The Drosk family estate, usually a monument to the syndicate’s power, felt like a gilded cage. Polished obsidian floors reflected the anxious faces of Servitors, their internal cores humming faintly as they moved through the vast reception hall. Kerym Drosk lounged on an ornate plasteel sofa, eyelids drooping, the low drone of the estate grid serving as a dull lullaby. Beside him, Vorstag Ghol stood watchful in a tailored charcoal suit as the Drosk patriarch and matriarch approached. Their desperation clung to them like a shroud. “Vorstag,” Lysandra Drosk’s voice cracked, her gaze flitting from Kerym to the Ghol patriarch, never quite settling. Her face was a mask of calculated grief, designed to evoke sympathy. Her husband, Theron, shifted uneasily beside her, a hand clenching at his side. “We… we need your help. Praxton is fading. The rot…” Vorstag’s smile was a thin, cruel line. “Core decay. A pity.” He rested a heavy hand on Kerym’s shoulder. “To lose such a talent.” Theron Drosk cleared his throat, his eyes darting toward Kerym, then away. “A pleasure, young Ghol.” He offered a stiff nod. “Vorstag, we propose an alliance. Our mining operations, our fuel refineries in the Ur-Sector… all at your disposal. For your clinical resources, for the stabilizing fluids.” Kerym felt a distant, familiar ache in his chest. A pang of pity, like a forgotten phantom limb. These were his parents, broken and groveling. He almost felt something. Almost. Lysandra stepped forward, her voice dropping to an urgent murmur. “We’ve tried every procedure, Vorstag. Every graft. He needs an identical donor. If only that discarded runt hadn’t expired so uselessly. A complete harvest from him would have sustained Praxton for years.” The faint, almost-pity in Kerym’s chest shriveled and died. A shard of ice replaced it. He felt his apathy deepen, turning into something cold and sharp. *Futile death*. His *mother*. For a fraction of a second, Kerym's dull gaze hardened into black flint. At that precise moment, a low thrum vibrated through the floorboards. It was not the estate's defensive perimeter. It was deeper, more guttural, a sound that resonated in the bones. Praxton Drosk, wasted and pale, dragged his heels into the hall from an adjoining gallery. His skin was sallow, his movements jerky, but his eyes burned with a feverish intensity. He caught Kerym’s gaze across the opulent room. The rot stripped away nerve endings while overcharging visual receptors, leaving him half-mad with sensory static that peeled through surface disguises. The thrum intensified, becoming a roar. Distant, yet growing. A rapid succession of concussive blasts rippled across the city, each impact vibrating the air, rattling the expensive artwork on the walls. “What in the blazes?!” Theron Drosk roared, his face blanching. The skyline outside suddenly erupted in staggered detonations. Pillars of flame shot into the sky from across the skyline. The concussions rattled Kerym's ribcage. Madame Zykhan was executing her sabotage, detonating Drosk fuel lines and ammo stores across the lower tier in synchronized bursts. Then, with a final, ear-splitting *CRACK*, the massive plasteel windows of the reception hall fractured. Shards the size of daggers exploded inward, showering the room with glittering, razor-sharp debris. Servitors dropped to the tiles, their personal shields sputtering under the shower of jagged plasteel. Vorstag, with a speed that belied his calm demeanor, moved. He didn’t flinch, didn't hesitate. He stepped in front of Kerym, his silhouette a wall, momentum rippling off his trench coat to snap incoming shards to powder. He didn’t just protect; he *claimed*. Amidst the chaos, amidst the screams and the raining glass, Praxton Drosk staggered, his eyes locked onto Kerym. His overtaxed retinas tore past the micro-pigments and biosculpt mesh. He saw the familiar, faint scar above Kerym’s left eye. He traced the resonant Drosk frequency running beneath the heavy Ghol mantle. He saw *him*. The discarded, the forgotten. The donor he had bled dry for years. Not dead. Not Vorstag's boy. *Kerym*. Praxton’s jaw dropped. A guttural sound tore from his throat, a mix of disbelief, rage, and a terrifying, ravenous hunger. “Kerym… you… you *traitorous filth*!” Vorstag turned, his hand still on Kerym’s shoulder, a stark declaration of ownership. His gaze, colder than the void between stars, pierced Praxton. “This is my heir, boy. You will address him with deference,” Vorstag rumbled over the thunder of the burning skyline, “or kneel before your new master.” Kerym watched Lysandra gawk, then looked to Praxton, whose gaunt limbs shook with uncontrollable fever. The lethargy vanished. Sleep could wait. He would leave this bloodline in ashes, making them pay for every needle, every extraction harness, and every drop of life they had drained from his ribs. Praxton Drosk’s bloodshot eyes darted between Kerym and Vorstag, the reality of the deception, the impossible betrayal, twisting his already failing mind. His failing tissues craved the familiar biological fuel Kerym held, but shock choked his breath. He stumbled back, his hand fumbling at his belt, pulling out a sleek, vial-like injector. The liquid within pulsed with an unnatural, sickly violet light. Lysandra shrieked. “Praxton, no! It’s unstable! You haven’t stabilized the catalysts!” Praxton ignored her, a manic grin stretching his thin lips. “Unstable? Perhaps. But it will make me *strong*. It will make me *whole*.” With a violent stab, he plunged the injector into his neck. His body spasmed, his muscles contorting, veins bulging like cords beneath his skin. A low snarl tore from his throat as the violet compound burned through his bloodstream, knotting his flesh. His eyes, now pools of violent ultraviolet light, locked onto Kerym and Vorstag. “You think you can steal what’s mine? You think you can replace me? I will tear this city apart! I will burn your precious Obsidian Spire to ash! This is war, Ghol! All-out war!” The air around Praxton warped as displaced momentum blasted outward, tearing oil portraits from the stone and flipping the reception couches across the floor. His emaciated form began to swell, muscle rippling beneath his skin, his bones audibly cracking and reforming as the unstable serum warped him into something monstrous, something no longer entirely human. His voice, now a distorted bellow, echoed through the ruined hall. “You will regret this day, Kerym! I will strip every last drop of tissue from your ribs myself!”

The Summit of Ash