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It could have been a man, once, a long time ago. A sixty-story man starved into a skeletal remnant of the titanic creature it’d been before. Pellucid flesh hung off bone in a thin veil, blackening in places where rot had settled in, the strange light of the Rim bleeding through venous maps. Where its eyes should be, holes sank, the sockets so deep that the creature could have been blind if not for the very obvious focus on their caravan. But out of it all, the mouth was the worst, hanging open to expose a set of bleached-bone teeth, its lower jaw a broken hinge that swung with every lurch forward, the cataclysmic shake of its steps knocking Orpheus’ teeth together with a skull-rattling chatter.

A Hell beast of impossible size, trapped here on Earth to starve and die and suffer—coming for them like they were a feast.

I don’t have magic, he wanted to scream. Can’t you tell? You don’t want me!

Orpheus collapsed against the bars of the cage while a ginormous skeletal hand cut a shadow through the dust.

We’re dead! We’re all fucking dead!

Night came and went, the palm blocking out the sun at its brief apex before hurdling towards the ground. It struck the shale instead of his wagon, furrows spitting more dust into the air while the creature’s fingers curled in, grasping, dragging over rock to collect the broken pieces in one massive fist it lifted overhead.

Orpheus choked on another wave of dust, eyes wide enough he could feel his tears drying before they had the chance to fall. All hells, this couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be how he died. Where was Fenrir? Where was he?

Orpheus covered his face just as the creature hurled the rocks directly at their caravan.

Shale cut through the white cloaks with the force of a hurricane. Two horses reared, throwing their riders before bolting into the dust, the horse hauling Gwen’s wagon skipping sideways like it meant to follow them. Serval appeared at its side before it had a chance. A quelling hand laid over its neck before he unshackled it from the wagon, their eyes meeting past the bars of Orpheus’ cage while he worked.

Through the googles, Orpheus couldn’t get a read on his expression, but the jerk of his hands and the angle of his chin seemed accusatory, like this was Orpheus’ fault even though he didn’t have any Netherflame left to attract a hell beast, let alone a monstrosity of this caliber.

Freed, the horse bolted as a mournful wail tore through Orpheus’ chest and shattered his thoughts.

Baleful and wretched, the sound crawled into his head and rooted there, like a worm, chewing through his brain and making his thoughts burn. He tried covering his ears, but his iron-clad hands wouldn’t reach. Without anything to stop it, the pressure built, howl carrying on the dust like it was the sea, until every single white cloak he could see was on their knees bracing their head.

Everyone, except Atticus.

From the dust, fire sparked, white-hot and molten.

“Torches up!” Atticus screamed, his flame raised in defiance, dancing his horse at the creature’s feet while the white cloaks struggled to theirs, other sparks emerging from the haze, until a speckle of fires set the dust to glimmer.

From that dust, Duluth reappeared, that iron-black cylinder squealing behind him.

It sank into the shale with a metallic gong. Supporting braces groaned when it tipped upward to point directly at the creature, a panel at the back sliding open as Duluth began to crank a lever back and forth—back and forth—over and over until the air began to move.

Dust brushed past his cheeks, shimmering air flooding the massive reservoir like it were a lung taking its first deep breath, the area around Orpheus clearing enough that clean air filled his nose for the first time in hours. He breathed what he could, while he could, only to have it all catch in his throat when Atticus lowered his torch towards the cylinder, and Orpheus realized with sudden shock just what this thing was.

Is that how they made it across the crack?

The flame sparked, the wick caught, and then the whole world ignited.

He’d read about combustible dust before. Tiny metallic compounds often used in dyes or produced as a manufacturing byproduct that could catch fire or possibly explode. This dust was different. Left over from the fires of hell itself, it didn’t burn, it erupted. From the iron lung a wall of fire scorched the sky, igniting every last shimmering particle in an explosive blast that sent his wagon careening backwards. Orpheus hit the front bars headfirst, pain blossoming across his cheek and into his jaw before warmth flooded in its wake—but not from blood. Heat engulfed the Rim, a ghostly thermal wave that rolled across the sky like a blanket drawn back.

Across the top of his cage, embers dropped, tiny bits of crystalized material that twanged off the wagon’s roof to tumble across the ground. Whether it was dust or shale or pieces of the creature, Orpheus didn’t know, but whatever it was, it had been forged by the heat of that infernal machine.

Nothing could survive that, Orpheus thought, desperate—hopeful. But then another sound rose from the inferno, a growl he could only describe as mad.

The creature crawled from the smoke with wrenching jerks, half its drawn face wet from a wound nothing should be able to survive. Much of its left side was the same, stark white bone peeking through the translucent flesh, limp arm dragging a wet smear in its wake. But it was alive, and it was coming for them, and Orpheus could not shake the impression that it was heading straight for him.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—

“Again!” Atticus shouted over the chaos.

Again, the lung breathed. Again, air whipped past Orpheus’ cheeks. What was left of the dust was barely enough to fill the cannon, let alone ignite what remained in the sky, but Atticus once again lowered his torch to the wick and the ensuing fireball tumbled across the ground in a molten wave, crystallized dust particles catching into a carpet of fire. It wasn’t enough to ignite the creature again, but it was enough to give it pause. Orpheus remained frozen in place while the creature stared down at the licking flames, then threw its head back and screamed.

Orpheus’ eyes rolled into his head while his thoughts turned to fire.

“You know what it wants!” Serval shrieked from somewhere close by, and a flare of white cloak whipped out of the smoke. Sweat gleamed across his horse’s flank, foam edging its mouth. “The thing is fuckin’ hungry, it’s not gonna stop until it’s dead or fed!”

“I know that!” Atticus snapped back, signaling to Duluth. “We will reposition ourselves for another blast.”