Trenn yanked the cuirass strap, cinching oiled hide tight against his chest. It creaked as he rolled his shoulders, testing the fit against the ridge of scales along his spine.

  He stepped into flexible leather trousers, the back split to accommodate his anatomy. He reached back, fumbling with his good hand to buckle the belt above his tail.

  He grabbed Skate from the workbench and dropped the sleeping slime onto his head.

  "Does it chaff?" Zeen asked, watching Trenn stretch to test the seams.

  "It's fine." Trenn shifted his weight, and the leather pants moved with him, the tail swaying freely without catching on the fabric.

  "Good. It was hard to make proper armor with you not being here. I almost turned these leathers into something useful, like saddlebags, instead of making armor for a deserter."

  Trenn stiffened. Steam hissed in a nearby corridor.

  “Zeen I—”

  “Save it,” Zeen scoffed, circling him to check the straps. “I heard the story. No memories. The monster took over.”

  “You made your choice before any of that happened,” he yanked on a strap, making Trenn exhale sharply, “when you picked the Gem-Croc over the mission.”

  His tail coiled at Zeen’s words, its muscles ready to spring. Kill the annoying thing. Trenn opened his mouth, but he had no words.

  Zeen pulled on a tarp from the workbench. "The shield."

  Trenn reached over and hefted the massive round piece of metal—the scavenged plate that had fallen from the Armored Dog. It was surprisingly light for its size.

  Trenn shoved his left arm through the straps. He grimaced, forcing his mangled hand into the rigid steel bar Zeen had angled to catch the web of his thumb and his remaining fingers. He flexed against the restraint.

  "And the God-Bone," Zeen said, pointing to the weapon rack.

  Trenn grabbed the white club. Shorter than a bat but wider, three rings of White Metal compressed its barrel.

  His fingers wrapped around the leather grip.

  He tested the weight. The God-Bone was cool ivory, balanced perfectly by the pommel counterweight. It felt light. Too light?

  Runes carved into the bone flared blue. The weapon thrummed in his hand, a hunger that synced instantly with the hum in his tail—deeper and hungrier than Vavnaar's sword.

  Trenn’s tail twitched as Mara entered the room.

  She was encased in the black chitin of the Husks. The plates overlapped like the shell of an insect, slick and iridescent in the gaslight. The armor added bulk to her lean frame, turning the hunter into a tank.

  Her bow was slung across her back, but her hand rested on the hilt of the kris knife.

  She didn't look like a Guardian of the forest anymore.

  She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the part where the leather meets the scales.

  "It covers the vitals," she said, her voice flat. "And it won’t fall during combat."

  She looked at him the way a butcher looks at a cleaver—checking the edge, not the handle.

  Trenn shifted, testing his body’s movement when handling the shield. "It’s just wrapping paper on a bomb.” He stopped to turn to Zeen. “If I lose control, this leather shreds in a second."

  Zeen scoffed. “Great. Kill my work, and then kill us.”

  Mara walked up to him. Her hand rested on the hilt of her kris knife. Her fingers tapped a rhythm against the pommel.

  "You need to keep it together," she said, her voice cold. Her amber eyes locked onto his through the shadow of his cowl. "Because if you lose control during this fight, we’re all dead. Then who knows what will happen to the twin cities?"

  Trenn gripped the bone club until his knuckles cracked. The Gem-Croc instinct bloomed in the back of his mind, awakened by his anxiety.

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  "Mara. It’s… already trying to escape. I don’t know if—"

  Mara stepped closer, cutting him off.

  The hard line of her jaw didn't soften, but her hand dropped from her knife. She looked Trenn in the eyes—not with forgiveness, but with calculation.

  "Then don't let it. I don't need you to be stable; I need you to be effective. Adapt. Learn. That’s what you do. When I met you, you were soft. A week later, you were avenging Tyndral."

  She stepped into his space, forcing him to look down. She grabbed his pauldron strap and yanked it tight, a rough test of the fit.

  She stepped into his space, forcing him to look down at her. She reached out and grabbed the leather strap of his pauldron and pulled it tight, testing the fit with a rough jerk.

  “This is bigger than us,” she said, her face inches from his. "The One-Eye is our responsibility, and it’s killed… so many people…”

  “My people,” muttered Zeen. “Almitad’s people.”

  Trenn looked down from her to Zeen. The gnome was leaning against his workbench, arms crossed, refusing to meet his eyes.

  Trenn stepped back, breaking Mara’s hold.

  He tightened his grip on the god-bone club. The runes etched into the ivory flared with a cold blue light, syncing with the hungry thrum in his chest. The Gem-Croc coiled in the back of his mind, sensing the violence to come.

  He rolled his shoulders. The oiled leather creaked.

  "It fits," Trenn said, his voice dropping to a rough gravel.

  Zeen finally looked up, his expression hard. He grabbed his clockwork musket from the table and racked the slide.

  "Then let's stop talking about it," the gnome muttered, walking past them to the door.

  The main hangar of the Assembly buzzed with the sound of final preparations. Rabbitlings busied themselves with armament or huddled against maps.

  In the center loomed the Crusher.

  It was a Red Metal beast, squat and dense, clad in angled armor to deflect shrapnel. It dwarfed the old Stomper, looking less like a vehicle and more like a walking bunker. Ezy was strapped into the circular cockpit, head and rifle barrel barely visible above the reinforced collar.

  She ran diagnostics for the hundredth time.

  Heavy hydraulic pistons hissed as she cycled the weight distribution. She threw two levers, and the machine dropped into a crouch, engaging the drive wheels built into its shins and knees. The tires squealed against the concrete as she surged forward, then slammed it into reverse, testing the torque.

  She muttered a curse at a gauge, then slammed a dial over. The machine’s oversized fists locked together with a heavy clank, retracting the knuckles to clear the firing lines for the twin rifles mounted on its forearms.

  Three nearby rabbitlings jumped at the noise.

  A squadron gathered around the machine’s massive feet—small, rabbit-faced soldiers with rifles. They were a nervous kinetic field of twitching noses and swiveling ears.

  They wore darkened goggles and leather aprons stained with factory grease. Their paws moved in a blur, cycling the actions of their flintlock rifles, counting paper cartridges, and tapping pouches of black powder.

  They looked ready to bolt at a loud noise, yet their hands were steady as stone when they handled their steel.

  A Rabbitling with a notched ear and a bandolier of potions stepped forward as Trenn approached. He hesitated, glaring at the tail that was twice his size. He sniffed the air near Trenn, his nose wrinkling at the smell of metal and reptiles.

  "The Quarry is a vertical maze between two cliff-faces," the Notched-Ear said, his voice rapid-fire and clipped. "It’s seven stories high. Miles of rooftops, gantries, and chutes. Goat Kin scouts are waiting for us at the rendezvous."

  He gestured to his squad. Two of them were actively shaking with adrenaline, but they stopped instantly when he raised a paw.

  "The Golems will flood the main avenue to stop Trenn. When they center..." He mimed a rifle shot. "We take the high ground. Hit the rivets. Strip them of their Red Metal."

  Zeen called down from the gantry, racking the slide of his musket. "Watch your firing pins, Velo. The vibration in that canyon will rattle a sear loose. Rely on the safety, and you'll shoot someone by accident."

  The Notched-Ear looked up, his whiskers bristling. "We work the forge floors, Gnome. We know how to handle the shake."

  He turned back to Trenn.

  "We keep as many of them as we can off you. You kill the Screamer. That’s the deal."

  "That's the deal," Trenn agreed.

  The Rabbitling nodded, tapped his rifle stock twice, and let out a sharp whistle.

  The squad erupted into motion. Forty padded feet drummed a soft, rapid staccato against the concrete floor as they flooded toward the bay doors.

  The heavy iron doors slammed shut one by one, cutting off the sight of their retreat until only the settling dust remained.

  Trenn watched them go. The shift from nervous twitching to disciplined movement. The quiet nod between captain and players.

  The sharp whistle cutting through the gym noise. The locker room silent right before the doors opened. For a heartbeat, his tail went slack against the floor.

  Ezy strapped herself in with heavy leather harnesses. Her prosthetic hand gripped the control levers. The Crusher turned on itself, facing the exit.

  Almitad floated down from the rafters. A dozen bleached bones orbited her skeletal form in a slow, revolving constellation—femurs, ribs, and vertebrae scavenged from butchered animal remains.

  Each piece was etched with a glowing rune, pulsing in sync with the necrotic bloom in her chest. She looked less like a shepherd and more like a loaded weapon.

  "The air pressure alone will crush bone," Almitad warned. "If you hesitate, Trenn, the wave will turn us all into paste."

  Trenn tightened his grip on the god-bone club.

  Ahead, the blast doors groaned, splitting the darkness to reveal a wall of blinding grey mist.

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