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Meanwhile…
Enoch stood before the collapsed barrier, his golden mask catching the faint luminescence of the iceburst stones behind them. The knights had gathered at his back, their coughing fits gradually subsiding as the gas masks did their work. Two of them supported a third, a young knight whose face had gone grey beneath his mask, his breath a wet, rattling thing that spoke of damaged lungs.
"The exit is blocked," one of the older knights stated, his voice flat. Professional. "We'll need to dig. Hours, maybe. The gas is still venting, we can't remove masks long enough to—"
Enoch raised a hand. Silence fell.
He drew his laser gun. Without warning, he fired at the stone.
The blast was bright, concussive. Chips of rock exploded outward, and for a moment, the obstruction seemed to shrink. But then, from above, a shower of smaller stones rained down, and a crack appeared in the rocky ceiling's top, and more dust; thick, choking, mineral-laced dust; billowed into the tunnel.
The knights stumbled back, coughing, hands flying to their masks. The young knight with the grey face collapsed, his body convulsing as his lungs fought for air that wasn't there.
Enoch watched this calmly, his expression hidden behind the mask. When the dust and coughing subsided, he spoke.
"The iceburst concentration in this section is critical," he said, his voice betraying nothing. "Any further attempts to blast through will destabilize the entire tunnel. We would be buried alive."
The knights exchanged glances. Fear flickered in their eyes, quickly suppressed.
One of them; a veteran with scars crossing his visible jaw; stepped forward. "Sir, perhaps we should abort the mission. Return through the mines, regroup, find another—"
"No."
The word was simple, absolute. Enoch turned to face them fully, and even through the mask, they could feel the weight of his gaze.
"We have come too far. The boy is out there. The creature is with him. The opportunity to study them, to understand them, to potentially acquire them, that opportunity will not wait."
"Sir, with respect, we have a man down." The veteran gestured to the grey-faced knight, who was now being lowered to the ground by his companions, his breath a shallow, agonized wheeze. "The gas exposure may have—"
"Permanent damage," Enoch interrupted. "I am aware." He stepped closer to the fallen knight, studying him with clinical detachment. "His lungs are compromised. The iceburst particles have embedded in the tissue. There is no cure. No treatment. He will die within the hour, in considerable pain."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence. The young knight's eyes, visible through his mask, went wide with terror.
"No," he gasped, reaching for Enoch's boot. "Please—help me—I can still—"
Enoch stepped back, out of reach. He looked at the other knights, at their stricken faces, their conflicting emotions. Then he bent down, his movements precise and unhurried, and removed something from the fallen knight's wrist.
A small device. The activator for the armor.
"No," the knight whispered, understanding dawning. "Please—my armor—I need—"
Enoch pressed the button. With a soft hiss of releasing catches, the armor plates on the knight's chest and arms detached, falling away. Enoch gathered them, stacking them neatly beside the fallen man. Then he reached for the knight's belt, removing his laser gun, his spare ammunition, his rations.
"These resources are too valuable to waste," Enoch said, not to the dying man, but to the others. "He will have no further use for them. We will."
The knights stared, horrified. One of the younger ones, another woman with wide eyes and trembling hands, stepped forward.
"Sir—we can't just—he's one of us! We should at least—take him back, get him to a healer, something!"
"There is no healer for this," Enoch repeated, his voice patient, almost kind. "The damage is irreversible. His death is certain. The only question is whether we compound that loss by wasting time, resources, and possibly more lives in a futile attempt to postpone the inevitable."
Then he pulled out his blaster and shot the man square in the chest, making the knight slump dead, a visible hole on his chest. Everyone was shocked.
"SIR ENOCH! WHY DID YOU-?!"
"We will advance. Those who cannot keep up will be left behind. That is the nature of this mission. That is the cost of serving the divine order." Was al Enoch said as he stood, tucking the fallen knight's equipment into his own pack along with his blaster.
He turned and walked back toward the collapsed exit, studying the stone with renewed focus.
The knights stood frozen, torn between duty and horror. The veteran, after a long moment, moved to the fallen knight's side. He knelt, meeting the corpse of the fallen knight.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. Then he stood and followed Enoch.
One by one, the others followed, their faces set in masks of grim acceptance. Only Anya remained, staring at the knight on the ground.
She had seen death before. She had dealt death before. But this, this cold calculation, this casual discarding of a brother's life…it was something else entirely.
Vance, returning from the bushes. Different. Calmer. Steadier. Not the jittery, terrified boy she'd traveled with for days.
She'd noticed. She'd said something. "You seem... different. Calmer."
And he'd shrugged it off. "Figured panicking won't help. We're in this now. Might as well see it through."
She'd accepted it. She'd let it go.
Fool.
Fool, fool, fool.
If she'd pushed harder. If she'd trusted her instincts. If she'd—
But she hadn't. And now Vance was gone, replaced by an enemy who had walked among them, who had heard their plans, who had led them into this trap.
And this knight; this now deceased man; was paying the price.
Anya's hands clenched into fists. Her jaw tightened. A cold, hard knot formed in her chest, pushing out the fear, the doubt, the horror.
'That imposter' she thought. 'That old man in Vance's skin. He did this. He's responsible.'
'And he will pay.'
She turned away from the dead knight, unable to look anymore. She walked to where Enoch stood, studying the collapsed exit.
"Sir." Her voice was steady now, the tremor gone. "What do you need?"
Enoch glanced at her, something flickering behind the mask. Approval, perhaps. Or simply recognition of a useful tool.
"Your weapon," he said. "And the weapons of every knight here. Give them to me."
The order was strange, but Anya didn't hesitate. She drew her laser gun, handed it over. The other knights, seeing her compliance, did the same. Soon Enoch stood with a dozen weapons cradled in his arms.
He placed them on the ground before him. Then he knelt, placing his hands on the collection, and closed his eyes.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then his eyes snapped open.
They were glowing. A deep, luminous yellow, shot through with intricate patterns that shifted and flowed like living circuitry. The glow spread from his eyes, down his face, along his arms, until his hands too were bathed in that strange, mechanical light.
The weapons began to move.
They shifted, reshaped, flowed into each other like molten metal. Barrels merged, stocks fused, power cells combined. In seconds, the pile of individual weapons had transformed into something new; a single, massive laser cannon, its barrel as thick as a man's arm, its body humming with barely contained energy.
Enoch picked it up. The weapon was heavy, requiring both arms to hold, but he handled it with the ease of long practice.
"Stand back," he ordered.
The knights scrambled away from the exit, pressing themselves against the tunnel walls. Enoch aimed the cannon at the blocked passage, at the tons of stone that stood between them and their mission.
He fired.
The blast was not like the earlier shots. It was a column of pure, focused energy, white-hot and impossibly bright, that struck the stone and simply... erased it. Rock didn't shatter; it sublimated, turning to vapor in an instant. The beam punched through the obstruction, through the rubble beyond and through everything in its path.
When it finally ceased, the tunnel exit was open. A smooth, glass-lined passage led directly to the outside air, the ravine visible beyond, the sky a strip of deepening blue.
Enoch lowered the cannon. He touched it, and the glow from his hands spread once more, reshaping the weapon back into its component parts. He handed each knight their original weapon, their faces a mixture of awe and unease.
"The divine order provides," he said mildly. "Mount up. We have a boy to find."
They rode through the newly opened passage, horses snorting and stamping as they emerged into the open air. The ravine stretched before them, dark and silent. Above, the first stars were beginning to appear.
The knights breathed deep, filling their lungs with clean air, relishing the freedom after hours underground. But their relief was short-lived.
Again; one of them; the youngest, a boy of perhaps eighteen; slid from his horse and collapsed.
He hit the ground hard, his body convulsing, his hands clawing at his throat. A wet, rattling cough tore from him, and when he gasped for air, blood bubbled from his lips.
"HELP!" the knight beside him shouted, dismounting, rushing to his side. "Something's wrong—he can't breathe—!"
The other knights gathered, forming a circle around the fallen man. His face was grey, his eyes wide with terror, his breath a shallow, agonized rasp.
"The gas," the veteran muttered. "He got too much. The mask must have failed."
"We can't lose another person!" a young knight cried. "We have to get him back, find a healer—"
"There's no time." The veteran's voice was flat, resigned. "We're hours from any settlement. He'll be dead long before—"
"We can't just leave him as well!"
Anya stood frozen, watching the scene unfold. The dying knight's eyes found hers, and in them she saw the same plea she'd seen in the other's before his death; help me, don't leave me, please.
She opened her mouth to speak, to demand they do something, anything, this is too much—
"Enough."
Enoch's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. He had dismounted and was walking toward the fallen knight, his golden mask unreadable.
"Sir—" the young knight started.
"I said enough."
He reached the dying man and knelt beside him. For a long moment, he simply studied him, watching the convulsions, the labored breathing, the blood that now stained his lips and chin.
Then he sighed.
It was a small sound, barely audible, but it carried a weight of weariness that seemed almost human.
"It can't be helped."
He reached for the knight's wrist and removed the armor activator. He pressed the button, and the plates fell away. He removed the knight's weapon, his ammunition, his supplies. He did it all with the same clinical efficiency he'd shown before, as if the man beneath his hands were already dead.
The dying knight's eyes went wide with understanding. His hand reached up, grasping weakly at Enoch's sleeve.
"P-please..." he gasped. "Don't... don't leave... me..."
Enoch looked at him. For just a moment, something flickered behind the mask; something that might have been regret, or might have been impatience.
"The iceburst exposure has destroyed your lungs," he said quietly. "There is no cure. No treatment. You will continue to suffocate for the next hour, perhaps longer. It will be painful. It will be slow. And at the end, you will die anyway."
He stood, stepping back from the grasping hand.
"I am sorry. But your suffering serves no purpose. And your equipment is too valuable to waste."
He turned and walked back toward his horse.
The silence that followed was absolute. The knights stared, frozen between horror and duty. The dying man's gasps grew louder, more desperate, his hand still reaching toward the retreating figure.
Anya moved.
She didn't know she was going to do it until she was already doing it. She strode forward, past the frozen knights, and planted herself directly in Enoch's path.
"You can't just keep doing this." Her voice was shaking, but she forced the words out. "He's one of us. He served the Order. He followed your orders. You can't just—just discard people like—like trash!"
Enoch stopped. His masked face turned toward her, and she felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing.
"Can't I?" His voice was mild, almost curious. "And what would you have me do, child? Carry him with us? He cannot ride. He cannot walk. He will be dead within the hour, and every minute we spend on him is a minute the boy escapes further."
"Then take him back! One of us can—"
"One of us can waste hours riding back through tunnels that may still be venting gas, only to arrive at a facility with no healer capable of treating this, while the rest of us proceed undermanned into Titan territory?" Enoch shook his head slowly. "No. That is sentiment, not strategy. The mission comes first. It always comes first."
Anya's hands clenched into fists. "That's not—that's not right—"
"Right?" Enoch's voice sharpened, just slightly. "You speak of 'right' as if it were a fixed point, a universal constant. It is not. Right is what serves the divine order. Right is what brings us closer to our goal. Right is survival." He stepped closer, looming over her. "The boy is out there. The creature is with him. They hold secrets that could change everything. And you would have us abandon that; abandon our purpose; for one man who is already dead?"
"He's not dead yet!"
"No. But he will be. And so will we, if we let sentiment cloud our judgment." Enoch's voice softened, became almost gentle. "I understand your distress. I do. But understand this: the universe is not kind. It does not care about your feelings, your loyalties, your sense of right and wrong. It only cares about results. About survival. About the strong consuming the weak and the clever outlasting the foolish."
He reached out and, with surprising gentleness, touched her shoulder.
"You have a choice to make, child. You can stay here, with him, and watch him die. You can hold his hand, whisper comforting lies, and then wander this forest alone until the Titans find you. Or you can come with us, complete the mission, and ensure that his death has meaning."
Anya stared at him, her mind a storm of conflicting emotions. Rage. Grief. Fear. And beneath it all, a cold, creeping certainty that he was right.
She looked back at the dying knight. His convulsions had worsened, his breath a wet, rattling thing that barely qualified as breathing at all. His eyes were still open, still pleading, still hoping.
'I can't save him.'
The thought was a knife in her chest.
'I can't save him, and if I stay, I'll die too.'
She looked at the other knights. Some met her eyes; others looked away, ashamed. The veteran's face was carved from stone, but his hands trembled slightly at his sides.
They all knew. They all understood. And they all hated themselves for it.
Anya turned back to Enoch. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was barely a whisper.
"Are you going to kill him as well?"
Enoch studied her for a long moment. Then, without a word, he reached into his belt and drew a knife. He held it out to her, hilt first.
"No, you do it. Consider it as Mercy," he said simply. "It is the only gift we can give him now."
Anya stared at the knife. Wait, why her?! There are others more hard steeled than her for this job! She looked at her superior's unchanged order as he still held it out to her.
"Why me…"
"To show you the cruel reality of life. If you can't do what needs to be done now, how would you act when actions needs to be carried out, when your life is on the line?"
Anya, didn't know how to respond to that. Her hand reached out, trembling, and closed around the hilt. The weight was surprising; heavier than she'd expected, more solid.
She walked back to the dying knight. He saw her coming, saw the knife in her hand, and his eyes went wide with understanding.
"No," he gasped, trying to crawl away, his ruined lungs screaming in protest. "No, please—I don't—don't want to—"
Anya knelt beside him. Tears were streaming down her face, but her voice was steady.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
She raised the knife.
His hand shot up, grasping her wrist with surprising strength. His eyes, wide and terrified, locked onto hers.
"Please," he breathed. "I have a—a sister. She's—she's waiting for me. In Stohess. I promised I'd—I'd come back. Please. Don't."
Anya's hand shook. The knife wavered.
His sister. Waiting. Hoping.
She looked at him; really looked at him; and saw not a knight, not an enemy, not a tool. A boy. Just a boy, younger than her, scared and hurting and desperate to live.
"I'm sorry," she said again. "I'm so, so sorry."
She pulled the knife free of his grip and, before she could lose her nerve, brought it down.
It was quick. Cleaner than he deserved, perhaps, after everything. He stiffened once, twice, and then went still, his eyes still open, still staring at the sky.
Anya sat there for a long moment, the knife still in her hand, his blood warm on her fingers. Then she stood, walked to her horse, and mounted.
She didn't look back. She couldn't look back.
The other knights followed, their faces pale, their movements mechanical. The veteran paused beside the body, closing the dead boy's eyes with a gentle hand, before mounting his own horse.
Another one of theirs dead.
Enoch was already moving, his horse picking its way down the ravine toward the forest beyond. He didn't look back either. He didn't need to.
Anya urged her horse forward, falling into formation behind him. The rage was still there, burning in her chest like a coal. But it had a focus now.
'That imposter. That old man. He did this.'
She thought of Vance's face; no, his face, the imposter's face, the one who had walked among them, who had heard their plans, who had smiled and nodded and played the part of a terrified boy.
He had done this. He had led them into that tunnel. He had triggered the gas. He had caused all of this.
And he would pay.
'I'll find you,' she promised silently, her eyes fixed on the dark line of the forest ahead. 'I'll find you, and I'll make you suffer for every single one of them.'
The horses rode on, into the deepening night, toward the trees where a boy and a beast were waiting, unaware of the hunters closing in.
Chapter 31 is already available on Patreon.com/Weeb Fanthom.