A guttural groan, deeper than any Iker’s stomach had produced, ripped through the Grand Cathedral. The ancient stones shivered, not from cold, but from a tremor that resonated through the very foundations. Outside, the churning slurry had become a grotesque, living thing, a mass of boiling gray sludge rising higher than the fortress’s colossal walls. It moved with an agonizing slowness, yet an unstoppable momentum, its surface roiling with angry steam that hissed like a thousand vipers. High Priest Gorka, his face a mottled canvas of terror and indignation, stumbled from the antechamber, clutching his now-pristine robes. “The… the cleansing! It’s turned against us!” he shrieked, his voice thin with panic. His eyes darted to the immense, lead-reinforced doors, then to the terrified faces of the few remaining acolytes. “Seal the lower gates! Initiate the emergency protocols! The inner sanctum must be preserved!” One of the younger priests, a thin man named Eneko, dared to question him. “But, High Priest! The villagers, the pilgrims in the outer wards… they’ll be crushed!” “Sacrifices must be made for the greater good!” Gorka bellowed, his voice cracking. “Only the anointed, only those essential to the continuation of our faith, shall be granted passage to the upper refugia! The Divine’s chosen, the Summoned, must be protected at all costs!” He gestured frantically towards Iker’s commandeered suite. Iker, however, was already emerging from the opulent chamber, not with any sense of urgency, but with a profound, simmering annoyance. He wore soft, embroidered slippers and a silk robe that was far too large, its sleeves nearly dragging on the floor. Bihotz, now a cat-sized ball of obsidian scales, stretched languidly at his feet before letting out a tiny, irritated hiss at the rising clamor. Nerea, still wrapped in her blanket cocoon, peered around Iker’s leg, her eyes wide with sleep and a faint trace of fear. “Keep it down,” Iker grumbled, his voice low but cutting through the rising hysteria like a honed blade. He gently pushed Nerea back into the room. “Someone’s trying to nap. Do you know how hard it is to get a ten-year-old to nap?” Gorka gaped at him, momentarily speechless. “My Lord… the wave! It threatens to engulf us! We must ascend to the Sky-Spires!” Iker merely sighed, a deep, put-upon sound. He walked to one of the massive, arched windows, now fully open thanks to his previous efforts. The view was apocalyptic. A boiling sea of ash-mud, taller than the highest spires, loomed just meters from the monastery-fortress walls, its surface spitting geysers of superheated steam. The air thickened with a stench of decay and ozone. “Right,” Iker muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “First, the tea. Now this.” He pushed the window fully open and, to Gorka’s horror, stepped onto the narrow stone ledge outside. “Nerea, stay inside,” he called over his shoulder, his tone softening only for her. “I’ll be right back. Just need to tell the neighbors to quiet down.” He stood there, a solitary figure in his flimsy robe and slippers, facing down a world-ending torrent. The sludge, as if sensing his presence, shuddered and surged forward, picking up speed in a rushing wall of destruction. Gorka screamed a soundless shriek, his hands flying to his mouth. Iker scowled. The noise was indeed getting louder, the grinding, churning roar of the avalanche assaulting his ears. He imagined Nerea’s little hands clamping over her ears, her brow furrowed in distress. That image, more than the actual threat of annihilation, ignited a spark of genuine irritation within him. He raised his foot. Not in a magical incantation, not in a grand display of power, but with the casual, exasperated motion of someone about to squash an annoying insect. Then, he brought his foot down. One soft slipper, planted firmly on the ancient, ash-dusted stone of the parapet ledge. *Thump.* The sound was almost imperceptible, a dull thud lost in the roar of the cascade. But the effect was immediate, absolute. A ripple of kinetic force, invisible and immense, exploded outwards from Iker’s foot. It wasn’t a destructive wave, but a concussive burst of pure, unadulterated annoyance. The leading edge of the torrent, a hundred-meter-high wall of viscous sludge, simply ceased to be. It didn't explode, didn't shatter. It *vaporized*. In an instant, the entire mass of boiling earth, the endless torrent that threatened to swallow the Cathedral whole, transformed into a shimmering, incandescent mist. The steam, no longer toxic, refracted the muted light of Ohalza’s perpetually clouded sky into a magnificent, arcing rainbow that spanned the entire horizon, a brief, ethereal bridge between the stone redoubt and the now-empty gorge. Gorka, still frozen in place, watched as the impossible spectacle unfolded. The roar died, replaced by a profound, echoing silence. Where the torrent had been, a vast, scarred ravine now stretched, freshly carved and eerily clean. The air, for the first time in memory, smelled faintly of wet earth and something akin to ozone. Iker lowered his foot. “See? Much better,” he mumbled, dusting a speck of ash from his robe. He squinted at the newly exposed earth. It was a rich, dark brown, fertile-looking, unlike anything they had seen in generations. A faint shimmer of green seemed to cling to its surface. For a fleeting moment, a sliver of hope, pure and fragile, pierced the melancholic air. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the shimmer vanished. The dark earth began to weep. Not water, but a thin, oily blackness that seeped from its pores, dissolving the nascent green. The freshly carved chasm walls seemed to deflate, to sag. The clean earth, in mere seconds, began to rot, decaying back into the familiar gray ash, coarser, more toxic than before. The faint smell of ozone was swiftly overtaken by the acrid stench of a wound festering anew. Iker’s usually impassive face tightened. He looked down into the trench, a raw fissure of instant decay, the vibrant rainbow already fading to a ghostly arc. He had wanted a safe place, a secluded haven for Nerea and himself. He had imagined a quiet corner of this absurd world where they could hide, untouched by its madness. But there was no hiding here. No matter how much he cleaned, how much he pushed back the rot, it always returned, instantly, relentlessly, a weeping scar on the face of the world. His sister, his precious Nerea, would never truly be safe in a place that died the moment it was cleansed. His fear of loss, of allowing himself to care, had driven him to seek isolation. But isolation in Ohalza was just a slower, more painful death. To protect her, he wouldn’t just have to survive this world; he would have to *cure* it. This hospice of a realm, dying one toxic breath at a time, demanded an active healer, not an apathetic observer. He stood there, a solitary figure in his flimsy robe, staring down a gulch of weeping, rotting earth. The sky, eternally gray, seemed to press down on him. Then, a voice, ancient and resonant, yet filled with an unbearable sorrow, echoed from the ash-laden clouds. Hodei’s voice. “The Core is fracturing. Euthanasia begins in 24 hours.”

Nowhere to Run