them—death sentence in human shape. Some looked away quickly, others couldn't. He stood there a full minute, their eyes dragging on his back like weights.
Finally, he moved. He ducked through the curtain and let it fall behind him.
Inside, the air was heavy. Humid. It clung to the throat, wet and close, as if water had been left to boil and turned the whole tent into steam. Or maybe it was because of the boy lying on the bed, his body torn and ruined, barely alive—but alive all the same.
Noah's voice cut the silence first. "He won't move for at least a week. Maybe longer. But it'll be enough time. Enough for the last card we can play against Evodil."
James didn't hear a word. His body lurched forward on its own, shoving Noah aside. The smaller man crashed into a wooden cabinet, its frame rattling with glass jars and dull tools as James dropped to his knees beside the bed.
His hands went to Jasper's head, lifting it carefully, clutching it against his chest. His sunglasses slipped free, sliding onto the sheets, forgotten. His breath came hard, ragged—gasping like he had been the one torn apart, like he had lost the arm.
"Forgive me," James whispered, voice cracking into the boy's hair. "Please… forgive me."
The unconscious boy didn't stir. The only sound was James' broken breath, filling the humid air with a weight Noah himself hadn't expected.
For the first time, Noah only watched. Eyebrow raised. Silent. Shocked at the sight of James unraveling.
Noah pushed himself off the cabinet with a grunt, brushing dust from his jacket and tugging the hem of his green polo straight. His eyes slid to James, still hunched over Jasper's head, clutching him like porcelain.
A faint smirk tugged at Noah's lips. For a moment, his mind flashed back to years ago—James, all fire and pride, torching down a whole shop just to catch a girl's glance. And now here he was, the same man, holding his adoptive son as if he were more fragile, more precious, than any law he'd ever sworn to protect.
Clearing his throat, Noah stepped closer. His hand rested gently on James' shoulder, his expression softening into something rare, almost friendly. "Stay as long as you want," he said. "Evodil doesn't seem too keen on finding us again. And from what I've seen… he doesn't care what you're doing."
For a long while, James didn't move, didn't speak. His breaths came deep, sharp, until finally he loosened his grip. Carefully—painfully careful—he lowered Jasper back onto the bed, as though one wrong angle would shatter him.
The stump where the boy's arm had been was sealed in blood, clotted but holding. It wasn't leaking, at least. That was enough. Enough for now. Enough to mean survival.
James' gaze shifted, falling to the side of the bed.
There it was. His katana. Not the imitation Noah had conjured. Not a false blade. The real one. Ruby glinting faintly even in the dim tent light, steel bright as the day it was forged, strong as the war hammer James himself carried.
His jaw tightened. His eyes cut to Noah.
And Noah froze.
His shoulders stiffened, breath caught. Even behind the lenses, James could see his eyes widen. A visible tremor shook through him. He cleared his throat again, the sound dry, hands lifting in a small, almost pathetic gesture of surrender.
"Wait," Noah stammered, voice cracking just slightly. "Just—just give me a minute to explain."
James moved first, one heavy step closing the space. Noah didn't flinch, didn't back away. He let his older brother's hand seize his coat, let himself be hauled upward until his shoes barely skimmed the dirt floor.
James' right hand curled into a fist, the weight of it drawn back, ready to break bone. His voice came low, controlled, but lethal.
"You've got twenty seconds. Explain how the hell you have that katana—now."
Noah sucked in a breath, sharp through his nose. He'd expected this. He even looked almost relieved it had come to blows this quickly. His words poured out in a single rush, faster than his lungs could keep up with.
"When Evodil attacked—I found it—katana was stuck in the cavern floor, impaled through a boulder—I pulled it out, took it with me—I didn't hide it from Jasper—by then he'd already faced Evodil—I didn't do anything to hurt him—because family is still family—"
His voice broke off as he wheezed, air gone from his chest. James' eyes narrowed, his fist holding steady in the air. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose, setting Noah back down.
The younger god sagged, coughing, hands brushing his coat back into place. His glasses slid low on his nose as he doubled over once, drawing breath.
James' tone was flat, cutting. "Again. Slower this time."
Noah nodded quickly, hand raised as if in surrender. "Gladly." He steadied his breath, then began again, each word deliberate, threaded with detail.
"When the underground burned, I went back into the caverns. In the rubble, I saw it—the katana, sunk halfway through a slab of stone. Impaled, like it had been left there on purpose. I pulled it free and carried it out. By then…" His voice softened, glasses catching the light. "…by then Jasper had already fought him. Already failed. I didn't steal it from him. I didn't keep it from him. I found it. After."
His eyes flicked toward the bed where the boy lay, pale beneath the humid air. "…Because despite everything, he's still ours. Family."
James' fist lowered. His jaw clenched. The silence between them thickened, filled only by Jasper's shallow breaths.
Noah's smile flickered as he looked back at James, then he turned away, shoes crunching against the dirt floor as he walked toward another cabinet pressed against the far side of the tent. The thing was cluttered—metal scraps piled high in trays, wires coiled like veins across the surface, jars of fluids that caught dim light in strange, unnatural colors. James' eyes lingered on them, his jaw tightening. He didn't want to know what any of that was doing here. Not this close to his son's bed.
Noah's voice broke the silence, quiet but carrying. "We're finally like a family," he said. "A strange one. Dying. Plotting to kill one of our own. But… family, nonetheless."
James let the words hang for a beat, then answered, his tone low. "We never really grew up. Always old. Always children. Couldn't do both, so we did neither."
That earned a laugh from Noah—short, genuine, like it escaped before he could smother it. He crouched, pulling a suitcase from the cabinet's bottom drawer. The lock on it was no simple clasp but a carved block of dark stone, etched with faint lines that seemed to crawl when you stared too long. A number pad sat embedded in its face, glowing faintly.
Noah gave the lock a single look, then his gaze flicked toward James with a smirk. His fingers moved fast across the pad, too quick for James to catch the numbers. The lock hissed, a rush of air releasing as the seal cracked. The lid lifted with a metallic sigh.
Inside lay an arm.
Not flesh. Not bone. But a machine cobbled from scraps that gleamed like treasure. Plates of gold, silver, and white interlocked seamlessly, their edges still rough, etched with the scars of recycled metal. Wires braided in tight coils ran through it like veins, capped with small glowing nodes that pulsed faint blue. The fingers were long, segmented, almost skeletal, but elegant—each one tipped with reinforced steel strong enough to pierce stone. The wrist ended in a joint designed to clamp onto muscle and bone, flexible enough to mimic life, unyielding enough to hold against war.
It was beautiful and broken all at once.
"A new arm," Noah said softly, almost to himself. "Not stitched from what he lost. Forged from what we have left."
James exhaled through his nose, the sigh long and sharp, holding back a storm of words that would've torn Noah's ears off if he let them loose. His younger brother always did this—always tinkering, always scheming—and now here he was, parading a new arm made of scraps like it was salvation.
But James bit it down. He stayed silent as Noah carried the gleaming thing to Jasper's bedside.
The god of knowledge leaned over, careful hands unwrapping the layers of fabric around the stump. James moved too, settling on the edge of the bed. The frame creaked loud beneath his weight. His jaw clenched at the sound—Noah's eyes flicked up instantly, annoyance flaring across his face.
"Don't destroy the bed," Noah muttered, not even pausing in his work. "This is the only one I could get without trouble."
James raised both hands, palms out, irritation written all over him. He hadn't said a word, hadn't moved to break it, but Noah had read him like an open book all the same.
The stump, when exposed, was ugly but holding. The blood had stopped thanks to a cap Noah fitted over it—metal lined inside with fabric and bound tight with fresh bandages. His fingers glowed faint green as he pressed them to the seal, vestige of bloom crawling through the wrappings to bind everything in place, alive and firm.
Before he lifted the mechanical arm, Noah paused. His chest rose with a deep breath. His eyes slid to James.
"So," he said quietly. "Are you joining us? Or are you leaving again? Letting Evodil finish this world while you sit in your Citadel and watch?"
James didn't answer right away. He reached down instead, plucking his shades from the sheets, slipping them back over his eyes. The silence stretched, thick enough to choke, until finally he spoke.
"You're an idiot," he said flatly. "For a god of knowledge, you're the dumbest of the lot." He adjusted the frames on his nose, voice steady. "I'm already in too deep to walk away."
Noah only smirked in reply, the corners of his mouth twitching upward before he turned back to his work. The air in the tent loosened—still heavy with blood and oil, but not suffocating anymore. With James here, with the God of War no longer looming above them in silence or judgment, the flicker of unity—however fragile—felt real.
James watched in silence as Noah knelt beside the bed again, lifting the gleaming arm with both hands. The thing hummed faintly, gears whispering as he guided it into place.
Tiny metal filaments stretched from the socket, coiling and hissing with sparks before snapping into the grooves of the stump's cap, one by one—tchk, tchk, tchk—until each found its mark. A faint vibration passed through the bedframe when the final connection locked.
Then came the sound—a heavy thunk—as a hard shell extended from the arm's base, sealing flush against the metal cap. Blue light pulsed along the seams, slow and steady, each beat syncing faintly with Jasper's heartbeat.
A single tone echoed through the tent, beep—sharp, mechanical, final. The fingers twitched in stuttered spasms, like nerves waking for the first time, then slowly unfurled, the palm opening wide. Soft steam hissed from between the plates.
Noah sighed, setting one palm on the joint where steel met skin. "Hold still," he murmured, though Jasper was far beyond hearing.
His eyes dimmed, a muted silver glow bleeding from behind the lenses as the vestige of the New Moon sparked to life. The air chilled; faint motes of light circled his hand as tendrils of living metal crept from his fingertips, winding into the seams, fusing plate to cap until not even a hairline gap remained. The glow faded. The arm fell still, connected, breathing faint blue.
Noah rocked back on his heels and rose—too fast. His foot caught against James' leg. He stumbled, nearly tipping forward, but a heavy hand caught him by the shoulder before he hit the ground.
Both exhaled in unison. The bed was quiet now, the new arm motionless, faint trails of smoke curling upward from the seams.
Noah took a slow step away and perched himself on the cabinet where the suitcase still lay open, the cold light inside reflecting in his lenses. His gaze shifted from the machine to his brother.
James sat there, silent, staring down at the boy whose chest still rose and fell, whose new hand twitched once, then stilled.
James drew a deep breath—slow, heavy, trembling through his frame. His shoulders lifted, then sank like stone, his eyes fixed on the metal graft that now replaced the hand he'd once held steady through fear, through training, through the little moments that made them family.
Now it gleamed back at him, cold and silent. Stronger, sharper… but wrong. It was not his son's hand. It was a weapon, born from necessity and grief, forged in a war they hadn't chosen but couldn't run from.
His voice cracked through the quiet.
"When will he wake up?"
Noah looked up, silent.
"When will this end?" James pressed on, the words sharper, breaking on the edges. "Do we even stand a chance while he's like this? What's your plan, Noah—your great idea to crawl out of this alive?"
The god of knowledge didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed low, focused on the faint steam rising from the sealed joint. Then, slowly, he sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His eyes behind the glasses dimmed, thoughtful, resigned.
"There's no sure chance," he said. "Not this time. If you fall, if you lose to Evodil—he'll kill Jasper. And me. And everyone left breathing under this sky."
James' jaw tightened. Noah continued, steady but grim.
"But we can't wait for him to strike first, either. That's not strategy—that's suicide on his terms."
He looked up at James, his face calm, but his voice carried the weight of the grave.
"So we move. We take the fight to him. Straight to the manor. Every rebel we have, every blade, every gun, every hope too stubborn to die. We'll have to tear through Civil Control, force our way through his gates, up the mountain, through the halls, and into the observatory itself."
His tone dropped, low and final.
"If we fail before we reach him—then that's it. Game set, match over. Evodil wins. Humanity dies. And there'll be no naïve talk of better tomorrows."
The tent fell quiet again. The air hung still, heavy with oil and loss. Outside, the faint murmurs of the broken camp carried on, unaware of the two gods making their final wager in silence.
James rose without a word, shoulders rolling back as if he carried the weight of the entire tent. His hand slipped into his suit pocket, drawing out a cigarette already worn soft from being carried too long. At the flap of the tent, he stopped, thumb sparking with a brief glow—heat curling up, charring the tip until smoke began to whisper out.
He drew in slow, the ember brightening as his chest swelled, then let the smoke slide free with a sharp huff.
Noah watched from the cabinet, eyes narrowed behind his lenses. He rose, but only enough to stand by Jasper's bedside. His voice came soft, edged in a question he already knew James wouldn't answer.
"…Why smoke, now?"
James turned his head just enough, a silhouette in the faint light bleeding through the canvas. His stare lingered on Noah for only a second before he took another pull, smoke coiling past his lips as he exhaled hard toward the open camp. No words followed.
Noah let it die there. Instead, his gaze dropped back to the boy. Jasper's chest rose and fell, steady but shallow. Still. Too still. Noah didn't feel guilt—not exactly. Jasper had chosen his fight, chosen to stand against Evodil of all people. But James… James was left to see his son like this, torn and remade, barely alive. That pity clung heavier than any shame.
His thoughts shifted, unbidden, to another memory. Ariela, not as a tree, not eternal and preserved, but broken and bleeding in the meadow where they once stood together. If he'd had to watch her die with nothing to anchor her back, nothing to bind her to him or to Perseus… they might both be worse than what they were now.
He pulled away from the thought, adjusting his glasses as he stepped closer toward James, careful, deliberate. His tone was quieter, measured.
"He should wake in a few days. The healing's taken hold. And the arm—it isn't just steel. Special enzymes woven through the joints. They'll speed what's left of his regeneration. Enough for him to open his eyes, at least."
James' gaze cut back, a flash from behind the dark glass of his shades. He didn't speak—only drew deep again, ember flaring, smoke trailing down past his chin. He was about to say something, the words dragging heavy in his throat—
rustle.
The faintest shift of fabric.
Both men froze, heads turning toward the bed. The sheets had stirred, just enough to whisper against Jasper's motionless frame.
James froze mid-step, the ember glow dimming against the dirt. His cigarette slipped from his fingers, landing in silence at his boots as his head turned sharply toward the bed. His chest swelled once, breath caught in his throat, as Noah's body twisted a heartbeat later, lenses flashing faintly in the light.
The sheets stirred again—louder now. A low, mechanical hum filled the space.
The metal hand lifted first, fingers twitching, servos whining soft beneath the movement. It reached upward, unsteady, then pressed against Jasper's forehead with a faint, scraping sound—cold steel brushing against skin.
Slowly, painfully slow, Jasper sat up. His breath rattled; a cough tore through his chest, wet but clean—no blood, just the rough scrape of life clawing back. He blinked hard, eyes darting across the tent, unfocused at first. The cluttered cabinet. The open suitcase. The strange, heavy smell of oil and ozone.
Then—Noah.
Recognition flickered. Confusion. The man who'd sent him off, who'd let him walk straight into the maw. Yet here he stood. And Jasper… still breathing.
But when his gaze landed on James—everything locked. His real hand clenched in the sheets, knuckles white. Panic shadowed his face. The memories came back fast—the shouting, the threats, the exile. The god who'd cast him out standing now at his bedside could only mean one thing: they'd been found. The rebellion was finished.
James took a slow step forward, palms open at his sides. His voice followed—low, steady, nothing like the wrathful tone that had once banished him.
"Calm down, Jasper."
The boy froze, eyes wide, heart hammering. That voice—it wasn't the same. It wasn't the man who'd called him traitor. It was the one who'd taught him how to swing his blade, who'd stood between him and the fire when he was still a boy.
He sucked in a shaky breath, then exhaled, shoulders easing just a fraction.
James came closer. Noah, too, stepping in beside him. Together they loomed over the bed, shadows long in the dim light.
Noah was the first to break the quiet, his hand resting gently on Jasper's shoulder.
"Congratulations," he said with a faint smirk, "on not dying."
Jasper huffed out a broken sound—half-laugh, half-cough—as he wiped his mouth with the back of his still-human hand.
"Yeah," he rasped, voice raw but alive. "Thanks… for not leaving me in that ruined shithole."
Jasper's breathing steadied, though his chest still rose with effort. Then—he blinked, his brow creasing. Something felt wrong. Off. A weight at his side that didn't belong.
His gaze dropped.
For a heartbeat, hope flickered—his arm was there. But the color was wrong, the texture alien. The light that ran faint beneath its seams wasn't blood. It pulsed blue, mechanical. Cold.
Reality sank in slow. The arm wasn't his. Flesh was gone. Torn away and replaced with something forged, foreign. The weight he felt wasn't the metal—it was the loss. The piece of himself left behind on that blood-soaked stone.
Yet… he didn't crumble. Didn't break.
His expression shifted—not grief, but awe. The fingers twitched, joints clicking softly as he raised the limb, testing the weight. He flexed once, twice—then turned it over, watching the light crawl along the knuckles.
"...Huh," he muttered. "Guess it works."
He rotated the wrist, the movements awkward, clumsy—nearly backhanding Noah square across the face. The god of knowledge jerked aside just in time, the wind from the swing ruffling his hair.
"Careful!" Noah barked. "It's new!"
Jasper snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward for the first time since the fight.
James sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose as the boy's mechanical hand swung again, this time knocking over the small clock on the bedside stand. Glass shattered, gears scattering across the dirt.
Still, James said nothing. The boy had been torn apart and put back together; if this was the price of a moment's peace, he'd let him have it. For now.
He drew a breath, clearing his throat. Jasper turned toward him, the arm lowering to his lap, still humming faintly.
James' voice came low, rough, but steady. "I was wrong," he said. "For what I did. For casting you out. For taking your blade."
He gestured toward the stand—the katana lay there, gleaming faintly in the dim tent light, its edge resting against the wooden frame now chipped from Jasper's earlier enthusiasm.
The boy's eyes widened. Slowly, a smirk broke through the exhaustion. His gaze flicked between the weapon and his father, something warm, wordless passing in the space between them.
"Thanks," he said simply. His real hand rose, resting against the metal one in a soft clink of skin to steel.
He looked from James to Noah, his grin sharpening with quiet resolve. "Next time we see him… Evodil won't walk away so easy."