Crashing
The first thing Sabo felt was the world turning upside down.
The ship hit the treetops with a deafening crack, branches snapping like brittle bones. Shards of bark exploded into the air, mingling with splinters of wood and the acrid stench of burnt flesh and hair, and blood. The ship’s hull groaned as if it were a living thing, its sides shearing against the canopy in a symphony of destruction. Flames erupted from the ship’s side. Sabo’s ears rang with the chaos, but the roar of the flames cut through it all—a harsh, consuming sound that drowned out reason and filled the world with urgency.
Sabo’s fingers clawed at the deck, reaching for anything solid. His grip found nothing but slick, broken planks, and the ship’s violent lurch sent him hurtling backward. The air was ripped from his lungs as his body collided with the mast, a jarring impact that lit his nerves on fire. His vision swam, the world a blur of red and orange, of fire and falling leaves.
The maul, he thought desperately. He had to get back to the maul.
The weapon lay several feet away, its jagged form embedded in the fractured deck. Sabo scrambled toward it, his body screaming in protest with every movement.
A fresh lurch of the ship sent him sliding, and he barely caught himself on a section of the shattered railing. Below, the earth rushed toward them, a dark, tangled mess of roots and churned soil. He was out of time.
With one final, desperate lunge, Sabo wrapped his fingers around the haft of the maul. The moment his skin touched its surface, a familiar heat coursed through him, a searing connection that felt both empowering and parasitic. He didn’t have the luxury of hesitation.
“Bite,” he whispered, his voice raw and desperate.
The maul responded with a sickening crack. The weapon’s head split open like a monstrous jaw, teeth of shadow and steel sinking into the mast. The ship trembled under the force, its descent slowing marginally as the maul anchored itself—and Sabo—to the dying vessel. An eye appeared on the metallic surface of the weapon’s head. It stared at Sabo, taking him in.
“I’m not dead yet,” Sabo grunted through gritted teeth.
He clung to the haft with every ounce of strength he had. He had to hold on no matter what. But how? He squeezed his eyes shut, shifting his grip to have a better handle on the weapon’s shaft.
Then, it hit him. Aether! He focused on the feeling again.
[Aura Sense: Seeking Hunger]
A shudder echoed through the air with his body as the epicenter. A sixth sense reaching out, searching for that familiar, sweet source of power. It quickly found the barrels of concentrated sap below deck. He focused his attention on it and breathed in, pulling the power into his body. A rush of ice filled his veins and strength filled his limbs, along with the drive to act, to live.
He continued pulling on the aether like a drowning man gasping for air. It surged into him, raw and wild, threading through his veins in a burning tide. His grip steadied, his body locking into place even as the ship bucked and twisted beneath him. More! Just . . . a little . . . more! He drew in as much of the aether as he could. He could feel it flood his body, and deep within him something burned like furnace, turning the raw energy into something he could use.
Then, the world ended in fire and noise.
The ship slammed into the ground with a force that defied comprehension. The impact tore through the earth, uprooting trees and carving a jagged scar into the forest floor. More flames erupted along the hull, consuming what little was left intact.
Sabo felt the jarring halt reverberate through his bones, the maul’s bite holding firm against the mast. Splinters rained down around him, and the world blurred into a chaotic smear of color and sound. His head throbbed, his body numb from the strain of holding on.
The ship came to a grinding stop, its remains half-buried in the torn earth. Smoke curled into the sky, mingling with the orange glow of distant flames. The forest around them was eerily quiet, the cacophony of the crash replaced by an oppressive stillness.
Sabo released his grip on the maul, his fingers trembling as he pulled them away. The weapon’s jaws snapped shut, retreating into its original, brutal shape. He swayed on his feet, the aether coursing through him now ebbing to a faint hum.
The edges of his vision darkened, a creeping shadow that stole his thoughts and dulled his senses. He staggered, his knees buckling beneath him. He barely registered the taste of blood on his tongue, the sharp scent of smoke in his lungs.
Too much, he thought distantly. Too fast.
The maul slipped from his grasp, clattering to the deck as his body gave out. Darkness surged in, cold and unforgiving, and Sabo fell into it without resistance.
The air was thick with smoke and the sharp tang of burning wood. Hiwot pulled herself from the tangle of wreckage, her muscles screaming in protest as she staggered to her feet. The world around her was a blur of chaos—flames licking at broken planks, bodies strewn across the shattered remains of the ship’s inner chambers, and the groans of survivors trying to make sense of their shattered reality.
She wiped a streak of blood from her cheek, smearing soot in its place, and surveyed the scene. The prisoners who could still stand were clambering to the stairwells, their movements frantic but purposeful. Some worked to smother the fires spreading through the wreckage in the hull, using tattered clothing and splashes of rainwater collected in overturned barrels. Others simply stood in a daze, their faces pale and drawn in the light that filtered into the thick darkness.
Hiwot counted the survivors as best she could. Out of what had once been at least fifty, fewer than half were still breathing. The rest lay scattered among the debris, their lifeless bodies grim reminders of the chaos that had unfolded both in the air and during the crash.
Her gaze caught on one figure—a young man with a shock of red hair and a brutal gash across his abdomen, clutching his side as he tried to haul himself out of a collapsed section of the hull. Hiwot took a hesitant step toward him but stopped short when she noticed the voidstone collar glinting around his neck.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
The weight of her own collar felt heavier in that moment, a band of cold finality pressed against the skin of her neck. She reached up to touch it, fingers brushing the smooth, unyielding bleach white surface. The device was a masterpiece of cruelty, cutting her off from the power she had once wielded so freely.
Yggdrasil, she thought bitterly. The System that her and other Soulsingers accessed to use their power. But in order to use it, one needed the ability to touch and channel aether.
In her mind’s eye, she could almost see it—the vast, sprawling network of luminous threads that connected her soul to the Aethereal Sea. But the collar’s effect was absolute. Where once those threads had flowed freely, there was now a wall of voidstone, thick and impenetrable. Her connection to Yggdrasil was severed, leaving her a hollow shell of the Soulsinger she had been.
Hiwot’s hands clenched into fists. She had accepted the collar when she’d been captured—what choice did she have? It had been that or death. Deserters from the Crown Coalition Forces were often shown no mercy. But now, after everything that had happened, her resentment burned brighter than the fires consuming the wreckage around her.
She met the gleam of the young man’s eyes for a moment, before he stopped struggling and the brightness of life faded from his vision. Then, turning away, she made her way above deck.
The deck of the ship was in no better of a state as below. It was a graveyard of shattered wood and twisted metal. Hiwot stepped carefully, her boots crunching over charred debris. Smoke still billowed from pockets of flame, though the worst of the fires had been smothered by the grim determination of a handful of prisoners. Above, the treetops stood like sentinels, their boughs bowed and broken from the ship’s descent. The skyfin, their once-magnificent beast of burden, was nowhere to be seen. They wouldn’t be taking to the skies again. At least, not on this ship.
Hiwot paused, taking in the full scope of their predicament. The ship was grounded for good; the broken hull and scattered remnants of its tethering mechanisms made that much clear. They were stranded, deep in some remote stretch of forest with no skyfin and their only form of shelter still actively on fire.
Her attention was drawn towards the back to the deck as she noticed a cluster of prisoners murmuring among themselves. They stood near the prone form of the prisoner—the one who had engaged the two Morduin knights in battle. His gigantic, twisted maul was nowhere to be seen. Probably fell off the ship during the crash. Even looking at that weapon had sent chills down Hiwot’s spine. Something was off about it.
How did he get away without getting a collar? She couldn’t help but wonder. If he had an awakened soul capable of magic, the Crown Coalition would have detected it and equipped him with a collar as precaution. Did his soul just ignite? It was a ridiculous thought. Someone with a freshly ignited soul wouldn’t be able to hold their own against a trained Morduin knight, let alone two.
Hiwot narrowed her eyes. The man was unconscious, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. His body bore the marks of battle— a patchwork of burns, bruises, and lacerations covered his body from his forehead down to his waist—but he was alive. Against all odds, the crazy bastard had survived. Though likely not for much longer, with those wounds.
A murmur rose from the cluster of prisoners gathered near the unconscious young man. The group huddled tightly, speaking in hushed tones and casting uneasy glances at whatever had drawn their attention.
Hiwot’s curiosity got the better of her. She adjusted her tattered tunic and strode toward them, weaving through the remnants of the wreckage. When she reached the group, she pushed her way through with sharp elbows and muttered apologies until she broke into the circle. She took a closer look at the young man and whatever it was the other prisoners were murmuring about.
Hiwot crouched beside him, studying his face. He was Olenish, she guessed, judging by his sharp cheekbones and the deep brown of his complexion. His curls were matted with blood, though she couldn’t tell whether it was his own or someone else’s. He looked far younger than she would have expected for someone capable of such ferocity in battle—barely more than a boy. He probably hasn’t even seen twenty summers. It was always a shame when a talented Soulsinger died so young, but that was their lot in life.
“Look at his arm,” one of the prisoners said, his voice barely above a whisper. He pointed a finger towards the young man, and Hiwot’s gaze followed the direction of his finger, finding the man’s arms.
Her breath caught in her chest.
Most of his exposed skin carried severe burns. The once dark skin was red, swollen, covered in fluid-filled blisters. Her eyes were quick to notice what the prisoners had been muttering about. One of the deeper burns on the young man’s forearm had begun to change. The raw, blistered skin shimmered faintly, as though it were catching the light in an unnatural way. Before her eyes, the wound seemed to knit itself together, the angry redness fading and giving way to smooth, unblemished flesh.
She blinked, unsure if the sight was real or if exhaustion was playing tricks on her.
“It’s healing,” the man beside her said, awe thick in his voice. “I swear it. I saw it. Just a few seconds ago, it was worse than that.”
Hiwot reached out, her fingers hovering just above the injury. The air around the wound felt . . . strange. Damned, if I could only use my powers!
“Incredible,” she muttered. “What is he?”
The collar around her neck felt heavier as she considered the implications.
In all her time in the Crown Coalition Forces, Hiwot had never seen a Soulsinger with a healing factor that acted so quickly, and while one was unconscious at that. What kind of monster is this kid?
Hiwot glanced up at the other prisoners, her expression sharp. “Keep this to yourselves,” she said. “And give him some room to breathe!”
“Step away from him!” a voice barked from behind them, sharp and commanding.
Hiwot snapped her head around at the sound, her stomach sinking. The warden was a stout man, his frame compact with muscle but softened by a protruding belly. His crimson and gold uniform, now marred with soot and bloodstains, bore the unmistakable black sigil of the Crown Coalition’s Correctional Forces on his chest. His square jaw was set, and his small, dark eyes darted between the prisoners, cataloging their faces.
“That man,” the warden snarled, pointing a finger at the unconscious boy, “is wanted by the Morduin Order. He will be surrendered to them. Immediately.”
Hiwot stood slowly, her hands raised in a mock gesture of submission, but her eyes narrowed. The warden’s gaze swept the deck, his posture stiffening as he took in the ragged group of prisoners surrounding the boy. They were battered and bloodied, but there were more of them than he’d likely expected.
He hesitated. Hiwot watched the man realize his situation in real time. He was the only surviving guard and even if the prisoners were all chained and weakened by starvation and hard labor, the calculus still wasn’t in his favor.
The murmurs from the prisoners grew louder, their discontent swelling into something far more dangerous. The warden’s his eyes flicked to the nearest escape routes. Hiwot recognized the subtle shift of his weight, as though he was preparing to retreat.
But then his hand twitched. Slowly, deliberately, he began to reach behind his back.
Hiwot’s pulse quickened. She knew what he was going for—an aether pistol holstered at his belt. Even in his trembling hands, it would be enough to send a bolt of concentrated aether into one of their chests.
“No,” she breathed, taking a step forward, but it was already too late.
The first prisoner lunged. A wiry man with a shaved head and desperate eyes. He tackled the warden’s arm, wrenching it away from the weapon.
The deck exploded into chaos.
The other prisoners surged forward like a wave breaking against a cliff. They collided with the warden, dragging him down with sheer weight of numbers. He shouted, cursing and struggling, but the prisoners overwhelmed him, a dozen hands clawing at his uniform, striking at his face, his arms.
Hiwot froze, her breath catching in her throat as the warden’s cries turned to guttural screams. Blood splattered against the deck as fists and makeshift weapons rained down on him.
The warden’s hand shot out from the pile, gripping the hilt of the aether pistol. The weapon sparked as he squeezed the trigger, sending a brilliant flash of blue light arcing into the sky. A cloud of blue and green smoke burst from the pistol as the aether charge was expended. The crack of the shot echoed through the trees, scattering birds into the air.
Hiwot stepped back, shielding her eyes from the blinding light of the gunfire. When she lowered her hand, she saw the warden still pinned beneath the prisoners, his uniform shredded, his face a bloody ruin. The pistol was gone, tossed somewhere amidst the wreckage.
And then she heard it—a sound that froze her blood.
In the distance, a deep, resonant cry bellowed, its mournful tone reverberating through the forest. It was followed by the sound distant sound of trees and earth moving. Something was coming for them.