CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  After corralling the Lords into a single-file formation, the Admirals exited. In fear his rage would boil the restraints that bound him, special precautions were afforded to Khan. Gesa stifled his movements, forcing him to proceed with a pronounced limp.

  Before they could mount the prodigious stairway, static whispers halted their departure. Glitches in the Holo-screens pulled their attention to the rear of the chamber. Strings of indecipherable symbols scrolled in waves of distortion, a lattice of digitized insanity bloating the diseased tech.

  "Atmospheric disturbance?" Asked Hail with a hopeful air in his voice. Indra shook his head and lowered his hand, hovering it over the hilt of the curved, silver sword at his waist. Hail took the hint, reaching both hands deep into the fur lining of his heavy jacket. He retrieved a pair of thick-barreled pistols, gorged on explosive pincer rounds. Soran shuddered as a sudden burst of radio static crackled from the instruments. Bouncing between machines, the disturbance forced the Admirals to pivot wildly to track its movement. The trio tightened their formation. Back to back, they scanned the chamber for signs of movement, maintaining a vigilant eye on the shackled Lords. For a moment, all sound evaporated. The buzzing of the machines went silent. The Holo-screens fell dark. Even the torrid breeze stilled itself in anticipation.

  Malig began to convulse. His eyes became a verdurous malaise of light, pinpricks gleaming through the mist that spewed from his gaping mouth. Kaligan followed, howling as a diseased fog poured from his body, the joints of his metallic exoskeleton groaning as he contorted in pain. Soon, all six pirates trembled in agony. Though the restraints that bound them dug deep into their flesh, the source of their anguish originated elsewhere. Something inside demanded release.

  Simultaneously, the Lords fell limp. The Admirals looked on in horror as a spectral chain oozed forth from each prisoner, slithering along the ground like a predatory serpent. The chains joined at a central point, converging into a single ethereal entity and forging a new path straight toward the boy. Soran felt a weight descend on his shoulder. Not the warm, living touch of a human, but the blighted caress of unlife.

  Soran's vision tracked over the sweat-slicked ring of his collar until the deathly intrusion became visible. Three fingers, clad in golden rings, were rested on his shoulder; a scarred stump all that remained of the fourth. Weathered tattoos decorated the mottled surface of his skin; reddish-brown hues, woven together into a warm rosewood, disappearing behind a curtain of silken cuffs. He watched the chains climb through the air, scrambling into the pages of an immense tome held open at his side. The glowing links disappeared into a powdery cloud as they dove into the ancient pages. As Soran looked out at the crowd, it was as if no one had noticed. Antique statues cemented in a perpetual stillness, unmoved by the figure that towered behind him. Summoning the courage to gaze upon the giant, the boy came face to face with the owner of the disfigured hand. A seductive, emerald gaze peered through wiry coils of woven hair, curling into boorish horns that lay over his shoulder. Soran could feel the warmth of the man's breath brush over his cheeks, stray strands of an unkempt beard reaching uncomfortably close to his face. A fiendish smile exposed a row of silver teeth marred with the rotting remains of those still needing replacement. That's when he noticed it. Sat atop the man's head was a shimmering halo. The keystone crown had found its throne.

  Soran went to scream, but reality clawed its way back, and time regained its eternal dominion. The three Admirals turned to face Talas, but he was already gone. With the hand imprint still creased into his suit, Soran turned to Ranna, whose complexion was stained white with fear. Following his Captain's gaze, dread ran through the boy like a spear. They were all standing, unrestrained, and armed. The Pirate Lords were free.

  Surrounded, the Admirals were outnumbered and outgunned, a position they were woefully unaccustomed to. Indra looked back at his creation, recalling the orbs into his robes to reveal what he had feared. The husk of the Pirate King was gone. In its stead, the smoldering ruin of Volka's headless corpse. His metallic shell had burned away, revealing a glassy orb sheltered for decades. Encased inside was a heart. A human heart that Volka hoped would one day beat again inside his chest. The sentimental purpose of the treasured organ would never be fulfilled.

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  In a whir of mechanized reanimation, the Holo-screens blinked back online, illuminating the faces of the scorned pirates. A mixture of accusatory grins and grimaces targeted the last defenders of all they opposed. Looming behind the Lords was a seventh figure. King Talas stood surrounded by his faithful servants, his body restored to a youthful iteration. Thick horns of hair swayed over the crimson of his artfully crafted attire, appearing nothing like the imaginative illustrations of the stories. They depicted a demon, clad in a cowl sown from the souls of his victims, draped in a cloak blacker than the darkest recesses of the abyss. No. The man who stood before them was regal, proud, and distinguished. Rough as any pirate Soran had ever seen, there was no doubt from where the Lords had acquired their aesthetic.

  Placing his hand on Khan's shoulder, Talas revealed himself to the Lords. They fell before him without hesitation. With arms crossed over their chests and heads risen to display their markings, the Lords were swallowed by awe.

  Gesa had had enough. She aimed her gauntlet directly at Talas, pulling her fingers into a fist. Before she could engage the mechanism, he had disappeared, a sliver of smoke lingering in his absence. Not a single second passed before she heard the hiss of his breath behind her. He had infiltrated their formation. The Admirals spiraled outward, surrounding the King, and, without hesitation, they commenced their assault. Gesa plunged her gauntlet toward his face with the ferocity to crush armies, her magnetic manipulation operating at maximum effect. Indra struck next, embedding his sword deep into the pirate's belly, only the perfect sheen of its silver hilt remaining visible. Hail cared far less about accuracy than his peers. Aiming straight for the crown, he hammered on the triggers, releasing the entire clip of each pistol in a matter of seconds. Pincer rounds crackled from the barrels as blinding flashes of light danced against Gesa's armor. Lethal, efficient, and over before anyone could blink. The Admiral's ruthless attack left the onlookers stunned. Their battle prowess was genuinely magnificent, the tales of their accolades unbefitting of the reality.

  Talas coughed, sputters of blood escaping from his lips. As he continued, the points of his mustache curled into a grin. His charade of defeat morphed into a condescending laugh as the Admiral's weapons evaporated into smoke. His wounded body and torn clothing reformed to perfection before their eyes. Debilitated by the impossibility of their enemy, the Admirals watched powerlessly as Talas flicked open Atlazar. Dagger-tipped, ethereal chains once again rose from its pages, their emerald glow subduing all those ensnared by its light. An abrupt whistle accompanied a slicing wind, and the Admirals found the chains pierced deep into their chests, seeking the very fabric of their souls.

  "Who, are you?" whispered Indra, his hands ineffectually grasping at the invasive apparition, the terror in his voice freezing all those that heard it.

  "So easily forgotten. I can only hope I leave a more lasting impression this time." Talas slammed the book closed, and with a snap of its pages, the Admirals were no more.

  The final bell had tolled. Since leaving the Hyacinth, Soran's dreams were plagued by nightmarish visions which meant closing his eyes held an ever-present danger. Swimming in the pits of his mind was an unknown darkness that filled his waking moments with dread. No longer the desired reprieve, the sliver of peace he could enjoy at the end of a hard day. Sleep had become a punishment, forcing him to see what was hidden in the dusty backrooms of his mind, cursing him with premonitions of an unwelcome future.

  He stared out upon the astonished faces of the Lords as they worshiped at the feet of a ghost. A phantom that somehow roamed their world and possessed a power so unchallengeable, it felled all three Admirals in the blink of an eye. His visions, however terrifying, had been inadequate at preparing him for such an impossible being. The spark of hope he was holding on to, his naive notions of rebellion, was now utterly extinguished. The end of all he knew had arrived.