Morning broke over Caelum like a wounded animal, limping across the horizon with blood-red light. Smoke still rose from the fractured spires, curling like accusatory fingers toward the heavens.
The First King's Engine was no more—its shattered skeleton hung in the sky, pieces orbiting slowly as if reluctant to fall.
And at ground level, survivors picked through the wreckage.
Mira moved slowly through the rubble, one arm wrapped tightly around her midsection where shrapnel had torn her open. Her eyes remained sharp despite the exhaustion.
She wasn't alone.
A dozen others trailed after her—mechanics, children, rebel fighters in tattered coats. Some had makeshift bandages; some carried nothing but rusted weapons they no longer had the strength to lift.
But they were alive.
That was enough.
---
Mira knelt beside Ren's remains.
Or what was left of him.
His face was barely recognizable, features melted, metal fused to muscle. The only thing untouched was his right hand, fingers curled as if still gripping something unseen.
For hours she sat in silence beside him, ignoring the calls of the wounded around her.
When she finally stood, her voice was low and steady.
"We bury him here."
No one objected.
With crude tools and trembling hands, they dug a shallow grave. It wasn't worthy of a king—but it was all they could manage.
They wrapped him in what was left of his cloak—the red fibers burned black at the edges—and lowered him into the earth beneath the bones of the fallen spire.
Before they covered him completely, Mira pressed her lips gently to his ruined forehead.
"You kept your promise," she whispered.
---
A Week Later
Caelum was changing.
Not reborn. Not yet. But the old banners of the Sovereigns were burned. The children of the lower districts no longer hid in sewer tunnels. And in the open squares, makeshift councils began forming.
Names were spoken aloud that had once been forbidden:
Ren. Mira. The Rusted King.
They spoke his name not like a hero, but like a storm. A force that came, destroyed, and left them standing in the aftermath.
Mira found herself drawn into leadership despite her protests.
She didn't want power.
She wanted Ren back.
But in his absence, someone had to stand.
"I'm not your queen," she muttered bitterly to the council of rebels gathered around her. "I'm just the last one left standing."
An old mechanic—greasy hair, missing teeth—grinned around a cracked pipe in his mouth. "Sometimes that's enough, lass."
---
Whispers of Rebellion Elsewhere
Beyond Caelum, across the fractured continents of the world, the blast had been seen.
Whole cities reported seeing the streak of white-hot annihilation tearing through the atmosphere.
Old alliances trembled.
In the eastern territories, rival sovereigns began fortifying their walls, unsure if the chaos in Caelum would spread.
But others—those in chains, those who remembered the old rebellions—took up the banner of rust.
It started with a symbol.
A broken crown, painted crudely on walls.
Beneath it, a single word.
REN.
The storm wasn't over.
It was just beginning.
...
[TO BE CONTINUED...]