CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

After corralling the Lords into a single-file formation, the Admirals made for the exit. They took special precaution with Khan in fear his rage would boil the restraints that bound him.

Before they could mount the prodigious stairway, static whispers halted their departure. Glitches in the Holo-screens pulled their attention to the rear of the chamber; strings of indecipherable symbols scrolling in waves of distortion.

“Atmospheric disturbance?” Asked Hail with a hopeful air to his voice. Indra shook his head and lowered his hand, hovering it over the hilt of the long, silver sword at his waist. Hail took the hint, reaching both hands deep into the fur lining of his heavy jacket, he retrieved a pair of thick barrelled pistols, packed to the brim with explosive pincer rounds. Soran shuddered as a sudden burst of radio static crackled from the instruments. Bouncing between machines, the disturbance forced their heads to pivot wildly to track its movement. The Admirals tightened their formation. Back to back, they scanned the chamber for signs of movement whilst maintaining a vigilant eye on the Lords. For a moment, all sound was extinguished. The buzzing of the machines went silent. The Holo-screens fell dark, and even the breeze stilled itself in anticipation.

Malig began to convulse. His eyes became a verdurous malaise of light, pinpricks gleaming through the mist that spewed from his gaping mouth. Kaligan followed, howling as mist poured from his body, the joints of his metallic exoskeleton groaning as he contorted in pain. Soon, all six pirates were trembling in agony. Though the restraints that bound them dug deep into their flesh, the source of their anguish originated elsewhere. Something inside wanted to get out.

Simultaneously, the Lords fell limp. The Admirals looked on in horror as a spectral chain oozed forth from each of the prisoners, slithering along the ground like a predatory serpent. The chains joined at a central point, converging into a single ethereal entity and forging a new path straight toward the boy. It was then he felt it.

Soran's vision tracked over the sweat-slicked ring of his collar until they came into view. Three fingers, clad in golden rings, were rested on his shoulder; a scarred stump all that remained of the forth. Weathered tattoos decorated the mottled surface of his skin; reddish-brown hues, woven together into a warm rosewood, disappearing behind a curtain of silken cuffs. He watched the chains climb through the air, scrambling into the open pages of an immense tome that was held open at his side. The glowing links disappeared into a powdery cloud as they dove into the ancient pages. As Soran looked out on the crowd, it was as if no one had noticed. Antique statues cemented in a perpetual stillness, unmoved by the figure that towered behind him. Summoning the courage to gaze upon the giant, the boy came face to face with the owner of the disfigured hand. A seductive, emerald gaze peered through wiry coils of woven hair, curling into boorish horns that lay over his shoulder. Soran could feel the warmth of the man's breath brush over his cheeks, stray strands of an unkempt beard reaching uncomfortably close to his face. A fiendish smile exposed a row of silver teeth, marred with the rotting remains of those still in need of replacement. That's when he noticed it. Sat atop the man's head was a shimmering halo. The keystone crown had found its throne.

Soran went to scream but reality clawed its way back. Time was returned to the room. The three Admirals turned to face Talas but he was already gone. With the hand imprint still creased into his suit, Soran turned to Ranna whose complexion had been stained white with fear. Following his Captain's gaze, dread ran through the boy like a spear. They were all standing, unrestrained and armed. The Pirate-Lords were free.

Surrounded, the Admirals were outnumbered and outgunned, a position they were not familiar with. Indra looked back at his creation, recalling the orbs into his robes to reveal what he had feared. The husk of the Pirate-King was gone. In its stead, the smoldering ruin of Volka's headless corpse. His metallic shell had burned away to reveal a glassy orb that had been sheltered for decades. Encased inside the orb was a heart. A human heart that Volka hoped to one day feel beating inside his chest, its grandiose purpose never to be fulfilled.

In a whir of mechanized reanimation, the Holo-screens blinked back online, illuminating the faces of the scorned pirates. A mixture of accusatory grins and grimaces were targeted on the last defenders of all they opposed. Looming behind the Lords was a seventh figure. Surrounded by his faithful servants stood King Talas, his body restored to that of his younger self. Thick horns of hair swayed over the crimson of his artfully crafted attire, appearing nothing like the imaginative illustrations of the stories. They depicted a demon, clad in a cowl sown from the souls of his victims, draped in a cloak blacker than the darkest recesses of the abyss. No. The man who stood before them was regal, proud, and distinguished. Rough as any pirate Soran had ever seen, there was no doubt from where the Lords had acquired their aesthetic.

Placing his hand on Khan's shoulder, Talas revealed himself to the Lords. They fell before him without hesitation. With arms crossed over their chests and heads risen to display their markings, the Lord's were swallowed by awe.

Gesa had had enough. She aimed her gauntlet directly at Talas, pulling her fingers into a fist. Before she could engage the mechanism, he had disappeared, a sliver of smoke lingering in his absence. Not a second passed before she heard the hiss of his breath behind her. He had infiltrated their formation. The Admirals spiraled outward, surrounding the King. Without hesitation, they commenced their assault. Gesa plunged her gauntlet toward his face with the ferocity to crush armies, her magnetic manipulation operating at maximum effect. Indra struck next, embedding his sword deep into the pirates' belly, only the perfect sheen of its silver hilt remaining visible. Hail cared far less about accuracy than his peers. Aiming straight for the crown he hammered on the triggers, releasing the entire clip of each pistol in a matter of seconds. Pincer rounds crackled from the barrels as blinding flashes of light danced against Gesa’s armor. Lethal, efficient, and over before anyone could even blink. The Admiral's ruthless attack left the onlookers stunned. Their battle prowess was truly magnificent, the tales of their accolades unbefitting of the reality.

Talas coughed, sputters of blood escaping from his lips. As he continued, the points of his mustache curled into a grin. His charade of defeat morphed into a condescending laugh as the Admiral's weapons evaporated into smoke. His wounded body and torn clothing reformed to perfection before their eyes. Debilitated by the impossibility of their enemy, the Admirals watched powerlessly as Talas flicked open Atlazar. Dagger tipped, ethereal chains once again rose from its pages, their emerald glow subduing all those ensnared by its light. An abrupt whistle accompanied a slicing wind and the Admirals found the chains pierced deep into their chests, seeking the very fabric of their souls.

“Who, are you?” whispered Indra, his hands ineffectually grasping at the invasive apparition, the terror in his voice freezing all those that heard it.

“So easily forgotten. I can only hope that this time I leave a more lasting impression.” Talas slammed the book closed and with a snap of its pages, the Admirals were no more.

Soran knew that the final bell had tolled. Since leaving the Hyacinth, his dreams had been plagued by nightmarish visions. Closing his eyes held an ever-present danger. Swimming in the pits of his mind was an unknown darkness that filled his waking moments with dread. No longer the desired reprieve, the sliver of peace he could enjoy at the end of a hard day. Sleep had become a punishment, forcing him to see what was hidden in the dusty backrooms of his mind, cursing him with premonitions of an unwelcome future.

He stared out upon the astounded faces of the Lords as they worshiped at the feet of a ghost. A phantom that somehow roamed their world and possessed a power so unchallengeable it had felled all three Admirals in the blink of an eye. His visions, however terrifying, had been inadequate at preparing him for such an impossible being. The spark of hope he was holding on to, his naive notions of rebellion, was now utterly extinguished. The end of all he knew had arrived.