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In the light of the Netherflame lantern, Fenrir’s sword shone like a beacon.

“Do you recognize this?”

All smooth ebony inlaid with pearl, the blade shone like molten silver, stronger than any of the steel Lore’s blacksmiths had been able to forge. But the blade was unbloodied, clean of the carnage the Empire had suffered on Sanctuary’s hillside. Severed like a limb, a wound Orpheus didn’t know how to close, because only one thing would ever separate Fenrir from his sword…

“He’s dead.”

Atticus caught him before he could hit the ground, Duluth stepping around them, lantern held out towards the cell.

“Names, Orpheus. Tell me.”

Orpheus couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Couldn’t look away. In the cell, Farris began banging on the glass before Atticus slid between them and glared.

“Tell me, my unfortunate mage, or do you need more motivation than the obvious?”

“Why?” Orpheus managed to hiss. “Why couldn’t you have left us alone!”

Fenrir is dead, and for the first time in weeks, he believed it.

Fenrir is dead, and with him died any hope Orpheus had not just for rescue, but a future worth preserving.

Fenrir is dead, and that meant he was too, in all the ways that mattered. In any way that made sense.

Fenrir is dead, so why shouldn’t everyone else on this hells-forsaken planet die too?

“Names, Orpheus.”

“Farris and Red,” came out in a breath.

“Told ya,” Serval muttered.

Atticus ignored him. “Do you understand what happens next?”

Orpheus tore his gaze away from Farris and met Atticus’ pale stare.

“I do,” breathed through him, a promise and a threat.

“I’m sorry.” Atticus’ face went grim, then blank.

Then empty.

Chapter XXXVI

To Arms

Under the cold light of the electric lantern, it waited, pauldron curved like a well-turned muscle, sleek where the gauntlet tapered into an armored glove. No flesh remained that Fenrir could see, it reeked of the antiseptic sting of the Lab’s operatory, a dead thing waiting for the life Fenrir’s body would give it.

It was beautiful. It was grotesque. And it was his.

“The arm is constructed of a titanium-gold alloy, stronger than typical titanium and steel and about fifty-percent lighter. Underneath is a fully mecha-organic replacement of the bone and muscle that was damaged by Daedra’s blade, grown into an artificial neural-network of my own personal design. The armor pieces can be removed, and beneath this portion here” —Bastion ran his fingers down the forearm to cup the hand— “is what remains of your original arm, including your hand. I’ve replaced the bones with the same titanium-gold alloy the armor is made of and included in the exterior’s alloy an organic compound that has fused with the nerves in the arm itself. The arm is non-functioning as far as a circulatory system goes, but the glove can feel as any wholly organic hand can. I think you will find the effect quite natural.”

“Natural,” Fenrir repeated. “Bastion, this is incredible.”

“Like I said weeks ago. It’s an impressive specimen, and worth the effort to save. A man of your caliber deserves the best tech my Lab can make, and this is my finest achievement yet, if I may say so.”

Fenrir swallowed, reaching out to touch the dome of the pauldron, then drag down its curve. When he reached the hand, he applied a bit of pressure—the armored fingers curled towards the palm like any living hand would.

My hand, Fenrir thought, touch lingering on the fingers—physical form given to the phantom limb he’d spent the last weeks learning to live without.