The perimeter cage hummed, a low, oppressive thrum against my eardrums. Outside, Karnal’s roars were muffled, distant thunder, a sound that usually meant imminent destruction, but here, now, it was a torment. It was the sound of my single, most effective weapon being held at bay. “Well, well, the little stray finally alone with her benefactor.” Lord Varnak, a skeletal figure whose face was a roadmap of ancient scars, straightened from his crouch. His voice, once projected through Grak, now rasped with a dry, intimate malice. He clutched a gnarled staff of polished bone, its tip glowing faintly with a cold, inner light. “Did you truly think you could escape the Varnak name, girl? Or perhaps you thought to simply die and break the curse?” I wiped a streak of blood from my cheek – not mine, thankfully, but some unfortunate Varnak loyalist’s. “Neither,” I said, my voice deliberately flat. “I thought I’d cut out your heart and then take a long nap. Plans change.” The red ward was thick, shimmering, impenetrable. Even Karnal would take time to tear through this. Time I didn’t have, not with the persistent, faint itch of the curse mark on my wrist. He laughed, a dry, rattling sound that vibrated the very air. “Such insolence. You truly believe your pathetic little blood-curse is so easily circumvented? The Varnak line is ancient, child. Our magic is… comprehensive. You believe the real highborn wretch, the true Tavira Varnak, is merely dead? A convenient corpse to power a new life?” Bile rose hot in my throat. I kept my expression blank. “Enlighten me, old man. Unless you just enjoy the sound of your own voice, which, frankly, is grating.” His smile widened, revealing teeth filed to sharp points. “The Iron Heavens array demands a powerful core. Not just any core. A life force intricately woven into the very fabric of the Varnak name, soaked in its betrayal. The trueborn Tavira Varnak,” he paused, savoring the words, “is not dead. She is merely… sleeping. A living battery, providing the endless fuel for this cage. Her blood, her essence, her agony – all of it feeding my masterpiece.” The genuine villainess. Not dead. Hooked to the engine like cattle. Which meant my death, the farm-girl Tavira’s death, wouldn’t break the curse. It would just kill *me*. The curse would remain, tethered to the genuine heir, allowing the clan head to continue his treasonous reign until she finally withered away. This wasn’t just about escape anymore; it was about outright annihilation. Every cynical fiber of my being screamed at the absurdity, the sheer, convoluted cruelty of it. “So, if I die, the curse still ticks for her,” I stated, my mind racing through implications. “And if she dies, I die. Neat. I’m impressed by the sheer amount of effort you put into making sure I couldn’t just cash out early.” “Indeed,” he preened, tapping his staff against the ground. “And soon, the array will harvest enough power to crack the very leviathan beneath us. Your warlord will be crushed, your rebellion scattered, and the Varnak dynasty will ascend.” He took a slow, deliberate step towards me, his gaze fixed on my curse mark. “Now, where shall I carve the first piece?” I met his gaze, a familiar, predatory calm settling over me. Waiting for Karnal was not an option. He might tear down the heavens, but I’d be a bloody stain by then. This old monster was arrogant, a fatal flaw. He saw me as nothing more than gutter filth, a temporary vessel. Good. Let him. “You talk too much for a man about to die,” I said, my voice a silken thread of contempt. He scoffed, taking another step. “Empty threats. You have no weapon, no magic, no hope.” “Oh, I have hope,” I countered, my eyes flicking to his feet, then back to his face. “Just not in you.” I shifted my weight, as if preparing for a desperate, clumsy lunge. My right boot, thick-soled and reinforced for the harsh Pits, felt heavier than usual. It was a fragment, no larger than my palm, of the gravity-tomb plate I’d salvaged from my first, chaotic escape. A desperate, last-minute precaution, tucked into a hidden compartment, almost forgotten. “Come then, little scavenger. Let me show you what true power feels like,” he sneered, taking the bait. He raised his staff, a faint red glow emanating from its tip. He took one more confident, disdainful step forward, bringing his left foot down squarely on the spot I’d hoped for. There was no sound, only an instantaneous, horrific *squelch*. The air around his foot warped, compressed, as if swallowed by an invisible maw. His leg buckled, then twisted at an unnatural angle, the bone audibly *shattering* beneath the immense, localized pressure. He screamed, a high-pitched, incredulous shriek of agony. His staff clattered, its magic sputtering, as he stumbled, his ruined leg collapsing beneath him. “What… what is this sorcery?!” he choked, clutching his mangled limb. The sickening scent of ruptured flesh filled the confined space. Blood, dark and viscous, pooled around his foot, now a pulpy mess of bone and sinew. “Just a little souvenir from my humble origins,” I said, stepping away. “The gravity-tomb, remember? Pretty effective for crushing things.” His face, already gaunt, contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. “You… insignificant worm!” A dark, coiling mist erupted from his body, thick tendrils snaking down his ruined leg, knitting the flesh, forcing the shattered bones back together with a horrifying, unnatural speed. Forbidden blood-magic, raw and agonizing, surged through him, allowing him to endure the impossible. He wouldn’t heal, not truly, but he could move. He could *stand*. He pushed himself up, leaning heavily on his staff, his eyes blazing with a maniacal fury that dwarfed even Karnal’s. “You thought a mere gutter trick could fell a clan master? I will tear you apart, piece by bloody piece!” With a guttural roar, he lunged, a crippled, furious projectile, his staff arcing towards me with a speed I didn’t anticipate. I dodged, but too slowly. The blunted bone tip of his staff ripped through my tunic, a searing pain exploding in my lower abdomen. The impact lifted me off my feet, throwing me against the shimmering wall of red glass. A red stain blossomed rapidly across my stomach, hot and sticky. I slumped to the ground, my breath catching in a ragged gasp. The staff had gone deep. Then, the agony. Not just from the wound, but from my wrist. The curse mark, usually a dull ache, flared with a violent, consuming fire. Crimson lines, like veins of molten iron, erupted from the mark, crawling up my arm, across my chest, burning their way through my flesh. It was the final stage. The execution. My vision blurred, the old ghoul’s triumphant, blood-soaked face swimming in and out of focus. Outside, a sound like the world itself tearing apart echoed, no longer muffled. The perimeter shell, which had seemed so impenetrable, began to crack, ruby fissures spiderwebbing across its surface. The hum shifted, becoming a high-pitched, unbearable shriek. His grin died, eyes flicking upward to the splintering red sky. My vision dimmed, taking in the red shards raining down, the blast of canyon dust, Karnal's frenzied roar, and then nothing.

Battery of Souls