The sky inside the hangar was breaking, and Hazahnahkah had passed out. He had awoken to catch many falling to their deaths. To ringing and to screaming. He was in September 6th’s hand. He had only half succeeded in protecting people from the blast. Screams, smoke, and cinders filled the air. People were burning alive. People were running away. But the fight, people were still fighting.

  “I’m awake!” he shouted. “Where’s Yurreth, Ysan, and Zalaster?!”

  September 6th was too busy trying to stay alive to even reply. The dias and The Methostone were offset, tilted as people grappled against the slick surface of the little floor there was. Hazahnahkah tried to save them with his Third Terror, and he tried to bring them back with his Second—neither worked. Those spheres were still suppressing him. Zalahak wasn’t taking any chances with his Rambles. September 6th spoke leap to leap as she tried to survey the battle, but spumes of smoke and blood filled the chamber. Hazahnahkah could barely even make out what she was saying, even though she was two feet from his blade.

  From what the sword could gather, there were six spheres total, but they weren’t all in sight. Lawahyn’s six wings spread wide, folding and unfolding the air in sharp metallic ripples as they stirred the swathe of ruin. Its drones blinking from one position to another with the soft crack of reality stitching itself shut. Hazahnahkah only saw two, but he knew the others had to be here still. Yurreth would have caused the machine to rust if Zalahak wasn’t preventing her Ramble. Assuming that each sphere sealed a different Ramble, Zalahak was using at least three on Hazahnahkah alone. He shouldn’t have known about his new Ramble: Painter's Palette. This would be useful later, but Hazahnahkah needed sight on Yurreth. He needed to know how many more of Zalahak’s spheres were locked down. The Woman Painted White was surely alive. Her blood ruptured along Zalahak’s wings like lycoris bouquets, peeling off wailing metal and bursting through steaming vents. It was certainly her Ramble, but Hazahnahkah didn’t know how her Rambles worked or how many she had. For all he knew, this was some aftereffect, and she wasn’t even here. In which case, they would need to escape.

  Although nobody seemed intent on escaping. Despite the immense casualties, Hazahnahkah could hear Zalaster commanding orders to her men and women, but wasn’t sure where or why.

  “LEFT FLANK!” Zalaster shouted.

  At this, one of the machine’s wings stuttered. Dark red harpoons from Yurreth’s company fired straight through its scaled plating. The weapons smelled of Yurreht’s blood. Zalahak’s machine body choked up as it combusted, on blood and on water. Ysan was on top of it, dicing its aether engines and artillery apart. One of the hands reached out for her, and September 6th surged into it, knocking it away. Hazahnahkah activated his Third Terror when one of the spheres came up behind them. It wasn’t able to stop him from shifting September 6th’s position in space. Whatever Zalahak was trying to do, Hazahnahkah would protect his wielders. He could at least do that much. It was now clear that the suppression systems of those spheres were more of a defensive or offensive mechanism rather than a tool to prevent people from using Rambles on one another.

  Below them on the dias, Yurreth’s forces—a dwindling, desperate company—strained to keep their footing. Blood, real blood, streaked across the flooring in bright arterial arcs. Yurreth’s company hauled in unison, boots braced against the scorched deck as the thick, crimson-stained chains bit deep into the metal of Lawahyn’s wing. They peeled it free from the smoke that clung to it. The precision and coordination were perfect. Hazahnahkah was amazed by what different people could do when they worked together. Each pull rang out like iron striking iron—a steady, brutal rhythm that cut through the chaos.

  “Mark it!” a squad leader bellowed.

  “Pull on beat!” Zalaster’s voice cracked, sharp as a whip—sharpened by fear.

  They moved together—thump, haul, thump, haul—the sound of chain links grinding and steel screaming under strain. Sparks flared where the links dragged across the deck plating, showering the crew in orange light.

  “Bind!—Pull!!—Bleed!” they roared, the cadence echoing like a war chant.

  With every synchronized heave, the massive wing lurched closer to the deck, the chains snapping taut, groaning under the weight of the mechanical beast. The soldiers’ movements were mechanical now—rhythm, breath, pull, repeat—a human machine fighting to pin down something far greater than themselves. Yurreth’s company moved like a single organism, every soldier drenched in sweat and blood, boots slipping against the trembling deck. Hazahnahkah didn’t notice at first what the chains binding the left wing were made of—not until one of them twitched.

  They were breathing.

  The chains were alive. And… they did not smell only of Yurreth. These are other people Hazahnahkah realized. Other living people. He shuddered at the fact that Yurreth was willing to do this because this wasn’t a numbers game. Who were Yurreth and he to decide who had to suffer to liberate the people of Serpent’s Ramble? For now, Hazahnahkah knew he had to free them—but he couldn’t—not yet. Yurreth’s plan was working.

  “On her mark!” a woman bellowed, guttural like a beast.

  They heaved in unison—thump, yank, thump, yank—the rhythm steady as a war drum. The blood-chains quivered, tightening around Lawahyn’s wing with a wet, visceral groan. The soldiers roared back, timing themselves with each beat:

  “Bind!—Pull!—Bleed!”

  Every chant was half command, half prayer, echoing through the metallic chamber as the wing wrenched lower, dragging sparks and shrieking metal from the dragon’s frame. It was a rhythm born of desperation; a song of muscle, blood, and horror, meant to drag a god from the sky.

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  Zalahak’s massive shape didn’t stop. It was a mechanical leviathan, berserk and barely visible in the quicksand of smog. The thrashing against its own confinement was just enough to make Hazahnahkah fear for the space station’s safety. But he knew Zalahak would never. From Vrast’s memory, the man’s purpose as Harvester of the Ramble was to protect this place; destroying it was an affront to the very reason he was fighting. So then what was he trying to do? The hum of ruptured atmosphere filled the chamber with that low, haunting resonance when steel scrapes against gravity itself. Hazahnahkah felt the vibration crawl through his ribs as Lawahyn’s wings tore at the bindings that held them. One unfurled from the smoke, higher than the rest. There was a glimmer. It came so fast. Hazahnahkah knew he’d meet resistance from two spheres as he activated his Third Terror, but it wasn’t enough. Four spheres came. He couldn’t do anything. He felt squished in September’s 6th hand, helpless and hopeless. The next moment, the entire left side of her body was blown right off. But she twisted in the air at the last moment to keep her swordarm safe. The next moment, a corpse had its side blown right off, and the entire left side of her body was back! She must have used her interlinking Ramble with the soldier earlier when they were alive. To think her Rambles' effects linger even after death! Hazahnahkah thought, amazed. He restored the body to normal, only to watch it slip off the dias and into the golden clouds of Black Garden.

  Hazahnahkah’s heart slipped off with it. For a moment, he thought that with Yurreth, September 6th, and his own Rambles, they would have been able to protect everyone, share damage, and revive or resuscitate all the brave souls who were throwing themselves into the fray with Zalahak. Their abilities weren’t enough. They needed raw power.

  September 6th was not waking up, even though she’d interlinked with so many people. Her mind—she had lost consciousness. Hazahnahkah created an expansively large platform from thin air to stop September 6th from falling to her death… or from Hazahnahkah being removed from the battle. It was clear Zalahak had given up on killing Yurreth—wherever she was—and had turned his attention to Hazahnahkah instead. It would be difficult for the sword to warp back without clear instructions or knowledge of where the space station was located in space. Falling meant forever.

  Hazahnahkah commanded the space between molecules to harden into the hardest form of carbon he could imagine, stabilizing the platform. This wasn’t enough to stop one of the spears from bathing it in fire.

  Another sphere arose below the dias. It reared its ugly, bald steel perfect head, spinning at the top with a murderous looming towards Yurreth’s warband.

  “Ysan!” Hazahnahkah screamed, helpless with four of the spheres upon him. “We need you!”

  Ysan glanced back from atop Zalahak’s shoulders. She lurched with a step forward, then tumbled away from several metal missiles. Zalahak was attacking himself just to kill her. Hazahnahkah couldn’t believe it. The man must have gone mad. What fight was he fighting? It simply made no sense. Was it really that important that the criminals the Angels had decided to seal within Serpent’s Ramble stay? No. This couldn’t have been a rational decision. Zalahak was an emotional man. This was an emotional choice. For some reason, he was committed to doing this for Vrast—for Knife. Hazahnahkah saved his screams. He knew he couldn’t negotiate with this man, who was now little more than a fleshless monster.

  The dragon roared. It was a clanging of soundwaves bouncing soundwaves. Of echoes swallowing echoes and feeding echoes to make new ones. It bruised the brain and made the ears of soldiers bleed. Yurreth’s company held steadfast as Zalaster covered his ears and roared at the men, bravely leading the way with dramatic turns and twists, one of which was to yank the wing. Even without a voice, the young Patriarch was communicating so effectively. The chains pulsed between them—living, screaming sinew that twitched with every pull. Each link, a living, twitching figure of human form contorted beyond reason—soldiers and prisoners alike, strung together by cords of Yurreth’s organs, their bodies hollowed and fused into red-metal sinew. Their faces were slack, eyes rolling white as the poison in their veins kept them barely alive. Hazahnahlah’s stomach dropped. They were beginning to lose consciousness, but in its place, something else was claiming them—Yurreth.

  Then, with a deafening BANG and a terrible screeching of metal against metal, they grounded just one of Zalahak’s six wings. Two of the other spheres clamped down onto Hazahnahkah’s hilt at this. Now all six were on him. He cursed. Just what had he done to deserve this? Zalahak was very cautious of Hazahnahkah. Scared, even. He barely let the blade breathe. Hazahnahkah did the one thing he could as the fire edged closer to September 6th’s body: he activated his First Terror.

  It happened instantaneously, but Hazahnahkah felt suddenly sick. He’d never overtaken someone who was already unconscious. The battle spun. Afterimages were everywhere. Everything spoke through a pillow. Hazahnahkah couldn’t hear.

  Then, Zalahak’s voice broke the harrowing pandemonium.

  “You know what—” he said. “Never mind the Waker Station. I’m taking you all with me.”

  At this, Zalahkah revealed two other dragon arms, breaking through the platform. It destroyed what little was left of the platforms surrounding the dias. He then began smashing Yurreth’s followers, ruining the dias, ruining the space station as his elbows pushed back with a speed surprising for his size. The lucky were squashed. The unfortunate were burned alive. Dalagun stumbled from a conflagration, his skin like a black, cracked paper, the right side structure of his jaw exposed in a burning, bony grimace. His hammer disintegrated as he fell to his knees—then his knees disintegrated—then he was gone. The sword watched in terror as many died as he did.

  Hazahnahkah barely found his footing on the platform he had made before it burst into flame. He activated his Painter's Palette, creating a duplicate of one of the spheres attacking him. He’d fought them just enough to create a copy. He knew the sweet song of their chirps and hums and how the fabric of reality danced to them. Maybe he didn’t understand what made them tick, but he could replicate the “tock” that came after. His blade bled all the paint he had. He used every color he could. He swept with September 6th’s hands in wide, desperate strokes, with everything he could.

  The entire station folded in on itself with the most harrowing echoes of warping metal Hazahnahkah had ever heard. It was a horrific vibration. The song of many deaths. It was the wailing cry of an uncountable number of particles, grinding, splitting, and rebelling against the ocean of themselves. He knew immediately what it signified even before Zalahak smashed into the platform, grave and all, to plunge them spiraling towards Serpent’s Ramble. The Harvester was just that desperate now. It was do or die, and he was going to try to take them with him.

  The space station…

  …. They were falling.