Arc 2: The War of Ashen Crowns The silence was the loudest thing Tristan had ever heard. For weeks, his skull had been a resonating chamber for the Void—a constant, buzzing hive of static electricity, hunger, and alien power. It had been a headache, a companion, and a weapon. Now, waking up in the unfamiliar softness of a feather bed in the Governor’s Mansion of Scrimshaw, there was nothing. Just the sound of the ocean crashing against the hull-city below. Just the cry of gulls. Just the rhythmic, human beating of his own heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. It felt painfully slow. Tristan stared at the ceiling. It was made of reclaimed ship timber, polished to a shine. He raised his hand, inspecting it against the morning light streaming through the porthole. The white veins were gone. The pearlescent sheen that had made him look like a deity of the wasteland had faded, leaving behind skin that was pale, bruised, and covered in small, very human cuts. "You’ve been staring
Last Updated : 2026-02-09 Read more