Eland ducked beneath the freshly sealed conduit, his hand skimming the smooth metal surface. The repair job looked better than he'd expected—the Skaeldrin craftsmen had outdone themselves.

  "Zephyr, run diagnostics on the primary power coupling."

  "Took you long enough to ask. I ran the diagnostics 6 minutes ago," The VI's voice hummed through the ship's newly restored internal comms, her tone unmistakably mischievous. Eland smiled, pleased with how happy his companion seemed to have the ship's systems coming back online. "The primary power coupling functioning at eighty-three percent efficiency."

  "EIghty-three?" Eland's brow ridges lifted. "That's seven percent better than yesterday."

  "The Skaeldrin work crews have been diligent in incorporating as much as possible from Aureon's list. Including salvaged regulator coils from the eastern fields that I had written off as too complicated to retrieve."

  Eland moved through the engine room, his fingertips brushing against bulkheads that had, just weeks ago, been charred husks. Where twisted metal and scorched circuitry once lay in ruin, now power conduits hummed with renewed purpose. The walls caught the light, fresh sealant gleaming like wet paint. He tested a floor plate with his boot—solid, no give at all. Even the lighting had returned to the crisp white-blue spectrum he'd grown accustomed to in his years aboard. No more squinting through the jaundiced glow of emergency backups, straining eyes already weary from sleepless repair cycles.

  "Show me our current status, please."

  A holographic display materialized before him, rotating slowly:

  Quest: "Orbit or Oblivion"

  Faction: n/a

  You've defied all logic and probability by stranding yourself for a second time. Coincidence? Only the One knows for sure, but we know that you've managed to land an entire continent away from the nearest Skaeldrin city with a functioning orbital lift. Great work!

  Repair your ship enough to take flight, either to the Skaeldrin city of Idrous, or up into low-planetary orbit.

  Good luck, Professor Turun

  — Yours Truly, Chronicler Durend

  [ Ship Integrity: 94% ]

  Eland snorted at Durend's tone. The Chronicler had always enjoyed needling him, and while it might have gotten to him when the ship was still in tatters, how he just found it amusing. Ninety-four percent integrity—far better than he'd dared hope. The number represented thousands of hours of labor and countless scavenging runs, all the results of the surprising generosity of Mara's clan.

  "Please thank Clan Torvik for the regulator coils," he told Zephyr. "Send them... hmm, what do we have left in storage bay three?"

  "The preserved fruit specimens from the Lyra system."

  "Perfect." Eland climbed the ladder to the upper deck, each rung solid under his weight. Three weeks ago, this ladder hadn't existed—just a gaping shaft with exposed wiring and structural supports jutting like broken bones. Now his ship was nearly whole again.

  "Can you compile a full report, Zephyr? And include a projected departure window?"

  "Already compiling. Initial projection: thirty-four hours, barring unforeseen complications."

  "Unforeseen complications? I'm sure we've had enough of those recently, we'll be fine." Eland chuckled in response.

  "I wouldn't be so sure," Zephyr said wryly. "Kitt and Blake just got back from Nehren, and Kitt says something has come up…"

  "Ah," Eland said, sighing in resignation. "Unforeseen complications."

  The scent of scorched rubber still lingered in the ship's kitchenette, the recent removal and replacing of wall panels having exposed fried wiring. Still, the joy of the floor being level again was enough for Eland to ignore the odor. He sat at his small table, carefully arranging tea leaves in his old ceramic strainer. He heard the telltale hiss of the outer airlock and the clank of boots approaching through the corridor.

  "In here," Eland called, not looking up from his work.

  Blake appeared in the doorway, his frame filling it completely. The human's expression carried urgency Eland hadn't seen since Blake's encounter with that damnable Chronicler, Aureon.

  "Good, you're here." Blake strode in, nodding at the mostly-repaired galley. "Ship's looking better. Not smelling better, but I suppose we take what we can get."

  "Ninety-plus percent integrity. Potentially thirty-four hours until we can get off the ground." He said, studying Blake's face for hints as to how badly his schedule was going to be thrown off. "But that's not why you're here with that look."

  "No." Blake dropped into the seat opposite Eland, pulling out a small holoprojector. "We've got trouble at the Leviathan crash site."

  The projector flickered, displaying topographical scans of the vast crater. Blake tapped points along the rim.

  "Skaeldrin scouts report mutations in the local fauna—specifically Ferroghests. They're changing, becoming more aggressive, more organized. And Mara's people picked up energy signatures from inside the wreck that shouldn't be there. The Leviathan's active."

  Eland's pupils constricted. "Active how?"

  "Here," Blake said, having Kitt pass all the relevant data over to Zephyr. "Zeph can break it down better than I can."

  Eland froze as Zephyr fed him the scout reports, the tea leaves forgotten between his fingers. Multiple jaws. Extra limbs. Metallic growths. Eyes appearing across the body. Each detail hit like a hammer blow.

  "Too much mutation even for ferroghests, and too rapidly," Zephyr confirmed privately in his mind. "Eighty-six percent correlation with other known incursions."

  Eland set down his strainer with steady hands that belied his inner turmoil.

  "What we're discussing isn't a damaged ship, Blake. It's an incursion point."

  "For what?"

  "An Outsider." Eland paced the small galley, his bioluminescent markings pulsing with uncharacteristic intensity. "Entities from beyond the borders of our reality. They exist in spaces that don't conform to our physical or mental laws."

  Blake's expression hardened. "And let me guess: they're hostile?"

  "Inimical to all life as we understand it. Their very presence corrupts." Eland gestured toward the hologram. "The mutations you've documented are classic signs of Outsider influence—they remake matter to better serve their incomprehensible purposes."

  "So the Leviathan—"

  "Is either dead and serving as a host, or fighting the infection." Eland paused. "Either way, direct confrontation would be catastrophic without preparation."

  Blake leaned forward. "I fought and killed the alpha already, do you think this thing will be much worse?"

  "Yes!" The word came out sharper than Eland intended. "I don't think you have a frame of reference for how bad this could be. Especially if you think this is a problem you can simply fight and kill."

  "You're saying we can't kill it?"

  "I'm saying death means something different to them. Even if you destroy its physical form, so long as the core of its power remains it will reform. And you can't simply shoot the core and expect it to have any effect." Eland locked eyes with Blake. "If you go there unprepared, you won't just die. It will change you like its changing everything else. You'll be worse than dead."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Blake's jaw tightened. "Then we prepare."

  "Well, you two will prepare, anyway." Eland said, resigned.

  "Right," Blake responded, shoulders also drooping as he realized the situation they were in. "You're not coming."

  It wasn't a question, but Eland answered anyway.

  "I cannot join you. My presence would elevate every threat to my tier—far beyond what you could handle. The subzone's special properties would ensure that."

  "The System balancing the playing field or whatever," Blake nodded slowly, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "What should I expect inside?"

  "Distortions first. Physical laws behaving inconsistently. Then sensory manipulations—things you see or hear that cannot exist. Finally, conceptual attacks. The Outsider will identify your psychological fissures and exploit them."

  "It'll use my own issues against me?" Blake asked. Eland nodded.

  "Your fears, your regrets, your deepest uncertainties. For example: you're trying to follow the example of the Roadwarden, standing between order and chaos—expect the Outsider to blur that line until you cannot tell which side you're on."

  "I'm familiar with that line of thought," Blake grit out, his jaw tightening.

  "Well," Eland said quietly. "I'm sure you are. But this will be weaponized. This isn't about pain tolerance or mental fortitude. Outsiders operate on principles our minds weren't designed to process."

  A crash echoed from the corridor. Skaeldrin voices rose in argument, and Eland sighed deeply. Blake winced at the sound.

  "Stabilizer coupling. Again," Zephyr reported in. "They'll figure it out."

  "Okay, so back to business. How do I prepare?"

  Eland considered the question for a few moments before answering.

  "Know yourself. Not who you were on Earth, or who you became as a mercenary. Know who you are right now, on this Path. What do you protect? Where do you stand? What lines will you never cross?"

  Blake's gaze drifted to the middle distance, focusing on nothing. After a long moment, he nodded.

  "You didn't say they were impossible to kill. Just difficult."

  Eland paused, kettle halfway to the cup. He set it down carefully, measuring his response.

  "Correct. Not impossible."

  "You mentioned destroying its core."

  "Anchor," Eland corrected. "That's the more accurate term. It's not their true core—merely the infinitesimal portion that has breached our reality."

  Blake leaned back against the bulkhead. "So I can kill it."

  "You can damage it, yes. Conventional attacks will harm it, slow its recovery." Eland poured the water, watching steam rise. "But I stand by my assessment: the entity remains until its anchor is destroyed."

  "And how exactly do I destroy an anchor?"

  Eland stirred his tea, the spoon making soft clicks against ceramic. "Our reality is anathema to the Outsider, just as it is anathema to us. Attacks that resonate with natural laws or personal truths of cultivators—those strike deeper."

  "Resonate with..." Blake's brow furrowed. "What does that even mean?"

  "Remember how you described your Class when confronting Rax? The aliveness, the fullness of power?" Eland watched understanding dawn on Blake's face. "That was resonance. Your actions aligned perfectly with your Path. Attacks can achieve similar alignment."

  Blake's shoulders slumped. "My Roadwarden class didn't come with attack abilities."

  "Perhaps it doesn't need to," Kitt interjected through Blake's comm. "If the Roadwarden stands between order and chaos, wouldn't any attack used to defend others naturally resonate?"

  Blake shook his head. "It's not that simple. I know my class. Violence is a tool, but not its essence. The Roadwarden isn't about fighting—it just includes it when necessary."

  "Then what is it about?" Eland asked, genuinely curious.

  "Protection. Vigilance." Blake's eyes narrowed in thought. "Standing at the border between what should be and what shouldn't."

  "Say that again," Eland said, smiling.

  "Standing at the border?"

  "Yes." Eland replied excitedly. "Blake, do you understand what an Outsider fundamentally is? It's something that shouldn't be here—that has crossed a border it was never meant to cross."

  Blake straightened, realization dawning. "And a Roadwarden guards borders."

  "Not just guards them." Eland's voice grew urgent. "Decides what may cross and what must be turned back."

  "So my class—no, my Path…"

  "They may be well suited to this task." Eland set down his cup. "But you won't know what's going to work for you personally until you're in a position to try things out."

  "I just wish I had a more solid idea of what to do," Blake said, still clearly uncomfortable. Eland looked at him for a long moment, and then decided to take the direct approach.

  "Blake, we've only ever discussed your Path in vague terms, normally couched around your Class and how it's a strong fit. But what can you actually tell me about it? Can you actually articulate anything about what your Path actually represents?"

  "Shit, man, I don't know," Blake replied almost immediately. Eland saw a brief but definite look of panic flash across the man's normally stoic expression. He was definitely not comfortable with the idea of opening himself up and digging around inside—especially with an audience.

  "Introspection can be terrifying, especially for those of us with uncomfortable pasts. But this might keep you alive, Blake, so please try."

  The silence stretched between them as Eland watched Blake struggle with the question. The human's eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond the bulkhead, jaw muscles working beneath his skin. Eland had seen this expression before—on colleagues facing ethical dilemmas, on students confronting uncomfortable truths about themselves.

  Blake finally broke the silence with a sigh. "It's like being a sewer worker."

  "Pardon?" Eland blinked his large eyes.

  "Nobody celebrates them, but without them, everything falls apart in a week." Blake's voice grew steadier. "That's what people like me do with violence—we handle the shit nobody wants to think about."

  Eland set his tea aside, giving Blake his full attention.

  "Sometimes bad people hurt others, and somebody has to stop them." Blake's hands opened and closed. "Not because hurting people is good—it's not. But if nobody steps up, the bad guys win."

  "A practical necessity," Eland offered.

  "Exactly. A gun isn't good or evil. Neither is a hammer. Tools just... are." Blake tapped the table for emphasis. "It's about what you use them for. In a lot of ways, that's me—I've spent my life a tool of war. And I'm good at it, man. I enjoy fighting, the way anyone good at their craft enjoys what they do."

  "I love the physicality and the problem solving. I like working through the best ways to complete complex objectives. I don't actually enjoy hurting people—and I'm not proud of the fact that my greatest accomplishments all come with a body count—but someone has to do these things, and if its me… Then I at least know that someone did their best to do it right."

  Eland watched as Blake's expression hardened, his voice growing more confident.

  "The way I see it, I carry the weight so others don't have to. There are people who just aren't built for this work. Take Mara. I'm out there making sure bastards like Rax don't back someone like her into a corner where she'd have to destroy herself trying to survive. She wouldn't know how to get the blood off her hands if she was forced to kill someone." Blake's eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the walls. "Me? I'm red up past the elbows. That blood isn't coming off anymore—it's a part of me. And I shoulder that so regular folks can sleep unburdened."

  "It sounds as if you consider yourself taking on quite the burden for others. So then why avoid the responsibility of governance?" Eland asked, recalling their earlier discussions about Nahren's leadership.

  "I just don't know that hardened killers should be making the rules. That's how you get dictatorships." Blake's eyes met Eland's. "I protect the village, but I don't run it. That's one thing I can give my country back home credit for—the military ultimately answered to civilian authority."

  "A separation of powers," Eland nodded. "Quite wise."

  He studied Blake's face, noting the subtle shift in his expression. The human—this strange visitor from another reality—had never seemed so unguarded.

  "I was doing it for the money at the end," Blake continued, his voice rough. "Just a gun for hire. No different than the guys I used to hunt."

  "Everyone has moments when their Path blurs," Eland said.

  Blake shook his head. "It wasn't moments. It was years. I told myself I was one of the good ones because I turned down the worst jobs, but..." He ran a hand through his short hair. "I still took the cash."

  Eland watched him pace the small galley. Blake moved like the predator he was—economical, precise. Yet now there was something new in his movements. Not hesitation, but consideration.

  "The System, for all its flaws, offers clarity," Eland said. "The Path you've chosen aligns with who you wish to become."

  "I don't know how much I can change, Eland. Or how much I even want to. Like I said, I'm good at what I do. And I like it," Blake paused, swallowing thickly, but then making eye contact with Eland once more. "But I also think, based on everything that I've seen and that you've told me about what's out there… I think that there's a lot more need for people like me out here than there was back home."

  "I think you're probably right, Blake," Eland said, smiling. "And now that I've dragged it out of you, I hope you have a clearer understanding of who you are and what Path you're walking. Somewhere in there are the concepts you're going to have to weaponize to fight the outsider."

  "It'll be like really hands-on therapy," Blake said, smiling wickedly.