The sound of metal prying at the main door cut through the deep silence of the night, sharp as a needle scraping rusted tin, slipping through the door crack and shattering the peace.
Liam pressed himself against the inner door frame, his back against the cool brickwork, fingers clenched white-knuckled around the grip of his steam-revolver. The chill of the alloy seeped into his palm, helping to steady the restless energy coiling in his gut. He squinted through the crack in the door. The night was thick as ink, blurring the shapes outside into vague outlines. Three figures, hunched over, were gathered around the main door, working at it with metal rods of varying lengths. Their movements were clumsy but persistent. The screech of metal on rust sent occasional sparks flying, dying almost instantly on the black earth.
Not beasts. People?
Liam's heart sank. The original owner's memories painted Rust Island as remote, desolate, shrouded in rusty mists, visited only by scattered survivors like himself. Outsiders were rare... unless they were from the Human Empire? The thought had just formed when a piercing, cold light swept across the ground from the direction of the sea—a searchlight from the airship. Its black hull grew clearer in the moonlight, the silver eagle emblem on its side stark and glaring: claws gripping a cogwheel, the exclusive symbol of the Imperial Royal Family.
Why would an Imperial airship come to Rust Island now? Liam held his breath, his finger applying subtle pressure to the revolver's trigger. He watched the figures outside. They seemed to sense someone might be inside the workshop, stopping their prying. One straightened up, turning to look deeper into the workshop and muttering something in a guttural, unfamiliar language, the tone urgent and wary, a warning to the others. A metallic clang followed—a dropped tool—then the sound of scrambling footsteps as the three figures fled towards the Rustwood Forest flanking the workshop, their steps unsteady as they vanished into the dense shadows, leaving only a half-length of metal rod behind.
Before Liam could process this, a heavy, dull THUD came from the seaward direction, like something massive hitting hard earth from a great height. The workshop walls trembled slightly. The sound was followed by the rip of tearing cloth, the sickening crack of bone, and then a suppressed groan of pain. A woman's voice, cold and hoarse, laced with undeniable weakness, yet holding a core of unbroken pride. Even in extreme pain, she hadn't screamed.
Liam tightened his grip on the revolver, pushed the inner door open a sliver, and peered out. A hundred yards away, on a patch of open ground, a figure in white lay curled in the black soil. Her clothing was torn to rags, stained dark with blood in multiple places. Long hair spilled over her shoulders, matted with dirt and debris. Blood-streaked strands stuck to her face, obscuring most of her features, revealing only a sharply defined jawline. Her left arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, clearly dislocated from the shoulder. Her right hand pressed hard against her abdomen, blood welling steadily between her fingers, soaking the earth beneath her, mingling with the old bloodstains from the young Beast King and filling the air with a thick, coppery scent.
Beside her lay the corpse of a wolf, pure silver-white from nose to tail. Its fur was saturated with blood, matted into clumps. A deep, bone-exposing gash marked its neck, the edges clean as if sliced by a sharp blade. It was the size of an adult Rust-Wolf, but its coloring was jarringly different from the common dull grey. Its silver fur held a faint luminescence in the darkness, and even in death, it radiated a formidable aura.
A Silver Wolf? Liam frowned, scouring the original owner's memories. There was no record of such a creature on Rust Island. The woman and the wolf… had they fallen from the Imperial airship? Her clothing, a white fighting outfit of fine material with intricate embroidery, was nothing a Rust Island survivor could own. It spoke of Imperial nobility or knighthood. But if she was truly from the Empire, why had she fallen from one of their own airships, pursued and attacked?
He made to move closer for a better look when the airship's searchlight flared again, its beam pinning the white-clad figure to the ground. The light was blinding, making the curled form instinctively raise a hand to shield her eyes. A cold, amplified voice, scratchy with mechanical distortion, boomed across the empty night: "Elara Voss. Cease your resistance. Return with us to see His Holiness the Pope. In recognition of your former status as Commander of the Silver Wolf Knight Order, we shall grant you the mercy of an intact corpse!"
Elara Voss? Commander of the Silver Wolf Knight Order? The names were alien and disruptive, stones tossed into the still pond of his thoughts. Though new to this world, Liam knew from the inherited memories that the Silver Wolf Knight Order was one of the Empire's most elite, its commander a close confidant of the Pope. A traitor? Yet, the curled figure reacted to the words, pushing herself up with visible effort to glare at the airship. Even from a hundred yards, Liam could feel the sharp intensity in her gaze—an unbroken blade, filled with a hatred that went bone-deep.
"Elias's hounds dare command my surrender?" Her voice was a ragged whisper, yet it carried an unshakable arrogance, each word forced through clenched teeth. She tried to push herself up, but the movement sent fresh agony through her dislocated arm. She stumbled and fell back, chest heaving, a trickle of blood escaping the corner of her mouth to drip onto the silver fur of the wolf, a stark, cruel contrast.
The people on the airship seemed to lose patience. The searchlight shifted, illuminating ropes dropped from the vessel's underside. Dark figures slid down swiftly, landing with heavy thuds, their boots crunching on gravel. They wore black armor adorned with the same silver eagle, carried sharp Imperial longswords at their hips with intricately carved scabbards. Their movements were synchronized, their eyes cold as they advanced on Elara with unmistakable killing intent. An Imperial pursuit squad.
"Take her! Dead or alive!" the lead knight barked, his voice commanding. The other four accelerated in unison, blades clearing sheaths with a ring of cold steel, aiming straight for Elara's vitals. They clearly intended a swift kill. Elara gritted her teeth, her hand darting to her waist where a sword should have been, finding nothing. She could only curl tighter, protecting her injured arm, her gaze locked on the approaching knights—a look of sheer defiance and resolve. Even cornered, there was no hint of surrender.
Hidden behind the workshop door, Liam's finger rested on the trigger, his knuckles white. Conflict raged within him. The Imperial knights were well-equipped, heavily armored, and skilled swordsmen. He had one freshly repaired steam-revolver and only three bullets left. Intervening was like throwing an egg at a rock—suicide, and he'd likely die alongside Elara. But if he did nothing, she would be cut down where she lay. And when the pursuit squad cleaned up, they'd surely search nearby hiding spots… his refuge would be discovered, and his fate sealed.
Furthermore, Elara was being hunted by the Imperial Pope herself. She might know Empire secrets. Saving her could mean learning a way off this damned island, maybe even finding a lead on suppressing the Rust Plague. The thought crystallized his resolve. He closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened, only a hard determination remained. Better to gamble than wait for death.
As the lead knight's blade thrust towards Elara's heart, Liam burst from the workshop and fired at the knight's back.
BANG!
The gunshot tore the silent night apart. The bullet, propelled with formidable force, struck true, piercing the knight's backplate. Blood sprayed from the armor's seams. The knight stiffened, his sword clattering to the ground, and he fell heavily, twitching briefly before lying still, the eagle on his chest stained dull red.
The other four knights spun around in shock, their eyes fixing on Liam with the furious surprise of disturbed predators. "Vermin! You dare interfere in Imperial affairs?!" one roared, contempt dripping from his voice. He charged Liam, sword whistling through the air in a slash aimed at his neck, impossibly fast.
Liam sidestepped. The blade tip grazed his shoulder, tearing a long rent in his coarse work clothes and slicing skin. Blood welled instantly, a sharp pain spreading from the wound. Gritting his teeth, he raised the revolver and fired again. The bullet gouged the knight's arm, sending a spray of blood droplets flying. The knight grunted in pain, his rhythm broken for a moment, but he adjusted and came on again.
Liam used the moment to put more distance between them, his eyes flicking to Elara. She was dragging herself towards the silver wolf's body, her right hand trembling as she yanked a silver wolf-head pendant from the creature's neck, clutching it so tightly her nails dug into her palm. Her face was chalk-white, her lips bloodless, her breathing growing fainter. She looked on the verge of losing consciousness.
"Take this scum out! Now!" the remaining three knights exchanged a glance, a silent agreement passing between them. They fanned out, surrounding Liam, their blades weaving a net of deadly steel, cutting off his retreat. Back against the workshop wall, Liam had nowhere to go. He steadied the revolver, aiming for the weak points in their armor.
BANG! BANG!
Two shots rang out in quick succession. Two knights crumpled, armor pierced, blood pooling rapidly around them. The last knight was already upon him, sword point lunging for his chest. Too close to dodge fully. Liam twisted desperately. The blade bit deep into his left shoulder. The sensation of metal tearing through flesh exploded in a wave of white-hot agony. Warm blood gushed down the blade, spattering his face with its metallic tang.
He snarled, his left hand clamping down on the sword itself, stopping its deeper penetration. With his right, he jammed the revolver into the knight's abdomen and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The knight crumpled against him, a dead weight, his warm blood soaking Liam's front. The impact drove him back against the wall, the pain in his shoulder flaring unbearably.
Shoving the corpse aside, Liam staggered, leaning against the wall, gasping for air. The pain in his left shoulder was a raging fire. Blood dripped steadily from his arm, splattering on the floor, mingling with his older wounds. He felt sticky, pierced all over, his strength draining fast, his vision spotting. He pressed a hand to the shoulder wound, trying to stem the flow, but blood seeped relentlessly through his fingers.
He looked at Elara. She was completely unconscious now, curled by the wolf, brow furrowed as if in deep pain, her breathing so shallow it was almost undetectable. Without help, she wouldn't last long. From the airship came the blare of urgent alarms. The searchlight swept the area again—they'd noticed the situation on the ground. Reinforcements would arrive soon.
Liam's heart hammered against his ribs. No time to waste. Biting back the pain, he stumbled to Elara's side and bent to lift her. She was surprisingly light, her body burning with fever. The unnatural angle of her left arm was a grim sight; the slightest touch elicited a pained whimper even in her unconscious state, her body tensing instinctively. He carefully supported her back and legs, avoiding her injuries as best he could, and hurried back towards the workshop.
He'd just gotten her inside the inner door when the airship's engines roared louder overhead. The searchlight swept across the workshop roof. In the shifting light, he could hear shouts from the direction of the shore—the pursuit squad's reinforcements had landed and were heading this way.
Liam slammed the inner door shut, shoving the pre-positioned broken pipes against it. They hit the frame with a solid clang. He dragged a heavy machine tool in front of the door for good measure, its base scraping grooves in the floor. Only then did he collapse, sitting hard on the ground, breathing in ragged gasps. Cold sweat dripped from his temples, soaking his hair. Blood still flowed from his shoulder, dripping to form a small, dark pool.
He looked down at Elara beside him. Her brow was furrowed, her face pale as parchment, lips cracked and dry. Silver hair hid most of her face, but the visible jawline was sharp and severe. Even unconscious, she radiated a 'keep away' pride. A silver necklace peeked from her collar, its pendant a wolf's head, matching the one she'd taken from the silver wolf. That wolf must have been her bonded beast, died protecting her. The bond stirred something in Liam.
He checked her pulse. It was weak but steady. Not in immediate mortal danger. But the broken arm, the abdominal wound, the numerous cuts and bruises… without proper treatment, she was living on borrowed time. The fever alone was worrying. The workshop held no medicine, only the previously found machine oil, mineral crystals, and some wire. He'd have to make do.
Liam got up and gathered the supplies. He placed the mineral crystals on a workbench and smashed them with the wrench handle until they were a fine powder, mixing it with a little machine oil—the oil could lubricate metal and had some preservative qualities; the crystals alleviated rust, maybe they could staunch bleeding and fight infection. He knelt, gently rolling up Elara's torn sleeve to expose the grotesquely twisted arm. The flesh around the break was a mess of torn muscle, embedded with tiny metal shards and dirt. The misaligned bone created a visible lump under the skin. It was a brutal sight.
"This might hurt," Liam murmured, half to her, half to himself. He began the painstaking process of picking debris from the wound. At his touch, Elara flinched violently, her brow tightening further, a soft sound escaping her lips. She didn't wake, but fresh sweat beaded on her forehead.
The cleaning was agonizingly slow. Every tiny movement made her body jerk. Liam worked with excruciating care, his fingers soon stained red and slick. It took him a full half-hour to clear the wound. He applied the paste of crystal powder and oil. Her body convulsed again, a choked groan echoing in her throat, her pallor worsening, but she remained unconscious.
For the broken arm, he found a stout, straight branch and used his scavenged knife to strip it. He fashioned a crude splint, carefully positioning her arm on it and securing it with loops of wire, careful not to make them too tight. It was a crude fix, but it would have to do.
Next, he addressed the deep wound on her abdomen. It was still oozing blood. He tore a relatively clean strip from his own shirt, dampened it with the spring water from his canteen, and gently wiped away the caked blood around the injury. He applied the remaining crystal powder and bound it tightly with the cloth strip, hoping to slow the bleeding.
Finished, Liam finally let out a long breath and slumped against the machine tool, exhaustion washing over him. His own shoulder wound still seeped. He tore another strip of cloth and bound it roughly, hissing in pain as he pulled it tight. The fire in his shoulder made him shudder, his energy utterly spent.
The airship's engines had quieted. The pursuit squad hadn't found the workshop yet, perhaps blocked by the Rustwood Forest or busy retrieving their dead. But Liam knew this was a temporary reprieve. An Imperial cruiser was near Rust Island. The pursuit squad was numerous and well-armed. They would conduct a thorough search. He was trapped in this small workshop with a gravely injured woman, Imperial soldiers at the door, the island's beasts at his back, and the Rust Plague ticking inside him. His situation was more precarious than ever. One misstep meant utter ruin.
He looked at Elara. Even in her nightmares, her face was tense, her lips moving silently. He caught fragments: "Elias…" "Betrayal…" "The Order…" Her voice was thick with hatred and anguish. Liam frowned. It seemed this woman and the Pope, Elias, were entangled in some deep, dark secret. Her crash-landing was likely the result of discovering that secret, leading to betrayal and a hunt that had probably already destroyed the Silver Wolf Knight Order she once commanded.
Whatever the reason, by saving her, he'd made an enemy of the Human Empire itself. The days ahead would only get harder.
Liam's grip tightened on the steam-revolver at his hip, his fingers tracing its cold contours. His eyes grew hard. There was no going back now. His only chance was to hold this workshop, protect Elara, regain his strength, improve his weapons, and find a way to deal with the hunters. It was his only slim hope for survival.
He got up, retrieved the wild fruits from the corner, and forced a few down. The sour taste jolted his senses, but it was fuel. After eating and drinking some water, he felt a little stronger, the pain in his shoulder receding to a dull, heavy throb. He returned to the inner door, peering out through the crack. The night remained deep. Occasional beast roars echoed in the distance, but there was no sign of the pursuit squad. Out on the sea, the silhouette of the Imperial cruiser loomed ever clearer in the moonlight, a slumbering leviathan waiting for dawn's hunt, its presence an oppressive weight.
The night deepened. Silence reclaimed the workshop, broken only by the hiss of leaking steam and Elara's faint, ragged breathing. Liam rested fitfully against the wall, never fully sleeping, his senses tuned to the world outside, his left hand never leaving the warm metal of the revolver.
Sometime later, a faint sound woke him—not from outside, but from beside him. He opened his eyes. In the moonlight, he saw Elara's eyes were open. Silver orbs gleamed faintly in the dark, filled with confusion and wariness. She tried to move, gasped in pain as her injuries protested, her brow furrowing. Her gaze found Liam, sharp with suspicion.
"You… saved me?" Her voice was a dry rasp, weak from her ordeal, yet it held a core of cool distance. She tried to push herself up, but Liam pressed a hand gently to her uninjured shoulder.
"You're badly hurt. Don't move," his voice was low, calm, devoid of excessive emotion. "Imperial hunters are still outside. It's not safe."
Elara studied him for a long moment, her gaze shifting from wary to complex. She looked down at her bandaged arm, then at the dressing on her abdomen. After a silence, she spoke again. "Thank you." The words were still cool, but the edge had softened slightly. "I am Elara Voss. And you?"
"Liam." He offered nothing more about himself, asked nothing of her past.
Elara gave a slight, pained nod and closed her eyes, either conserving her strength or lost in thought. Silence fell once more inside the workshop. Outside, on the distant sea, the Imperial cruiser's searchlight continued its periodic sweep over Rust Island, a stark promise that a greater crisis was steadily closing in.