Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue – Ashes of the World

2066:

The desert unfolded like a stark, lifeless expanse, unforgiving and desolate.

Ash swirled in ghostly drifts where vibrant grass once danced joyfully in the breeze, leaving only whispers of its former glory. The sky hung heavy with a dull copper hue, its sickly glow suffocated by thick smoke and noxious chemicals, while the sun struggled like a fading ember, barely illuminating the wasteland below. On the horizon, the relentless Faro swarm advanced—a dark, ironclad army moving in mechanical unison and stripping the Earth of its last remaining threads of life.

Buffy Summers pressed onward, encased in a battered environmental suit that creaked with every step. The monotonous rasp of her filters buzzed in her ears, a stark reminder of the tainted air outside. Beads of sweat trickled down her brow, pooling beneath the visor that shielded her from the stifling heat. Her jaw throbbed from clenching tightly, a futile battle against the desperation clawing at her insides. Without the suit, she would wither in mere minutes, her lungs gasping for breath in a world turned hostile. Death awaited her only to bring her back to this anguished existence; Willow’s spell had trapped her in a cycle of torment, where immortality was a curse without reprieve.

Beside her, Spike trudged forward, his long coat billowing fiercely in the biting wind, a dark banner of resilience against the elements. His pale face bore the scars of struggle, with hollowed cheeks that stretched tight over sharp, jutting bones and lips that cracked like dry earth beneath the relentless, harsh air. Yet within his dark, smoldering eyes, a flicker of defiance shone like a dying ember—an unbreakable spirit refusing to fade amid the surrounding desolation. An overwhelming sense of gratitude washed over them for the Sun Gem Willow had uncovered—a radiant artifact infused with ancient magic that granted Spike the extraordinary ability to walk in the sunlight. Without its warmth, this arduous journey would have been impossible for him. Buffy, too, would have traveled through this lonely, shattered landscape in even greater solitude, her heart heavy with the burden of isolation and loss.

“Lovely stroll, isn’t it?” he rasped, a crooked grin on his face. “The sky looks like tarnished pennies, and the ground is nothing but ash. What a great honeymoon spot.”

Buffy turned her visor toward him, her voice dry over the comm. “We’ve had worse.”

He let out a bark of laughter. “True. But the Hellmouth had better décor.”

“Less dust,” she replied.

“More brimstone.”

Their laughter, thin and brittle, hung in the endless silence.

When the silence wrapped around them once more, it descended like a suffocating shroud, heavy and stifling, pressing down on Buffy with an unnerving weight.

Slayers. An army of them, brought into being by Willow's enchanting spell so long ago. They weren't just soldiers; they were her sisters, her chosen family, bound by harrowing trials and hard-won victories. Together, they faced the darkest demons, ruthless tyrants, and the initial monstrous wave of the relentless swarm. For a brief, radiant moment, it felt as if they were invincible—an unbreakable force that no enemy could tear apart.

But famine? It gripped them tightly, mocking their hard-won resilience. Plague? It slipped through their grasp like whispered shadows, cunning and harsh. The relentless machines that consumed both land and lives were merciless predators—cold and emotionless, immune to any weapon or spell they wielded in desperate defiance.

“They're all gone,” Buffy whispered, her voice trembling, with each syllable heavy with profound grief.

Spike's eyes sharpened as his expression changed, tilting his head in an attempt to decipher the depth of her grief. “The girls?”

Her throat tightened painfully, overwhelmed by bittersweet memories that made it hard to breathe. He knew exactly who she meant; they'd traversed this painful path many times, and he had supported her through parts of it. Yet, he stayed steady, letting her express her grief and guilt as if it were the first time, offering the comfort she needed. “By the end, fewer than ten remained. I buried them myself.” The persistent ache in her heart echoed with each word, a reminder of her loss. “Willow wanted them to stay together, never alone. And now… It’s just me.”

He paused, reaching out to hold her arm, his touch grounding her amid her swirling despair. He looked into her eyes, the fierce light in his eyes like a flame in the shadows. “They weren’t alone. Not as long as you were there, Slayer. It doesn’t matter how it all ended; you carried them through it all. That’s what counts.”

Buffy closed her eyes, feeling her breath fog her helmet visor—a useless attempt to shield herself from the harsh reality of her loss. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

His gloved hand hesitantly brushed over her helmet, a gesture of tenderness that felt almost alien in this moment of despair. “It counts to me, Buffy. It still counts to them, too.”

They moved ahead, ash crunching under their feet.

Buffy lowered her voice, almost as if sharing a secret. “Willow used to bring her cherished photographs of Miriam, her daughter. Each image told a story—Elisabet as a tiny, wide-eyed infant, then becoming a rebellious teenager with a wild streak, and finally growing into a determined woman facing the world head-on. Willow treated those pictures like sacred relics, carrying them with her everywhere, a testament that her dreams had come true—a family.”

Spike cast her a sidelong glance, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “It’s a strange world, isn’t it? Your witch of a best friend turns out to be the grandmother of the woman who’s our last hope for humanity’s survival.”

“Elisabet Sobeck,” Buffy replied, her voice tinged with admiration. “Willow always described her as a brilliant firebrand, fiercely independent, taking on challenges as if each one were a personal vendetta.”

A knowing smile spread across Spike's lips, his expression mischievous. “Sounds a bit like someone else I know.”

Buffy exhaled softly, almost laughing. “I saw her once—across a conference table. I didn’t get the chance to meet her, but her face is burned into my memory. She looked strong, as if she were commanding a battle.”

Her steps slowed, each one burdened by a flood of vivid memories that flooded her mind, unasked for.

Dawn, her sister, with her striking white hair and sharp tongue, whispered a final joke, her laughter blending with the shadows of her fading breath.

Xander’s carefree laughter echoed in her mind, a haunting melody as he raced headlong into the relentless floodwaters, swallowed whole by California’s crumbling coastline.

Giles, scholarly and steadfast, felt his heart surrendering before the swirling chaos, his beloved books still arranged neatly by his bedside, untouched by the turmoil.

Willow, radiant and fierce, sacrificed herself in a storm of flames, a fiery dance across the sky as Titans fell, illuminating the desert with her selflessness.

The demons slipped away through the thinning veils, retreating to safer realms, because Earth no longer held their interest or value in the fight.

Only Spike remained, a steady presence in the constantly changing landscape of loss. Always Spike.

The once lush valley and white mountains now rose from a barren wasteland, jagged and fractured. Near Greer, Arizona, the Far Zenith launch site was hidden within them. Its massive doors hung crooked, scorched, and cracked, while the concrete was shattered from bombardment. No vines or greenery remained to soften or hide the rough landscape.

Spike let out a low whistle. “Well, love, if we’re going to lie down for a bit, it could’ve been worse. This place has style. Tomb chic.”

Buffy shook her head. “Not a tomb. A chance.”

They pried open a warped panel and slipped inside. Cold air washed over them. The lights flickered on, sterile and pale, gleaming against the steel walls. For the first time in years, Buffy could breathe without tasting fire.

Spike smirked faintly. “Posh coffin, this. I bet the bastards who built it thought they’d ride out the end in comfort.”

Buffy's voice was steady. "Then we'll take whatever they left behind."

They glided through the sterile, white-walled corridors of the facility, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic. Holographic images of Osvald Dalagaard flickered on, casting a bluish glow and filling the room with his cold, detached voice as he outlined his dull plans for survival amid the upcoming apocalypse. Buffy watched with a curled lip, her disdain clear; to her, these privileged elites were nothing but spineless cowards, clinging to their status while the world around them was falling apart.

As they pressed onward, a heavy door labeled "Cold Storage" caught her eye, its stark metallic surface glinting under the overhead lights. The latch clicked open easily with a satisfying sound, revealing an icy interior that sent a shiver down her spine. There, tucked away in the shadows, she spotted a hidden vent nearly swallowed by the gloom at the back of the room. Fueled by her Slayer strength, she pried it open effortlessly. With Spike at her side, they crawled into the dark, secret space beyond, ready to uncover whatever was hidden in the depths.

They descended into the hidden chamber. Cryopods lined the walls, a soft blue light glowing from inside, their hum steady and calm.

Buffy paused, her throat tightening. "It's real."

Spike pressed his hand to one pod, lips curving into a crooked smile. “Think it’ll work on me? Already dead. Might just freeze the corpse harder.”

Buffy turned to him, pressing her gloved hand to his cheek, with her visor nearly touching his forehead. “It has to. Otherwise, you’ll starve. And I’ll keep dying. This is all that’s left.”

His eyes sparkled with emotion as he edged closer, gently pressing a tender kiss against her visor. A delicate warmth hung in the air between them, a fragile connection amid chaos. “I always said you’d be the death of me. Looks like you’re the only thing keeping me alive,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble filled with both affection and resolve.

As they entered the sleek, futuristic pods, the soft hum of machinery wrapped around them like a gentle mechanical lullaby. Buffy paused for a moment, her heart pounding, then removed her helmet, allowing her hair to flow freely over her shoulders. She pressed her hand against the cool, clear glass separating them—a gesture filled with deep longing. As the lids slowly lowered with a soft whoosh, sealing them into their individual sanctuaries, a wave of finality swept over her, and each breath became a quiet echo in her private world.

Outside, the ominous swarm drew near, a dark tide crashing towards them.

“See you in the future, love,” Spike whispered, his voice barely a breath over the hiss of the freezing air filling the chamber, a bittersweet promise full of hope.

Buffy closed her eyes, allowing her mind to drift away from the threatening shadow of machines and death, instead retreating to a refuge of gentler memories: the sound of Dawn’s laughter carried by the summer breeze, the warmth of Willow’s bright smile lighting up the darkest corners of her heart, Giles’s steady voice guiding her through stormy seas, and the comfort of Spike’s arms, where she finally found the peace to rest.

These memories enveloped her like a fragile, human blanket, tender and protective against the cold reality outside.

The world ended in fire and ash.

Chapter Text

Chapter One – Reach for the Stars

3041:

Night fell over the valley like a heavy velvet curtain, cloaking the landscape in stillness and cold.

Aloy leaned back on her well-worn bedroll, her eyes fixed on the vast, twinkling stars above, each a distant light in the dark, velvety sky. Thoughts swirled like autumn leaves caught in a restless wind, filled with a whirlwind of worries and emotions that refused to settle. It was as if the very fabric of time was unraveling, pushing her to act while the shadows threatened to swallow everything around her. She was fully aware of the stakes—an impending disaster loomed ahead, and somehow, she was the only one standing as the lone guardian, capable of changing fate's course.

Her thoughts wandered, as they often did, to her mother—the extraordinary woman whose rich legacy flowed within her like a life-giving current. A brilliant scientist from the Old World, her mother wielded knowledge and innovation with a grace that was both awe-inspiring and poignant. With GAIA as her foundation, she had, whether by design or fate, intricately woven Aloy’s very essence into the tapestry of life around her. In this fragile world, where every heartbeat echoed the urgency of survival, Aloy felt an unbreakable bond to every creature, as they all teetered on the edge of destruction.

It often tore at her heart to admit that her existence was born out of necessity, made solely as a tool to repair the broken world around her. Still, in the quiet of the night, amidst the whispers of the winds and the distant calls of nighttime creatures, Aloy found a flicker of gratitude in her heart. This world, with its vast landscapes and lively life, had been given a second chance—an opportunity to flourish again, despite humanity's flaws and mistakes.

She realized that if she had never drawn breath, this breathtaking tapestry of existence would have ended, and a sense of wonder enveloped her. As the guardian of such a magnificent realm, she couldn't help but cherish the gift of life that was bestowed upon her. People could show their darker sides, capable of cruelty and indifference, yet nature remained a steadfast marvel, a realm of unparalleled beauty.

She smirked at her own tenderness, a bittersweet realization washing over her—perhaps the enduring teachings of Nora, with their deep reverence for life and nature, had left a more profound mark on her heart than she had ever acknowledged.

As the gentle lullaby of nighttime settled in, the twinkling stars above began to blur, and Aloy's eyelids grew heavy, surrendering to the relentless pull of exhaustion. Soon, she drifted into sleep, her thoughts weaving into the tapestry of dreams where battles were fought and destinies were born.

She found herself surrounded by a greenhouse, its glass walls catching the sunlight and breaking it into sparkling shards. Around her were vibrant rows of plants, their lush green leaves brushing her fingertips as she walked through the aisles. Flowers burst in a riot of colors, spilling out like a painter’s palette, creating a stark contrast to the dull, forgotten hues of the world outside.

At the end of the lively pathway stood Elisabet.

She turned as if sensing Aloy’s presence from afar. Her crimson hair shimmered like spun gold in the bright light, and her stance, though relaxed, radiated an aura of quiet strength, bearing the weight of insurmountable challenges with steady grace.

“Elisabet…” The name slipped from Aloy’s lips, a fragile whisper barely disturbing the peaceful air.

Her mother. Her creator. A mirror reflecting her true self.

Elisabet’s gaze softened, a gentle warmth shining through her eyes. “You’ve come far.”

Aloy moved closer, but each step felt like wading through molasses, heavy and slow. Suddenly, the sunlight flickered eerily, and the greenhouse was shrouded in a cold blue glow. Leaves curled inward, blackening with decay, while flowers wilted and crumbled into dust. The glass panes shattered with a sound like ice cracking under pressure.

“No—” Aloy’s heart raced as she reached out, desperation tearing at her. Elisabet’s figure wavered, dissolving into fractured echoes of static.

“You must find her,” Elisabet’s voice echoed, faint yet cutting through the darkness. “You must bring her back.”

Aloy’s breath hitched in her throat, but before she could reply, Elisabet vanished, swallowed by an approaching void. The warmth and vibrant colors disappeared with her departure.

*~*~*

With a sudden jolt, Aloy woke from her slumber, her dream breaking apart like shards of glass scattering across a cold, unforgiving floor.

A sharp, brisk breeze brushed against her face, carrying the crisp scent of dawn. Dew sparkled like tiny jewels on her bedroll, and the first pale hints of sunlight slowly crept over the horizon, casting a faint glow that merged with the shadows. Aloy sat up, the heaviness of too little sleep settling into her limbs like a thick fog. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, the remnants of the dream lingering in her mind, the voice of Elisabet echoing like a distant sound in an empty chamber.

"You must find her. You must bring her back."

Aloy's brow furrowed as she shook off the lingering dread. Dreams held no more profound truths; they were simply the restless musings of her mind struggling with the weight of reality: GAIA was lost, the biosphere was deteriorating, and the fabric of the world was coming apart without a guiding intelligence to hold it together.

That much was undeniable.

Drawing a slow, steadying breath, Aloy pushed herself upright. The Focus attached to her temple flickered to life, its gentle blue glow illuminating shimmering glyphs and faint signals that danced through her vision. Barely-there remnants of ancient power twisted westward, and she homed in on the strongest trail like a hawk locking onto its prey.

With resolve, she rolled up her bedroll and slung her spear over her shoulder. The ground beneath her boots felt damp and squelching, and the ruins around her loomed like skeletal remnants of a forgotten era, half-overgrown with vines. The chirping of birds was eerily absent, but the machines were all too present. Their distant calls echoed through the valley, a cacophony of metallic screeches and the unsettling grind of gears.

Aloy kept a steady pace, her eyes sharp and unwavering. Each step west was a conscious decision. Every fleeting hour without GAIA pushed the world closer to disaster.

There was no space for rest. No room for weakness. Only the relentless road ahead called her forward.

*~*~*

The ruins stretched out before her, revealing a narrow passage where the morning sun poured down, illuminating the crumbling stone and wild tangle of vines that clung to the remains of an ancient world. Aloy moved quickly through the debris, her Focus pulsing softly with an almost ethereal hum as she carefully scanned her surroundings, determined not to lose the delicate trail she was following.

Without warning, a voice cut through the peaceful stillness of the air, warm and inviting with a touch of nostalgia.

“Aloy!”

Startled, she spun on her heel, her spear instinctively sliding into her grasp as her senses sharpened. Behind a jagged piece of weathered concrete, a tall figure stepped into view. The bow on his back seemed almost an extension of him, and his movements were deliberate and confident. As the sunlight caught his dark features, recognition flooded over her like a wave.

Varl.

With a broad grin, he extended his arms in a warm welcome, his smile crooked but genuine. “If it isn’t Aloy, the Savior of Meridian, Anointed of the Nora!” The light danced in his eyes, reflecting the camaraderie and shared history between them amidst the haunting echoes of the past.

Aloy groaned. “You know I hate being called that stuff.”

“Well, consider it punishment,” Varl shot back, his tone teasing but tinged with reproach, “for running out on us the very same night we beat HADES.”

Her grip on the spear loosened. “I grew up an outcast, remember? I’m not one for parties.”

Yeah, but that one was in your honor.” He shook his head, though his smile lingered. “Just saying. So—what are we doing? It must be urgent, since you left so fast. Are we delving into ancient ruins? Or maybe it’s something to do with the blight?”

“Both, actually,” Aloy admitted, glancing toward the overgrown skyline. “But I should—”

Varl raised a hand to stop her. “Oh no, I’ve been tracking you for a long time. It's okay. After everything you’ve done to help the Nora—and my family—I swore an oath to help you, no matter what.” His voice softened, steady as bedrock. “You’re stuck with me now, like bark on wood.”

She sighed deeply, the sound carrying a weight of resignation; resistance, it seemed, was useless. “Alright, but if you’re joining me, you need to see what I do,” she said, her voice steady.

From her well-worn pack, Aloy pulled out a small, triangular piece of metal, its surface reflecting the light as she tossed it to Varl. He caught it easily, surprise flashing in his eyes.

“A Focus?” he exclaimed, his brows arching in disbelief. “I never imagined I’d get your ‘second sight.’”

“You’ll need it,” Aloy replied, a hint of foreboding in her voice. “I’ll get you another later and teach you how to back up your data.”

“Data?” he asked, curiosity evident in his voice.

“Information stored on the device,” Aloy clarified, her gaze drifting toward the distant horizon. “There’s a lot to learn about tech, so I’ll explain as we go.”

After a moment of thought, Varl pressed the Focus to his temple. The device activated, glowing softly and illuminating his face. His eyes widened in awe as shapes and glyphs appeared, blue tracery weaving around the ruins like a ghostly tapestry. He gasped, overwhelmed by the sudden flood of visual wonders.

“You see like this all the time?” he asked, amazement coloring his words.

“Since I was a little girl,” Aloy replied, her feet instinctively moving toward the cliff’s edge. She looked back at him, her expression a mix of invitation and determination. “Come on.”

They reached the edge, where the ground sharply dipped into the lush valley below. Aloy raised her arm, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Shall we?”

With a shared sense of adventure, they slid down the rocky embankment, dust and stones scattering like confetti as they thudded at the bottom. Aloy quickly brushed the dirt off her hands. “Alright, I’ve got a couple of scrapes, but nothing too serious. We need to find some medicinal plants to stock up. It’s time for your first lesson with the Focus.”

Varl stood tall, the new device faintly shimmering against his temple. “Sounds good. Let’s get started.”

They set out together, the narrow trail winding through a maze of tangled weeds and vibrant foliage. Aloy moved with a dancer's grace, scanning the area with practiced eyes.

“These plants look different from the ones in the Sacred Lands,” Varl remarked, stooping to examine a broad-leafed sprig, its green hue vibrant against the earth.

“The Focus will help you identify the ones we need,” Aloy instructed, pointing to the glowing outlines visible through her device. She plucked a plant, brought it to her lips, and bit into it. The taste burst on her tongue, sharp and bitter, making her grimace. “Blech.”

Varl raised an eyebrow, a mix of intrigue and concern crossing his face. “Bitter?”

“Yeah, but they’ll make you feel better.” She firmly tucked the unpleasant plant into a pouch. “Let’s keep moving.”

“Should we gather more along the way?” he suggested.

“Good idea,” she replied, her senses sharply attuned to her surroundings.

The air quickly became heavy and oppressive, with a thick, metallic stench hanging in the atmosphere, as if the land itself had turned sour. Varl wrinkled his nose and motioned toward a disturbing patch of red. “Look there. More of the blight.”

Aloy crouched low, her fingers gently brushing against the sinister red tendrils creeping across the soil. She coughed, feeling the spores pricking her throat like tiny needles. “Some of it’s peeling off… like dead skin. That must be how it spreads,” she muttered, her brow furrowing as she examined the decaying remnants closely.

“An ugly way for the world to die,” Varl said quietly.

Aloy stood up, coughing again as tears welled in her eyes. Her eyes were fixed on a cluster of broken buildings sticking out from the valley ahead. “Those ruins. That’s where we need to go.”

Varl followed her gaze. “I see a few ways down. What are we looking for exactly?”

“The backup,” Aloy replied, tightening her grip on the spear on her back. “It’s... an AI. Think of it as a set of instructions that can fix the world.”

Varl furrowed his brow. “Sounds complicated.”

“Everything about this is complicated.”

They carefully made their way down into the shadowy basin, the air thick with the scent of earth and decay. Aloy, with skilled fingers sharpened by experience, demonstrated the quick way of making arrows on the move, her hands a blur as they turned slender twigs into deadly projectiles.

Midway through their descent, Aloy suddenly froze, her sharp senses picking up the sound of strong wingbeats above. She looked up, her face tense with concentration.

“Glinthawks,” she whispered, a touch of wariness in her voice.

A small flock of these formidable creatures spiraled menacingly overhead, their metallic talons glinting like shards of dark glass in the sunlight. They swooped down with ferocious intent, their shrill cries echoing through the ruins as they scavenged, tearing chunks of metal from weathered carcasses. Then, like shadows, they wheeled away, shrieking into the open sky.

“And there they go,” Varl observed, a frown forming on his brow as he watched the aerial predators disappear.

“Looks like they left one behind,” Aloy pointed out, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the remnants scattered on the ground.

Together, they descended a staircase torn apart by rust and moss. At the bottom, the twisted remains of a machine lay with arrows sticking out of its plating. Aloy knelt beside it, her hand passing over a scorch mark.

“Someone took this down recently,” she said.

Varl looked over the nearby hills. “Who else would come here?”

Aloy shook her head. “I don’t know. But we’d better be ready. Craft some more arrows. There might be trouble ahead.”

They prepared quickly, the twang of the bowstrings and the rasp of arrow shafts muffled in the damp air.

As they moved forward, the ruins appeared to close in around them. The silence lingered, broken only by water dripping from above. Then Aloy’s Focus pinged, highlighting movement ahead.

She froze, signaling Varl to stay quiet. “Get to the grass,” she whispered.

In the clearing, a machine lumbered into view. It was small and hunched, with a sensor eye glowing amber. It moved close to the ground, scavenging. Its tail flicked like a whip, and its claws clattered against the stone.

Varl's eyes widened in surprise. "I've never seen one of those before."

Aloy crouched low, her breath steady but sharp like the edge of a blade. "Neither have I," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "I spotted one a few days ago, lurking beyond the ridge. I chose not to engage it then; the risk felt too great. But now—" she gestured toward the winding trail ahead, her determination firm, "we don’t have a choice."

The Burrower, a massive heap of mechanical sinew and dark, sleek plating, sniffed the air and slowly lifted its head. Its shiny lens scanned the area, catching an eerie reflection in the dappled light.

"Those dead machines have put it on high alert," Varl observed, his brow furrowed with concern.

Aloy nodded, her mind racing as she thought over their options. "How do you want to handle it?" she asked, her focus sharpening.

"You’re the expert," Varl said, his trust in her obvious.

Activating her Focus, Aloy immersed herself in the intricate dance of data that unfolded before her eyes, meticulously charting the Burrower's patrol route. Streams of luminous information swirled like wisps of smoke, revealing the creature's armor seams and illuminating the intricate network of vulnerable circuits hidden beneath its tough exterior. With a steady hand, she pointed toward the massive creature, her voice barely above a whisper, "Do you see that faint glow? Those are its weak points. Aim for the eye first."

Varl squinted, determination crossing his features. "Understood. The eye is the target."

Exactly." Aloy nocked an arrow with precision, her heart racing in sync with her breath. "Now, focus.

She quickly flicked a small stone across the clearing. It skittered along the ground with a sharp clatter, echoing through the silence and catching the Burrower’s eye. Its eye brightened as it moved closer, a predator drawn by the movement.

“Now,” Aloy breathed.

Two arrows flew together. The machine squealed, jerking, sparks flying across its armor. It spun, but Aloy was already on the move, spear shining, driving deep into the joint behind its head.

The Burrower screeched again and collapsed, its body spasming before becoming still.

Varl exhaled, lowering his bow. “Another one’s coming!”

Aloy turned and scanned. The Focus lit up with warning glyphs. A second Burrower crawled into the clearing, lens sweeping.

“How does the Focus know all that?” Varl asked quickly.

“It reads the data,” Aloy replied, nocking another arrow. “Like a hunter studying prey.”

Together, they struck again — arrows hitting weak spots, with the spear finishing the job. The second Burrower collapsed in a shower of sparks and oil.

The ruins surrounded them with a haunting silence, the air heavy with the burden of lost history.

Varl brushed a bead of sweat from his brow, using his sleeve to absorb the moisture as he paused to steady himself. “Nothing you and I can’t handle,” he declared, his grin flashing like a spark in the dim light, undeterred by the lurking danger around them.

Aloy felt a flicker of warmth in her chest as a small smile slowly appeared on her lips, even though her pulse pounded loudly in her ears. “Come on,” she urged, her voice full of determination. “There’ll be more ahead.”

*~*~*

The ruins became a complex maze of leaning concrete walls and rusted steel beams, a symbol of ages long past. Thick moss poured down from the cracked openings above, while streaks of blight stained the ground in bright reds, where the once-productive soil had turned to despair. Aloy’s Focus glowed gently against her temple, guiding her further into the empty valley.

The air changed with a sharp, biting smell, heavy with the bitter scent of decay.

“Ugh,” Varl grimaced, quickly covering his nose with his arm. “What’s that disgusting smell?"

Ignoring the foul odor, Aloy moved forward, the crunch of gravel beneath her boots echoing in the silence. At the base of a crumbled stairwell, the remains of a camp lay in chaotic disarray. Oseram equipment sprawled like fallen soldiers across the ground: twisted armor plates, charred tents, and warped metal from some unseen force. The smell of rot filled the air, thick and suffocating.

“An entire camp… obliterated,” Aloy murmured, crouching beside a melted shield, her fingers gliding over its grotesquely warped surface. “They must have come here searching for scrap.”

Varl’s frown deepened as he examined the shattered cliff looming above. “Acid. That pungent odor tells the story. And...” His gaze followed the deep gouges carved into the stone. “It looks like something massive crashed down from above.”

Aloy’s eyes darted to the far wall, where a gaping hole had been violently smashed through the structure. Rubble filled the opening, with fractured stones still slick with a toxic acidic residue. Her Focus pulsed faintly over the debris, serving as a beacon in the decay.

“It barreled straight through the camp… and then shattered the wall,” she remarked. “If I can shift some of this rubble, we might just be able to squeeze through.”

Already, Varl was rummaging through the wreckage. “Aloy—over here.” He unearthed a half-damaged device from the ground, its intricate gears and tangled cables remarkably intact. “Looks like some kind of Oseram prototype. This hook—seems like it’s meant to latch onto things.”

Aloy studied it carefully, testing its mechanism with quick, agile fingers. “And this gear retracts it. Hmm.”

“It’s damaged, but if we can repair it... hook it onto the rubble…”

“…and pull it free,” Aloy concluded, a spark of determination in her eyes. She nodded firmly. “That could work. My Focus should help us locate the parts we need.”

Amid the chaos of twisted metal and broken debris, Aloy and Varl moved through the wreckage with resolve. Aloy’s keen eyes spotted a sturdy length of machine cable, its surface dull yet shiny like polished steel, still tight enough to bear weight. Varl’s strong hands sifted through the trash, retrieving a gear that stubbornly clung to a melted breastplate, its once-shiny surface now scarred and warped by fire.

As they uncovered more fragments from the damaged armor and partially buried tools, the air was thick with dust and a faint smell of burnt machinery. Aloy finally gathered their recovered treasures and moved to a battered workbench, its surface scarred and worn from years of neglect. She began working, sparks flying like tiny stars as she carefully fused the pieces—bending, twisting, and shaping them with practiced skill.

With a final satisfying click, she stepped back, her heart pounding with pride. “There,” she announced, triumph shining on her face. “A Pullcaster.”

Aloy raised her arm with fierce precision, aiming at the rubble in front of her. The moment she fired, the hook shot forward with a sharp crack, embedding itself securely into the sturdy stone. A quick tug started the mechanism whirring, and the ground trembled as the debris was pulled loose, crashing to the side in a billowing cloud of dust and rubble.

As they stood before the newly created gap, it yawned wider, a beckoning passage that promised adventure just beyond reach.

Varl let out a low whistle. “Wow. That worked better than I expected.”

Aloy lowered her arm, retracting the cable with a metallic clink. “Looks like we’ve found our way forward.”

She cast a lingering gaze over the camp, now a haunting graveyard of twisted metal and burnt canvas. Tents lay scattered like the bones of some ancient beast, reduced to smoldering ruins. Meanwhile, equipment rested in disarray, corroded and broken, as if the very essence of survival had turned to dust. A heavy silence blanketed the scene, thick and oppressive, weighing heavily on her heart. Whatever had happened here was a relentless storm of brutality, quick and merciless, leaving only shadows behind.

“Come on,” she said softly.

Together, they slipped through the broken gap and into the shadows. The air was cool and stale, carrying the dry scent of decay and the faint sting of filters that hadn’t brought fresh air in centuries. Overhead, vines threaded through cracked panels, and somewhere in the darkness, water dripped steadily.

A chime crackled from a concealed speaker.

**Synthetic Voice:** “Welcome to the Far Zenith Launch Facility.”

Aloy’s Focus lit up with glyphs as she scanned the wall, her eyes narrowing. “Far Zenith? I know they made some tech trades with Zero Dawn… but why would they have a backup of GAIA?”

**Synthetic Voice:** “Please register with reception for the tour.”

They went past the shell of a dead kiosk, where a recessed scanner flickered faintly.

**Synthetic Voice:** “Please hold for identiscan. Access denied. Please wait here for personnel to assist you, Dr. Sobeck.”

Aloy’s expression grew tense. “Okay. I guess they weren’t on good terms with Elisabet. Well, let’s find a way in.”

Varl tested the panel out of habit.

**Synthetic Voice:** “Please hold for identiscan. Access denied. Credentials not recognized.”

Aloy jammed the tip of her spear into a warped frame, forcing it open to reveal torn ducting above. “I should be able to pry this open. There’s climbing gear. Someone must have come down from above. Whoever left this here might have also shot those machines we found earlier.”

They pressed deeper into the facility, and the corridor widened into a ruined chamber where dust stirred under their boots. Aloy touched a console, and it flickered to life.

Varl moved closer. “Huh. What’s this thing for?”

She tapped the keys, and projectors hummed to life, illuminating a wall half-covered by ivy. A man in a white suit appeared, his silver hair slicked back and his smile perfectly polished.

**Osvald Dalgaard:** “Good morning! I’m Osvald Dalgaard, and it is my pleasure to introduce you to… Far Zenith. Forget what you think you know about us. Our truth is simple: we say, ‘Reach for the stars!’ even if you have to cross 8.6 light-years of space to get there! Please proceed into the auditorium, where we’ll unveil our plans!”

The image flickered and then cut out with a hiss of static.

Varl stared wide-eyed. “By the Goddess. Could the Old Ones fly through the sky? Between the stars?”

Aloy shook her head. “Well, yes—sort of. That ship, the Odyssey—it never reached the other star. Something went wrong, and it blew up.”

They moved on. A shuttered doorway groaned open under Aloy’s hands, revealing a vast space where a catwalk sagged under moss. Another projector stuttered, spilling fragments of a recording.

**Osvald:** “Humans—Homo sapiens. Us. We have always pushed the boundaries… That’s why we’re proud to have resurrected the Odyssey… the Sirius system… ‘the truest form of immortality is—’”

**Synthetic Voice:** “Data corrupt. Playback stopped.”

Varl’s voice was quiet. “The next step for humanity…?”

Aloy keyed the console again.

**Synthetic Voice:** “Error: Public presentation file corrupted. Member Recruitment file available. Do you wish to reactivate?”

Aloy nodded to herself. “Yeah—reactivate. Let’s see what else they had to say.”

The projector flashed again.

**Osvald:** “We all know the projections—economic instability, bio-contagions, rampant AIs. How long before another catastrophe sends shockwaves through the world’s elite? Here at Far Zenith, we’ve found our escape from the oncoming storm. So invest, and join us. Secure your place aboard the Odyssey. Preserve your way of life, far removed from the turmoil of Earth.”

Aloy’s jaw clenched, a mix of anger and disbelief flashing across her face. “Well, they were right about the world ending. They just didn’t know how… yet.”

Varl’s expression hardened, his fists clenching. “So that ‘next step for humanity’… it was nothing but a façade. These people were only interested in preserving their own lives.”

Aloy’s gaze swept over a sealed bay as rusted shutters screeched open, revealing a dark, murky expanse. “That Osvald guy mentioned a Data Center.” She forced a panel aside, the machinery protesting with a series of metallic groans, to unveil dark water and a bank of dormant servers beyond. “There it is. The backup… it should be stored in there.”

Varl’s eyes narrowed at the flooded area ahead. “Swimming across is out of the question.”

“We’ll find another way. Come on.”

They navigated a narrow passage, the air thick with dampness, while twisted roots strangled the handrails and ferns brushed against their arms, slick with moisture.

Varl looked up at the large hole in the ceiling, where nature had reclaimed the area, vines twisting around the remains of human efforts. “The wilds have really taken over this place.”

Aloy adjusted a rusted mechanism, and with a triumphant sound, a door thudded open deep within the shadows. She exhaled, an air of determination surfacing. “That did the trick. Deeper into the eerie ruins we go.”

A shadow flickered across the jagged gap high above, a massive shape undulating with scales that glinted like shards of glass as it slipped into the gloom.

Varl stiffened, a chill running up his spine. “Above us! What in the All-Mother is that thing?”

Aloy’s eyes followed the fleeting glimpse of coils before they disappeared into the darkness. “I don't know. It could’ve been what took out those Oseram. Stay alert.”

“Oh, my guard is very much up.”

They pressed further into the shadows, the ancient ruins around them whispering with the echoes of a lost civilization. Meanwhile, an unseen predator, full of malice, circles above, waiting patiently for the right moment to strike.

The corridor suddenly curved, narrowing into a quieter passage where the atmosphere changed. Here, the ruin felt different, less covered with creeping vines and free of the damp decay found elsewhere. Aloy slowed her speed, her Focus glowing softly against her temple, its pulse a steady reminder of the unknown.

To her left, obscured by drooping cables that looked like heavy drapery, a placard caught the faint light: COLD STORAGE.

Aloy stopped, her eyes fixed on the door. The seam looked surprisingly intact, but the latch hung strangely loose. It didn't seem pried open or rusted; instead, it was closed, as if gently shut by careful hands, yet never fully sealed.

Varl paused next to her, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “That one looks… strange.”

She reached for the handle, surprised by the smoothness of the metal beneath her fingers—it moved with an unnervingly easy motion, almost too fluid for something that had sat untouched for a thousand years. “Not like the others,” she noted. “The rest of these doors were locked tight.”

Varl shifted, unease spreading through his posture. “So why is this one different?”

“I can’t say,” she replied, as uncertainty tightened in her chest.

Steeling herself, she yanked the door open. It swung outward with a tired, elongated sigh.

An icy gust swept through, a stark contrast to the oppressive humidity of the ruins, curling around their faces with its sharp chill. It carried a clean, sterile breath, lacking the rot and mildew they had grown used to, making the air feel almost lively. White panels flickered to life on the ceiling, illuminating the space with a nearly supernatural glow, as if they had been in stasis all this time, waiting for intruders.

Inside, the chamber revealed itself clearly. Not a hint of vine clung to the walls, nor did any cracks mar the surface; not a single drop of water had seeped through the polished floor. Everything glowed softly in the pale light, its pristine state a stark contrast to the ruin outside.

Varl exhaled sharply, his breath billowing like fog in the cold. His voice dropped to a whisper. “This room doesn't look like it belongs in the same ruin.”

Aloy squinted, her Focus highlighting tiny details: climate controls still softly whirring, faint power lines humming beneath the sleek flooring, and a preservation system miraculously intact, an anachronism in this forsaken place.

Then her eyes fixed on something unusual.

Across the far wall, a vent cover hung askew, its frame invitingly ajar. The screws had disappeared, leaving no sign of violence or machinery—only the neat, precise marks of human tampering.

Someone had forced it open. Someone had slipped through. And they never came back to close it behind them.

Aloy's heart began to race, the implications spiraling in her mind. “Not machines,” she breathed.

Varl swallowed, the weight of realization sinking in. “Then people. But… how long ago?”

Stepping further into the chamber, Aloy felt the cold seep into her skin, a shiver running down her spine. Beyond the vent, a low hum resonated through the metal, steady and persistent. Whatever was behind that opening was still alive, waiting, hidden in the darkness.

She cast a cautious glance back at Varl, her face a mix of worry and firm determination. “They left us a path.”

Together, they glided across the spotless floor, their movements deliberate as they neared the ominous, gaping mouth of the vent, an invitation to explore the shadowy unknown.

The vent was a tight, metallic tunnel, its cold edges slick against their skin. Aloy was the first to dive in, her spear softly tapping against her back as she crawled forward. An icy breath seeped further in with each movement, piercing through her armor and chilling her bones. Varl followed close behind, the sound of his breathing echoing sharply in the narrow space.

The tunnel twisted once and then widened. Aloy dropped smoothly into a large chamber that seemed frozen in time.

It was immense and eerily quiet. Rows upon rows of cryopods stood sentinel along the walls like unreachable dreams, their sleek, pale surfaces glistening under the dim light, most wrapped in an unsettling stillness. The majority of them remained untouched: systems dormant, lids sealed tight, the machinery silent and forgotten. Only a thin layer of dust and frost decorated their exteriors, giving them an air of neglect.

Varl landed just behind her, his eyes scanning the creepy gathering. His breath hung in the cold air, a misty cloud in the chilling atmosphere. “By the Goddess…” he whispered, the words heavy with disbelief. “They’re still here.”

Aloy activated her Focus, scanning for signs of life. Most of the pods showed nothing more than lifeless voids — empty of occupants and lacking energy. However, at the far end, two pods flickered with a faint, ethereal blue glow, their preservation systems miraculously resisting the ravages of time.

She moved closer, her heart pounding with a blend of excitement and fear, pulled irresistibly toward the glowing promise of what was to come.

The first pod held a man. His body was extremely thin, with a sharp face and pale skin like bone. White-blond hair was frozen into curled strands. His lips were blue, and his frame was hollow from starvation even before the frost claimed him. Her Focus detected faint vital signs buried deep, but to the naked eye, he looked indistinguishable from a corpse.

Varl recoiled. “He’s dead.”

Aloy's expression hardened into a mask of intensity, her brow furrowing as she murmured, "Not quite," her eyes fixed on the delicate glyphs flickering ominously on her Focus. With determination, she pushed past him; if he was still clinging to life, it was by the thinnest of threads.

Next to him stood another figure, wrapped in an ethereal stillness.

Aloy halted her tracks.

Before her, encased in clear glass, lay a woman frozen in time, her golden hair flowing around her like a heavenly halo. Fine frost coated her long lashes, while her features were softened by a peaceful sleep that suggested life rather than the icy finality of death.

Aloy's Focus pulsed rhythmically, displaying vivid biometrics, DNA markers, and life signs that were undeniably real, steady as a heartbeat.

Her voice came out, rough and filled with disbelief, "She’s alive."

Varl's words echoed in quiet awe. "Aloy… what is this place?"

Aloy remained silent, her heart pounding. She raised her hand, and the glow from her Focus lit up the pod's surface, where detailed glyphs appeared in her vision—revival protocols waiting for her command, whispering promises of awakening.

The air in the room was heavy with anticipation, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Suddenly, a surge of energy flowed through the seals, activating the machinery.

Buffy Summers' cryopod started to wake up, breaking the silence with a flicker of hope.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two – Blood and Awakenings

Ice cold. That's what Buffy felt first. The air in her lungs felt like a blanket of frost, each breath a sharp, stinging reminder of the freezing temperature. The pod released her with a long, loud hiss, and the glass above her lifted away. Her body felt like it was on fire with the cold as her nerves sparked to life again. Pinpricks of pain shot through every inch of her, and if she'd been anyone else, she might have screamed from the sheer agony. But she wasn’t anyone else. She was the Slayer, and she was built to endure.

Light poured in, burning her eyes. Too intense. Too harsh.

She strained to lift herself into an upright position, her chest rising and falling in rapid, frantic gasps as her vision swirled before gradually clearing. At the edge of the pod stood two figures, both young and poised, armed with an air of fierce determination. Their clothing was an eclectic mix that seemed pulled from a fantastical storybook, featuring leather carefully stitched together, decorated with plates of hammered metal that glinted subtly in the light, and rough fur trim that hinted at a wild, untamed side of their existence. The primitive bows and spears they carried completed the striking image, evoking the essence of an ancient cave painting rather than a glimpse of the future.

Her heart skipped a beat. This couldn’t be real.

The girl stepped into the light, her fiery red hair shimmering like molten copper under the harsh, clinical glow of the overhead fixtures. For a moment, Buffy felt breathless, her mind briefly clouded. Elisabet. No—she was close, yet somehow different. She looked strikingly like Sobeck, as Buffy remembered from the photographs: youthful and composed, with piercing eyes that sparkled with intelligence and determination. Newly awarded a Doctorate in Philosophy, specializing in Robotics and Artificial Intelligence Design from Carnegie Mellon University at just twenty years old, she exuded a truly inspiring confidence. Willow had always been proud of her, and now that memory returned, it was warm and tinged with nostalgia.

“Stay calm,” the redhead said, her voice steady and cautious. She held out a flask of water for Buffy to see. “You’ve been asleep a long time.”

Buffy’s lips cracked as she forced out a sound. “E-Elisabet?”

The girl furrowed her brow. “No. My name is Aloy.”

Buffy stared. The resemblance made her throat tighten. “But you… You look just like her.”

Aloy hesitated, her green eyes flickering. “Because I was made to. I’m… connected to her. But I’m not Elisabet. I’m me.”

Her words felt heavy, too much for her to handle. Buffy’s eyes moved to the man beside her—a striking, muscular figure with dark skin, a rough beard, detailed markings on his face, and a bow strapped to his back. He stood alert and cautious, as if expecting her to lash out.

Her voice rasped out again, hoarse. “Where… where am I? What happened?”

“You’re safe,” Aloy said, remaining calm. She placed the flask in Buffy’s trembling hands, guiding her fingers around it. “Drink first.”

The water was cold and metallic, but it slipped down her throat like salvation. She drank until it spilled over her chin.

Aloy crouched so they were eye-level. Curiosity burned in her gaze, layered with something she was fighting to keep hidden—excitement, maybe even hope. “It’s been centuries since the world you knew,” she said softly. “The Faro Plague destroyed everything. Project Zero Dawn… it worked. Life came back. Different, but it came back.”

Centuries. Zero Dawn. The words hit like hammer blows. Willow’s gamble. Elisabet’s plan. It had truly remade the world.

The man finally spoke, his voice sharp and suspicious. “How do we know she isn’t one of them?”

Buffy snapped her head toward him. His eyes were cold, and a spear was gripped tightly. Aloy glanced at him but didn’t correct him.

“One of who?” Buffy whispered.

“Far Zenith,” he said flatly. “The Old Ones who tried to cheat death. We found what they left behind in this place. Lies. Empty promises. We can’t trust this.”

Her pulse spiked. Zenith? God, no.

“I’m not them,” she said quickly, panic rising in her throat. She wrapped her arms around herself, fighting the weight of centuries pressing down. “I’m… Buffy. Buffy Summers.”

The name sounded empty, as if it belonged to someone else.

Aloy watched her, her face unreadable. The silence grew heavier, interrupted only by the faint hum of the pods behind her.

Buffy shivered. If they thought she was Zenith or didn’t believe her, this strange, primitive world she had woken up in would try to kill her before she understood its rules.

“I’m not them,” she repeated, this time more assertively. “I despised most of them. They were gutless, self-serving elitists who caused many of the world’s problems. They were also a major thorn in my side and did more harm to the people I cared about than…” She stopped abruptly, cutting herself off before saying too much, and they wondered if she’d finally lost it.

Their expressions softened into understanding at her passionate outburst, and a wave of relief washed over Buffy, knowing they trusted her words. As her breath began to steady, a tremor still danced in her hands, revealing the turmoil inside her. She turned her gaze beyond Aloy, peering into the shadowy chamber. Most of the pods resembled forgotten relics of the past, their surfaces dull and inert, but one stood out, pulsating with a soft blue glow. A sharp pang of anxiety gripped her chest, tightening like a vise as she focused on the eerily luminous pod.

“Spike,” she whispered.

Aloy and Varl both looked at the occupied pod, their faces showing visible signs of worry.

“He’s in there,” Buffy pressed. “The blond man. Tell me.”

Varl hesitated, his expression softening. “We looked in on him. He’s still inside, but he… he looks starved. Skin pale, lips blue. Like someone already gone. I’m sorry.”

“No.” Buffy’s voice grew firmer as she pushed herself upright, her legs unsteady beneath her. “He isn’t dead. Not like you mean.”

Aloy crouched slightly, her tone calm but steady—the voice of someone trying to protect fragile hope. “Listen… we saw him. He’s barely holding on. If we try to wake him now, it could kill him. I don’t want you hurt by false hope.”

“You don’t get it,” Buffy said, tears filling her eyes. “He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t age. That’s how he’s stayed alive. He’s… a vampire.”

The word hung in the sterile chamber, feeling strange and heavy.

Varl frowned, confusion tightening his brow. “A… what?”

Buffy drew a breath, steadying herself. “A vampire. Stronger, faster, harder to kill than any human. They heal from wounds that should be fatal. But they survive by drinking blood. Most are monsters.” She swallowed, her voice thickening. “I spent my life fighting them. That was my calling.”

Aloy’s brows knit. “Calling?”

Buffy’s gaze dropped before she looked up again. “I was the Slayer. The one chosen to fight the darkness. Vampires. Demons. Things that preyed on people when the world still had cities and nightclubs instead of…” She gestured faintly at the chamber around them. “This.”

The words settled into silence, pressing against the cold air.

“But Spike…” Her voice softened, catching. “He’s different. He fought beside me. He chose to change. He chose a soul. He chose me.”

Varl’s eyes stayed on her, caught between discomfort and respect. Growing up listening to Nora's stories of spirits and curses, he recognized the rhythm of myth, even if the details felt unfamiliar.

Aloy, by contrast, stayed stiff. Finally, she shook her head. “The Old Ones didn’t believe in demons or magic. They believed in science. In what could be proven. What you’re saying…” Her voice was steady, clipped. “…it sounds impossible.”

Buffy’s chest tightened. She had seen that kind of disbelief before—skepticism hardened into armor.

“You want proof?” she asked softly.

Aloy locked eyes with her. “Yes.”

Shaking, Buffy unzipped her environmental suit and peeled it off, revealing her clothes underneath. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a steel container, extracting a small, triangular device—the Focus, which had been hidden for centuries to keep the swarm from detecting her. She attached it to her temple.

The moment it lit, Aloy’s composure shattered. Her Focus responded instantly, streams of data flooding her vision: records of the past, proof of a world long gone.

Aloy staggered back, breath catching. “This… can’t be real.”

“It is,” Buffy said simply.

Aloy’s hands clenched into fists, her voice strained. “I need time. If your companion truly is what you say—what does he need?”

Buffy met her gaze steadily. “Blood. Fresh blood. That’s the only way he’ll be able to function.”

Aloy’s face hardened with reluctant acceptance. “Then I’ll hunt. A boar should be enough.” She abruptly stood and walked out of the room, her movements tense like a drawn bowstring.

She leaned back against the cold, metallic pod, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she was holding—an echo of anxiety dissolving in the sterile air. Varl stayed still, his bow lowered but ready, his eyes a blend of caution and tenderness as they tracked Aloy, who was caught in a whirlwind of distress while wielding her spear to pry open the imposing door to the cryochamber.

As Aloy stepped outside, the chamber exhaled a sense of vast emptiness, and the heavy door slammed shut with a loud thud that echoed through the confined space. The soundscape was filled with the rhythmic hum of dormant pods and the soft, persistent hiss of coolant lines running through the walls, reminiscent of a stark morgue laid bare.

Buffy pressed her palm against the icy glass of Spike’s pod, feeling frost creep beneath her fingertips. His face appeared as a ghostly blur, suspended in a frozen limbo. A sharp ache blossomed in her chest—a fierce longing to shatter the seal and pull him into her arms, yet instincts sharpened by years of battle and discipline held her back. Waking him now would be like releasing a ravenous wolf inside confined walls—a creature driven by hunger that could destroy everything in its path.

With a heavy heart, Buffy lowered her hand and wrapped her arms tightly around herself as if to ward off the cold spreading through her.

Varl hadn’t gone far; he crouched nearby, his bow carefully set aside, his gaze steady and watchful. There was no judgment in his eyes. Instead, they held an understanding, a subtle recognition of grief—a man familiar with the weight of suffering, able to sit quietly alongside it, a steadfast presence amid her storm.

Sorry about Aloy," Varl apologized. “She doesn’t take to mysticism and blind faith well.”

She snorted. “Most people don’t, until it’s got its fangs in your throat.”

He laughed at her sharp remark, then grew serious in realization. “You weren’t lying,” he said softly.

Buffy offered a tired, almost grateful smile. “No. Not about this.”

Together, they faced Spike’s pod, frost still heavy on the glass.

“You really believe he’ll wake?” he asked gently.

Buffy kept her gaze fixed on the pod. “I don’t believe. I know. He’s come back from worse. He always does.”

Varl cocked his head, deep in thought. “According to the Nora, all the Old Ones died when they turned their backs on the All-Mother and started worshiping metal instead of nature, causing the world to burn. It was only the All-Mother’s mercy that let life start again. But—” He pointed to her Focus. “You’re here, holding proof in your hands.”

With a mouth that twisted into a grim smile, Buffy said, “Your stories aren’t entirely off base. But we didn’t worship metal—we worshiped money. Or at least, a lot of us did. Greed became the primary driver of my time. We destroyed the environment, triggered rising oceans, and storms that just kept intensifying.” She paused, her voice dropping to a quiet tone. “And then we started making a difference. Technology shifted from being used for profit to being used for good. But it didn’t stick. It never does.”

Varl looked at her, brows furrowed, unsure how to reply. Instead, he shifted the topic. His voice lowered to something almost reverent. “You said you were chosen. A Slayer.”

Her shoulders slumped. “One girl in all the world, called to fight the dark. Until there were more, for a while. They’re all gone now.” The words threatened to crack her voice, but she held firm. “It wasn’t about power or destiny. Maybe at first it was, but after a while it was about waking up every day knowing something out there wanted to kill you—and fighting anyway. Because if you didn’t, someone else would die instead.”

Varl was silent for a long time, the low hum of the pods filling the quiet. “My mother raised me on stories of the Goddess choosing warriors to defend the tribe. When you speak… it sounds like that. Another name for the same truth.”

Buffy studied him closely, truly inspecting him. He had broad shoulders and a quiet strength in his eyes. He reminded her of the men she’d fought beside in a different life—Xander, Giles, even Angel and Riley at their best. Strong people who tried to stay with her, even if they couldn’t always keep up.

Her throat burned. “I’ve carried this too long,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to explain more if you don’t want to,” Varl said softly. But when she didn’t respond, he continued, voice quieter now. “Aloy… she’s told me some things. About how the world was remade. About GAIA.”

Buffy’s head shot up instantly. “GAIA?” The name resonated deeply—familiar from ancient myth, even from Willow’s spells. GAIA, the earth-mother, the life-giver, is called upon as a protector in the language of magic.

“The All-Mother,” Varl said first, then corrected himself. “At least, that’s what my tribe believed. But Aloy says GAIA was… an intelligence—a mind, built by the Old Ones. When the machines consumed the earth, GAIA created new life. Plants, animals, even us.”

Buffy’s brow furrowed. Elisabet told Willow that it was called Project Zero Dawn, but Buffy didn't know the details. She glanced at Spike’s pod again, throat tight. “And what happened to her?”

Varl’s mouth pressed tight. “There was something else—another intelligence. A part of GAIA twisted wrong. Aloy calls it HADES. It tried to undo everything—turn the world back into ash. Aloy destroyed it before it could destroy everything.”

Buffy exhaled slowly, her breath sinking in. GAIA. HADES. Names she recognized—gods from myth, invoked through magic. GAIA, the earth mother. HADES, the lord of death. Now, they were machines—one reshaping the world, the other trying to end it.

It was too familiar—like echoes of her past life. Fighting monsters that emerged from the darkness. Holding back endings again and again. Before Willow awakened the Slayers. Before the world truly unraveled.

Her voice was quiet. “And now?”

“The land is sick,” Varl said. “Blight spreading like rot, choking fields, poisoning streams. Aloy believes only GAIA can stop it. But GAIA is gone. What’s left are fragments.” He gestured toward the deeper halls beyond the pods. “She came here chasing a backup. Hoping for a miracle.”

Buffy felt the warmth of darkness surround her as she closed her eyes, the world around her fading into a hazy blur. She could almost hear Willow’s voice echoing in her mind, a gentle reminder of their countless conversations. “Technology and magic aren’t as different as you think,” Willow would say, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. It was true; names shifted like shadows, systems adapted like living beings, but at the core, it was all about power. A shimmering force tingled at her fingertips, pulsating with potential. Yet with that power came an ever-present truth—no matter what form it took, everything of value demanded a sacrifice.

She whispered, almost to herself, “You’re fighting your apocalypse too.”

Varl nodded solemnly. “We all are.”

For a while, they said nothing—just two warriors from shattered worlds, listening to the steady hum of machines sealing the past away.

*~*~*

The ancient door creaked open, its rusted hinges protesting with a spine-chilling shriek that echoed through the dimly lit passage. Buffy sprang to her feet, her heart racing, as Varl rose alongside her, eyes wide with anticipation. Aloy stepped into view, her gait heavy and deliberate, a stark contrast to the poised warrior she had been just an hour ago. Her once-pristine braids hung loose and matted, clinging to her damp skin like weary tendrils of foliage. The fabric of her armor was splattered with a gritty mix of dirt and oil, and one sleeve hung torn, raked as if by the claws of a monstrous beast.

With a dull thud, she dropped the boar she had been carrying, the lifeless form slumping forward, blood oozing from the gaping wound onto the cold stone floor in a macabre pool. Aloy wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, her breath coming in rapid bursts that filled the silent air with urgency. For a fleeting moment, she stood there, her head bowed, the weight of her battle evident in the tense line of her shoulders and the raw intensity in her gaze, as if she were a warrior not just returning from a skirmish, but emerging from the very depths of despair.

Varl cautiously moved forward. “What happened out there?”

Her voice was rough, tinged with exhaustion. “Machines. One of them was huge—it took more effort to take down than anything I’ve faced in months.” She paused, taking a shaky breath before tapping her Focus. “But that’s not the worst of it—the backup isn’t here. What I found was a decoy—corrupted fragments, no useful information.”

Buffy frowned. “A decoy? Why would anyone build something like that?”

Aloy lifted her gaze, anger blazing in her eyes. “Because this place belonged to Far Zenith. I didn’t know that until I got inside. I thought I was following a lead, a scrap of data I’d uncovered. It mentioned a copy of GAIA hidden in this region. But the Zeniths tried to steal one for themselves, and when Travis Tate found out, he sabotaged it. Made sure they got nothing.”

The name hit Buffy’s chest like a stone. “Tate,” she murmured.

Aloy caught it. “You know him?”

“Not personally,” Buffy said, shaking her head. “But the Watchers Council used him. Back when corporations were digging into the demon underworld, trying to weaponize what they didn’t understand. Tate had the skills to slip into their networks, pull secrets out, and make sure we stayed a step ahead. Cynical, sharp, never really cared about anyone but the job. But effective.”

Aloy’s mouth twitched. “That sounds right. Obnoxious. Irritating. Always had something to say. But he wasn’t evil. HADES wasn’t meant to destroy everything—it was meant to be GAIA’s failsafe. He just... never saw how badly it could go wrong.”

Buffy gave a short, bitter laugh. “The Council didn’t care if he grated on people. They cared if he got results. And he did. He was one of the few who could see through the games corporations played. By the end, they were buying governments whole, twisting laws, even sniffing at Slayer bloodlines to see if they could profit.”

Varl shifted uneasily. Aloy glanced toward the pod again, then muttered, “I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like working with him day to day.” She paused, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Though my… I mean, Elisabet managed it.”

Buffy raised an eyebrow at the mistake but didn’t say anything. Instead, her mouth twitched into a knowing smile. “Then you really haven’t met Spike yet.”

Both Aloy and Varl looked at her, caught between confusion and unease.

Buffy’s hand stayed on the frost-covered glass, her voice gentle. “He can drive you crazy, sure. Mouth always running, never letting anything go. But underneath all that... he’s loyal. Fiercely so. And he’s survived more than anyone has a right to. That’s why he’s still here.”

For a moment, the silence thickened, but not with distrust. Buffy noticed Aloy watching her, green eyes shadowed with a familiar trait: grief held tightly, masked as resolve. She remembered it in Willow after Tara, and in herself after all that she had lost. Aloy wore it the same way—armor over an old wound.

Buffy let her palm rest against the glass, steady. “Hope’s all that’s left sometimes. And I’ve learned it can be enough.”

Aloy maintained her gaze, the flicker of that smile disappearing, replaced by something else—recognition.

The hum of the pods filled the chamber once more, steady and constant.

The boar’s carcass lay where Aloy had dropped it, the copper scent of blood thick in the air. Buffy’s stomach tightened as she crouched beside it, fingers brushing across its bristles. Not the first time she had prepared a meal like this for him, though usually it was pigs’ blood taken from the butchers or human blood lifted from a hospital, not a fresh kill.

She turned back to the pod, frost still clinging to the glass. Spike’s face was a pale mask beyond it, lips tinged blue, skin pulled tight over sharp bones. He looked almost dead, but she knew better.

“He won’t wake gently,” Buffy said, her voice steady even though her pulse hammered in her throat. “When he’s this hungry… the demon takes over first. He’ll see prey before he sees me.”

Aloy’s jaw clenched. “And you still want to risk it?”

Buffy didn’t flinch. “I have to. But you two—” she looked between them, her gaze hardening, “you need to step outside.”

Varl frowned, bow at the ready. “Leave you alone with that thing?”

“He’s not a thing.” Buffy’s tone cut sharply, then softened. “But he will be dangerous. More dangerous than anything you’ve faced. If he sees you here, he’ll strike before I can stop him. If it’s just me… I can reach him.”

Aloy looked at her for a long moment, green eyes narrowed. “If you’re wrong, he’ll kill you.”

Buffy gave a small, humorless smile. “If I’m wrong, you’ll hear the screaming. Then you can finish it. But I’m not wrong.”

The silence lingered, thick and unsure, until Aloy finally nodded. She made eye contact with Varl, and together they moved toward the door.

“Be quick,” Varl whispered.

Buffy’s hand remained on the pod’s console. Her Focus flickered on, guiding her through the revival process. Seals unlocked one after another, each hiss of escaping pressure piercing the silence.

The pod cracked open with a groan, cold vapor spilling across the floor like grave-dust. The frost started to melt. Inside, Spike stirred. Fingers twitched, his chest rose with a shallow gasp, and then his eyes snapped open — For a heartbeat, he didn’t move—then he exploded forward, gaunt and feral, a snarl ripping out of him. His eyes burned gold, ridges distorting his face, fangs gleaming in the sterile light.

Buffy moved quickly, pushing the boar’s carcass into his way. “Here!”

He attacked with the frenzy of a starving animal. Hands and teeth tore into hide and sinew, the sounds wet and violent. The copper smell thickened the air until Buffy’s stomach churned. She crouched nearby, blade in hand, her heart pounding painfully.

She recognized this moment all too well. It was a terrifying sight—his hunger consumed him, stripping away any trace of his humanity and leaving behind only a twisted, growling demon thirsting for blood. It was a grotesque transformation, raw and unyielding, yet it was a crucible he had to go through before she could pull him back from the abyss.

Her heart ached as she watched the battle raging inside him, the familiar ache of longing and sorrow tearing at her. Memories flooded her mind, overwhelming and vivid—those lean, desperate years before the Faro Plague swept through like a dark tide, swallowing hope and light. By that time, they had found each other again, rekindling their bond after Sunnydale’s destruction and his miraculous return in Los Angeles. She had made her choice, a beacon in the storm, but Spike had become a living testament to the weight of that decision, haunted by it even amid the fire of their reconnecting.

She remembered the missions where he went without eating, the tremor in his hands, and how he thought she didn’t notice. Nights when he hid away to drink, ashamed to let her see him like that—as if her choosing him hadn’t already answered what he was to her. He carried his guilt like a second skin, convinced he had to keep proving himself even when he didn’t need to.

Now there was nowhere to hide. The hunger revealed everything.

The minutes dragged, each one stretched by the sound of ripping flesh, the sight of blood smeared across his face. The boar was little more than a ruin when Spike finally flung his head back, panting, though breath was meaningless to him. Blood slicked his lips, his chin, his gaunt throat. And the hunger in his eyes hadn’t dulled—it had sharpened.

His gaze snapped to her. For a terrible moment, he didn’t see Buffy; he saw prey.

Her hand trembled, but she forced it to stay steady. With one quick stroke, she drew Aloy’s knife across her palm. Blood surged bright and hot, running down her wrist. She held it out. “Spike. It’s me.”

The scent hit him like a drug. He dropped the carcass with a snarl and lunged forward. His hand slammed around her wrist, bruising bone with his grip. His mouth closed on the wound, fangs sinking deep.

Pain surged through Buffy, sharp and searing, yet she remained resolute, refusing to pull away. A gasp escaped her lips as she braced herself against the feral strength that dragged her down into the depths of darkness. His mouth latched onto her skin, a savage thirst driving him as he drank deeply, his movements rough and insatiable, with sounds echoing a low, primal hunger that reverberated in the hollow chamber around them.

Her head spun, each pull sending shivers through her body. Desperation bubbled in her chest as she forced the words out through clenched teeth, her voice trembling while she called out to him. “Come on, Spike. Come back to me.”

For a while, all that filled the air was hunger—a raw, undeniable ache. His grip was tight, his body tense with a hunting energy, every line of him radiating the intensity of a hunter lost in the thrill of the chase.

But gradually, she noticed the tremor in his hands soften into something gentler. The wildness that had consumed him began to fade, replaced by a flicker of recognition. His shoulders slumped with the weight of realization, and his grip on her skin loosened, though his mouth remained hot and pleading against hers. The ridges on his brow smoothed out, the fierce gold in his eyes dimmed, giving way to a sharp blue that looked bleary and lost—like a sailor washed ashore, bewildered and disbelieving.

He tore his mouth away with a gasp, staggering back a step. His face shifted entirely, the demon retreating. His eyes locked on hers, wide and stricken. “Buffy?” His voice cracked, raw, almost boyish in its uncertainty.

Tears blurred her vision. She grasped his face with her bloody hand, ignoring the mess. “Yeah. It’s me.”

And then he was kissing her, a desperate and wild urgency fueling every touch, his lips tasting of iron, salt, and the weight of sorrow. His arms tightened around her, as though she were the only anchor in a tempestuous sea, a tangible reality amid chaos. A shuddering sob erupted from deep within him, reverberating through his chest, his body quaking with a raw relief that felt almost unbearable.

Buffy held onto him, tears streaming down her face like burning lava. They had won against all odds; somehow, impossibly, they both had come out of the darkness.

The heavy door creaked open ominously. Aloy and Varl stepped cautiously into the chamber, their eyes widening in shock as they froze at the sight: the once feral stranger had become a man, still smeared with remnants of battle but now holding Buffy with fierce tenderness, as if she were the last thread of sanity in a fractured world.

Spike remained oblivious to their presence, his forehead resting against hers, his voice trembling into a whisper meant only for her ears. “Thought I’d lost you... thought it was finally over."

Buffy closed her eyes, gently holding the back of his neck to ground him. “We’ve faced worse and come out stronger. This isn’t the end for us.”

Aloy and Varl exchanged a tense glance—uneasy, shaken, yet undeniably touched. In that moment, whatever doubts they had began to dissolve, for there was an undeniable truth woven into the fabric of that embrace, a bond forged in the crucible of their shared struggles.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three – Threads of Immortality

Aloy had encountered countless wonders in her life—machines that lumbered like ancient beasts, timeworn ruins that echoed with the whispers of the Old Ones, and ancient doors that swung open only for her. Yet, what lay before her now twisted her stomach in knots.

The man inside the second cryopod—Spike, as Buffy had named him—should have been nothing more than a remnant of the past. Moments earlier, her Focus had detected no pulse, no breath, just faint flickers of brain activity, like a ghostly whisper amid an unending storm. His skin was tight against his bones, lips tinged with a pale blue—a body that time should have taken eons ago.

And yet, he still stood before her.

Not just standing, but alive and animated—his arms holding Buffy tightly in a fierce embrace, as if she were his only anchor in a stormy sea. His shoulders are squared with strength, his grip firm, and his frame sturdy as if he had never experienced hunger. Although his complexion remains pale, it no longer looks like a corpse; instead, it radiates unexpected vitality. His eyes—sharp and crystal blue—sparkle with intense awareness.

Her Focus blinked urgently across her vision, displaying glyphs that moved over his silhouette: Pulse: none. Neural activity: faint but steady. Status: compromised. The readings mirrored the baffling results she had seen when he was encased in ice. To the Focus, he was just a shadow of life. To her eyes, he appeared vibrantly whole.

Aloy’s throat tightened as she wrestled with these two conflicting realities.

Beside her, Varl had become a tense statue, his bow hand steady with readiness, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion as if he were watching a spirit emerge from the pages of an ancient tale.

With a sudden jolt, Aloy shook off the heavy blanket of disbelief that had wrapped around her. The air felt charged with anticipation as she forced herself to take a step forward, her boots scraping against the worn stone floor, echoing her determination. She cleared her throat, a sound like a bell tolling, determined to connect the realm of impossibility with the stark reality ahead.

Buffy pulled away from the passionate kiss she had been sharing with Spike, her fingers lingering like whispers along his jawline, tracing the contours of their shared moments. There was no shame in her gaze; instead, she stood at the crossroads of apology and defiance, a fierce storm brewing in her heart.

Aloy felt a rush of warmth flood her cheeks, the heat rising as quickly as fire consuming dry leaves, a shade as vivid as her striking red hair. It irritated her to know they could see her flustered state, an ember of vulnerability in a world that demanded strength.

Spike's gaze shifted from Buffy to Aloy and the others, a predatory gleam flashing in his eyes. His nostrils flared slightly as if he were inhaling the very essence of the moment, and recognition crossed his face. He tilted his head, his expression sharpening like the edge of a blade, and a half-smile played on his lips, revealing a cunning delight.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough caress that vibrated with certainty. “You’ve got her in you. Willow. Clear as day.”

Aloy blinked, a frown crossing her face as confusion took over. “Who?” The word suddenly slipped out, filled with disbelief and a desperate need for clarity.

Buffy tightened her grip around Spike’s waist, a subtle yet strong gesture of support that kept him grounded in the moment. She turned to Aloy, her face showing a mix of resignation and empathy. “Willow,” she said softly, her voice nearly a whisper. “My best friend. My family. Elisabet’s grandmother.”

The name dropped into the heavy silence like a stone hitting still water, sending shockwaves through the air around them and creating a visible disruption that made the atmosphere feel charged.

Aloy’s thoughts immediately fixated on that name. Elisabet’s grandmother? In all the logs she had carefully combed through and every piece of data she had uncovered, that name had never appeared.

A shiver ran down her spine, blending urgency with disbelief. She opened her mouth to speak, questions swirling in her mind like storm clouds, but was met only with suffocating silence.

The cavern around them seemed to hold its breath, the stillness almost palpable, heavy with unspoken truths.

Aloy studied Buffy carefully, her Focus still buzzing with faint biometric signals across her sight. Nothing made sense to her based on what she knew.

“You said you entered the pod during the Faro Plague,” Aloy stated. “That was in 2066. By then, you would have been at least eighty-five if you actually knew my grandmother. Yet you look no older than me.” Her eyes narrowed, her voice tightening. “That isn’t possible.”

The word “grandmother” lingered in the air.

Buffy blinked, confusion crossing her face. Spike, however, caught it immediately. He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, and let out a low chuckle. “Grandmother, eh? Funny slip, that.” He sniffed faintly, his gaze piercing into her. “You reek of Willow. But kin? Doesn’t quite add up; after all, you’d be what? A bloody thousand? And there was plenty of video of dear Liz on the telly; she was at least twenty years older than you. Though you do look like her, I’ll give you that.”

Heat flushed Aloy's cheeks. “It was a mistake,” she replied sharply. “Forget it.”

Spike smirked, his expression sharklike. “Slips like that aren’t just mistakes, love. Not when you say it with your whole chest.”

Buffy shot him a piercing look. “Spike.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his grin stayed. “Fine, fine. Just pointing out the obvious.” Yet his eyes never left Aloy’s, probing as if he could tear her apart with a stare.

Aloy’s throat tightened, but she pressed on. “What matters is that you should be in your eighties, and yet you’re standing here looking no older than me. That isn’t possible.”

Buffy let out a small, humorless laugh. “No, it isn’t. But possible and real don’t always go together.”

Varl shifted uncomfortably, his voice tinged with reverence. "The All-Mother must have bound you. The years refuse to claim you.”

Buffy shook her head firmly. “No goddess. Just Willow. She brought me back… once. After I died.” Her voice dropped, steady but heavy. “The spell didn’t just bring me back to life; it… changed me. I stopped aging. Death doesn’t stick around. Not for me.”

Aloy frowned at the word. “Magic.” She spat it out as if it were an insult.

Spike leaned against his pod, his grin growing sharper. “What she means, love, is Red yanked her back from death itself.”

Aloy looked at him, her disbelief intense. “That isn’t how life works. Death is an end.”

Buffy’s eyes hardened, though sorrow softened the edges. “I don’t expect you to accept it. But I’ve lived it. I should be dust by now. Instead, I’m still here. Still me. Always me.”

The chamber went quiet except for the faint hum of machinery. Aloy crossed her arms tightly across her chest, the word “grandmother” echoing in her mind. Spike’s smirk stayed, teasing her silently.

Her gaze shifted to Buffy. “So that’s why you weren’t afraid of him. Even if he turned on you... You’d come back.”

Buffy lifted her chin, defiance shining in her eyes. “Exactly. It doesn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt. But pain? I’ve faced worse. I always get back up.”

Aloy pressed her lips thinly, her heart whispering the exact words back to her: 'So do I.'

*~*~*

Buffy broke the awkward silence that followed by pinching a grimy lock of hair, grimacing, and letting it fall limp against her shoulder. “I smell like I marinated in cryo soup and dust bunnies. Pretty sure I’m leaving a ring on the apocalypse. Slayer deluxe: now in Eau de Dead Freezer.”

She tugged at what used to be her shirt, and the seam tore like wet tissue, falling apart into lint between her fingers. Her jeans weren’t much better; each shift of her legs left behind threads that drifted away like ash in the dull light. “Also, note to future me: cotton? Not built for a thousand-year nap. Lesson learned.”

Thankfully, the environmental suit was still clinging to her hips. Buffy pulled it back over her shoulders, the synthetic fabric making a soft creaking noise as the seals locked into place. It wasn’t glamorous, but at least it was holding together. “Space-jumpsuit chic it is,” she muttered. “Not exactly Paris runway, but hey, at least it’s not sliding off my butt.”

Spike made a noise that was a mix between a laugh and a growl. He looked down at himself, flicking a strip of shirt from his torso. His trousers sagged dangerously, the fabric worn thin, with one rip just shy of scandalous. Only the long black duster clung stubbornly to him—its leather cracked, seams fraying, yet still loyal. He jerked it closed. “The old girl’s still got manners. The rest of me? One stiff breeze and I’ll be committing public indecency.”

Buffy snorted despite herself. “Well, at least the leather made it through the apocalypse. Figures.”

Aloy, who had been watching with careful restraint, felt her face heat up. She rummaged through her satchel and pulled out a small bundle—stitched leather padded with cloth, with light plates made from machine casing strapped on. She stepped forward and offered it to Buffy. “Here. It’ll hold together better than… that.”

Buffy blinked and offered her a crooked smile, relief flashing through the grime and exhaustion. “Thanks. Because ‘Slayer: Moon Edition’ is not the vibe I was going for.”

Varl unrolled a wider selection of gear from his pack—hide reinforced with hammered scrap, practical and heavy. He held it out to Spike with both hands. “This should fit. It’s not elegant, but it’s protective.”

Spike raised a pale brow, a smirk curling on his lips. “A wardrobe upgrade. How generous. But the coat stays.” He tugged the lapels of his duster into place, unapologetic and daring anyone to argue.

Varl’s mouth twitched despite himself, caught between suspicion and reluctant amusement.

Aloy adjusted the strap of her spear higher across her back. “There’s a river through the west breach. Fresh water.” She noticed Buffy’s quick, desperate look and added gently, “You can wash.”

Buffy exhaled deeply, as if someone had opened a window in a sealed room. “Lead the way before I fossilize.”

They left the chamber behind, their boots grinding against grit and broken glass. The ruins' corridors twisted downward, with walls streaked with roots and old cables. Aloy led the way, heading toward the western breach she and Varl had previously explored.

As they moved, the air shifted—what had been stale metal gradually became sharper and cooler. Aloy’s Focus detected subtle signs of corrosion on the bulkheads: etched drips, pitted seams, and the faint outline of a spray pattern.

Spike sniffed hard and recoiled. “Bloody hell. It smells like a demon’s armpit. Who left a vat of soup to rot in here?”

Aloy fell into silence, her heart heavy as she surveyed the destruction left by the Oseram camp. It lay in ruins—metal armor was twisted and torn; tents reduced to smoldering scraps of memory. The machines had caused chaos here, and the acrid smell of burnt earth lingered, a painful reminder of the mayhem.

Ahead, light called out, faint and hesitant at first, but it soon cut through the darkness, sharp enough to sting her eyes after the long underground gloom. They navigated a jagged fissure where the facility had been torn open, revealing the vibrant world beyond.

The first sound they encountered was a majestic symphony: water cascading over stone, a powerful roar echoing through the breach like a call from nature itself. Then came the scent, an invigorating promise of life—clean, fresh, mingled with the earthy aroma of moss and sun-kissed rocks. Finally, they beheld the breathtaking sight.

A river wound its way through the ruins, swift and glimmering, its clear waters dancing over gnarled roots and shattered concrete. Shimmering rays of sunlight broke through the flowing water, casting playful reflections on the rocky gorge. Patches of grass burst forth along the banks, lush and radiant, a stark contrast to the grim metallic confines they had known.

Buffy froze, a statue of wonder.

Her eyes widened, absorbing the beauty as she took a deep, shuddering breath that filled her with an electric sensation, even as her body trembled with disbelief. “I’ve…” She shook her head, her voice thick with emotion. “In my time, even the bright days were tainted by smoke and exhaust. We never witnessed anything like this.” A single tear glistened in her eye before she blinked it away. “This is how it should’ve always been.”

Aloy felt a tightening in her chest, deeply aware of how she had taken fresh air and pure waters for granted her whole life. Watching someone cherish an inhale as if it were a miraculous gift sparked a new appreciation for every breath she took.

Spike stayed close to Buffy, his steady gaze fixed on her rather than the hypnotic water. “Not bad,” he muttered softly, his tone dry with humor. “A bit moist for my taste, but not bad at all.”

Varl adjusted his posture, a quiet calm washing over him as if he were paying tribute to the beauty around them.

Clearing her throat, Aloy broke the heavy silence in the air. “There’s cover along the ridge. Varl and I will scout ahead. You two… take your time.”

Buffy nodded earnestly, her gaze still fixed on the magic of the moment. “Thanks.”

With that, Aloy turned, climbing the incline with Varl. She paused briefly, glancing back before they reached the top: Buffy knelt at the water’s edge, her delicate fingers ghosting over the current as if it might disappear beneath her touch; Spike crouched nearby, his duster pulled tight around him, a silent guardian, his pale profile focused solely on Buffy.

~*~*~

The river stretched before them, shining like a silver ribbon under the faint glow of twilight, its gentle current softly whispering against the weathered stones along its banks. This new world pulsed with life, a vibrant energy that sharply contrasted with the desolation of his past. But Spike's attention was fully on Buffy.

She turned toward him, her hair shimmering with droplets of mist, her eyes blazing with an intensity that sparked something deep inside him. He didn’t hesitate or second-guess himself. He couldn’t afford to.

With deft fingers, Spike navigated the seals of her suit, his touch practiced yet the material foreign to him. With each clasp he unfastened, there was a soft hiss, the synthetic fabric loosening as it slid down her shoulders. Layer by layer, her clothing crumbled away, revealing her skin in a stunning tableau—soft, flushed, and vibrantly alive under his hands. He drank in her beauty, every inch a feast he had long yearned for.

Buffy, too, was relentless in her pursuit. Her hands moved like a tempest, clawing at the remnants of his shirt, tearing through the fabric with primal urgency. When the last remnants of his trousers followed suit, giving way to her fierce grip, she erupted into a sharp, breathless laugh as a scrap of cloth tore free in her grasp. She pulled him down, their mouths crashing together in a kiss that stole the solid air from his lungs, though he didn’t need it anyway.

Her fingers hurriedly reached for his long black duster, determination visible on her face—there was no time for hesitation, no respect for nostalgia; the jacket needed to come off. She pushed it from his shoulders, and he yielded to her firm insistence. The leather thunked onto the grass, forgotten as they sank deeper into the moment.

In a frantic rush, they undressed each other with intense passion driven by raw desire and insatiable hunger, removing all barriers until only bare skin was between them.

They stumbled into the river, and suddenly, the current surged around them, the ice-cold water rushing up to bite their heated flesh. Yet, even the shock of the chill paled in comparison to the fiery connection sparking between them. Spike’s mouth met hers with a fervor that left both breathless, and she mirrored his passion, wrapping her arms around his neck and intertwining her legs with his as the relentless current pulled them deeper into its embrace.

Her laughter flowed against his lips, a lovely mix of ragged joy and bright warmth. “Aren’t we supposed to be washing?” she teased, a hint of mischief sparkling in her eyes.

“Oh, I’ll handle that,” he growled, the deep, rumbling sound vibrating through his chest like distant thunder.

With a quick motion, he sank beneath the surface, the cool water enveloping him in an exhilarating sensation of liquid freedom. Time seemed to fade as his hands found her hips, pulling her closer, his mouth seeking her sweet center. His tongue explored her, caressing the tender bud he had worshiped for countless hours, igniting a fire inside her until her hips responded, arching toward him, eager and alive.

His tongue moved lower, delving deeper, and she tasted like pure ecstasy—smooth and heavenly, a silkiness that bloomed against his senses even as the fresh water washed away the sweetness of her essence. When her sharp, yet muffled cry escaped her lips, it resonated in his bones, familiar and intoxicating. He had known that sound for ages, lived for it, thrived on it. Yet after centuries of silence, hearing it again was nothing short of a divine resurrection.

He knew she was sensitive now, but he couldn’t stop; he needed more, even as he heard the whining above him. He locked his arm around her waist and, his tongue pushing deeper. He felt her claw at his shoulder, but he knew her well enough to understand she needed this as much as he did. His thumb found her clit. She struggled more, even as her hips moved in time with his persistent sliding tongue. The next instant, her body stiffened. He felt her cunt clench down, and his mouth flooded with the sweetest ambrosia as the vibration of her scream pierced the depths.

He surfaced, water streaming down his face, and there she was — cheeks flushed, hair matted to her skin, eyes blazing with ravenous hunger, panting as if she’d just run a marathon. She looked at him as if the years hadn’t touched them, as if it were the first time all over again.

They moved in sync, lips meeting, tongues sliding, rough yet reverent. He effortlessly lifted her as he carried her back through the reeds. Grass bowed beneath them as they stumbled onto the bank, breathless, the river still clinging to their skin. Spike caught her, twisting so they collapsed together onto the bank. The cracked leather of his duster lay where it had fallen, and in the next moment, he dragged it beneath them, spreading it flat in the grass.

Not armor. Not burden. Today, it belonged to them.

She pushed him back, straddling him with fiery, molten eyes. Her hair hung in wet strands around her face, droplets streaming down the curve of her throat. He reached up, brushing them away, his mouth pressing to her neck and biting at her pulse point with blunt teeth as she shifted above him. He pulled her hips down forcefully against him, his aching need sliding into fiery heat.

He gasped as the sensation tore through him, and words of praise and reverence spilled from his lips. Her nails scraped his chest, grounding him with the sharp pain. He arched into it, into her, every part of him alive to the way she moved, the way she commanded. She rode him as if it were the last time, as if she might never touch him again.

Her hips undulated with every downstroke, her walls clenching around his hard length. She moved as if possessed, driven by her need and his in equal measures. He wasn’t going to last much longer. She was beauty incarnate in this moment. Her brow furrowed in intense concentration; her eyes locked on him as if he were the only person on earth.

“I need..." she whined.

“Know what you need, kitten,” he whispered, his thumb finding her nub as he sat up. His face melted into that of his demon before he pierced her neck.

His name tore from her lips in sheer ecstasy. Her Slayer muscles clenched hard around his cock, and Spike was utterly lost.

He came with a roar. Buffy’s name echoed through the ruins, like a desperate cry of someone’s last breath.

They settled into each other's arms, drawing strength and motivation to move afterward. Spike was panting from exhaustion and euphoria, while Buffy felt limp from the three orgasms she had just experienced.

“Buffy…” His voice wavered on her name, reverent and rough.

She silenced him with another kiss and then whispered against his lips, “I love you too. Now shut up and hold me.”

And he did.

The bond between them resonated with a history deeper than the ancient earth beneath their feet, older than the countless battles they had fought, older than the centuries that had tried to bury their souls. Every gasp, every breathless sigh, every desperate intertwining of fingers in the cool, damp grass was a sacred vow renewed—an unbreakable promise that neither time nor death nor devastation could sever this connection.

As the fervor gradually subsided, they lay intertwined on the well-worn coat, her body fitting perfectly against his. The warmth of her breath moved across his neck, steady and calming. With gentle fingers, he traced detailed patterns along her arm, soaking in every aspect of her presence as if each curve and contour could fade away if he didn’t carve them into his memory.

“You have no idea,” his voice came out, husky but gentle in the peaceful hush surrounding them, “what you do to me. What you always do.”

Buffy lifted her face, her eyes shining with an understanding beyond words, her lips curling into a smile that could brighten the twilight. “I think I do.”

They lingered in that moment, the cool earth cradling them beneath the fading sun, with the river murmuring softly nearby. Golden rays filtered through the canopy above, illuminating her hair and making it shimmer like sunlit threads spun from fire. The air around them was thick with the enchanting scents of summer—rich, damp earth, grass, and a faint hint of metallic ruin. Spike felt the moment sink deep into his soul, a gem of tranquility carved from chaos and time, and for the first time since clawing his way back from darkness, he felt truly whole.

Eventually, practicality took over and broke the spell. They plunged into the river to wash away the remnants of their shared frenzy, laughter bubbling up between them like playful waters as they struggled with the unfamiliar straps and buckles of the armor Aloy and Varl had left behind. Buffy huffed in frustration about the fit, but despite her grumbles, she accepted it with a playful roll of her eyes. Spike shrugged the duster over his shoulders—cracked and marred but unmistakably his.

Side by side, their fingers just brushing against each other, they awaited the return of their companions at the riverbank, two souls momentarily at peace amid the impending storm.

~*~*~

The riverbank rested peacefully as Aloy and Varl returned from their reconnaissance at the breach. Peaceful, yes, but not entirely still—the air hummed with unspoken tension.

Buffy and Spike waited, their armor awkwardly put on. It looked as if it had been rushed into place; the plates sat high on their bodies, and the straps twisted at strange angles, but it was enough. Spike’s battered long coat hung stubbornly over his shoulders, its leather worn and cracked but defiant—a second skin he seemed unwilling to let go of.

But it wasn’t just the armor that caught Aloy’s eye. It was them.

Buffy leaned gently against Spike, her body relaxed yet purposeful. As her hand brushed his, it maintained a lingering touch that felt deliberate. Aloy’s sharp gaze perceived the weight of their closeness, an intimacy that went beyond simple camaraderie forged in battle. It resonated more deeply—an unspoken bond, complex and multifaceted.

Aloy's Focus flickered to life, revealing faint discolorations along Buffy's throat—fresh marks, stark and dark against her warm skin. Spike had similar fading impressions along his jawline. These weren’t the remnants of battle or jagged marks from machines; this was something entirely different.

Heat spread across Aloy’s cheeks, and she quickly looked away, fidgeting with her quiver straps as if they had suddenly become the most fascinating puzzle.

Beside her, Varl cleared his throat, his usual composure wavering and revealing a rare glimpse of vulnerability. The tips of his ears glowed bright crimson, exposing the cool façade he often maintained. Aloy knew him well enough to realize that seeing him flustered was a strangely humanizing moment.

Buffy noticed the curious looks directed at her, and for a brief moment, a flicker of apology crossed her face. But then she leaned closer to Spike, a silent challenge in her eyes; daring them to interpret their bond however they pleased.

Spike, effortlessly confident, offered no apologies. His piercing crystal-blue gaze met Aloy’s for just a heartbeat—sharp and knowing—a smirk teasing the corners of his lips, igniting a flame of discomfort within her. He tenderly stroked Buffy’s knuckles with his thumb, a gesture both subtle and possessive, as if to lay claim not only to her but to this captivating moment they shared.

Aloy's gaze moved forward, her jaw clenched tightly. She muttered to herself that it didn’t matter—yet the confusion stayed, a tight coil in her stomach. Throughout her journey, she had earned many titles—Seeker, Anointed, Machine-Rider, Savior of Meridian. Each was linked to major feats and victorious moments, but none related to the closeness Buffy and Spike shared. Their bond spoke a language of glances and gentle touches, one that Aloy felt completely unfamiliar with.

Her grip on her spear tightened as she broke the silence. “We should move,” she declared, striving to keep her voice steady. “The light won’t last.”

Buffy straightened, but her fingers remained intertwined with Spike’s. Together, they fell into step smoothly and naturally, as if years of shared experience guided them effortlessly forward, unaffected by the passage of time.

Aloy kept her eyes on the distant horizon, even as her mind wrestled with the signs of a bond she found both strange and unsettling, yet undeniably powerful.

~*~*~

They left the river behind, walking through a jagged opening into open land. Water dripped steadily from their wet clothes and boots, leaving dark, shiny streaks on the sun-warmed stone. The late afternoon sunlight cast a warm golden glow over the valley, highlighting every ridge and glinting blade of grass. For a brief moment, Aloy took in the crisp air, enjoying the vastness—the sky, a bright blue canvas, almost felt comforting.

Then the ground began to shake with raw urgency.

Aloy's Focus activated, flashing vivid glyphs across her vision like urgent warnings. She sensed the heat rising ominously from beneath the ground—a serpentine pattern she knew all too well, sending a chill down her spine. Her stomach clenched, muscles coiling like springs ready to spring loose. Not this again.

With a thunderous roar that sounded like mountains tearing apart, the earth split wide open.

Metallic scales burst from the ground, sending a cloud of dust flying as the massive serpent uncoiled. Rising gracefully, its body shone with segmented armor that gleamed a menacing blood-red in the fading light. Each undulating movement echoed through the valley, crushing stone beneath its weight like dry leaves. Its head lifted high, fangs glinting and dripping with hissing streams of corrosive acid that threatened to wipe out anything in their path.

Buffy staggered back, nearly tripping over a twisted root as disbelief washed over her. "Is that... a giant—fucking—metal cobra?" she gasped, eyes wide with astonishment.

Spike’s jaw hung open, disbelief clear on his face. "Who the bloody hell would make one of those?" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

The Slitherfang let out a terrifying scream, its tail pounding the ground like a war drum, causing tremors to shake the earth.

Aloy felt her breath catch before settling again, matching the tight rhythm of her bowstring. "Get behind cover — it spits acid! Don't let it hit you!" she ordered, urgency woven into her voice like a thread in the fabric of the approaching battle.

Spike pushed Buffy behind a stone outcrop just as a stream of acid sliced through the air, sizzling holes in the ancient concrete. He shouted through the smoke, “Right, fantastic. A snake and poison. Who designed this rubbish, Ted bloody Faro?”

Buffy peeked around the rock, hair flying in her face. “I’ve fought demons less ugly than that thing!”

Varl was already moving, planting his feet, bow raised. “Weak points are along the seams—shoot for the vents!”

The serpent lunged, shadow blocking the sun. Its skull crashed down, smashing into the ground at their feet.

The valley erupted into chaos.

Varl’s arrows whistled through the air, clattering against armored scales. Aloy fired with sharper aim, her Focus highlighting seams in blue. One arrow punched through a vent, causing it to burst with a spray of hissing fluid. The Slitherfang shrieked, its body lashing violently.

“Ugly bastard’s got a temper!” Spike shouted, pulling Buffy aside as acid splattered on the ground, sizzling holes through the stone.

Buffy grimaced at the spray, narrowing her eyes. “I’ve fought sewer demons less gross than this!”

The serpent reared, its head arching back. Aloy shouted, “Get down!” as another jet of acid sprayed over them, burning a wall to molten slag.

“Bloody fantastic!” Spike barked, pulling Buffy into cover. “Wake up from the freezer, fight a giant robot snake. Some soddin’ future this is!”

Buffy’s eyes fixated on a jagged piece of scrap metal protruding from the ground. Her lips curled into a smile. “Then let’s make it my future.” She hastily ran toward it.

“Buffy!” Spike snarled, exasperated. “Don’t you bloody—”

But she was already gone—grabbing the bar, sprinting up the coils as they tore into the ground. With Slayer speed, she vaulted high, clutching the ridged spine.

“Buffy, you’re mad!” Spike shouted after her.

“Been called worse!” she shot back, driving the bar down between plates. Sparks flew. The Slitherfang shrieked, thrashing wildly enough that Aloy had to dive aside, dust and stone showering down.

“Hold it steady!” Aloy yelled, releasing another arrow into the vent Buffy exposed. The serpent jerked, shrieking like thunder.

“Steady?” Buffy shouted, legs wrapped around the spine as the beast whipped. “You try riding a murder-noodle!”

Varl fired a shot that hit the jaw, causing acid to spray widely. “You’re keeping it distracted—don’t stop!”

“Not planning to!” Buffy grunted, slamming the bar further in.

The Slitherfang’s body snapped, launching her into the air. She cried out—then crashed into Spike’s arms. He staggered but held her tightly, clutching her to his chest.

“You’re bloody insane,” he rasped, relief heavy in his voice.

“And you’re still in love with me,” she gasped, smirking despite the dirt and bruises.

The serpent coiled for another strike. Aloy hurried up a ridge, took a breath, and released her last arrow. It whistled through the air, hitting the cracked eye with perfect accuracy.

The Slitherfang convulsed, its shriek fading into silence as it collapsed into a pile of twisted coils.

Smoke rose. Acid hissed in fading rivulets. The valley grew silent.

Buffy gently pulled away from Spike’s arms, wiping dust off her face. “Okay. Note to self: next time, leave the giant death-snake to the professionals.”

Spike smirked as he brushed dirt off his ruined duster. “Next time, love, I’m bringing a bloody rocket launcher.”

Aloy lowered her bow, her chest still heaving, and looked at the two. Ridiculous. Impossible. And yet—she felt a startled laugh escape, even through exhaustion.

*~*~*

They rose from the abandoned battlefield, emerging from the deep scar where the serpent had fallen. The sharp smell of sulfur filled the air, blending with the smoke that tangled with the broken coils of the beast. As they moved to higher ground, a fresh breeze wrapped around them, and the golden sunlight spilling over the ridges illuminated the scene with a warm, glowing light.

Aloy paused, her eyes unfocusing as her Focus flickered on. Green irises narrowed, jaw tightening as she concentrated on something only she could see. “Wait here. I’ll bring mounts.”

Buffy tugged at the Nora leathers Aloy had given her. The stitching was rough, and the hide was stiff where it had been hammered over with bits of scrap metal. Primitive but sturdy. A thousand times better than her ruined jeans and shirt. She sighed. “Mounts? Like… cars?”

“Not exactly.” Aloy adjusted her spear and started jogging, fading into the jagged stones of the valley.

That left Buffy, Spike, and Varl in an uneasy silence. Spike shifted in his own new leathers, the creak of the straps loud against the quiet. His duster still hung stubbornly over the top, cracked and weathered but somehow refusing to give up. He tugged it closer and muttered, “Hope she’s not dragging back bloody donkeys.”

Varl frowned. “Donkey?”

“Never mind," Spike waved him off.

Buffy crossed her arms, the leather pressing into her skin. Without Aloy’s steady presence, the valley suddenly felt too big and too quiet. Birds circled overhead, and the air was so sharp and clean it nearly made her stomach hurt to breathe. “You know, she says that like it’s normal. Just… ‘wait here, I’ll bring rides.’”

Varl’s mouth formed a slight smile. “With Aloy, it usually works out okay."

Before Buffy could speak, a faint shiver ran through the ground beneath her. It began as a simple whisper, a fleeting sensation, but quickly intensified into a rhythmic thump — the unmistakable sound of hooves approaching.

Machines appeared over the ridge, their surfaces gleaming in the sunlight like polished armor. They moved in precise formation, their slender legs striking the ground with a graceful yet powerful stride. Manes of metallic cables danced and swayed with each deliberate step. They were not monsters or harbingers of doom; Aloy had expertly tamed them. At the front, she guided one of the machines, while the rest followed in an elegant, somewhat loose procession, calm and obedient under her skilled command.

Buffy’s breath caught in her throat. At first glance, the creatures looked otherworldly, their bodies a patchwork of seams and glowing eyes that shimmered with an almost ethereal light. But as she studied their forms, she began to recognize the familiar shapes, the smoothness of their gait, and the hypnotic rhythm of their movements—evoking a strange sense of awe mixed with an unexpected familiarity.

Her chest tightened. “Horses,” she whispered. “Robot horses.”

Spike let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell. First, a snake the size of a skyscraper, now tin ponies. What’s next, a clockwork goldfish?”

Varl tilted his head, confused. “What’s a horse?”

Buffy snapped at him as if he had just admitted he didn’t know what chocolate was. “Are you serious? You don’t— Horses are animals. Real ones. They carried people, pulled wagons, and ran wild. They were everywhere in my world.” She gestured helplessly at the Striders. “These are… not exact copies. But close.”

Varl watched them like a kid seeing fire for the first time. “We only know Striders. Machines made to graze and run.”

Buffy swallowed hard. An entire species was wiped out and replaced with steel. “God. You guys really did get cheated.”

The nearest Strider lowered its head, cables swaying, its lens-eye glowing softly and blue. Aloy stroked its plated neck before stepping back. “They’re safe. They’ll carry us.”

Buffy reached out hesitantly. The surface was cold metal, not warm hide, but the stance felt so right, so familiar. Her hand trembled against it. “Guess you’re my… robo-Bucephalus.”

The Strider hummed softly, as if responding.

Spike stepped up to him, a smirk tugging at his lips. “All right, you mechanical nag. Don’t throw me and we’ll get on fine.”

The Strider snorted a burst of steam right into his face. Buffy burst into laughter. Spike sputtered, wiping at the soot and glaring at the machine. “Cheeky bastard.”

Aloy swung up smoothly, hooking a boot on a seam and pulling herself astride, one hand steady on the neck cables. She looked back at them. “They’ll hold steady. We ride east, toward Meridian. Supplies, answers... and safer ground.”

Buffy clambered onto hers, leather scraping against the plating as she hauled herself into position. The Strider shifted beneath her, pistons hissing, and her stomach flipped. No reins. No saddle. Just her balance. Yet the rhythm of its stance brought back a thousand buried memories.

Spike hauled himself up next, grumbling as his duster snagged on a cable. “Bloody ridiculous. Riding a toaster on stilts.”

Buffy laughed again, bright and clear, and the sound startled even herself.

Varl circled his Strider once before attempting. He gripped a joint, pulled himself up, and nearly slipped off the other side. With a muttered curse, he steadied himself, grabbed a cable, and managed to climb fully astride. He sat stiffly, his knuckles turning white.

“Not so easy,” Buffy teased, grinning at him.

Varl huffed and readjusted his grip. “I’ll manage.”

The four of them finally sat mounted, the Striders adjusting beneath their weight. For the first time since waking, Buffy felt almost free.

~*~*~

The Strider’s gait was different from a horse's, but close enough that Buffy’s body remembered how to move with it. She leaned into the rhythm, her legs gripping the machine’s sides, the hum of its core vibrating through her bones. It was smoother than she expected—like riding a living engine, steady beneath her even without reins.

Spike wasn’t very graceful. His Strider jolted forward in uneven bursts, and he muttered curses under his breath. “Bloody hell. Saddles. Civilizations had them for thousands of years? These guys couldn’t manage?” He tugged at the cables sprouting from its neck. “Feels like riding bareback on a motorbike with a mind of its own.”

Buffy grinned despite herself. “You’ll live. Just… maybe don’t squeeze too hard. I don’t think it likes being treated like a Harley.”

“Glorified lawnmower,” Spike muttered, but his grip loosened as he found the rhythm.

“Not many can tame machines,” Varl replied to Spike’s question.

Buffy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Before we confronted HADES,” Varl began, “Aloy learned that a faction within the Carja was worshiping it. They called themselves the Eclipse, a cult dedicated to its cause. This entity,” he said, his voice filled with more venom than Buffy had ever heard from him before, “taught them how to awaken the machines that wiped out the Old Ones.” He shrugged. “As far as I know, only their group and Aloy have been able to control machines.”

Ahead, Aloy rode with the effortless grace of someone born in the saddle, her movements fluid and instinctive as if the machine itself were an extension of her. Her braids, vibrant and catching the golden rays of the sun, danced with each stride, while her sharp eyes flickered like watchful lanterns, constantly scanning the vast landscape and never settling in one place for long. Buffy found herself drawn to Aloy, studying her closely; there was a magnetic confidence in her stance and poise—a rare and powerful trait that few possess. This girl—no, this fierce young woman—radiated the indomitable spirit of a Slayer. Though Buffy hadn’t yet uncovered the whole story, an intuitive whisper told her it was one of hardship and struggle, undoubtedly marked by shadows.

Ahead, a valley unfurled, a tapestry of rolling hills bathed in a warm golden glow, shimmering under the late afternoon sun. The air was thick with an eerie quiet—no sounds of busy traffic, overhead planes, or the constant hum of city life. Instead, the peaceful scene was broken only by the gentle touch of the wind, the melodious calls of birds soaring through the sky, and the soft mechanical hum of Striders moving across the landscape.

Buffy paused to soak in the peaceful scene, letting its beauty wash over her. But soon, her gaze shifted back to Aloy, who appeared as a silhouette against the wide horizon, sparking the question that had been forming in her mind since she woke up.

“So this GAIA,” Buffy called, raising her voice over the clatter of hooves on metal, “You said she… fixed the world? Brought it back after it all went to hell?”

Aloy’s shoulders tensed, but she didn’t turn. “Yes. GAIA was designed to rebuild the Earth after the Faro Plague wiped everything out. She cultivated the forests, purified the air, and even created machines to serve as tools for her work. She wasn’t just a system—she was the reason life exists now.”

Varl’s tone was quiet and respectful. “We were taught that the All-Mother created the world again after the time of ash. When I hear about GAIA… it doesn’t sound that different.”

Buffy chewed on that, wind tugging her hair loose. The name echoed, not as myth but as memory. “GAIA…” she murmured. “Willow used to call on her. In spells. ‘Gaia, mother, hear us.’ I thought it was just words.”

Aloy finally turned, sharper than she intended. “Elisabet built GAIA. Are you really saying this, Willow was involved?”

Buffy didn’t flinch. “Yes. She was brilliant. And dangerous. She always said tech alone couldn’t carry compassion. You needed something else. A spark. Otherwise, you just get cold logic.”

Spike snorted, bouncing with his uneven stride. “Red and her bloody spark. More like she poked things till they blew up.”

Buffy ignored him, her eyes locked on Aloy. “Willow didn’t just know how to code. She worked with forces older than the Old Ones—magic. And if GAIA cared—if she felt like more than just a machine—that’s Willow. She must have woven some of herself, some of that power, into what Elisabet built.”

Varl straightened, a wonder softening his features. “A spirit in the code. That would explain why she was different. Why was she more?”

Aloy’s jaw clenched, and her green eyes narrowed. “Elisabet and the Alphas encoded that compassion into GAIA. It wasn’t magic—it was design. Their design.”

Buffy’s voice softened, but her conviction stayed strong. Man, she had thought Willow could be stubborn. “Maybe. Or maybe Elisabet had help she didn't want on record. Willow operates in shadows, keeps her name out of logs. But if she touched GAIA at all, it wasn’t to rewrite the code — it was to give her what no line of numbers could: empathy. Plus, she was Elisabet’s grandmother. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that she helped.”

For a fleeting moment, Aloy’s lips parted, then snapped shut with resolve. A surge of heat ignited in her chest, serving as a powerful reminder of what was at stake. The weight of Elisabet’s vision and her profound sacrifice pressed down on her, and she refused to let those precious memories be distorted or forgotten. Yet, beneath her fierce exterior, Buffy’s unwavering conviction seeped into the fragile cracks of her resolve, pressing against the walls she had worked so hard to strengthen. She couldn’t comprehend this unknown grandmother who had magical powers and a possible hand in GAIA.

Aloy looked toward the horizon, where the sky shimmered with a fiery golden hue, as if the world was holding its breath in the twilight's embrace.

In the silence that followed, Buffy let the quiet settle between them, broken only by the rustling of Striders in the distance and the soft whisper of the wind. But deep inside her, a truth took hold: GAIA was more than just complex code and algorithms. She was family—a link to the past. And even though she remained unseen, Willow’s presence was woven into the very fabric of GAIA’s existence, part of the tapestry of her creations.

~*~*~

As the sun sank behind the rugged ridges, the Striders settled into a sheltered hollow, their bodies gently swaying as they grazed on the wiry grass that whispered in the evening breeze. Varl skillfully struck flint against steel, creating a flickering fire that burst into warmth, with flames dancing happily across the carefully stacked wood.

Buffy settled close to Spike, their shoulders fitting together perfectly as if they were meant to be joined. Her Nora leathers shimmered softly in the warm, golden light, while his weathered duster absorbed the shadows, creating a striking contrast that suggested adventure and mystery.

“You’re hogging the fire,” she teased, nudging him.

“Pet, I’m the one without body heat. Let me thaw.”

“You’re not thawing, you’re sprawling.”

“Semantics.”

Buffy let out a soft, warm laugh that floated through the cool night air as she leaned in closer, her eyes shining with happiness. On the opposite side of the flickering fire, Aloy sat with her spear casually resting across her lap, like a silent guardian among the embers. Despite her best efforts to stay detached, she found herself drawn in by the exchange happening before her. She had seen the bonds formed between hunters and their kin many times, but this connection felt different—full of playful giving and taking, where a deep sense of familiarity dulled any sharp edges. The scene stirred a confusing mix of emotions inside her, feelings she didn’t dare to face or understand.

Then Buffy tilted her chin on Spike’s shoulder, eyes shining. “Sing me that song.”

Spike arched an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“The one I like.”

“You like plenty.” He smirked. “Be a bit more specific, Slayer.”

Buffy elbowed him hard enough to make him grunt. He clutched his ribs in mock agony. “Sadist.”

Her smile grew broader, but her eyes softened, nearly pleading. “You know the one.”

Spike hummed a few bars of My Sharona, purposefully off-key and nasal. Buffy smacked his arm, and he winced dramatically.

“Not that one.”

“Alright, alright.” His grin disappeared, replaced by something gentler slipping beneath the sarcasm. He took a breath, and when his voice came back, it carried weight—rough, unpolished, but strikingly honest.

Spike’s voice rose into the night, low and husky. The first words carried like a prayer:

“From underneath the trees, we’d watch the sky…”

Buffy’s lashes fluttered. She smiled, though her lips trembled, with tears already threatening.

He kept going, his voice rough but steady.

“Singing, amen, I’m alive…”

The refrain echoed through the cold stone walls, its melody both strong and simple. Aloy’s fingers paused on the smooth shaft of the spear resting on her knees, the weight anchoring her in the moment. The haunting words floated in the air like a whispered promise, both unlikely and shimmering with the hope of a brighter future. Each note moved around her, wrapping her in a cocoon of hope that struck deep into her heart, encouraging her to believe in what could be.

By the chorus, Spike’s voice grew stronger, with rough edges scraping against hope.

“If everyone cared and nobody cried…

If everyone loved and nobody lied…”

Buffy’s hand clenched his tightly, as if the chorus itself was tearing her apart. Varl lowered his head and bowed, listening with the quiet reverence of prayer.

The fire crackled, sending sparks spiraling into the night. Spike’s voice grew softer as he reached the next verse:

“And in the air, the fireflies,

Our only light in paradise…”

Buffy laughed through a tear, a sharp breath escaping her chest. The sound wasn’t joy—it was memory, an ache that made her shoulders shake as she pressed against him.

When Spike got to the bridge, his eyes shifted to her, and his voice lowered.

“And as we lie beneath the stars,

We realize how small we are…”

Buffy mouthed the words silently, her eyes never leaving his, confident and steady. Aloy’s breath caught in her throat. The song wasn’t meant for her or even Varl — it was for Buffy alone, yet its weight pressed on Aloy’s chest just the same.

The chorus came back, louder and more intense:

“Then we’d see the day when nobody died…”

His voice cracked during the last repetition. Then, the words faded, leaving silence as heavy as the darkness.

Buffy leaned against him, her eyes teary, a smile she couldn’t hide on her face. “Told you I liked it.”

Spike pressed a kiss into her hair and muttered, "Sap.”

“You’re worse.”

Aloy shifted toward the crackling fire, shadows flickering across her face. An ache pulsed in her throat, a reminder of emotions stirred but not fully understood. She had never known love so openly shown, so wild—like someone had taken hope, held it close, and turned it into a melody that danced in the air.

As she continued staring into the flames, their bright colors twisted and blurred in front of her, like memories swirling in a foggy dream. For a brief moment, a vision of Elisabet appeared in her mind—brilliant and relentless, the steady figure who had borne the burden of a world about to fall. Elisabet had known love too, but she kept it at a distance, never so openly, never so raw. Aloy’s heart clenched as she imagined what it might have been like to hear her mother's voice — not a distant recording echoing through time but a heartfelt song, made just for her ears.

Clenching her jaw, she felt her nails dig into her palm, grounding her amid rising waves of emotion. She wasn't a character from a story—there would be no heroic Spike to catch her as the world's burdens threatened to crush her spirit. But she had a mission, a purpose: GAIA awaited her, a promise that needed fulfillment. And in that moment of doubt, she realized perhaps it was songs like these, rich with longing and hope, that lit the way forward, making every battle worth fighting.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four – Next Stop: Meridian

The road stretched out like a delicate thread, weaving through the rugged landscape and winding between hills that bore the weathered scars of machines long since fallen to the earth. Buffy shifted against the Strider’s warm, metallic frame, her bare fingers gripping the sinewy cables that hummed softly beneath her touch. It was a strange sort of intimacy—riding a creature that was both alive and not alive in the truest sense, feeling the subtle vibration of its complex systems pulse against her palms. It was neither horse nor demon, but something intriguingly in-between, and it carried her with unwavering steadiness.

The rhythm of their journey settled into a soothing, monotonous hum. The sun hung overhead like a blazing crown, its rays mercilessly beating down, while the wind, sharp and invigorating, sliced against her face, causing Aloy’s copper braids and loose strands of hair to dance and flicker like flames at the front of their small group. For hours, silence wrapped around them like a heavy cloak. Aloy stayed quiet, as if lost in thought, while Varl kept a relaxed watch, his bow casually at his side, his face calm but alert. In stark contrast, Spike sat sulking, the tension in his posture hinting that a comment was imminent.

And sure enough, he suddenly leaned forward, his pale hand shielding his eyes from the sun's glare. The expression on his face was quintessentially Spike: a mix of skepticism and sardonic humor, hinting at the brewing storm of sarcasm ready to be unleashed.

“Not to nitpick, love,” he called, his voice cutting through the wind, “but unless the sun has a personal vendetta against me, that’s north, not east.”

Buffy almost laughed. He always felt compelled to say what others were too scared to voice.

Varl chuckled, the sound warm and steady. “For Aloy and me, east simply means home—Nora lands. The Carja call it the Savage East.” He lifted his chin toward the horizon, a crooked smile playing at his lips. “If she’d said north, I’d have thought we were heading into Banuk territory… or the Osaram desert.”

Savage East. Buffy filed the phrase away. East used to mean Cleveland, New York, and D.C. To her, east had been subway tunnels and demon nests. Now, it signified the boundary of an entire civilization.

Up front, Aloy didn’t even turn. Her voice carried back, clipped and clear. “We’ll turn northeast once we reach the Jewel. But first—hunting grounds. Buffy, Spike—you need proper weapons. How are you with a bow?”

Buffy exchanged a knowing look with Spike, their eyes locking in a moment full of unspoken history. His smug grin sparkled with mischief, while hers grew into a playful smile, as if they were caught in a dance they'd performed countless times before, each step instinctively familiar and electrifying.

“We can hold our own,” she said, keeping it understated.

Spike’s grin grew wider. “I prefer a spear.”

“You’ll need both,” Aloy replied simply—end of discussion.

As Aloy moved forward, Buffy couldn't help but stare at her—a quiet presence seamlessly blending into the surroundings. The girl’s posture showed fierce determination; she spoke only when necessary, leaving behind a shell of herself. It was as if she were walking a tightrope, worried that even a small mistake could reveal too much and break her inner strength. Buffy recognized that stiff stance, seeing a flicker of familiarity in it. Every hard line reflected an internal struggle she had once faced.

The silence lingered, broken only by the thud of Strider's hooves and the faint hiss of metal joints. She leaned her mount closer to Varl’s, her tone casual yet sharp. “What’s up with her anyway? I get the Lone Ranger thing—been there—but aren’t you two friends?”

Varl’s expression becomes more serious, and his smile fades. “Our tribe was not kind to her. Because of how she was born.”

He gestured toward the mountains, his finger cutting through the air.

At first, Buffy thought it was just a rough stretch of jagged stone, but as she squinted against the sunlight, a different scene started to emerge. There, pressed against the cliffside, stood a giant metal skeleton—an eerie remnant of a forgotten time. Its massive limbs twisted oddly, as if engaged in a violent dance with the ground, while its huge body was half-buried in the granite, a haunting reminder of a long-lost power now yielding to the relentless pull of nature.

“That's a Metal Devil,” Varl said quietly. “It tried to destroy All-Mother long ago. Aloy was found beneath it, abandoned as a newborn at the mountain doors. Lansra claimed she was a curse, and Jezza agreed. Only Teersa believed she was a gift. So, they entrusted her to Rost—an outcast they trusted. She grew up apart from us, forbidden to speak to anyone, until she won the Proving and became a Seeker.”

Buffy's eyes remained focused on the enormous figure embedded deep within the rugged mountain face.

Varl called it the Metal Devil, but she knew its true nature—a Horus. Back then, she and the last of the Slayers gave it a more menacing name: Titans. World Eaters. Even now, long after it had been silenced and reduced to a rusty skeleton of metal and shattered pieces, it still made her chest feel uneasy.

Born from the shadow it cast, Aloy carried the mark of a curse on her existence. Buffy’s jaw clenched instinctively, a mix of anger and sorrow flaring inside her.

“So much for matriarchies looking out for their women,” she said, her voice tinged with anger and bitterness.

She pushed her Strider forward, its legs pounding the ground, leaving Varl and Spike behind. Aloy’s back was stiff, tension visible. Every word hovered in the air like fog, wrapping around her.

Buffy exhaled sharply, feeling guilt pressing against her chest. She recognized that kind of armor all too well—the suffocating silence, the stiff posture, the walls built so high that no one could hope to climb them. In that moment, she realized something profound: it wasn’t just Elisabet’s echo she was witnessing. No, this time it was a powerful reflection of her own struggles, laid bare before her.

Up front, the silence was so sharp it cut through the air. Aloy hadn’t turned back since Varl’s story, and she didn't need to. Buffy brought her Strider a little closer until all that could be heard was the crunch of hooves and the jingle of cables. Her voice was softer than usual, gentler than her typical sarcasm. “Hey.”

Aloy’s head tilted slightly, her eyes flicking to her briefly before snapping back to the path.

Buffy let the pause stretch, giving her an opening. When Aloy didn’t take it, Buffy continued. “You know... as Slayers go? I had it good. I got lucky. They didn’t find me before it happened—before I was called. I grew up with my mom, my dad, and even my little sister for a while. We did normal stuff. Homework. Fighting over the TV. Family dinners where half the food was burned, but you ate it anyway. I had that before the world dumped the big shiny destiny on me.”

Her fingers tightened on the Strider’s cable, the hum beneath her skin grounding her. “Most girls like me? They didn’t. They didn’t get childhoods. They got taken. Handed over. Their lives were written off before they even started.”

She took another quick look at Aloy. “Sound familiar?”

Aloy’s voice cut through the steady creak of the Striders. “What happened to them? The ones before you.”

Buffy felt her throat tighten. The question was simple, but the answer wasn’t.

She exhaled deeply, heavy and long. “Most of them died. Young. Way too young.” Her jaw clenched as she forced out the words. “We usually get called around fifteen, give or take. Not exactly the age when you have a solid retirement plan. You wake up one morning with more strength than you know what to do with, a sense in your bones that something out there is hunting, and congratulations — your life expectancy just fell off a cliff.”

Aloy looked at her with sharp eyes but didn’t interrupt.

Buffy shifted on the Strider, memories flooding back to her. “Before we were called Slayers? The Council — the Watchers — kept watch over all the girls who might be chosen. We called them Potentials. Sometimes, they would secretly take them from their parents. If the parents were desperate, deeply religious, or just terrified, they would hand their daughters over to the Council without hesitation. It was seen as a gift to the cause. A little girl wrapped up with a bow, raised by one man or one woman, trained to fight until that training consumed their whole life.”

Her voice grew sharper with bitterness. “Not daughters. Not kids. Just weapons. Sharpened and stored, waiting to be thrown.”

The wind tugged at her hair as she studied Aloy’s profile — the tightness around her eyes and the stiffness of her jaw. She recognized that expression. The look of an outcast child who wasn’t allowed to be a kid.

Buffy looked down at the road as her voice grew softer. “I was different. I was… unique, I guess. They didn’t find me before it happened. I had a family. Messy, loud, completely human family. My dad—” Her chest tightened. “My dad bailed pretty early on. So it was just me and my mom raising my little sister. Dawnie. And she… she knew. She could feel something was wrong, even before I could put it into words. But I couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t tell any of them.”

She swallowed, the memories tasting sharp and metallic. “When I did try — when I told my parents back before the divorce — they didn’t believe me. Thought I was crazy. Sent me to an institution. A few months of white walls, locked doors, and doctors who looked at me like I was broken glass.” She let out a breathy laugh instead of one of humor. “That’s what being chosen got me. Not a crown. Not a prophecy. A padded room.”

Silence stretched, heavy like the shadow of the mountains. Even Spike didn’t interrupt, though she could feel his eyes boring into her from behind.

Buffy lifted her chin, voice much calmer now. “So, for a while, I had no one. No one believed me. No one to talk to. Just me, the monsters, and silence. It wasn't until I found friends who saw it — watched me fight, watched me bleed, and stayed anyway. They stood by me, even when it was crazy and got them hurt. That’s what saved me. Not the power. Not the destiny. Them.”

She fixed her gaze on Aloy, steady and direct. “So don’t push away people who are trying to help. Especially not people who are this openly loyal to you. You might think you’re keeping them safe. But really? You’re just cutting off the only thing that’ll keep you standing when the weight gets too heavy.”

The road curved into shadow, with the cliffs closing in. Aloy stayed silent after Buffy’s words, her green eyes fixed straight ahead as if the mountains might hold the answer. For a moment, Buffy wondered if the silence might win.

Then Aloy spoke, almost cautiously, as if testing unfamiliar ground. “What about you and your mate?”

The word hit Buffy’s chest like a bolt from a crossbow, a sudden and fierce impact that echoed through her very core. It sank into her stomach, a sharp sensation that twisted painfully. "Mate." Aloy said it casually, as if it were just an everyday word from her world, with no real weight or meaning. But for Buffy, that single word felt as heavy as an anvil, full of implications of claim, connection, and eternity. It summed up everything she had only half given to Spike, yet kept the other half safely locked away in the vault of her heart, all out of fear.

Her fingers clenched tightly around the Strider’s cable, her knuckles turning painfully white from the tension. Deep inside, she knew Aloy hadn’t intended to dredge up the rawest wounds of her soul. But the word cut into her, each syllable digging into a deep pain hidden within.

She was overwhelmed by memories of nights spent wrapped around Spike, his voice a gravelly whisper in her ear, promising a loyalty she was too scared to fully accept. She remembered holding back, trapped in a cage of her own making, sure that someday she would see him turn to ash, dust, nothingness—and that truly owning him would break her completely. Selfish. Fearful. She left him in a half-life, a cruel unfairness that still haunted her.

Buffy forced herself to breathe and loosen her grip. Her voice came out softer than she intended, tinged with sadness. “World-savage is what we do, usually.” She tried to smile, but it turned into a bitter twist at the edges. “But whatever you need? Spike and I — we’re good at being the muscle. Comes with the Slayer package deal.”

Aloy’s mouth twitched, nearly forming a smile. It was brief, subtle, but genuine. “Then you should probably start using your Focus more,” she said. “You’ll be needing it.”

Buffy exhaled, letting the moment settle between them. She forced a crooked grin in response, but inwardly, the word still lingered. Mate. And for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to admit how much she wished it meant what it had in the Old World — and how scared she was that she had never fully given herself completely.

Spike rode behind them somewhere, close enough to hear, far enough not to intrude. She didn’t need to look back to feel the weight of his eyes on her.

*~*~*

The trail meandered through a wide valley, marked by jagged stone platforms that rose like broken teeth remnants, their surfaces rugged and weathered with age. Above, tattered banners swayed gently in the wind, their faded fabric fluttering and displaying bold glyphs that told stories long forgotten. Although Buffy couldn’t understand their meaning, the air buzzed with an electric energy, mirroring the spirit of an ancient training ground—a sacred place where warriors gathered, each trying to prove their strength and pursue their dreams.

“Hunting grounds,” Aloy said as she slid from her Strider, landing with that quiet, predator’s grace Buffy was beginning to notice was just her. Every move was precise, efficient, and nothing was wasted. “We’ll get you armed here.”

The man waiting for them looked as if he had been shaped by the very staff he held, a gnarled piece of wood that seemed to mirror the twisted lines of his life. His hair was a wild tangle, frayed and untamed, as if neglected by time itself. A knowing grin played on his lips, full of secrets and unspoken judgments. As his piercing gaze fixed on Buffy and Spike, his eyes narrowed with a calculating intensity. At that moment, Buffy recognized the familiar glint—one she had seen in the eyes of Watchers, vampires, and many others who had dismissed her abilities. It was the unmistakable look of condescension that whispered, You don’t belong here.

“New faces,” he said, voice amused, a little mocking.

“Temporary,” Aloy replied. No extra words, no explanation. Just facts. “They need weapons.”

The Keeper gave her a long, assessing look before turning to the racks behind him. He chose two bows — simple but durable — and a pair of spears reinforced with machine plating along the shafts.

Spike caught his with a grin, sweeping it through the air in a lazy figure eight. “Now that’s more like it. Good weight. None of your ornamental, knight-in-shining armor rubbish.”

Buffy tugged at the bowstring, liking the clean snap, then spun the spear in her grip. It felt natural. Pointy end, bad guy, simple math. “Not bad. Guess some things never change.”

His smirk grew wider. “You’ve got the weapons. Now, if you’ve got the time, these grounds aren’t for lounging around. We use them to sharpen our skills.”

Aloy’s jaw clenched, and her voice was sharp. “We don’t have time. We move on.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and stepped forward with a grin sharp enough to cut. “What, you scared?”

Aloy’s gaze locked on her, eyes narrowing. “Scared?”

“Little friendly competition,” Buffy said, shrugging as if it was nothing. “You and me. Quick run. Make sure I can actually hit one of these things before we’re knee-deep in killer robots.”

The Keeper let out a loud, delighted laugh. “Girl, do you even realize who you’re challenging? That’s Aloy. Savior of Meridian. Anointed of the Nora. Half the world sings her name.”

Buffy just smirked wider, rolling the spear across her palm. “Cool. Means she won’t mind when I win.”

The Keeper chuckled again and pointed them toward the tall watchtower looming over the grounds. “Up the ladder, down the rope. Every trial begins the same.”

Aloy sprang into action without hesitation. Each movement was sharp and fluid, shaped by countless hours of practice. As she climbed the tall heights, her muscles tensed with determination. When she reached the top, she skillfully secured her spear to the tight rope and launched herself into the air in one smooth, daring motion. She glided downward, her vibrant red hair flowing like a banner behind her—braids rippling and loose strands dancing chaotically in the rushing wind. She landed softly, knees expertly absorbing the impact, and before she even finished rising, her bow was already clenched tightly in her hand, ready for action.

Buffy let out a frustrated huff. “Show-off,” she muttered softly, her annoyance mingling with admiration as she climbed the rungs of the ladder two at a time. The wooden ladder creaked ominously beneath her boots, and she stole a glance at the vast valley spread out below—an awe-inspiring mosaic of greens and browns.

At the top, she mimicked Aloy’s technique. She hooked her spear, pushed off the platform, and surrendered to the exhilarating pull of gravity. The rope whistled against the cold metal of her weapon as she sped downward, her hair streaming wildly behind her and her heart pounding with pure adrenaline. She hit the ground hard, but with the grace of a seasoned warrior, she rolled expertly through the impact, rising smoothly to her feet with her spear spinning once before settling into a ready position.

Spike’s laugh echoed behind her. “That’s my girl. Showin’ off already.”

Varl’s voice was gentler and more steady. “She learns fast.”

Buffy grinned, still catching her breath. “Monkey see, Slayer do.”

Under the vast, open sky, the Shell-Walkers moved steadily across the landscape, their large legs clattering together like a distant drumline, creating an ominous rhythm that echoes through the ground. With each heavy step, waves of movement rippled through the crates strapped to their backs, producing a noisy, metallic clatter. As they advance, their optics burn with a fierce, piercing blue, swiveling like predatory eyes searching for their next target and locking onto the two figures with unsettling precision.

Buffy twirled her spear, a smirk spreading on her lips. “Okay, crab-tanks. Time to see if you’ve got pinchers.”

The Shell-Walkers’ optics flashed from blue to molten red. Their arms snapped into position — one wielding a crackling shock gun, the other spreading a hard-light shield wide across its front. The air hummed with the charge, electric and alive.

Buffy spun her spear, smiling. “Okay, so no pinchers, crabs with a taser and a riot shield. How adorable.”

Aloy’s bowstring hummed with tension as she released the arrow, its flight shimmering before striking the machine's tough shield with a sparks-filled thud, echoing like a bold challenge. The creature let out a primal scream, its shock gun firing a crackling bolt that tore into the ground, narrowly missing her as she executed a smooth roll. With steady focus, Aloy quickly nocked another arrow, remaining calm and calculated amid the chaos around her.

Buffy, driven by fierce determination, pushed forward, her feet kicking up clouds of dirt behind her. Without hesitation, she leapt into the air, soaring above the ground. She landed with a heavy thud on the metal shield arm, her boots slipping briefly before she drove her spear downward into the vulnerable joint. Bright sparks flew like fireworks, lighting up the darkening battlefield, and with a sharp hiss, the protective barrier shattered, leaving the machine exposed.

From the sidelines, Spike shouted with bright laughter, “Who needs finesse when you can just tear the bloody thing off?”

Varl’s voice echoed behind. “The claw’s only exposed during the strike. She didn’t hesitate.”

With a sudden surge of determination, Buffy tore herself free, her heart pounding as Aloy’s next arrow hit its target, piercing the Shell-Walker’s generator pack. The massive machine convulsed violently, its metal limbs flailing erratically like a creature in its dying throes. With a deafening screech of grinding steel that echoed through the valley, the Shell-Walker crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, sending a cloud of dust and debris swirling into the air.

Another one charged in with lightning speed, its glowing optics flaring like a red sun, shield raised and shock gun pulsating with intense white heat. Buffy, sensing the impending threat, dropped into a graceful slide, her body low to the ground as the weapon fired, the bolt whizzing overhead with a sizzling arc. With a surge of Slayer strength, she deftly hooked her spear beneath the machine's clawed shield and yanked fiercely, metal screaming as she tore the limb free in a shower of brilliant sparks that danced in the air.

The machine faltered, its defenses suddenly weakened. Aloy's arrow, sleek and deadly, flew through the air, striking the exposed weak spot with remarkable accuracy. It penetrated deep into the machine’s power cell, causing a dazzling blue-white explosion before fading into a sinister red glow. The once-menacing Shell-Walker collapsed, twitching lifelessly in the gritty dust—a defeated silhouette against the chaos of battle.

Buffy straightened up, twirling her spear as her hair fell loose from the braids. She grinned across the field at Aloy. “Two down. Try to keep up.”

Aloy raised her bow again, her eyes narrowing and her voice flat. “Last one’s mine.”

The final Shell-Walker shrieked, claws snapping, gun buzzing hot as it thundered toward them.

Buffy took an aggressive stance, her smirk as sharp as a blade. “We’ll see.”

The last Shell-Walker charged forward, its optics glowing with a threatening red light, while its shield claw snapped open with a sharp metallic clang. Bolts of electricity erupted from its shock gun, crackling through the air like wild serpents, eager to strike its target.

Aloy, with the reflexes of an experienced hunter, was quicker on the draw. Her arrow flew through the air with deadly accuracy and struck the edge of the shimmering shield. Sparks burst in a spectacular display, illuminating their surroundings as the barrier sputtered and shimmered but ultimately remained strong.

Buffy, agile and unfettered, darted across the uneven terrain, weaving and zigzagging as lightning bolts shot toward her, leaving sizzling trails behind. She planted her spear firmly into the ground, using it to launch herself into the air—an incredible leap that defied gravity. Gliding smoothly over the machine, she landed behind it with a forceful impact, driving her spear deep into the cargo frame. The jolt traveled through the massive contraption, causing it to shudder and groan in response to her fierce assault.

“Bloody hell, Slayer!” Spike shouted from the sidelines, his voice full of laughter. “You’re just showin’ off now!”

Aloy sprinted low, calm and steady, her arrows hitting the generator casing in a steady rhythm. Each shot hit accurately, sparks flashing brightly, and the shield flickered weaker with each strike.

Buffy scrambled up the machine’s back like a predator, muscles tensed, hair whipping loose. She yanked her spear free and thrust it down again — once, twice — into the generator just as Aloy’s final arrow buried itself deep.

The explosion shook both of them. Buffy was thrown from the machine and landed on her back in a cloud of dust. The Shell-Walker screeched, legs folding, optics flashing red one last time before going dark. Smoke hissed from its wreckage as it collapsed into the dirt with a final metallic groan.

Spike’s alarmed, “Buffy!” rang out amid the chaos. For a moment, the field went silent. Only their breathing and the faint crackle of dying sparks remained.

With a cough and a gasp, Buffy struggled to her feet, brushing off the dust, and pointed her spear at Aloy with a wicked grin, tugging sharply at her lips. “Seconds. I won by seconds.”

She heard Spike's worry turn into an exhilarated cry. “Bloody hell, woman, you almost made more than undead!”

Aloy lowered her bow, sweat dribbling down her temple. Her mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. “Fast. But reckless.”

Buffy grinned broadly. “Story of my life.”

The Keeper chuckled and shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned. The Savior of Meridian, bested by a stranger with too much mouth. Barely.”

Buffy twirled her spear once, showing off a confident spin before catching it smoothly. "A win is still a win."

Spike leaned on his spear, grinning like he’d already won. “Reckless, loud, bloody brilliant — that’s my Slayer.”

Varl just shook his head, but pride showed in his voice. “The All-Mother must be laughing.”

Buffy and Aloy locked eyes over the twisted remains of the Shell-Walker, electricity crackling in the air like a charged storm. This time, however, Aloy held a lightness in her stance, her shoulders unburdened and squared with defiance. A fierce fire burned in her eyes, illuminating the shadows around them with undeniable intensity.

Buffy smirked. “Round two sometime?”

This time, Aloy’s mouth curved into a genuine smile. “Don’t tempt me.”

~*~*~

The Jewel was unlike any place Buffy had ever seen. Towering cliffs on both sides had jagged peaks that leaned so close they almost seemed to embrace at the top. Tall trees clung to the rocky walls, their gnarled roots cracking the hard ground as sparkling waterfalls rushed down in a stunning cascade, creating clouds of mist swirling into the air. Sunlight shimmered through the dreamy fog, turning the entire canyon into a glowing, dangerous dreamscape.

It was breathtaking. However, like everything in this world, beauty has its risks.

Buffy caught a flicker of movement before she heard the sound — the sharp clatter of claws skittering over stone. Watchers darted along the ridges above, their piercing blue eyes scanning the area with predatory focus. Further out, a ghostly shimmer rippled in the mist — something larger, cloaked in darkness, sneaking silently. A shiver ran down her spine as her Slayer instincts sharpened, and she tightened her grip on her spear, ready for whatever threat might be lurking in the shadows.

“This place gives me the creeps,” she muttered. “Like a jungle and a scrapyard had a baby.”

Spike let out a low rumble behind her. “Feels like bloody Vietnam. Only wetter. Half expect a ‘Stones’ track to kick in.”

Aloy didn’t reply. She moved forward, bow at the ready, eyes sharp. “Stay alert. Stalkers like it here. They push prey into kill zones.”

“Kill zones,” Buffy repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well, didn’t this turn into the fun-filled vacation I always wanted?”

Varl nudged his Strider closer, his eyes scanning the cliffs. “The Carja call this place the Jewel. To me, it just looks like a good way to lose people.”

Buffy felt her skin crawl at another shimmer in the rocks. “Yeah, no kidding. I can feel them watching.”

Spike leaned forward in his saddle, spear lazily balanced across his lap, grin sharp. “Let ‘em watch. Never minded an audience.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, a grin forming on her lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

She remained silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on her like swirling fog in the air. Mist clung to the jagged cliffs, cloaking them in an eerie veil, while tension crackled like electricity. Steeling herself, she held her spear, her gaze sweeping across the rugged terrain once more. The Jewel shimmered with an otherworldly beauty, captivating in its brilliance. Yet beneath the surface, this place was a deadly trap, perfectly designed for ambushes.

Buffy felt the familiar rush of instinct awakening within her; she knew all too well what it felt like to be the prey.

The first Watcher darted down the rugged cliffside, slicing through the swirling mist like a caffeinated lizard, its crimson eyes glowing with frantic energy. A piercing shriek erupted from its throat, echoing ominously through the canyon, only to be answered by the cacophonous cries of two more leapfrogging down from the jagged ridges on either side. The air crackled with tension as they descended, their movements a blur of agility and menace.

Buffy grinned, spinning her spear. “Guess the welcome committee’s here.”

The closest one lunged. She ducked low, thrust her spear into its throat, and tore free amid a shower of sparks. The machine crumpled, twitching at her feet.

“Still got it,” she muttered.

Another one charged at Spike. He dodged, laughing, and swung his spear like a cricket bat. The strike cracked metal mid-air, slamming the Watcher into a boulder.

“Six points,” he said with a grin.

Varl’s bow thrummed, and the arrow sank into the third Watcher’s eye. It screeched once before tumbling to a stop.

The canyon became silent. Too silent.

Buffy’s skin prickled. “Something’s wrong.”

A shimmer rippled through the fog, shifting side to side. The air wavered and blurred.

Aloy’s voice rang out sharply. “Stalkers!”

The ground erupted — mines exploding, shrapnel whistling through the air. Buffy rolled aside and quickly raised her spear. The stealth field deactivated, and a Stalker charged into view, its red optics glowing.

It lunged.

Buffy drove her spear into its jaw, sparks flying, then ducked under a swipe of claws that gouged grooves through stone. “Ugly kitty. Looks like a panther crossed with a garbage disposal.”

Another decloaked near Spike — low, sleek, all predator, but misshapen with plating and spines.

Spike grinned, feral. “Overgrown alley cat in armor. I’ve eaten worse.” He faced it head-on, stabbing deep and twisting as if it were just another fight in a dark alley. “Fight fair, you invisible wanker!”

Buffy tapped her Focus, and the world sharpened around her. Data flickered—canisters along the Stalker’s side lit up brightly in her vision.

“Openings, Buffy! Canisters!” Aloy called, releasing an arrow that sparked against metal.

“I see them!” Buffy kicked off a boulder, vaulted high, and drove her spear straight into the highlighted weak spot. The detonation flashed brightly, and the Stalker collapsed under her with a strangled shriek. She rolled clear, grinning, breathless. “That’s one invisible freak down.”

Across the field, Spike was locked in a confrontation with another. He didn’t see glowing weak points — just claws, plating, and movement. He ducked a swipe, drove his spear hard into a joint, and snarled as sparks spat out. “Didn’t see any bloody canister, but that looked like it hurt!” He wrenched free, then finished it with a brutal shove that tore through its chest plating. The machine bucked once and went still.

Varl’s arrow grazed another, staggering it just enough for Spike to drive his spear in with a vicious twist. “Now that’s how you gut a cat,” Spike said, wild grin flashing.

The mist swirled, and the final Stalker appeared. Its cloak shimmered, optics glowing red, body low and steady, circling as if it had all the time in the world.

Buffy crouched, spear at the ready. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty. Let’s see who’s hunting who.”

The Stalker lunged, cloak flying open. Buffy pivoted, smoothly sidestepped, and jabbed her spear into its side. The stealth field shattered with a crackling burst of light.

It shrieked, bucking, claws gouging trenches in the ground. Buffy yanked her spear free, flipped it, and drove it into the generator at its spine. Sparks and flames erupted everywhere. The Stalker toppled under her, optics fading to black.

She stood over the wreckage, her chest heaving. “And that’s how you declaw an ugly panther wannabe.”

Spike barked a proud, sharp laugh. “That’s my girl. Big cat never saw it coming.”

Aloy gave a quick nod — not excited, but showing approval. “Not many can kill a Stalker without taking a hit.”

Buffy smirked, tossing her hair back. “Good thing I’m not most people.”

As the canyon fell silent, only the faint hiss of cooling metal and the steady drip of mist from the towering cliffs interrupted the eerie quiet. But deep down, Buffy sensed a strange unease: the storm was far from over. This calm was just a deceptive lull, an ominous pause that would soon give way to an even greater storm.

Her instincts were spot on.

A low, guttural growl shattered the silence, resonating with an unnatural metallic timbre that sent chills down her spine. The unmistakable scrape of claws against the rock echoed ominously, and then, emerging from the swirling mist, a Ravager materialized. Its hulking figure loomed like a nightmare beast, shoulders as broad as a minivan, with blazing crimson eyes that burned with ferocity. Jagged plates lined its back, creating a menacing silhouette, while a cannon perched ominously on its spine, swiveling with predatory precision, locking its gaze onto them like a hunter sizing up its prey.

Buffy felt her pulse quicken, but she grinned anyway. “Well. That’s new. Even bigger kitty with a gun.”

The Ravager roared, causing the ground to shake. Then the cannon fired and spat.

Aloy shouted, already diving for cover. “Scatter!”

The shot slammed into the stone where Buffy had been standing, sending shards flying. She rolled and quickly got up, running. The creature tracked her instantly, its cannon whining as it locked onto her.

Spike darted in from the side, spear ready. “Oi! Over here, you oversized toaster!” He jabbed, hitting its shoulder plate, sparks flying. The Ravager swung a paw like a battering ram. Spike barely dodged, laughter in his throat. “Now that’s a right hook!”

Varl’s bow sang as arrows hit its side, one piercing a glowing coil. The machine shrieked and staggered briefly—but not for long. Its cannon fired again, smashing into the cliff and sending dust and rocks flying everywhere.

Buffy charged.

She ducked under another swipe, planted her spear, and vaulted high. Slayer strength fueled her upward and over, hair whipping loose as she landed on its back. She drove the spear down hard, aiming for the generator lines she’d seen Aloy target. Sparks flew — but the Ravager bucked like a bronco, nearly throwing her.

“Buffy!” Aloy’s voice sharply cut in. “The cannon — disable it!”

Buffy clenched her teeth, shifted, and sprinted along the Ravager’s spine like walking a tightrope. The cannon swung around, charging up, its glow growing stronger beneath her feet. She raised the spear high and thrust it downward. The weapon struck metal once, twice — then the cannon sparked wildly, unleashing a burst of blue fire.

The Ravager howled and thrashed, slamming itself into the rock wall sideways. Buffy was thrown clear, tumbling hard across the dirt. She rolled to her feet, chest heaving, blood pounding.

“Still breathing,” she muttered, tightening her grip.

Aloy shot again, arrow after arrow striking the exposed coils. Varl followed, steady and relentless. The Ravager faltered, its armor giving way.

Spike burst in, spear tilted low. “Open wide, kitty.” He jammed the point into its jaw, metal screeching. The machine staggered back, optics flashing erratically.

Buffy didn’t hesitate. She lunged from the other side, jumped high, and drove her spear through the Ravager’s optic in a burst of sparks and flames. The machine convulsed, legs digging furrows into the dirt, then collapsed with a final metallic groan.

Again, silence settled in, this time genuine and heavy with smoke and the hiss of cooling metal.

Buffy yanked her spear free, her chest heaving and sweat streaking her face. She looked at the others, a grin spreading on her lips despite the ache in her muscles. “So. Who’s buying the first round if we ever find a bar?”

Spike laughed, sharp and delighted. “Love, after that? Drinks are on me. Whole bloody tavern if you want it.”

Aloy simply nodded once, eyes still scanning the mist, but now there was quiet respect there.

Varl lowered his bow, remaining as composed as ever. “Strong, fast, reckless,” he said. “But alive. That’s what matters.”

Buffy twirled her spear once and rested it on her shoulder. “Alive works for me.”

The Jewel was quiet again, but Buffy knew it wouldn’t last. Something else was always coming.

~*~*~

As the last echoes of the Ravager’s death faded into the ethereal mist, Buffy felt heavy fatigue settle into her arms, while her lungs burned from exertion. Still, they pressed on, undeterred, navigating the narrowing canyon that gradually began to give way as the cliffs on either side receded into the distance.

The climb was unrelenting, a winding trail that twisted through rugged ridges and jagged outcroppings. In the distant horizon, prowling machines kept their vigilant patrols — ghostly shapes of Watchers ominously looming, and the peaceful figures of Grazers scattered across the high meadows — but none dared to interfere with their passage. It was as if the very spirit of the Jewel had examined their journey, finally deciding that they had earned a brief rest.

Finally, they reached the top of the rise.

Buffy stopped her Strider, her breath catching in her throat as a wave of wonder and disbelief overwhelmed her.

Before her, a breathtaking city stretched out — not the derelict remains of steel and glass reclaimed by nature, but a lively testament to life itself. Tall towers of intricately carved stone reached upward, their surfaces glowing warmly in the fading sunlight. Sunlit bridges arched gracefully across the broad mesa, each surface shimmering as if kissed by the sun. Below, the walls radiated a warm golden glow, bathed in the last light of day.

High above the bustling markets, colorful banners fluttered in the breeze, creating a festive atmosphere that hinted at the vibrant life just beyond reach. Meridian—a name brimming with promise and potential—offered a world full of adventures yet to come.

Her chest tightened. “Oh… oh my god.” The words slipped out quietly, fragile. She blinked, tears prickling hot at the corners of her eyes.

Spike pulled up beside her, his usual grin fading. He stared, mouth open, eyes soaking in every detail of the city. “Bloody hell,” he murmured. For once, no sarcasm, no swagger—just pure awe. “They built this… after everything.”

Buffy swallowed hard. In her time, cities had been cages—concrete jungles drowning in smoke, towers filled with neon and noise—before fire and ash tore them all down. She’d seen too many skylines collapse, watched too many hopes burn. Yet here, centuries later, humanity had built something shining against the dark.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “It’s... it’s proof.”

Spike looked at her, his voice gentler than she’d heard in years. “You humans are a resilient bunch, I’ll give you that.”

Aloy sat tall in her Strider, with pride and weariness on her face. “Meridian isn’t perfect. But it’s worth fighting for.”

Varl’s gaze softened, a look of reverence evident. “The Sun-King calls it the jewel of the world. Seeing it now, with no war looming over us... I understand why.”

Buffy quickly brushed her cheek, forcing a wry smile even as her heart felt heavy. “Well. Guess I can’t make fun of your tourist spots anymore.”

Spike let out a quiet laugh, but his hand briefly brushed hers on the reins, warm and grounding.

For the first time since entering this strange, unfamiliar realm, Buffy felt a flicker of hope. She allowed herself to believe that their fight wasn't just about survival; maybe there was a deeper purpose, a hint of something valuable waiting to be discovered. Perhaps, amidst the chaos and shadows, there was a world worth fighting for—one filled with beauty, meaning, and a chance to create something lasting.

~*~*~

Bloody hell.

For a man who had endured the harrowing storms of the Blitz, traveled through the war-torn landscapes of Europe, and watched countless cities fall to destruction, Spike believed his senses had become numb to the horrors of the world. Yet, standing before the vast expanse of Meridian, he was completely stunned and momentarily speechless. The city seemed to hum with vibrant energy, its stark contrasts and kaleidoscope of colors making a lasting impression on his soul.

Walking through the gates felt like entering a vibrant tapestry of history, a time when the Roman Empire cast its vast shadow worldwide and the Egyptians worked to build towering monuments that reached for the sky. It was as if he had stepped into a time machine, transported to an era Spike himself had never known, and he was completely captivated by the grandeur of it all.

They left their machines outside the tall gates, with guards guiding them through once the mounts were safely away. On foot, the world around them transformed into a vibrant mosaic of life.

Inside, the air was alive with a cacophony of sounds, colors swirling like a painter’s palette, and an intoxicating warmth enveloped them. A bustling tide of people surged from every direction. Merchants shouted over each other, their voices forming a raucous symphony as carts groaned under the weight of lush fabrics and vibrant baskets filled with ripe, fragrant fruit. Nearby, blacksmiths worked at open forges, the rhythmic hammering of iron sending sparks cascading into the bright sunlight. Children darted between stalls, their laughter flitting through the air like playful swallows in flight.

In stark contrast, the guards stood as sentinels in their gleaming armor, watching with unwavering pride reflected in the stiffness of their postures.

And maybe their vigilance was justified.

Meridian wasn’t a desolate ruin but a vibrant hub of life and culture. It wasn’t like the decay of glass and steel that Buffy and Spike had traveled through for days. Here, the world thrived with energy. Tall structures, made from bright golden stone, rose proudly from the mesa, casting long shadows over the busy streets. Suspension bridges stretched perilously over steep chasms, while colorful banners fluttered high above, dancing gently in the wind like flames flickering in the air, sparking wonder in everyone who saw them.

Spike took an unnecessary breath, the smells waking his senses in a way he hadn’t felt in years. “Well. Would you look at that? Thought humans had forgotten how to build anything but graves.”

Buffy walked close beside him, her head tilted back, eyes shining with a mix of wonder and vulnerability. For once, her usual witty retorts were gone; she simply looked ahead, her face showing a mix of emotions. In the golden glow of the evening light, she seemed ethereal, the tension in her throat visible as if she were about to cry, but she was holding it together for now. Not here. Not in front of them.

Spike's gaze lingered on her longer than on the sprawling cityscape around them. He noticed how her shoulders subtly relaxed and how she seemed to stand taller, as if she had just been jolted awake to the realization that life still held beauty beneath the ashes. He recognized that look; he had worn it himself when he discovered that even amid destruction, the end hadn’t claimed everything they once cherished.

He crooked a grin, half to himself. “Yeah. Not bad for a bunch of apes with hammers and dreams.”

The city surrounded them — noise, color, and heat pressing in — and for once, Spike didn’t mind.

They didn’t have to wander far before the crowd dispersed enough to reveal it — a magnificent slab of stone rising majestically above the square. At first, Spike thought it was just another sun-priest monument, all splendor and shine. But upon closer inspection, he realized this wasn’t a soulless idol dedicated to the Carja's fierce sun.

No, this was Aloy.

Her likeness towered over the square, intricately carved from golden rock, her bow in hand, her gaze boldly fixed on the Spire as if daring the heavens themselves. Every detail was strikingly precise — the elegant braids flowing down her back, the fierce determination carved into her jaw, and the unmistakable fire burning in her eyes. It was an image, perhaps a little overly heroic, yet undeniably her.

The crowd moved around the statue with reverence, as if drawn by an unseen force. Some paused, their fingers lightly touching the cool stone at its base, as if seeking a blessing. Children excitedly pointed and tugged at their mothers’ sleeves, their innocent wonder obvious. Soldiers, dressed in their armor, bowed their heads in quiet respect as they passed, absorbed in the presence of the legendary figure carved in stone before them.

Spike let out a snort. “Well, that’s one way to canonize a girl. Bit bloody hard to stay humble when they’ve made you a mountain.”

Aloy tensed up. She didn’t slow her pace or look up, but the tension radiated from her—clear she’d rather fight another Ravager than face her own unyielding stare.

Buffy nudged Spike’s arm with her elbow, assertive enough to get her message across. Her eyes darted to Aloy’s back — protective, warning.

Spike raised his hands in mock surrender, a smirk playing on his lips anyway. “Alright, alright. No taking the piss. Still—” he tilted his head back, giving the statue one last look, “—hell of a likeness.”

Aloy remained silent, but her silence spoke louder than words.

They walked along the stone streets as the sun cast a warm glow over the ancient stones, until the magnificent Spire rose above them, its towering outline cutting through the blue sky like a shining spear of light. At its base, a group of Carja guards, shining in their polished armor, moved with precise elegance, revealing the Sun-King himself.

Avad appeared younger than Spike expected—broad-shouldered and commanding, he wore an intricate outfit of gold and crimson that shimmered in the sunlight, with a delicate filigree crown glinting like molten lava on his brow. He radiated confidence, as if the very fabric of the world was woven around his city… maybe it was.

Aloy stepped forward, her stance tense with a mix of respect and caution, tilting her head slightly as she observed him. As soon as Avad's gaze landed on her, his demeanor changed; the worries of the court seemed to fade away like a heavy coat dropped in the summer heat.

As Spike lingered in the shadows, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, he observed the scene before him with quiet contemplation. The atmosphere was filled with unspoken tension until Avad finally broke the silence, his voice slicing through the stillness like a blade. Thanks to his enhanced vampire hearing, Spike easily caught every nuance of their conversation. Avad, curiosity evident on his face, asked about Aloy’s new companions, but her response remained ambiguous, leaving more questions than answers swirling in the air.

Then, as if on cue, Avad’s brow furrowed with concern as he recounted seeing a brilliant red glow shoot skyward from the Spire the day after Aloy had departed—a vivid, ominous reminder of the unknown forces at play. Spike’s senses heightened, and he caught whispers of something deeper in the air, hinting at secrets yet to be revealed. The weight of the moment hung heavy, charged with possibilities as he continued to watch, a silent sentinel in a world brimming with intrigue.

...Aloy, saying you have my gratitude feels woefully inadequate. You saved my life, saved Meridian, and because of you, justice was served for Ersa’s murder. We can mourn her knowing the truth without painful uncertainty. It’s hard to imagine where we’d be without you—and I don’t want to try. I hope you will consider staying in Meridian.

Spike’s eyebrows shot up. He let out a low, sharp, amused whistle. “Well, well. Royal bloody proposal, that.”

Buffy glanced sideways at him, raising her eyebrows. “What?”

He smirked, leaning close enough for her to hear but not the others. “Bloke’s all but polishing a crown for her head.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself.

Aloy, oblivious, was already responding to Avad with her usual clipped reserve. The Sun-King’s gaze never left her, sharp as a hawk’s.

Spike shook his head, stifling a laugh. Trust humans to begin planning marriages amid the ruins of a battlefield. Some things never bloody change.

As the Sun-King and Aloy strolled away with his entourage, Spike leaned against a sun-warmed wall, arms crossed, watching the crowd struggle not to gawk at her.

Beside him, Varl stood stiffly, a frown shadowing his face. “Avad must know how Erend feels about her.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Who the hell’s Erend supposed to be?”

Varl answered, his voice steady. “Erend’s Oseram. Captain of the Vanguard — the Sun-King’s guard. His sister Ersa led them once, until Dervahl murdered her. It nearly broke him.”

He paused, then continued. “Even so, Erend fought alongside Aloy when the Eclipse brought war to Meridian. In the Battle of the Alight, he and his Vanguard fought with her until the end. When it was over... she left without a word.”

Varl’s jaw clenched. “It gutted him. He drank too much and admitted he loved her. But he never abandoned his post, never stopped protecting his city. Even hurt, he kept fighting.”

Spike gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Sounds like a real glutton for punishment.”

Varl’s silence lingered, heavy like the stone beneath their feet. He watched Aloy, jaw clenched, as if he were still carrying someone else’s grief.

Spiked just shrugged, his voice casual but not unkind. “To be honest, sometimes you just have to say it, mate. War’ll eat you alive if you don’t. If you bottle it up too long, you’ll end up drinking yourself into a corner or worse. Can’t blame the guy for getting it out there. But you can’t blame Avad for trying; she’s got the looks, and she’s a seasoned warrior. What king wouldn’t want a queen like that?”

Buffy’s voice was softer, but it still carried the same truth. “And you can’t blame her for leaving. Warriors bleed just as much on the inside as they do on the outside. Sometimes you need space to keep going. Plus, I wouldn’t worry too much about Aloy; she doesn’t seem like the type to pay much attention to those kinds of signals.”

Varl’s frown softened, just a little. He didn’t argue.

Ahead of them, Aloy walked on with Avad, her red braids bright against the golden stone. She didn’t turn or slow down, but something in her shoulders shifted — a stiffness that told Spike she’d caught enough to know they were talking about her.

He stayed silent this time. Some truths weren’t his to share.

~*~*~

The plaza around the tall Spire was starting to empty, with courtiers and guards gradually slipping away until only a few remained—just Avad and some soldiers, their polished armor shimmering in the sun like ghostly sentinels. The Sun-King stayed, his gaze fixed on Aloy, eyes glowing with a mix of admiration and unspoken longing. It was a look Spike had seen too often in the eyes of men unfamiliar with the formidable strength of a woman who had saved them from despair.

Avad spread his hands, robes shifting in the light. “You and your companions are welcome in my palace. Meridian owes you more than gratitude. If you need food, rest, or quarters, they are yours.”

Spike tilted his head, a smirk curling on his lips. Palaces stood tall like mighty fortresses, their turrets piercing the sky. Meanwhile, nobles strutted in their luxurious finery as laughter blended with fluttering banners. He's seen more than his fair share of kings and queens, and the cycle always seems to repeat — every ruler wears the mask of a benevolent host, hosting lavish feasts and dazzling displays, all while hiding the grim reality beneath, where their subjects serve as fodder for the relentless machine of ambition and power.

Buffy’s gaze flicked toward him, a spark of defiance blazing in her eyes as if daring him to break the silence. Spike responded with a cheeky smirk, raising his eyebrows in playful curiosity, but for once, he chose to stay silent. It wasn't reverence for authority that kept him quiet but the sight of Aloy; her body tense and stiff, the weight of expectation pressing down on her like a heavy cloak. In that moment, even the softest words seemed to land on her shoulders like another unwanted burden.

He leaned against the warm stone, his arms casually crossed over his chest, eyes sharply watching the scene before him. Avad could fill it all with fancy, flowery language, but Spike wasn't fooled; he could recognize a cage when he saw one—even if it gleamed with gilded edges and shimmering embellishments.

Aloy remained silent in response to Avad, her gaze fixed on the Spire, a towering silhouette stark against the twilight sky. Its dark shape loomed ominously, still intertwined with the remnants of the massive husk that once housed HADES. She ascended the worn steps, her fingertips brushing the charred metal surface, the heat of its past still palpable. For a brief moment, she seemed frozen in time, as if the very air around her held its breath. Spike, watching intently, sensed the building tension inside her; it was as if she were on the verge of unleashing her pent-up fury upon the unforgiving structure.

When she came back down, her voice was low and stern. “Sylens. He helped me trap HADES here. Then he took it. All of it. Slipped away west like a thief in the night.” Her jaw tightened. “He’s not foolish enough to free it again. Which means he wants it for something else. And I don’t know what.”

The words hung like a blade in the air.

Buffy’s eyes softened, but her voice still carried weight. “Betrayal cuts deeper than any fight. Especially when it comes from someone you let close.”

Spike caught the anger in her tone — Watchers, friends, all those knives she’d taken from her own people. He stayed silent because she’d already said enough.

Aloy didn’t look back at them, but her shoulders tensed up, the kind of stiffness that happens when words cut deeper than you expected.

Spike leaned back against the wall, a faint smirk curling on his lips. “Bloody hell. Remind me never to get on her bad side.”

Buffy’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, but almost enough to lift the heaviness for a breath.

Avad stood quietly for a long moment, the sun catching on the crown at his brow. Spike had seen that look before — kings and generals steeling themselves before dropping news no one wanted to hear.

When the Sun-King finally spoke, his voice grew heavier, each word like a stone placed on a grave. “My cousin, Fashav, was taken captive during the Red Raids. He has been with the Tenakth ever since. I have sent them the tags of the fallen and gifts of apology for my father’s crimes, but I do not know if he still lives.”

Spike tilted his head, chewing over the words. Red Raids, fallen tags… tribal chaos, history soaked in blood: same song, different verse. Humanity never could keep its hands clean.

Avad’s gaze wandered westward, toward the horizon. “The Tenakth are split. Some want peace, while others find joy in bloodshed. Rumors say they drink it — that they tear their enemies apart in rituals. I can’t confirm how much of that is true.”

Now that piqued Spike’s interest, and a grin spread across his face. “Blood drinkers, eh? Finally, my kind of people.”

Buffy’s elbow dug into his ribs, sharp enough to make him grunt.

“Not helping.”

He rubbed his side, his smirk stubborn as ever. “Oi, was offering cultural exchange.”

Her glare was sharp enough to stake him, resurrect him, and stake him again. Spike chuckled softly but kept it to himself this time.

Avad didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes remained fixed on Aloy, burdened by the weight of a king.

Aloy listened to Avad’s talk of blood and tribes, her jaw clenched the whole time. She didn’t flinch at the words “blood drinkers” or the mention of his cousin. But when Avad’s voice went quiet, she stepped forward, eyes fixed on the horizon as if she could already see the way west.

“We’re going,” she said flatly. “Sylens has HADES, and I won’t stay here while he manipulates it. Whatever lies beyond the border, whatever the Tenakth are — it doesn’t matter. We’ll face it.”

Avad inclined his head, not arguing, though the tension in his shoulders revealed how little comfort her resolve provided. “Then at least let Meridian give you what it can. Rest. Food. A roof that does not burn or break. Stay one night. I want to see you start that journey with strength, not exhaustion.”

For a long moment, it seemed like Aloy might argue with him about it. Spike could see the restlessness in her stance, the fury tightly wound like a spring. Then her shoulders dropped — not with relief, but as a deliberate choice.

“One night,” she allowed, voice clipped. “Then we go west.”

Spike tilted his head, lips curling. “Palace bed, westward suicide march, blood-drinking neighbors. Starting to feel like home already.”

Before he could broaden his grin, Buffy's elbow hit him again.

He released a soft laugh and chose not to defend himself this time.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five – Reflections in Meridian

The grand dining hall of the palace glowed softly, lit by lanterns that cast flickering shadows across the stone walls, which were decorated with intricate carvings. Fire pits in ornate braziers filled the air with warmth, while golden panels reflected the flames, creating a mesmerizing tapestry of light and shadow that stretched across the long, polished table. Aloy took her seat at Avad’s invitation, positioned carefully so that every loyalist of the Sun-King could see her clearly, yet intentionally kept at a distance from the seat of honor at his right hand for Marad. This thoughtful arrangement sent a message, striking a balance between respect and deliberate distance.

To her left, Varl sat stiffly, scanning the gilded crowd with cautious eyes. Across the table, Buffy and Spike looked lost in time—Buffy’s sharp gaze swept the lavish room, checking every rich tapestry and grand decoration for signs of danger. Meanwhile, Spike leaned back with laid-back confidence, displaying an attitude that challenged the noble court to question his presence.

The nobles looked uneasy. Dressed in elaborate silk tunics, the Carja courtiers shuffled nervously, whispering behind jeweled hands and stealing glances at the unusual pair, whose calm composure showed no awe for the surrounding luxury. Higher up, priests from the Sun-King’s council sat in the seats of honor, their robes decorated with copper suns, their faces masks of stoic grace hiding unspoken judgments.

As the meal began, platters of delicious offerings arrived in graceful waves, carried by servers who moved with coordinated fluidity. They placed before the guests bowls filled with spiced boar stew, hearty with root vegetables and sun-dried berries; blistered rounds of mesa bread stacked in inviting piles; grilled river fish from the Jewel, tantalizingly brushed with fragrant desert herbs and tart mesa fruits; roasted slices of ridge-cactus, glistening with honey and sesame seeds; and jars filled with the rich aromas of sweetleaf tea and amber wine. The enticing scents mingled in the air, creating a warm embrace of earthiness and fire, inviting everyone to enjoy the feast that awaited.

When a servant set a dish of forge-fire pepper hash before Spike—glossy with oil and crushed spices in an Oseram style—the steward gently warned him that it was "assertive." Spike's grin grew wider as if he had been challenged. Buffy elbowed him under the table, a mix of amusement and caution in her gesture.

Avad raised his cup, his voice smooth and regal. “Meridian welcomes you. May the Sun’s warmth keep you safe under this roof.” His courtiers echoed the blessing, though not all their eyes were warm when they glanced at Aloy’s companions.

They started eating. Conversation ebbed and flowed, interrupted by the scraping of silver on stone plates. Itaman was the first to break through, the boy-prince leaning forward until a priest gently reminded him of his manners.

“Did you really cross the Jewel on Striders and fight machines in the mist?” His eyes eagerly darted between Buffy and Spike. “How did you meet Aloy? Are you all part of the Nora as well?”

Aloy tensed up. She’d been ready for questions, but not for that. She was already thinking of a careful reply when Buffy spoke first.

“Older,” Buffy said, shoulders relaxed, with an unexpectedly casual tone. “Much older.”

The room grew quiet as the courtiers looked around cautiously. A priest frowned, his lips moving as if he were praying. Marad turned, his brow furrowing at Buffy’s words. Aloy’s stomach clenched — she hadn’t wanted to tell them, not here, not now.

The Sun-King leaned forward slightly, his voice careful but edged with purpose. “Older… how? According to our records, the Nora is the oldest tribe. We even believe our own tribe may have come from their lands before we traveled further west… Though,” he paused, shooting a disdainful look at a few of the Sun Priests. “That has been a matter of debate for quite some time.”

Buffy’s smile faded slightly, but her gaze stayed steady. “We’re from before. The world of the Old Ones. We woke up, and the world had… moved on without us.” She said it as if she were explaining jet lag, not rewriting history.

Itaman gasped aloud. “You’re Old Ones?” His awe spilled over uncontrollably across the table. A courtier’s hand twitched as if he wanted to quiet him but dared not interrupt the Sun-King’s younger brother and heir.

Spike set down his fork slowly, his voice rough and dry. “Don’t picture us as the ones who built your ruins. Those burned out long ago. We’re just the unlucky leftovers who had to watch it happen.”

One of the elder priests lifted his chin and spoke carefully. “I don’t understand. How are you here? What destroyed your people? Why did the Old Ones fall?”

All eyes shifted again, the air tense like a drawn bowstring.

Buffy placed her bread down, her face shifting from casual to serious. “The Old Ones were both clever and bold. We survived partly because we remained in suspended sleep within a machine they constructed. Many Old Ones created machines to simplify their lives. However, Ted Faro, blinded by greed and pride, turned these machines into weapons for armies. He lost control of them. Misplaced trust by corporations and governments led to disaster worldwide.”

She looked at Aloy and handed her the thread.

Aloy picked it up without hesitation. “Faro’s Chariot swarm—the Metal Devils. Machines capable of consuming anything in nature, repairing themselves, and even producing more of their kind. They didn’t stop, even when people tried to control them. They only consumed. That’s what ended the Old Ones.”

Itaman’s small hands gripped his cup. “But the machines still roam.”

“Not those,” Varl said firmly, his voice carrying the calm weight of the Nora. “These are part of the world now. Dangerous, yes. But not the swarm that ended the Old Ones... And,” he added, “when the evil demon HADES tried to bring them back, the Nora and Carja fought together to stop them.”

Itman’s eyes widened with childlike worry. “Those were the Metal Devils?”

“No,” Aloy said sharply. "Those were only the machines that served the Metal Devils' bidding in the Old World. The Metal Devils are the machines now trapped in the stones. The dark machines frozen in our mountains.”

Itman’s eyes stayed filled with fear. “If you hadn’t stopped HADES, would he have awakened the Metal Devils?”

Aloy swallowed hard. It was a truth she had known but never allowed herself to consider. “I believe he would have.”

Buffy leaned back, trying to ease the tension in the room. She slightly softened her tone and said, “If there’s a lesson to be learned, Your Highness, it’s this: don’t trust a man who claims to have all the answers, especially if he’s selling sharp teeth.” She winked at the young prince.

The boy blinked, then smiled broadly. Spike smirked in satisfaction at the boy's reaction.

Avad, however, never took his eyes off Aloy. He inclined his head, lowering his tone and shedding the grandeur he used in the hall. “And yet here you sit, carrying the knowledge to fight what remains. For that, all of Meridian owes you a debt.”

Surrounded by the murmurs of the courtiers, a mix of admiration and wariness filled the air like a charged storm. The faint clinking of jewelry punctuated their whispers, while priests huddled together, their hands raised as if to shield sacred secrets from prying ears. Aloy let the noise wash over her, creating a distant ocean of sound. She maintained an impassive expression, but inside, a steady pressure grew, as if invisible stones were piling on her chest—unraveled confessions and hidden truths slipping free, changing the very atmosphere around her with a weight she had never expected.

*~*~*

The palace room was a display of luxury—an elaborate tapestry of gilded details and rich silk drapes that flowed from the ceiling like a waterfall of wealth. Carved latticework framed the windows, letting the lively hum of Meridian below seep in like whispers of a secret. Buffy felt a strong tension in the ornate surroundings; such grandeur had always felt unfamiliar to her. With steady focus, she carefully unfastened her armor, piece by piece, placing each heavy shard on the plush chair until she was finally dressed in lighter clothes. It was so relieving to shed that heavy weight. It felt liberating.

In the distance, the Spire loomed majestically against the velvet night sky, its silhouette piercing the stars above. Lanterns twinkled along the city’s bridges like constellations fallen to earth, casting a warm glow that danced across the cobblestones. Leaning against the cool railing, she took in the scene before her. Meridian thrummed with life, its essence radiating from the lively Oseram quarter, where laughter mixed with haggling voices and the lilting strains of music floated up like smoke signals of existence.

Behind her, Spike sat enveloped in silence—a heavy stillness that felt almost unnatural. Turning, she saw him relaxed on the luxurious bed, his duster lying across the bedding beside him as he lazily played with a piece of polished machine plating, his fingers tracing its lines as if uncovering a long-forgotten story. The firelight highlighted the contours of his Nora Brave armor, causing the leather to creak softly with his movements. He seemed as though he had stepped from another era entirely, striking an intriguing balance between belonging to this gilded age and starkly contrasting it.

“It’s a different world,” she said softly.

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit of an understatement, love. The whole bloody planet has changed its clothes, and here we are, the fossils at the dinner table.”

Buffy offered a faint smile but didn’t laugh. “Yeah. But it’s alive. Look at it. After everything—the Faro plague, the swarm, all of it—people are still out there making music, selling bread, telling their kids bedtime stories.”

He rolled the machine scrap between his fingers, watching her closely. “Can’t tell if you’re cheering them on or just reminding yourself that the world’s still here.”

Buffy sighed and pressed her forehead against the cool stone of the railing. “Both. When I look at Aloy, I see…” She faltered over her words.

“You see yourself,” Spike finished for her.

She let out a bitter laugh. “Isn’t that a bit too obvious?"

“Truth usually is.” He set the scrap aside and crossed the room with an easy predator’s grace that was always half comfort and half temptation. He leaned against the railing beside her. “She’s got your stubborn streak. Carries the world like it’ll break if she sets it down. Sound familiar?”

Buffy’s chest tightened. “Yeah. That’s what scares me.” She turned to him, her voice low. “She’s what, nineteen? Twenty? Already carrying more than anyone should. I know I was younger, and most of the girls were, but she reminds me of me before I had friends to pull me back from the edge. And if I hadn’t had them…” Her throat caught. “I wouldn’t be here.”

He tilted his head, his blue eyes both sharp and gentle. “You’re worried she’ll burn out before she gets to live.”

“Exactly.” Buffy's voice cracked. “And the way she looks at people — like letting them get close is just another way to lose them. God, Spike, I know that. I’ve lived that. I don’t want her to end up like me.”

“Don’t talk rot.” He shook his head. “You’ve ended up just as you are. Still fighting, still standing. That’s a bloody miracle.”

Her laugh escaped, small and pained. “Leave it to you to turn me into a pep talk.”

He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “Someone has to. You’re too busy worrying about everyone else.”

Silence lingered, now warm. The city's hum filled the spaces.

Buffy took a deep breath and finally asked the question that had been bothering her since Aloy called him her mate. “Are you upset with me for never asking you to claim me?”

Spike blinked and exhaled slowly, as if the question had caused an unnecessary breath. “Angry? No, love. But if that's what you're asking — exhausted in this borrowed palace — then the answer is no. If we ever do that, I want the whole day to be ours. I want it done right, and I want you to be completely sure about it. I don't want you to go through with it just because you think it's what I want.”

Her throat tightened again, but this time with relief and gratitude. “Okay. Just... needed to know.”

“Good.” His thumb lingered on her cheek. “Now, if you’re done asking questions neither of us are ready to answer right now, maybe you’ll let me remind you that you’re alive.”

The kiss that followed started slowly—more a gesture of his love for her than one driven by hunger. But it quickly deepened, drawing them both toward something older than the city outside and sharper than their doubts. His tongue slipped into her mouth, his taste always full of leather, spice, and something uniquely Spike. Buffy’s hands clenched the leather and plating of his Nora armor, grounding herself in the feel of him. Spike’s grip on her waist tightened, steady and firm.

When he pulled back slightly to look at her, his eyes sparkled with promise. “You look like you could use one of my very special tongue baths.”

Buffy’s smile was shaky but confident as a breathy laugh escaped her lips. “Please,” she whispered, nodding in agreement. Her stomach clenched as she felt the wetness soak into her linen shorts.

The night hummed outside, Meridian shining with light and music. Inside, the door closed on laughter and whispered vows as tenderness turned into urgency.

Spike’s hands stayed at her hips as he pulled her closer, his lips brushing her neck with slow, teasing movements. Buffy’s heart raced, and the sensation in her chest shifted into a sharper, more primal craving—something raw and grounding.

“Still worried about the bird?” he murmured, his voice rough.

She shook her head, fingers curling into the leather seams of his Nora armor. “Not if tonight’s ours.”

His answering smirk was hungry and confident. “Then let’s make it count.”

The kiss deepened, urgency overpowering restraint. His mouth pressed firmly against hers as their tongues intertwined and passion grew. Teeth clashed, breaths were stolen; her body pressed closely against the coolness of his armor and the even cooler touch of his skin beneath. The contrast made her shiver—her own heat colliding with his inhuman chill.

Buffy softly ended the kiss to whisper, her lips grazing his. “You look ready to devour me.”

His smirk twisted wickedly and knowingly, but his eyes burned with something more profound than hunger. “And you look like you need it bad, love.”

Her laugh was rough and trembling. “Always.”

He didn’t allow her to make another quip. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her into the shadowy corner by the bed. It was a smart choice; they had broken too many beds over the years, and this one wasn’t even theirs. The cold stone pressed against her back as his body kept her in place. For a brief moment, she saw the sparkle in his eyes — a mix of desire and an unspoken question: Are you really mine?

She responded silently, pulling his head down with both hands.

Spike dropped to his knees with a predator’s grin, and Buffy's heart pounded, her pulse racing. He pulled her shorts down her legs. Her thighs quivered with anticipation as his hands spread her wide. She tangled her fingers in his soft curls, tugging hard to stay grounded.

“Spike!" she whined, already breathless.

He dove in as if he’d been starving. His tongue flicked forcefully against her clit, relentless, his mouth claiming her as if he’d die if he stopped. Buffy arched, the shock of it tearing through her. His grip held her in place, each lap of his tongue a reminder: she was his, completely.

“God, don’t stop,” she moaned, her hips pressing against his face. The wet sounds echoed loudly, raw and unrestrained. Her mind was clouded, yet one clear truth remained: only he knew how to unravel her completely, transforming her hidden pain into blazing desire.

Her climax washed over her like a powerful wave, fierce and all-consuming. She cried out, nails digging into his scalp, thighs trembling as she reached the peak of pleasure. Spike kept going, his tongue teasing every last tremor out of her, until she slumped against the wall, gasping, utterly exhausted.

But he wasn’t done. With a growl that vibrated against her skin, he rose, spun her to face the wall, and gripped her hips.

“On your hands and knees, pet,” he ordered, voice rough, eyes burning like embers.

The command sent another shiver through her. She dropped eagerly, bracing herself, presenting her ass high for him. The scrape of his armor against her bare skin only heightened the ache. She heard the fabric and plating of his armor shift as he released himself from its confines. His cock pressed hard at her entrance — and then he thrust in with brutal certainty, filling her deep.

Her moans escaped, sharp and desperate, as he pounded into her. Each movement was relentless, with his hips pounding hers in a rhythm that shook her to her core. She loved how he stretched her, loved how he knew when to be brutal and when to be gentle. After so long, he knew her body and mind better than anyone ever could.

“Harder,” she demanded, voice hoarse, needing him deeper, craving the pain and pleasure tightly woven together.

Spike obliged, fingers slipping between her legs, circling her clit with relentless pressure. The dual assault left her reeling, body tense, desperate for release.

She strained harder, her Slayer muscles tightening around his thrusting cock. Her heart racing. Then his fangs sank into her shoulder, sharp pain blooming into overwhelming ecstasy.

“Fuck!” she gasped, her voice breaking. The orgasm tore through her, both fierce and sweet, as her pussy clenched around him in rippling waves.

“Fuck, that’s it, Buffy,” he groaned, his thrusts faltering as her body drew him in further. His climax hit hard, feeling his cool release inside her, while his muffled growl escaped at her throat as his fangs sank deeper into her.

Buffy collapsed forward, body trembling from the aftershocks. Sweat cooled on her skin, but inside she still burned.

Spike’s hands lingered at her hips, possessive and steady. His cool breath brushed against her neck, fangs grazing the mark. There was a promise in the way he touched her, an unspoken vow.

“Not done with you yet, Slayer,” he murmured, voice low, dangerous, and edged with something softer she almost missed.

Buffy shivered, her lips curling into a fierce, breathless smile. “Good. Neither am I.”

*~*~*

Sleep eluded her like a shy shadow in the night. The palace walls loomed with an almost oppressive grandeur, their weight pressing down on her, while the stillness in the air felt suffocating, as if time itself held its breath. Aloy lingered by the window, her gaze drawn to the flickering lanterns dotting the bridges of Meridian, their warm glow resembling tiny embers floating through an ink-black sky.

The weight of her responsibilities pressed down on her like a dense fog, and the relentless ticking of the clock reminded her that time was slipping away. Varl was now beside her, an unexpected ally in this chaotic journey. A flicker of instinct warned her that if she tried to disappear into the shadows—an escape she had envisioned the moment he caught her—he would surely follow, driven by a fierce loyalty she had yet to fully understand.

With her new companions gathered, her sense of duty intensified. Although they were capable, this world was an uncharted maze, and she worried they would struggle without her guidance. The idea of letting them face its dangers alone was unsettling. She understood she couldn't let them navigate the perilous paths on their own; she had to lead them through the unknown. The stakes were high, and failure simply wasn't an option.

A soft knock broke the silence and woke her from her reverie. When she opened the door, Avad stood before her, without his usual retinue and pageantry, standing there with a simple demeanor. His smile was gentle, but his eyes revealed the weight of fatigue, showing the many burdens he quietly carried.

“My apologies for the hour,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “But I hoped you might walk with me.”

Aloy hesitated — her body ached, and her mind was drained. But there was something in his gaze that carried both meaning and loneliness. She nodded. “Alright. For a while.”

They moved together through quiet hallways lit only by torches, emerging into the open courtyards where moonlight silvered the stone. The Spire rose above them, dark against the starry sky.

“Your new friends are interesting,” he said first. There was no real judgment in his words.

Aloy chuckled softly, “Yeah, interesting, definitely a word for them.”

He softly smiled at her, his eyes shining with her response as they continued walking along the terrace. After a few moments, Avad’s expression returned to that of a man burdened more than he should be, all because of his father's distorted beliefs, which turned the Carja faith into something corrupt and vile when the Derangement began nearly twenty years ago.

“The Daunt has become the center of all thing lately,” Avad began, his voice soft but tinged with tension. “Preparations for the Embassy keep my soldiers busy. Erend has thrown himself into the work—clearing roads, training men, overseeing defenses. He insists he's fine, but I know he’s carrying more than he lets on.”

Aloy looked at him. “He can handle it. Erend’s tougher than most think."

Avad’s smile was brief and shadowed. “He is. His loyalty is a comfort I lean on more than I should.” His tone shifted, becoming quieter and more personal. “And yet, even as I plan for this Embassy, my thoughts drift to Fashav. Too many years have passed with only rumors. Some say he lives in chains, others claim he was executed long ago. But Chief Hekarro himself has sent word — my cousin still lives. That hope is a flame I dare not let die.”

Aloy slowed her steps, feeling grief and hope weigh heavily in his words. “If Hekarro says he lives, then he does. The Tenakth aren’t careless with their word.”

Avad’s eyes softened as he looked at her. “You are right. I should hold onto that hope. It’s easier when spoken by you.”

They paused on a balcony overlooking the glowing city. Avad turned to face her fully, the mask of kingship slipping into something more vulnerable. “Aloy, you have already given more than I could ever ask. You saved Meridian. You saved all of us. And yet..." His voice faltered, then steadied with quiet resolve. “When you return from the West, I would ask for more. Not only your aid. Not only your friendship. Aloy — I would have you as my queen.”

The words hit her like an arrow she hadn’t seen coming. Queen. It wasn’t an insult, it wasn’t a command — it was hope, fragile and heavy all at once.

And when he leaned closer, cautious, giving her every chance to refuse, Aloy let him. Her heart pounded not from longing but from uncertainty. This was her first kiss — the kind of moment she had seen others share but never experienced herself.

His lips brushed against hers softly, with reverence, lingering like a whispered secret in a sacred moment, as if he were afraid she might vanish if he leaned in too deeply. Aloy stood still, eyes closing gently, surrendering to the sensations around her — the warmth from him, the subtle tremor of his breath on her skin, and the heavy weight of his unspoken feelings.

It was tender and respectful, a connection filled with quiet strength. She could see why others valued such intimacy. Still, beneath the surface, a troubling emptiness stirred inside her. There was no flicker of fire, no longing pulling at her chest—only a deep silence where others found a spark.

In an instant, self-doubt overwhelmed her — was there something fundamentally wrong with her? Avad was a remarkable leader, full of kindness and integrity. He bore the invisible weight of having taken his father’s life, a choice that tore him apart as he sacrificed one soul to save many others. His father, a tyrant who caused terror across the land, cast a long shadow over her past, even though she remained hidden within the safety of her home. The frightening tales of Jiran’s raids reached her only after he was gone. It was during the Proving, amid the chaos of loss and struggle, that old grief resurfaced — she dared not think of that name now, but deep in her heart, she felt a connection with Avad, not because their paths were alike, but because both carried the burden of responsibility and guilt.

Many lives had been lost simply because she was the bearer of an ancient legacy. The only figure she ever knew as a father had died, all because of her. In that shared understanding, she felt deep sorrow for what Avad had experienced — the heartbreaking loss of Ersa and the knowledge that she too would soon slip away from his grasp. It became clear to her now: this could never develop into anything more than a close friendship.

She gently pulled away, her lips tingling with an unfamiliar feeling, a pang that was more confusion than passion. Avad’s gaze searched hers, wide and hopeful, a silent question hanging between them like a fragile thread.

Aloy looked away, guilt twisting her stomach. “I can’t promise that, Avad,” she said softly. “Not now. Maybe not ever.”

His disappointment flickered, but he concealed it with dignity, his voice steady. “I would never bind you, Aloy. I only wish you to know what lies in my heart. Whatever your answer, Meridian will always be your home.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

They returned in silence, the Spire towering above them like a guard, its shape sharply outlined against the evening sky, while the city below pulsed with life—a distant melody of whispers and laughter. Aloy's mind churned in a chaotic storm, her lips still tingling from his warm kiss.

Though she lacked the words to express it, a deep emptiness remained inside her, weighing down on her with a burden that overshadowed the feelings he tried to share. Part of her yearned for more, desperately wishing she could return the warmth he had given. Instead, she carried a tangled web of emotions: gratitude, guilt, and a faint, persistent ache of disappointment—not directed at him, but rooted deep within herself.

It was her first kiss, a defining moment that should have ignited a flame within her. But all she experienced was a quiet truth: her heart was still yearning, still awaiting a revelation she couldn’t quite identify, a name it had yet to discover.

*~*~*

Dawn spread over Meridian like a golden tapestry, its shimmering light spilling across the city and illuminating the awakening world with a warm glow. The air thrummed with the lively pulse of life: the melodic clang of smiths hammering at their forges, merchants shouting out their wares and bargaining with enthusiasm, and the irresistible aroma of flatbread combined with fragrant spices drifting from busy food stalls lining the plaza. Aloy moved through the crowd with steady resolve, her companions close behind. The joyful noise around her nearly masked the heavy weight inside her chest, but not quite.

A restless night clung to her like a shadow, her thoughts swirling around the unexpected kiss she shared with Avad—a fleeting moment that left her feeling both sad and perplexed. Confusion gnawed at her, blending with a growing wave of anger and frustration that grew stronger with each attempt to find peace in sleep.

As they approached the center of the market, the scene came alive, already filled with eager crowds. Brightly colored banners swayed gently in the morning breeze, their Carja glyphs boldly shown in vibrant crimson and shimmering gold. The stalls were a jumble of colors, stacked high with sparkling trinkets, luxurious silks, and vibrant plates filled with fresh fruit. Yet, Aloy's gaze flicked past these distractions, firmly fixed on her real goal. She yearned for steel, tough leather, and the essential tools to prepare her for the uncertainties ahead in the West.

She paused at the first armorer’s stand, where the man was already fanning himself to cool off from the forge’s heat. “I need two sets,” Aloy said quickly, no introduction needed. “Strong enough for a fight, but light enough for speed.” She signaled to Buffy and Spike. “For them.”

The man’s eyes lingered a fraction too long on Buffy’s exposed arms and Spike’s pale skin before narrowing. Outsiders, even by Carja standards. Aloy felt her jaw tighten.

“They will pay,” she said flatly, pulling a pouch of shards they had all collected on the trip here from her belt and placing it on the counter.

The man’s mood changed instantly. He laid out two sets on the table — one with Carja leathers reinforced by strips of machine plating, the other lined with sun-bleached mail that shimmered faintly in the light.

Buffy lifted a breastplate, feeling its weight before giving Aloy a look. “You’re sure I don’t get the one with the feathers? Because I could totally pull off fierce jungle queen.”

Aloy smirked despite herself. “Not unless you want to be skewered in the first fight. That’s ceremonial. Try this.” She handed over a chestpiece layered with plates at the shoulders and ribbing designed for mobility.

Buffy strapped it on, flexed once, and shrugged. “Alright. I’ll admit it. This beats leather pants.”

Spike, meanwhile, swung his own setup onto his shoulders with the attitude of a man trying on a suit he’d already decided he hated. “Feels like wearing half a scrapyard,” he muttered. “Can’t imagine what the bloody full set’s like.”

Varl examined the fit with a soldier’s eye. “Better than nothing. You’ll thank her when it stops a blade.”

Spike grinned, sharp and wolfish as he slid his black duster over himself. “Suppose I might. If it doesn’t chafe me raw first.”

Aloy shook her head, ignoring him as she turned to the weapon racks. She picked out a bow for each—simple Carja hunter models, strong enough for mid-range but not so heavy they’d struggle to aim, and much more powerful than the basic bows they carried now. She tested the string and handed one to Buffy. “How’s it feel?”

Buffy drew it back smoothly, sighting down the shaft with the practiced ease of someone who's done this before. “Like riding a bike,” she said.

Aloy frowned. “What’s a bike?”

“Long story,” Buffy smirked.

Spike spun his bow once before catching it neatly, showing no real interest. “Not my style. But I’ll manage.” He tapped the spear slung across his back. “This is the real workhorse.”

“Then keep both,” Aloy told him firmly. “You’ll need options.”

By the time the deals were made, their shards were lighter, but the group was heavier with steel and readiness. Aloy lingered at one last stall, scanning racks of traps and potions. She grabbed a few smoke bombs, some health draughts, and tucked them into her satchel. Not because she doubted Buffy or Spike could fight — she’d seen their strength firsthand, seen how they tore through machines with speed and ferocity that stunned even her. No, this was about giving them every edge possible for what awaited in the West. Machines weren’t the only danger they’d face.

When they regrouped, Buffy was tugging at the straps of her new armor, grimacing. “Does this make my shoulders look big?”

“Looks like it makes you less likely to die,” Aloy replied dryly.

“Fashion and function,” Spike said with mock seriousness. “Two birds, one bloody shard.”

Varl merely shook his head and moved toward the gates.

The city gates loomed tall ahead, banners fluttering in the rising wind. Carja guards saluted as they passed by, but their eyes remained fixed on Buffy and Spike with clear curiosity. Aloy ignored it. Let them wonder. They had no idea what these two could do.

Outside, the road stretched wide and sunlit, with the canyons of the Daunt waiting beyond the horizon. Aloy mounted her Strider, the machine’s hooves sparking as it pawed the ground. Buffy and Spike followed easily, showing how quickly they had learned. Varl also improved; he was much less stiff than he had been at first.

Aloy looked west, past the gates and the morning light. The Daunt, the Embassy, the Tenakth — all of it was waiting.

And somewhere in the distant horizon, the next storm was already forming.

“Let’s move,” she said.

The four of them rode off, leaving the golden city behind.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six – The Ghosts of Civilization

“What we call progress is built on the bones of what we chose to forget.”
— Fragment recovered from a pre-plague data cache, author unknown

They had been riding west for hours as the sun cast a golden glow, slipping behind the jagged rocks and painting the sky in fiery shades of orange and purple. The rhythmic clatter of the Striders' hooves usually lulled travelers into relaxation, but for Spike, it only made him more restless.

He wasn't truly starving—he had only nibbled on a small meal the night before—but remnants of Slayer blood didn't sustain him for long, especially when it had only been a few gulps over four days. It eased his savage instincts and delayed the gnawing hunger, yet it was an insatiable beast; the cravings always returned with a vengeance. He felt it now: a restless thrum beneath his skin, a heat igniting behind his eyes. The primal urge to hunt was awakening inside him, and he knew he had to act soon, or the demon would get cranky.

Aloy moved forward, her posture straight and focused, eyes fixed on the horizon as if trying to see through the unknown. Varl was a steady presence beside her, his calm attitude sharply contrasting with Spike’s inner chaos. To Varl’s left, Buffy floated through the air like a ghost, her hair glowing in the fading light in a flowing blaze of gold. Although she mainly remained silent, the faint creaks of her armor marked each movement, a quiet reminder of the battle-hardened warrior she was.

While the lack of chatter usually fostered a comforting camaraderie, the silence felt heavy and almost suffocating. With an involuntary sigh, more of a reflex than a true release, Spike cast his eyes across the rugged ridgelines looming overhead. The air around him reeked of dry earth, machine oil, and sun-dried weeds until suddenly, a distinct scent cut through the dry aroma—a warm, pungent smell that ignited his instincts. Goat. His head jerked up instantly, the thrill of the chase reigniting within him.

“Back in a tick,” he called.

Aloy shifted in her saddle. “Something wrong?”

“Dinner,” he said, pointing.

“I can shoot it.”

He shook his head. “Appreciate the thought, love, but I need the chase. Helps me keep the fangs where they belong.”

Buffy gave him a small nod, understanding exactly what it signified.

He slipped off the Strider, his boots scraping against the weathered stone, and the transformation ignited within him before he even sensed it—his surroundings sharpened along the edges, and colors around him burst into vibrant life. The ridge loomed ahead, and the sharp scent of goat filled his nostrils, a burning intensity that awakened his instincts. He crouched low, muscles tensing with readiness, every nerve ending electrified by a thrill of anticipation. Just one swift strike, a flick of his wrist, and it would be over. The metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth, warm and primal, washing over him like a tide of solace. Relief flooded through him, steadying his chaotic thoughts.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and laid the carcass down, contemplating its role in the ongoing cycle of life. He closed his eyes briefly, tuning into the land's pulse, its rhythm whispering in the gentle sway of the breeze. Better. He was not quite fully satisfied, but his inner beast was calmed and content for now.

As he descended the slope, his companions waited below. Aloy stood like an arrow at rest, tense yet poised, while Varl showed quiet patience, grounded and unobtrusive. Buffy leaned against the Strider's sturdy neck, her fingers tracing the heavy, metallic cables, as if trying to soothe the machine with her gentle touch. She possessed uncommon tenderness, finding beauty in the cold, unyielding machines. A small, private smile crossed his face, a fleeting warmth amid the jagged edges of their world.

He began walking down the gravelly path, the stones crunching under his boots, sending up plumes of dust that shimmered like copper in the golden light. He wasn’t concerned with his face; the idea of changing it back hadn’t crossed his mind. Instead, he simply raised a hand and waved casually, as if the world hadn't just changed around him.

Then Buffy winced.

Aloy’s eyes widened as Varl’s hand moved toward his bow.

“What?” Spike asked.

Buffy pointed at her own face, making a quick grimace. “Honey… you forgot to.”

He blinked, realized, and the grin faltered. “Oh. Right.” He shook his head, took a breath he didn’t need, and the ridges faded.

Aloy’s hand stayed near her weapon; Varl’s bow remained half-drawn. They both knew what he was, but seeing the change unsettled them. The Striders shifted, cables humming in the cooling air.

“It’s different,” Aloy said softly. “Knowing and seeing are not the same.”

Varl’s voice was quiet and tense. “The Matriarchs told stories about such things—people who were twisted from trespassing in the ruins.”

Buffy’s eyes locked onto him. “The ruins have nothing to do with it,” she said, her voice heated. “Unless they know of some sitting on a Hellmouth—which, unless this GAIA has somehow brought magic back into the world, would be impossible.”

Spike felt the tightness in his chest loosen. Of course she’d stand there and set the boundary for him. He loved her more for it than he’d ever admit out loud.

Aloy exhaled sharply. “I wish Ted Faro hadn’t destroyed APOLLO. If it had survived, maybe I’d understand this part of the Old Ones’ history.”

“APOLLO?” Buffy asked. “Like the Greek and Roman gods—and why is everything connected to GAIA named after them?”

Aloy shook her head. “I don’t know what that is. I only know it was supposed to be one of GAIA’s subordinate functions. The Alphas built it to contain everything the Old World knew—history, art, science, all of it. Faro deleted the entire archive before the real end, then vented GAIA Prime and killed the Alphas so they couldn’t bring it back.”

Spike’s stomach turned cold. “He didn’t just erase it—he murdered the people who could’ve fixed what he broke.”

“Yes,” Aloy said. “All of it is gone.”

“Bloody hell.” His voice dropped. “Whole of human thought wiped clean because one sanctimonious bastard couldn’t face himself. I’ve seen men burn libraries to hide their sins, but killing the librarians too—that’s a new kind of cowardice.”

Buffy exhaled sharply. “Guess every age gets its monsters. Jesus, I knew Faro was bad but....”

“Yeah,” Spike said. “Had the lot of us fooled for too long.”

Buffy looked at Aloy. “I can answer some of it, but history was never my strong suit. He’s the one you want for that—secretly a total nerd.”

Spike shot her a look. “Oi.”

“Cambridge,” she added, grinning. “Literature before the poetry went bad.”

Aloy tilted her head. “Cambridge?”

“Old university,” Spike said. “Across the sea. Place that taught people how to argue about books and call it progress.”

“You studied there… before the world ended,” Aloy said, eyes widening.

“Nearly two centuries back,” he answered. “Give or take the apocalypse.”

“Two hundred,” Aloy breathed, surprise shifting into sharp, attentive focus. The fear had disappeared, replaced by questions she seemed to have lining up behind her eyes.

Spike recognized the look and almost laughed. For once, he didn’t mind.

~*~*~

They traveled westward once more, the rhythmic sound of Strider's hooves echoing through the vast, empty hills that rolled around them like waves of green and gold. The machines—their metallic frames shimmering in the fading light—caught the last glorious rays of sunset, reflecting them back like diamonds, bright and coppery, across the landscape. Buffy walked quietly behind, letting the rhythm of the road carry Spike’s voice, a comforting sound that wove through the silence.

Ahead, he spoke with a clarity that felt disarmingly genuine, his tone calm and measured, casting aside the sharp bravado he often hid behind. Aloy leaned in closer, her keen ears straining to catch every intricately spun word. Varl rode beside her, his presence steady and watchful, like a guardian for a tale waiting to unfold.

Spike began to share his own century—a period he fondly referred to as the Victorian era. He described it as a time when gas lamps flickered their gentle glow over busy streets, where horse-drawn carriages mingled with the early hum of mechanical engines, and men dressed in woolen layers, calling it progress. In his vivid storytelling, London became a city caught in a paradox: half-illuminated by innovation and half-enveloped in old customs. The air was thick with the scents of rain-soaked earth and coal dust, punctuated by the rhythmic sounds of boots on cobblestone—a metropolis learning to breathe through iron lungs it had yet to fully understand.

Aloy, eager as always, interrupted him now and then with questions—words like steamship, telegraph, and opera slipping from her lips like pebbles into a well. Each question prompted an explanation from Spike, who responded with patient clarity, weaving in the rich tapestry of history stored in his mind. He spoke of the clash between discovery and faith, the daring belief that humanity could map the cosmos and the depths of the soul simultaneously, as long as they built enough machines to take them there.

Buffy watched him quietly with admiration, captivated by how effortlessly he told stories. His mind was like a kaleidoscope—shifting smoothly through poetry, philosophy, and humor, with each thought flowing into the next without pause. She had seen him fight monsters, bloodied and beaten yet unbreakable, but this... this was where he truly unraveled her. The scholar he kept hidden, hinting at depths of wisdom she had never imagined.

Then, he shifted the conversation toward art—music that echoed with strings of sorrow and joy, painters wielding light like a confessor’s tool, and verses that lingered in the marrow of human experience long after the pages had turned to ash. Aloy, her curiosity piqued, asked about poetry, eager to understand how mere words could transcend utility and become vessels of beauty. Spike’s smile, almost bashful, lit up the air as he recited a few lines from memory.

The words flowed like a gentle stream—strange and beautiful, filled with an age older than time itself. Varl’s eyes widened in surprise, while Aloy’s normally sharp expression softened, blurring the rigid contours of her scientific focus into something tender and awe-filled.

Buffy felt a pang in her heart, an ache that resonated deep within her soul. He had been everything—a monster, a warrior, a fool—and yet inside him, he held the world's lost music like a treasured secret. Here, amid the ashes of a shattered civilization, he was redistributing it, offering back the melodies that once defined humanity. She didn’t interrupt; instead, she let herself be wrapped in the warmth of his voice, the dying light surrounding them like a protective cloak.

When he finally fell silent, the road ahead stretched dark and inviting, like a path to untold stories. Aloy kept riding beside him, still lost in her relentless questioning. Varl’s laughter broke the night air—a rare sound that felt like humanity itself, awakening something warm and familiar.

Buffy smiled softly to herself, her chest tight but filled with deep emotion. The world had burned away, transforming into a landscape of steel and metal, and amid this stark rebirth, their quiet exchange of stories and verses felt like the most genuinely human act left.

At that moment, she marveled at how she had never thought it possible to love him even more.

~*~*~

As darkness wrapped around them like a heavy blanket, Aloy and Varl moved in a familiar rhythm, their actions smooth as they collected dry brush and ignited a small flame from the kindling. The Striders stood nearby, their metallic bodies releasing soft hisses as they cooled in the approaching night chill.

Spike crouched beside the crackling fire, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the rising sparks that danced upward before fizzing out into nothingness. He wore an expression of deep contemplation—a rare kind of quiet that settled on him when memories stirred. Varl, seated across from him, watched him with curiosity, while Aloy paused in her task of cleaning her spear, a spark of expectation lighting up her features.

“Tell us one of your stories,” she finally prompted, her voice a gentle invitation. “Something that isn’t written down anymore.”

A small, crooked smile flickered across Spike’s face. “Hmm, let's see,” he thought for a moment. “All right. Let me take you back to a time of revelry. There was a party once—a grand affair. Lanterns swayed in the trees like fireflies suspended in the night, and fireworks exploded in the sky, painting it with brilliant bursts of color. Half the countryside flocked to join the festivities.”

Aloy leaned in, curious. “A celebration?”

“Of sorts,” Spike said, his grin widening with mischief. “It was a birthday bash—one hundred and eleven years, to be exact. Bilbo Baggins, an eccentric little fellow, loved his books, enjoyed his tea, and valued his solitude. But that night, he had something extraordinary in store. He gave a heartfelt speech, expressing gratitude to those gathered around… and then, in the blink of an eye, he disappeared from sight.”

Varl’s eyes widened in shock. “He vanished?”

“Right before their very eyes,” Spike explained, his voice low and deliberate. “He wore a magic ring, a relic from his past adventures. Although he was meant to part with it, the ring had ensnared him; he couldn’t let go, not truly.”

His gaze flicked over the fire to Buffy, with a knowing raise of his eyebrow. “Does that evoke any memories for you?”

She smiled softly, a gentle acknowledgment passing between them—two immortals united by shared experiences.

“Bilbo’s disappearance set off a chain of events,” Spike continued, his tone growing somber. “He bequeathed his home, his vast treasures, and even the ring to his nephew, Frodo. At first glance, it looked insignificant. Yet a wizard named Gandalf the Grey, who kept a watchful eye, sensed that this ring was no ordinary trinket. It was the One Ring, forged by the Dark Lord Sauron—powerful enough to corrupt hearts and turn the purest of souls into ash.”

Aloy listened closely, her eyes shining like firelight as she took in the story. “So, this Frodo… he had to destroy it?”

Spike nodded solemnly. “Aye. He was tasked with carrying it far from home, venturing into the vast unknown. Reluctance weighed heavily on him, but he pressed on because it was the right thing to do. Someone had to bear that burden.”

“Like a Seeker,” Aloy murmured, the words thoughtfully slipping from her tongue.

Spike looked at her, curious. “Is that what you call it here?”

She nodded, her voice steady. “A Seeker is someone who journeys beyond the tribe, shouldering the burdens of others.”

A slight smile of approval appeared on Spike’s lips. “Yeah, that fits perfectly.”

He leaned back, shadows creating intricate patterns across his face, while the firelight illuminated the storyteller and survivor inside him. “That’s how ‘The Lord of the Rings’ begins. Not with kings and armies, but with a quiet soul leaving home, carrying a burden the world cannot bear. And he goes on this journey because no one else will.”

Varl’s gaze stayed fixed on the fire, absorbed in its flickering glow. “Did he succeed?”

Spike smirked, a hint of mischief flashing in his eyes. “That’s where the rest of the story unfolds, mate. But it’s not a happy tale. The best stories rarely are.”

As the fire popped softly, Aloy and Varl settled into a comfortable silence, caught in a web of awe and reflection.

Buffy wrapped her arms around her knees, her eyes fixed on Spike, silhouetted against the flickering flames. He was both the storyteller and the survivor, the scholar and the monster—the stark reminder that he had once wielded death and destruction against humanity, and now, he was the keeper of its stories.

No words were needed. She simply listened, treasuring the depth of the story and loving him even more for the promise they shared.

~*~*~

Dawn crept in softly, cloaking the hills in a gentle gray mist that curled like breath against the cool morning glass. The remnants of the fire had faded into a bed of ash, while the air hung thick with the metallic smell of the world awakening, mingled with the crisp scent of dew. Buffy stood still for a heartbeat, her gaze sweeping over her companions as they went about their early routines with quiet efficiency that showed familiarity—a ritualized dance in the face of another day to face. Aloy carefully examined her bow, fingers skillfully checking the tautness of the strings, while Varl adjusted the straps on his pack, making sure everything was in place. Nearby, Spike sat by the cold, blackened ring of stones, absentmindedly rolling a flat pebble between his fingers, trying to calm the storm of his thoughts.

At first, a rush of pride wrapped her like a warm blanket. Last night, she had peeled back her own memories, giving them a glimpse into a world filled with history, deep philosophy, lurking monsters, and the indelible marks they left behind. She watched, her heart swelling, as Aloy absorbed it all with an insatiable thirst, like a wanderer quenching a parched throat after a long trek through the desert. But almost immediately, a molten anger boiled inside her, bitter and acrid like smoke from a long-extinguished fire. APOLLO—a vault vast enough to hold the very soul of a planet, abandoned because of one man’s cowardice. Millions of treasured books—lost. The melodies of countless songs—erased. Humanity’s breathtaking miracles—snuffed out like a candle in the wind. In that moment, she wrestled with a turbulent emotion swelling in her chest; was it grief, or was it fury? Maybe it was a heartbreaking mix of both.

In silence, they began to pack away their belongings. At Aloy’s sharp whistle, the Striders lifted their heads, their eye-lights flickering to life like stars igniting against the dawn. Buffy ran her fingers along the braided cable, feeling a gentle thrum beneath the cold, metallic skin. It wasn’t love—she was far too wise for that naivety—but it was something like trust, a fragile bond forged in the fires of shared experience.

“Ready?” Aloy asked.

“Always,” Buffy replied.

They pressed onward. Morning spread like a shimmering gold ribbon gracefully draped over the rugged landscape, where shrubs brushed against ancient rocks and the skeletal remnants of the Old Ones lay half-consumed by the vibrant resurgence of green life. Each ridge seemed sculpted by a force far too grand and patient for mere humans to comprehend. She found herself entranced, her gaze fixed on the scene before her. The end of the world had been a savage ordeal, yet here—this was the quiet aftermath, a time when the earth exhaled softly, continuing its timeless dance of renewal.

After a while, Aloy guided her Strider closer to Spike’s. “You don’t wear a Focus,” she observed—curiously, not accusing. “Why not?”

Spike shrugged. “Wouldn’t work for me. They weren’t made to read what I am.”

Aloy frowned. “You mean—?”

“Demons don’t map correctly,” he replied simply. “Brains don’t fire the same way. Whatever your Focus looks for—heat, patterns, signals—it can’t make sense of me.”

Buffy glanced at Aloy. “He’s right. The Focuses weren’t built to read demons. They don’t know how to interpret him.”

Aloy nodded slowly, processing that, then turned to Buffy. “And yours?”

“Oh, mine works fine,” Buffy said. “I just don’t use it much. I’m not really a tech person. I can record logs, send files, and messages—that’s about it. I’ve never needed anything more."

Spike grinned. “You could at least pretend to like gadgets, love.”

“I like sharp ones,” she shot back.

Varl chuckled, and even Aloy’s mouth formed a hint of a smile. For a moment, the morning seemed a bit brighter.

By midday, the ground rose and narrowed, the trail turning into metal—old, wide, and stubborn. Ahead, the Carja lift loomed, a huge disk of gears and chains hanging over open air, its cables vanishing into the haze below. The sight hit Buffy like a wave. The valley stretched out in layers—rust and river and green, with ruins half-swallowed by time, light cracking against the cliffs.

She stepped off her Strider, her boots clanging on the approach, one hand braced against a suspension chain as wind surged from the canyon. “Wow,” she breathed, as everything else felt too small for the moment.

Aloy joined her, eyes narrowing as she examined the machinery. “That’s the Daunt,” she said softly. “The last stretch of the Sundom before we head west.”

Aloy climbed the short stairs to the control booth where a Carja lift operator waited, nervously gripping the lever. His expression changed the moment he recognized her.

“By the Sun—Savior of Meridian!” he exclaimed. “Apologies, Huntress, but the valley is sealed. Bristlebacks have overrun the paths. Orders say no one rides until it’s safe.”

Aloy’s tone didn’t waver, but Buffy sensed the steel in it. “Then I’ll make it safe. Bring the lift up.”

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking between her Focus and the rest of their unusual group, then sighed and went along. The gears roared to life, cables tightening as the large platform rose toward them. The sound echoed in Buffy’s bones.

When it locked into place, the operator stepped aside, still a little starstruck. “Good luck down there, Savior.”

Aloy gave him a quick nod. “Thanks.”

They stepped onto the open platform—lacking a railing, only chains and wind around them. The operator pulled the lever again, and the lift jolted before beginning its slow descent into the canyon.

Buffy steadied herself against one of the chains. The metal was cold and slick, covered in mist. Wind tugged at her hair, sharp with the smell of wet stone and old metal.

Spike stood beside her, as quiet as a thought. He didn’t need to breathe, but his chest moved anyway—more out of habit than necessity. She smiled slightly at that, then looked down.

The world stretched out beneath them. Cliffs slipped into shadow and sunlight; rivers glistened like veins under glass. Machines moved across it all, small from this height but alive, as if the world was rebuilding itself one heartbeat at a time.

Buffy swallowed hard. It was overwhelming—too much to absorb, too much to feel. She hadn’t expected how intense it would be.

~*~*~

The canyon yawned open like a fresh wound, its rugged red stone stark against the sky. Wisps of smoke and steam drifted upward from a dozen sputtering forges, casting an eerie haze over the scene. The air was heavy and oppressive, thick with the scent of searing metal, while the reverberating clang of hammers echoed long before they reached the settlement.

“Chain Scrape,” Aloy murmured, watching the desolate landscape.

Spike looked down at the chaotic settlement below: makeshift shacks clustered together like desperate survivors, their wooden frames leaning precariously, while scaffolding reached up like skeletal fingers stretching toward the sky. The forges billowed thick smoke in towering plumes, resembling dying beasts gasping for air. It was a sharp contrast to the polished towers of Meridian—here, the settlement was rough and unrefined, as if the shine of civilization had never truly taken hold.

He huffed a laugh. “So that’s the other side of progress,” he muttered. “I guess every empire has its sewer.”

Buffy shot him a look. “That’s a great way to start our day.”

He shrugged. “Great is overrated.”

The path widened, revealing a furnace of heat that wrapped around them like a heavy cloak. Sparks danced through the air, resembling irate fireflies in a chaotic ballet. Voices erupted and collided around them—shouts of bartering mingled with heated arguments, punctuated by the sharp expletives of a craftsman who had missed his target as a hammer struck with a pounding thud.

Oseram workers hurried through the crowd, their faces smudged with soot, eyes tired but determined, shoulders drooping from long hours. Nearby, guards leaned casually against worn walls, pretending not to notice as fights erupted just two stalls away, the air thick with tension.

Spike absorbed it all with quiet disdain. “You can tell how healthy a kingdom is by how loud it has to shout to keep standing,” he said. “This one’s about ready to fall on its face.”

Varl shot him a sidelong glance. “You’ve seen a lot of kingdoms.”

“Seen 'em, buried 'em, watched the next ones crawl out of the bones.” He kicked a scrap of metal on the ground and watched it spin. “It never changes.”

Before Aloy could respond, a voice cut through the noise—rough-edged and amused.

“Well, if it isn’t our Flamehaired Savior,” said a broad-shouldered woman standing in the shade of a tavern doorway. Grease covered her arms, and a wrench hung from her belt, her grin sharp as a forge flame. She quickly gauged them, sizing them up in an instant.

“Didn’t think you’d wander this far west, Flamehair,” she said. “Come on—before Ulvund’s voice ruins what’s left of my patience. The ale's warm, but it’s wet.”

Aloy’s mouth formed a slight smile. “Petra.”

“Don’t get sentimental,” Petra deadpanned. “You’ll ruin my image.” She glanced at the others. “Friends, strays, or trouble?”

Buffy smirked. “A little of all three.”

Petra’s grin grew wider. “Good. You’ll fit right in.”

Inside, the tavern felt more like a forge than a bar—rafters blackened with smoke, metal tables scarred from years of fists and mugs. The smell of hot iron clung to everything. Conversation paused when they entered, then resumed in murmurs. Aloy’s name spread through the room like a spark along a wire.

Petra sank onto a bench and waved for mugs. “This place is held together with spit and bad planning,” she said. “Most of it courtesy of Ulvund. He got rich on contracts and bluster, hasn’t paid his workers in weeks, and still manages to act like the world owes him a drink.”

Aloy frowned. “And no one stops him?”

Petra snorted. “Stop him? Half the guards drink the little coin he spreads around, and the rest are too tired to care. Yesterday, a mine north of here flooded—two miners are still trapped. Ulvund shrugs it off and says it’s not his concern.”

Buffy’s jaw clenched. “Figures.”

Petra nodded grimly. “That’s just how it is. Men like him always believe the forge made them special.”

Spike leaned back, letting the mug sweat against his palm. The noise pressed in—workers too exhausted to remember they deserved better. Same song, different verse. He had heard it in London’s mills and Rome’s gutters.

He took a slow sip, mainly to feel the burn, and muttered, “I guess some things never bloody die.”

Buffy looked up, a small smile playing on her lips. He still cared—always had, even when it was hard for him.

~*~*~

They found the loudmouth exactly where Petra had promised—at the center of the square, his voice booming over the clang of hammers. Oseram miners crowded close, their faces grim from heat and hunger, while a Carja officer stood red-faced in the man’s shadow, clearly hoping the ground would swallow him whole.

Spike took one look and ground his teeth. Every damn era has one, he thought—the person who confuses volume with virtue.

Ulvund's hands gestured wildly as he ranted. “The Bristlebacks are a Carja problem! The valley should stay closed until they’re dealt with! If the Sun-King wants the Sundom to run smoothly, he needs to pry his lazy courtiers out of their palaces and send them here!”

The crowd grew tense. Buffy crossed her arms, and Aloy's jaw clenched as she stepped forward, signaling she’d had enough.

“I’ve handled bigger problems than a couple of angry machines,” she said, her voice cutting clean through the noise.

Ulvund turned, surprise flickering before recognition settled in. He gave a greasy grin. “Oh, it’s you—the Savior of Meridian. Good! Maybe you can save us from the Carja too!”

Spike almost laughed. There it was, he thought—the moment when the parasite flatters you before the bite.

Aloy's tone stayed steady. “You’re using the Bristlebacks as an excuse to hold up the valley.”

“Excuse me?” Ulvund snapped. “I’m doing the work of honest Oseram! If the Carja can’t keep their machines under control—”

“I’ll find out what’s causing the Bristlebacks,” Aloy said, stepping closer until her shadow fell over him. “Then you’ll open the valley and the lift. Understood?”

Silence fell over the square. Even the forge fires seemed to hold their breath. Ulvund blinked once, then twice, and forced out a laugh that cracked at the edges.

“Oh, you’ll find out? Hah! The Savior of Meridian, off on another adventure! Fine—try not to get yourself killed.”

He turned on his heel and stormed toward his office, muttering quietly, as his polished boots clattered on the tiles. The crowd watched him leave, their fear replaced by something sharper—hope struggling to remember how to stand.

Spike leaned one shoulder against a crate, watching the miners straighten their backs. “You were right about him,” Buffy murmured beside him.

Spike gave a dry smile. “The world’s full of the same bastards. They just swap uniforms and titles.”

Aloy exhaled, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Petra said the mine north of here flooded—Crimson Narrows. Two men are still trapped. That’s where we’re heading next.”

“Right then,” Spike said, pushing off the crate. “Let’s see if the local hero treatment extends to digging guys out of holes.”

Buffy shot him a look. “Behave.”

He grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Aloy was already moving, forging her way through the murmuring crowd. The forges roared back to life behind her, louder and steadier. Spike glanced back once at the faces watching her leave—people who’d just remembered what courage looked like.

He smiled faintly. “Sometimes,” he murmured, “a spark’s all it takes.”

~*~*~

The road north of Chain Scrape narrowed into a tight pass, a vein winding through rugged rock—its crimson walls exposing jagged remnants of ancient metal ribs, revealed where the mountain’s skin had torn apart. As the distant echoes of smoke and shouting reached them, Buffy could already taste the air: a mix of damp stone, the sharp scent of old grease, and an unsettling tang of rising panic.

They reached the top of a rocky ledge and gazed down into the quarry below. Crimson Narrows was hardly impressive—carved ledges jutted out like tired sentinels, and scaffolds leaned dangerously, resembling exhausted men teetering on the edge of collapse. Amid the chaos, a gaping maw in the cliff exhaled clouds of steam, heightening the oppressive atmosphere. A few miners lay huddled on worn tarps beside a smothered brazier, their makeshift bandages grim and gray, faces scarred by cold and worry. Among them, one figure—a broad-shouldered man with a dust-covered beard—struggled to his feet when he saw Aloy, waving them down urgently, as if trying to hold back an approaching tide of despair.

“That’ll be Korvud,” Aloy said.

He met them halfway, leaning on one leg. “You Flame—” His eyes flicked to Spike and Buffy, then to Varl’s spear, assessing. “Are you the help Petra promised?”

“Close enough,” Buffy replied. “What happened?”

“Flood,” Korvud spat. “We were blasting a seam when it went sideways. Half the mine filled up in a minute. We only managed to drag a few out before the rest collapsed. Two are still inside—Thorden and a young fool who shouldn’t have been down there. We’ve got pumps, but they’re junk. With the cave-in where it is—” He cast a glance at the smoking entrance. “It’s a tomb.”

Aloy’s Focus cast a thin blue shimmer across her eye. “We’ll get them out.”

Korvud looked at the four of them, as if he wanted to believe but was afraid to. “The entrance is there. The water's up to the ceiling in places. You’ll have to swim under the collapse to reach the big cavern. After that—” He shook his head. “If you make it that far, Thorden will have a plan. He always does.”

Buffy followed Aloy to the edge of the mine. The air shifted—cooler, heavy with the echo of hidden space. Steam drifted out of the entrance and curled around her face like a warning. She looked at Spike. He gave the smallest nod, the kind that said, I’ve got you.

“Stay close,” Aloy said. “We go left, then down. The water will be cold. There are handholds on the painted yellow struts—use them if the current kicks up.”

Varl took a deep breath, steadying himself. “After you.”

They went in.

The tunnel narrowed into a throat of rock and rust. Water lapped at their boots, then their shins, then their knees. A low groan echoed through the mine ahead—stone settling, wood creaking. Buffy felt Spike’s arm brush hers in the dark; her pulse slowed a little, both ridiculous and true.

At the first split, Aloy raised her hand. “Left,” she said. “There’s debris beneath the surface. We’ll need to go underneath.” She glanced at Buffy, then at Spike. “He doesn’t—”

“He’s fine, just makes him a better swimmer,” Buffy insisted because she’d watched him sink to the bottom of a river once and come up grinning. “Let's keep moving.”

They reached the pool. The water looked like black glass until Aloy’s torch flickered on, turning it into a wobbly mirror of the ceiling. Below: twisted beams and a tangle of boards, a pocket of air if you’re lucky—a bad idea if you’re not.

Buffy rolled her shoulders. “On three,” she said, because counting helped. “One. Two. Three.”

Cold closed around her like a fist. She went underwater, her eyes stinging, that wet, mineral taste flooding her mouth. Yellow paint flashed on a beam ahead—the promised handhold. She grabbed it, kicked, feeling the current pull her sideways. Something scraped her knuckles, but she ignored it and kept going, following Aloy’s light and the faint blue shine of Varl’s hair beads. Spike slid past like a shadow, elegant in a way he never bothered to be on land.

They broke the surface in a pocket of air, then went underwater again, surfacing fully for real, gasping in a chamber so vast that the torchlight never reached the ceiling. The sound came first—deep and heavy, water slapping against rock in a rhythm like a slow heartbeat. Somewhere to the left, a continuous drip. To the right, the hint of a tunnel. Straight ahead, a ledge with a crate and a dangling rope, and beyond it, the dark entrance of another passage.

“Here!” a voice called, hoarse yet hopeful at once. “By the—hells, I mean—here!”

Aloy shone her light toward the voice. Two men huddled on a narrow ledge above the water—one weathered, the other barely more than a kid. The older one looked like someone used to giving orders no one wanted to follow.

“Thorden?” Aloy called.

“That I am,” he replied, squinting at her, then at Buffy, Spike, and Varl, counting them again as if it might change the math. “You’re not the foreman.”

“The good news is we’re better,” Buffy said, hooking a thumb at Spike. “This one’s a champion at not drowning.”

Spike gave a polite little half-bow, which would have looked silly if it hadn’t been such a serious moment. “Evening.”

Thorden snorted once, as if he'd had his fill of madness for the day. “Right. If you’re here to fetch us, you’ll need the cart. A cave-in’s blocking the way. Explosives would clear it, but we can’t reach the cart from here—the flooding cut us off.” He tossed something down, which hit Buffy’s palm with a damp slap. “Fuses. If you can reach the cart and light it, the blast will break the choke and the water should drain.”

Buffy handed them to Aloy, who tucked the fuses into her pouch. “Route?”

“From your side—left, then underneath again. There’s a short ladder near the cart’s track, but the easy ledges have washed out. You’ll have to climb. And watch the lower cavern. I heard machines down there before the water rose.”

“Burrowers,” Varl said grimly.

“Grand,” Spike murmured. “Rats with better teeth.”

Buffy peered into the darkness where Thorden pointed. Shapes appeared: a ladder half-drowned, beams stretching across a gap, the faint shine of metal rails higher up—the track. The path wasn’t welcoming, but it was there. That was all she needed.

Aloy looked at her. “You okay?”

“I’m better with a dry fight,” Buffy said. “But I’ll do the swim.”

Spike’s hand brushed her wrist—just once. “I’ll go first on the long holds,” he said, voice low. “If anything gives, I’m the one who bounces.”

She wanted to say, "Don't you dare fall," but her mouth formed a different shape. “Fine. Show-off.”

They moved to the left-hand passage. The water tugged jealously at Buffy’s calves, annoyed they had slipped away. She pushed off, slid under the low beam, and hit a short ladder slick with algae. She pushed it down, steadied it with her boot, and looked back. “Varl, take rear. Aloy, with me.”

They climbed.

The ancient wooden beams creaked ominously under their weight, sending tremors rippling through the structure—small, unsettling vibrations that danced along Buffy's neck. Aloy moved with smooth, fluid grace, her hands poised on paint-speckled grips, each muscle taut and ready. Spike slipped through the shadows like a sleek cat, the kind that feigns nonchalance but remains always watchful. Varl held his ground, radiating calm confidence, his breath steady as the disciplined soldier within him tracked each hold and potential escape route.

As they climbed up, the passage opened into a vast cavern, revealing a high catwalk made of weathered planks that groaned at the slightest motion. Below, the wide opening of the cavern loomed, a dark abyss that seemed to swallow the light. Aloy crouched low, two fingers raised as a warning. Buffy paused, her senses sharpening as she listened carefully—a quiet metallic snuffle echoed from the shadows, the sound of Burrowers prowling on the far side. They moved with slow, deliberate precision, like relentless machines convinced that time was a luxury they could afford.

“We can avoid them,” Aloy whispered. “Stay high, keep to the right, cross on the beam.”

Buffy’s mouth quirked. “Avoiding a fight. Look at us, growing.”

Spike’s smile flickered sharply and wickedly in the torchlight. “Don’t spread it around.”

They moved to the right. Four beams, each with a gap just wide enough to make you consider falling. Aloy crossed as if she’d been born for it. Spike took the next one and turned to offer a hand to Buffy; she swatted it away and made the jump on her own, landing lightly, a little thrill running through her calves. Varl brought up the rear, silent as a prayer.

The last beam ended at a splintered platform. Ahead, a rusted crane jutted from the wall—its arm ending near a shelf where, finally, the track curved into view. And there, hunched and waiting like a stubborn animal, sat the minecart.

“Got you,” Buffy whispered.

Aloy was the first to move—she grabbed the yellow grips on the crane’s mast, swung across, and pulled herself up hand-over-hand with a grunt before disappearing over the edge of the shelf. Spike followed with way too much style. Buffy went after him, her palms burning just enough to make her feel alive. Varl came last, his boots careful, his weight balanced. The torchlight moved across the planes of his dark face and caught on the carved beads threaded through his short, tight locks—marks of his Nora kin. His calm steadied the space around him; even the water seemed to hush.

Up close, the cart was a battered metal beast marked with old blast scars and new dents. The track sloped downward toward the choke point Thorden described—the spot where rock and timber had jammed the mine shut. Water lapped and hissed below, eager for an escape.

Aloy took the fuses from her pouch and looked back at Buffy. “We set them along the charge rack,” she said. “Then we’ll light and push on my mark.”

Buffy nodded. Her pulse thudded once, strong and steady. Behind them, the cavern seemed to breathe. Somewhere deep below, a Burrower chittered like a bad idea clearing its throat.

She met Spike’s eyes. He gave her that look—the one that said we get through this because that’s what we do.

“Do it,” Buffy said.

Aloy struck the flint. The fuse sparked with a hiss that sounded unnaturally loud for the quiet that followed. Everyone flinched instinctively, even Spike, who had seen more explosions than he cared to admit.

“Push!” Aloy shouted.

With a collective surge of effort, they pushed the cart forward, metal grinding against metal as it sped down the warped track. Sparks flew from the sputtering fuse like fireflies in a storm. Buffy braced herself, her shoulder smashing into the cart's edge, her boots slipping on the slick, rain-soaked planks beneath her. The cold air hung heavy, pressing down like an unseen hand. Spike summoned every bit of strength, giving one last, powerful heave, and with a violent jolt, the cart toppled off the ledge. Almost immediately, the mine shook with a deafening rumble.

Deep inside the cavern, light, heat, and sound collided in a chaotic symphony. The wall burst open, releasing a torrent of stone and water that exploded outward in a dazzling display. A majestic spray column shot upward to touch the ceiling before falling back down, enveloping everything in a storm of grit, wild noise, and water's primal roar.

For a brief moment, the world became a chaos of echoes and a relentless downpour. Then, the pool started to churn and dip, swirling wildly in the void where the choke had once kept it trapped.

Buffy spat out grit and wiped her face. “Please tell me that was supposed to happen.”

Aloy coughed, grinning despite herself. “That’s the idea. Water’s draining.”

The sound of machines responded to her presence.

Burrowers emerged from the shrinking pool—three of them, sleek and vibrant beneath layers of oil and rust. They surfaced hissing, their eyes glowing blue in the darkness.

Varl released an arrow before Buffy could even catch her breath. It hit the first machine right in the eye, sparks flying from the wound. The creature shrieked, dove, and then spun back up.

“Keep them away from Aloy!” Buffy shouted.

She moved instinctively—leaping from another cart, landing hard on the slick floor, rolling, and rising with her spear at the ready. The nearest Burrower lunged at her. She sidestepped, drove the point up under its jaw, and felt the shock reverberate through her arms. The machine screamed a metallic wail and collapsed in a shower of parts.

“Show-off,” Spike called out, but she could hear the pride in his voice.

He caught the second Burrower mid-charge, his bare hands gripping its head like a man yanking a bull by the horns. It bucked, claws gouging the rock, but Spike only laughed, his teeth flashing white. He twisted, slammed the creature into the wall, and tore the spark unit free in a burst of blue fire.

“Next!” he shouted.

Aloy’s spear crackled with energy as she leapt from the platform. She landed, delivered her strike, and the third machine collapsed inward. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and hot oil.

Silence returned, broken only by the slow gurgle of water draining through the breach.

Varl moved to the edge and looked into the growing gap. The torchlight reflected off the carved beads woven into his dark hair, each one shining as he turned. “That did it,” he said. “The level’s dropping quickly. The miners should be safe now.”

Aloy nodded and started moving. “Let’s get back to Thorden before the ceiling decides to follow us.”

They retraced their steps along the beams. The water that once reached their waists now barely touched their boots. When they reached the far shelf, Thorden was already helping the younger miner to his feet, both of them dripping but alive.

“Didn’t think I’d see sunlight again,” Thorden said, his voice hoarse but steady. “Forge bless you all.”

Buffy gave a faint smile. “Call it teamwork.”

Spike wrung out the sleeve of his duster as best he could and looked around the debris-filled cavern. “Next time, love, maybe give me a heads-up before we decide to play demolition crew.”

“I did,” Aloy replied dryly.

“Didn’t mention climbing the ceiling was part of the plan.”

Varl’s laugh echoed warmly in the shadows. “You’re still standing, aren’t you?”

“Mostly,” Spike agreed. “A bit singed around the dignity, but that’s standard.”

They helped the miners up the ladder and through the last of the draining tunnels. The climb felt longer than the descent; the air was thicker, filled with the smell of smoke and salt grinding into their clothes. When daylight finally touched her face again, Buffy took a deep, slow breath as if trying to relearn the feeling of clean air.

Korvud was waiting outside with the rest of the crew. When Thorden and the boy appeared behind Aloy, cheers erupted that echoed off the cliffs.

“Never doubted you,” Korvud said, though his eyes betrayed him.

“Sure you didn’t,” Aloy replied, brushing mud off her armor.

Spike leaned on the railing, watching the miners gather around their foreman, patting him on the back, relief pouring out of them like the last of the floodwater.

Buffy stepped up beside him. “You good?”

He nodded toward Aloy. “The kid’s got something. People see her, and they remember what it feels like not to be afraid.”

Buffy said softly, "She’s the reason we’re here."

Spike smiled. “And she’ll be the reason we get through.”

Varl moved closer, sunlight glinting off the beads in his hair. “Machines will return,” he warned. “Not today, but soon. Ulvund will still claim the Bristlebacks give him reason to keep the valley closed.”

Aloy looked toward the smoke coming up from Chain Scrape. “Then he’ll have one less excuse to ignore Petra.”

Buffy looked at them— a hunter, a warrior, and a vampire—feeling that familiar tug in her chest that always came after saving strangers. Same song, new world, she thought. And still worth the fight.

She smiled faintly. “Let’s head back. Petra’s going to want to hear her people are safe.”

Spike fell into step beside her. “Maybe she’ll even buy us that drink she promised.”

Buffy snorted. “After everything we’ve been through today, she’d better.”

They began walking along the trail toward Chain Scrape. Behind them, the drained mine shimmered in the sun, a scar reflecting the light like something only half-repaired.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven – Echoes Across the Daunt

The late afternoon sun cast intense heat across the Nevada basin, pressing down like a relentless, white-hot hand. Dust swirled through the sagebrush, carried on the wind, and ash danced off the Sobeck fields where solar panels gleamed like watchful, narrowing eyes. A half-charred prototype of a carbon-capture device still emitted delicate tendrils of black smoke, twisting into the dry air. Beads of melted conduit glistened along the skeletal trunk of the “sun tree,” while the sharp scent of ozone stung Miriam’s nostrils.

Kneeling on the dry earth, Miriam held her daughter close. Soot darkened her cheek, obscuring her features, while Elisabet’s small hands glowed faintly, a flicker of luminous energy shimmering in the seams of her tiny fingers.

“You didn’t mean it, sweetheart,” Miriam murmured, her voice a gravelly whisper. She pointed toward the fence line, where the intense heat had caused two sparrows to tumble from the sky in mid-flight. “Oh, darling, look... the poor birds.”

Elisabet’s face crumpled, a storm of emotions brewing behind her eyes. Shaking her head vigorously, she sent a lock of ash-dusted hair flying from her cheek in wild disarray. “I don’t care! I don’t!”

The words burst from her with the intensity of a flare that had sparked their fears. With a gentle yet steady touch, Miriam cupped her daughter's face, her thumbs holding the child close with a mother’s certainty.

“You have to care,” she said, her tone steady and soothing. “Being brilliant won’t matter if you don’t strive to make the world a better place. Your mind and your hands are meant for life, not for causing harm. Do you hear me? We create so others can breathe easier. We learn so others can live. That’s the only reason any of this matters.”

Elisabet’s glow flickered, dimming like a candle in a gusty wind. Tears carved bright, shining tracks through the soot that clung to her cheeks.

Miriam pulled her daughter close, holding her until the tremors eased. With a trembling thumb, she hesitated before waking her wristband, staring at the recording icon for a long moment before steeling herself and pressing send.

“Mom… Kaia…” Miriam’s voice was just a faint echo of the strength she felt inside. “I need you.”

*~*~*

The heat shimmered, distorting the horizon where the turbines stood watch against the sky. A mirage danced, weaving a tapestry of pale light that made the heavens as transparent as glass. The air shifted, cooling suddenly in an unexpected rush, parting with a glowing circle of blue-white light that sounded like a crystal chime. Two women stepped through this ethereal gateway, emerging from the illusion into the dusty field.

Willow, looking no more than twenty, had bright eyes that sparkled with ancient wisdom—a depth that showed only to those brave enough to meet her gaze. Next to her, Kaia moved with an almost supernatural grace, as if the wind had taken human form. Her dark skin shone like a polished gemstone in the sun, and her amber eyes shimmered with faint rings of light, catching every subtle tremor in the air around her.

Willow cast a quick glance over the barren remnants of the landscape before her focus settled squarely on the child. “Her energy spike reached San Francisco,” she remarked, her voice filled with urgency.

Kaia inhaled deeply, her focus sharpening as the golden hue in her eyes grew more intense. “She’s drawing from more than just the earth itself,” she observed, her tone a careful mix of concern and wonder.

Miriam held her daughter Elisabet securely in her arms. The sight of Willow stirred a whirlwind of feelings inside her—relief, resentment, love, and a long-standing pain that felt like a jagged stone in her heart. She carefully set her daughter down, keeping one possessive hand on her tiny shoulders. “Then for the love of everything, make her stop,” she pleaded, the dryness in her throat choking back the more vulnerable parts of her plea. “I can’t watch my daughter follow the same path.”

Kaia crouched at the edge of the scorched circle, her palm pressed firmly against the burnt earth. A faint pattern started to form, tiny spirals of heat and trails of charged energy, a leftover of the reactor’s once-vibrant life flowing beneath the soil. “Her magic intertwined with the reactor’s energy,” she revealed, her voice soft and reflective. “The fire was simply the result.”

Elisabet flinched, burying her face in Miriam’s side, feeling the heaviness of the conversation.

Willow looked up, and in that brief moment, her youthful facade seemed to break apart, revealing something honest and unprotected beneath. “Binding her means rewriting every memory she holds dear,” she warned, the seriousness of her words filling the air.

“Better to face a false peace than prepare for another funeral,” Miriam shot back, her voice sharp and brittle, as if the emotional weight could break her resolve. “I’ve already buried one because of our entanglement with magic.”

Kaia rose, dust falling from her fingertips. “If we allow her to wield this kind of power unchecked, the world will come after her long before she’s ready to defend herself.”

Willow’s voice softened, strained with maternal yearning. “She’s my granddaughter, Miri. She possesses incredible potential.”

“Please, Mother.” The word escaped from Miriam’s lips like a wound. She took a steadying breath, summoning her resolve. “Her potential for science surpasses whatever you call magic. She’s exceptionally bright, and magic won’t shield us from the destruction we’ve wrought upon ourselves. I want her to lead a normal life, to forge her own path— to make a difference. She doesn’t need your magic; she has our intellect. Please.”

Silence blanketed the field, like a tight string ready to break. The turbines made soft clicking sounds; the prototype let out one last puff of smoke, a shadow of its past form.

Kaia’s gaze flickered toward Willow, who slowly turned to meet the child’s curious eyes.

“All right,” Willow finally conceded, her voice trembling, a crack echoing in its depths. “We’ll do it now. At dusk.”

*~*~*

They began with a circle.

Kaia delicately traced the shapes in the ash with the edge of her hand—each movement precise and fluid, a quiet resonance that seemed to beckon the very wind to listen and obey. As her fingers glided across the soot-covered earth, shimmering symbols appeared, threads of golden light weaving into an intricate pattern that wrapped around the reactor’s burned remnants, creating a new design from the ashes of disaster. Willow knelt inside the innermost ring, holding Elisabet in her lap, her palm gently pressed against the child’s slight chest, where a faint, warm glow pulsed like a heartbeat.

“Look at me, Lizzie,” Willow whispered, her smile warm and inviting, her eyes blazing with fierce determination. “Breathe with me. In. Out.”

Kaia’s voice joined theirs in a deep, resonant hymn—a language that danced on the edge of eternity, intertwining with something far older than words. Willow responded with a counter-chant—an incantation that shifted into a solemn prayer, which then reshaped itself into the very codes of existence. Their voices merged and rose, weaving a tapestry of sound until the air stilled, the wind fell silent in reverence, and the light spiraled inward as if the desert itself were suspended in peaceful anticipation.

Elisabet’s hands flickered with light then began to fade, the spark in her lashes fluttering like delicate wings. Sleep enveloped her in a gentle, calming embrace, wrapping her in a cocoon of peaceful oblivion.

The final sigil was sketched.

Silence draped over the field.

Willow bowed her head, leaning down to place a tender kiss on her granddaughter’s brow. As she lifted her face, ash clung to her lips, and sorrow carved deep lines into her expression. “When she dreams,” she murmured as if to the universe itself, “she’ll remember invention, not ignition.”

Kaia’s gaze lingered on the lifeless reactor, then shifted toward the distant line of panels shimmering in the amber glow of the setting sun. “And someday, when the world forgets its fire,” she declared with fierce resolve, “she’ll rebuild it.”

Miriam stepped forward, reaching out to take her daughter back. Elisabet felt warm and heavy against her, infused with the scent of smoke and the sharp tang of sorrow. Miriam held her close, her eyes filled with unshed tears in the dry air. “Just let her be normal,” she whispered, the plea trembling on her lips. “Please.”

Willow slowly rose, as if the ground beneath them had become fragile and thin. Kaia brushed the ash from her palm and stepped back cautiously across the circle, the rings of light in her eyes loosening their grip and softening into a gentle glow.

The heat shifted once more.

For a heartbeat, Willow lifted her chin, gazing into the twilight beyond the fading sun, as if something distant was watching them. Kaia’s last words drifted on the breeze, not meant for Miriam or the sleeping child, but for whatever, in time, would remember this sacred place.

“Even bound light,” she said, “finds the cracks.”

The wind moved softly. The turbines whispered. Somewhere in the dry grass, a cricket began to serenade the evening, as if the approaching dusk was just a normal miracle.

And finally, the field lay silent, peaceful in its new quiet.

~*~*~

The first thing Aloy noticed was the sharp, blinding light.

It sliced through the cracks in the weathered shutters—bright and unyielding—illuminating the motes of dust that floated through the cabin air like tiny, dying stars. A dull throb pulsed in her head, resonating with her heartbeat. For a disorienting moment, her mind was a blank slate—only the vast expanse of the desert from her dreams remained, colored by flickering flames and haunted by the echo of a child’s scream that faded into the haze of sage and smoke. Then she caught the sharp, metallic aroma mingling with the scent of oil and stale ale, dragging her back to reality.

Chainscrape. Petra’s cabin.

That night of revelry, when they had celebrated saving half the town, laughter and music hung thick in the air.

Aloy’s tongue felt as if it had been sandblasted, dry and coarse against her palate. Every sound around her—boots shifting on the worn floorboards, the faint clatter of armor adjusting, and someone’s low groan—hammered painfully against the inside of her skull. She rolled onto her side, trying to relieve the unbearable pressure, the rough wool of her bedroll scraping against her cheek, a stark reminder of her discomfort: gods, her head.

Nearby, a muffled curse escaped from Spike's lips—predictably grumpy as ever—and a deeper voice groaned from the floor. That was Varl. Buffy, always the lighthearted presence, made a sound that was a strange mix between a sigh of resignation and the last sputter of a breeze. Aloy almost smiled at their familiar chaos. Almost.

Then Petra’s voice broke through the remnants of the night, cheerful yet jarring, sending sharp spikes of pain shooting through Aloy’s temples.

“Morning, hero. Still kicking?”

Aloy squinted toward the sound. Petra was already on her feet, stripped down to her undershirt, her hair nearly black but catching a faint violet sheen in the firelight. She was tending a battered pot over the small hearth, coaxing heat out of the coals that still glowed faint orange. She looked far too alert.

“Barely,” Aloy managed, rubbing her forehead.

Spike lifted his head from where he had slumped, eyes bloodshot and accusing. “Bloody hell, Pet—what do you Oseram put in that swill? Battery acid?”

Varl groaned on the floor. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Petra didn’t even look up. “There’s a pisspot in the corner. Use it, brave man.” Her grin widened, mischief lighting her dark eyes. “You know, besides our Nora friend here, I just realized I’ve spent the last two years drinking with Old Ones in one form or another. That explains a lot.”

The words hung in the air. Even in her haze, Aloy felt her stomach tighten. Petra had a way of saying things that made people hold their breath for a moment. Everyone froze—including her.

Then Petra burst into laughter, the sound rough and rich like hammered bronze. “Relax! I’m only saying you two—” she nodded toward Buffy and Spike—“should know better than to drink enough that your jaws get more greased than an elevator pulley.”

Buffy groaned, her voice muffled by her blanket. “Note to self: beer and Buffy—still non-mixy.” She squinted one eye open. “What did we even say?”

Petra chuckled, pleased with herself. “Well, once Aloy admitted she’s basically—what was the word?—a copy of the Old One who saved the world, made by a goddess her mother built. I’m still fuzzy, but by the forge, it’s a tale.” Her grin widened, teasing but not cruel. “Then you got emotional and called yourself her great-grand-aunt.”

Buffy blinked at Aloy, mortified. “I… did?”

Aloy wished the floorboards would open and swallow her. The memories from last night flickered in pieces through her mind: laughter, drinks, someone daring her to tell “the real story.” She hadn’t meant to; the words just slipped out. Maybe part of her wanted to be known, even if just for a moment, without the weight of secrecy pressing down on her. Now that moment tasted like ash.

Spike turned toward her, the hangover not dulling the sharpness in his expression. “Bloody hell. You really are her.”

Petra, already pouring steaming water into mugs, wagged a finger without turning around. “That’s what you said last night—right before ordering another round for the whole bar with shards you didn’t have. Lucky for you, the owner didn’t charge Aloy, seeing as she’d just saved several of our hides.”

Spike groaned. “Sorry about that.”

“Forget it.” Petra’s smile softened, now filled with affection. “I’ll bring you all breakfast and spiced fire-tea. Works faster than mercy.”

She set the mugs on the small table, then took her jacket from the hook near the door.

“I’ll take the tea—skip breakfast,” Spike called, still half-buried in his bedroll.

Petra paused, glanced over her shoulder, one brow raised. “Yeah, I figured.” Her grin twisted, full of sly amusement. “Don’t worry, fang-boy—your secret’s safe.”

Spike’s eyes widened. Buffy snorted into her blanket, and for the first time that morning, Aloy felt the corner of her mouth twitch into a smile.

When Petra’s heavy boots faded down the path outside, quiet settled over the cabin—an almost comforting kind of silence, warm and thick like the air after a forge cools. The smell of grease and iron hung in the space between them. Aloy leaned back against the wall, eyes half-closed, letting the stillness press against her aching temples.

For a few moments, she allowed herself to breathe. The dream was already fading at the edges, but she could still smell the sage, still hear the fire, and still feel that tiny child’s despair echoing through her. She pressed her palms together until the feeling passed, and the world around her—this rough cabin, her friends, the hum of the forge outside—felt real once more.

Spike stirred and slowly stood, testing his balance with a sharp expression despite the hangover. He adjusted his coat, with eyes faintly gleaming gold in the dim light. “Think I’ll go see what’s stalking the scrap heaps before the sun comes all the way up,” he said, voice still gravelly but steadier now. “A man’s got to hunt, even if he’s half dead.”

The door clicked shut behind Spike, sealing the cabin in a heavy silence. Outside, the wind grew stronger, swirling over the weathered planks like a ghostly whisper, moving through the air with an almost aware presence. In the distance, the resonant clang of Petra’s forge bell rang out, a rhythmic heartbeat echoing across the landscape, its tone both steady and haunting against the evening backdrop.

Aloy sat still for what felt like forever, the dull ache in her chest a cruel reminder of both her hangover and the vivid dream that had gripped her mind. The lingering smell of sage and scorched plastic hung in the air like a ghostly memory, wrapping around her like a shroud—as if she had truly stood in that burnt Nevada field—her hands speckled with soot, the relentless flames consuming parts of a past that wasn’t truly hers.

Her stomach twisted in protest, anxiety tightening inside her. She pressed her palms against her knees, trying to ground herself and regain control of her ragged breathing.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

Yet, Miriam’s voice echoed in the depths of her mind, soft but persistent, a gentle tremor in its rhythm: You have to care.

Images danced behind her eyelids: Willow’s timeless face glowing in the amber light of the setting sun, and Kaia’s golden eyes, burning with an unquenchable fire that cut through the shadows of her doubts.

The gentle rustling of fabric brought her back to the now. Buffy was waking in her bedroll, softly pushing herself upright, her fingers massaging her temples as she blinked at the morning light. Her hair spilled in a wild cascade of gold and shadow, framing her face, while her eyes, still heavy with sleep, sharpened with a brightness that cut through the haze. She watched Aloy for a long moment—her gaze felt less like an inspection and more like an acknowledgment of shared burdens and unspoken truths.

Buffy finally said, “You called out Willow’s name before you woke up.”

Aloy blinked. “I... did?”

Buffy nodded. “You were thrashing. I almost hit you with my boot before I realized it wasn’t a nightmare.”

Aloy hesitated, her voice coming out rougher and quieter than she’d intended. “I saw something. Miriam was begging Willow to bind Elisabet’s magic when she was six. It didn’t happen the way Elisabet told GAIA.” She rubbed her gritty palms together, feeling the dust and sleep. “It felt… real. Like a recording, but alive.”

Buffy’s face tightened. Her sleepy eyes darkened with something older. “Yeah… Miriam hated it when Willow went back into the field after she married. She wanted a normal life. But then—” Buffy pressed her mouth into a hard line. “Then your grandfather got killed. A clan of dark witches came for Willow, and he got caught in it. After that, Miriam wanted nothing to do with our world. With that world.”

Aloy’s gaze drifted to the window, where a shaft of sunlight cut through the cracks in the shutters, casting the floor in a golden glow. Dust hovered in the light, glowing. For a moment, it seemed as if the dust motes carried sparks—the same color as the light that had burned in Elisabet’s small hands.

She swallowed hard. “Why am I seeing this? Why now?” Her voice faltered slightly on the last word, though she didn’t intend for it to.

Buffy didn’t answer right away. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring at the floorboards. “I don’t know,” she said finally. The words came slowly, as if she were pulling them from a deeper wound. “Maybe bindings don’t stay quiet forever. Maybe when something powerful enough remembers you, you start remembering it too.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, small yet tenacious, its flames swirling in an intricate dance. Aloy watched intently as the orange and yellow tongues flickered and twisted, momentarily casting shadows that reminded her of the reactor tree’s burning branches swaying in the wind. Thoughts of Elisabet flooded her mind—the brilliant architect of GAIA, the woman who had walked into the consuming flames with unwavering resolve. She was both a mother figure and a mirror reflecting Aloy’s own strength and resilience.

Did Elisabet ever envision that night in the field? She wondered, yearning for something she didn’t realize as her own.

The silence around her spread like a soft blanket, forming a peaceful cocoon of calm that enveloped her.

Outside, the sharp clang of Petra’s forge bell echoed through the air, its rhythmic tolling reminding them of the world in motion. The rich aroma of spiced fire-tea wafted in through the open seam of the window, blending with the cool morning breeze.

Aloy exhaled slowly, leaning back against the wall with her eyes closed. The soft hum of metal echoed around her, a calming vibration indicating that a world was slowly healing itself. She focused on that sound, battling against the haunting echo of a child's scream—one who had no idea that she had sparked the flames capable of transforming their world.

~*~*~

The Daunt stretched out before them, a stunning view of rust-red and shining gold, as sunlight flickered across the metallic veins embedded in the tall cliffs. The air was heavy with the smells of gritty dust, thick oil, and a hint of forge smoke drifting from the distant settlement of Chainscrape. Behind them, Petra’s hammer had long since faded into memory, its familiar heartbeat now lost to the vastness.

Aloy moved with a purposeful grace, her eyes carefully scanning the winding trail for any sign of movement. The landscape pulsed with restless energy—machines stirring in the distance, their shapes silhouetted against the rocky horizon, while the wind swept through the narrow canyons with a low, almost musical hum. The ache in her head had lessened, yet the remnants of a haunting dream clung to her: Miriam’s voice trembling with urgency, the piercing scream of a child echoing in her mind, and the unmistakable smells of sage mingling with the sharp scent of burnt circuitry. It felt less like a simple memory and more like an indelible mark etched deep within her soul.

Beside her, Buffy trudged along, her boots kicking at the dirt. Her bow hung from her shoulder, the Oseram-forged tips shimmering faintly in the morning sun. “Okay,” she said after a long silence, “what do you do when the whole world expects you to save it, and all you want is five minutes and a nap?”

Aloy glanced over, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “You get used to disappointment.”

Buffy groaned. “You act like that’s normal.”

“It is,” Aloy replied simply.

Buffy snorted. “Right. We’re both cursed, both cranky, and both bad at downtime. Great. At least you don’t mope.”

“I do, just not out loud.”

Buffy chuckled, shaking her head. “Figures.”

They rounded a bend where the rock narrowed into a natural choke point. Aloy crouched, fingers brushing the dirt. Deep tracks gouged the ground—wide, heavy, still sharp at the edges. The greenish sheen clinging to them stung her nose.

“Bristlebacks,” she murmured. “Three, maybe four.”

Buffy leaned over her shoulder. “And by that tone, I’m guessing we’re not about to pet them.”

Aloy followed the tracks heading west. “They came through recently. The trail’s fresh. And those—” she pointed to a pair of bootprints crossing the path, heavy and uneven— “belong to Erend and one of his men. Vanguard.”

Buffy crouched down next to her, brow furrowed. “You sure?”

“Positive.” Aloy examined the scuffs between the impressions, noting the faint streak where metal had scraped against rock. “They followed the herd this way.”

Buffy frowned. “You think they caught up?”

“With Erend?” Aloy stood, brushing off her gloves. “If he saw a fight coming, he ran straight into it.”

Buffy’s smile was partly admiration, partly disbelief. “Brave or stupid?”

“Usually both.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy.”

Aloy sighed, her voice softening. “He means well. He just forgets he’s not indestructible.”

Buffy raised an eyebrow. “Don’t we all?”

The wind shifted, bringing the faint, rhythmic clang of metal on metal. Aloy’s head jerked up, her pulse quickening. She recognized that sound—steady, furious, familiar.

“That’s him.”

Buffy’s hand instinctively reached for her bow. “You sure?”

“I’d know that hammer anywhere.” Aloy tightened the strap over her chest. “Come on.”

They broke into a jog, boots pounding against the canyon floor. The sound grew louder—hammer strikes, the shriek of machines, the hiss of acid eating into stone.

“Let me guess,” Buffy called over the wind, “this is normal for him?”

Aloy’s lips tightened. “More than I want to admit."

The path curved again, descending into a slope dotted with scrap metal and glass shards. They slid down the incline, gravel and grit slipping beneath their boots. The air shimmered green from acid mist, stinging their throats.

When they reached the final ridge, the canyon spread out below them in chaos.

Erend stood on the remains of a shattered bridge, hammer raised high, exchanging blows with a charging Bristleback. Sparks erupted with every strike. His armor was scorched, his beard singed, but his stance remained steady.

Above him, perched on a broken column, Aldur clung to the rock as he shouted through the chaos. “Erend! Get back! It’s too much!”

Erend roared without looking up, his voice echoing off the canyon walls. “Not outmatched!”

Buffy’s eyes widened. “He’s fighting that thing alone?”

“Welcome to life with Erend,” Aloy murmured, already drawing her bow.

She could feel every hammer strike vibrating through her bones. Heat radiated off the canyon floor, heavy with acid and smoke. The machine’s roar shook the ground beneath her.

Aloy took aim, exhaled, and whispered to herself, “Hang on, Erend.”

With determination etched on their faces, she and Buffy launched into a fierce sprint down the steep incline, arrows poised and ready, their lungs burning with each explosive breath as they rushed headlong into a storm of clashing steel and billowing flames.

As they descended, gravel crunched ominously beneath their boots, and without hesitation, they leaped from the edge into the chaos below. An intense heat radiated from the valley—a sharp, burning smell mixing with the scent of smoldering metal—turning the chaotic battlefield into a mesmerizing swirl of motion: Erend’s hammer sliced through the air like a comet, the mighty tusks of the Bristleback carved through an otherworldly glow, while the twisted remains of the bridge jutted out like cruel fangs, framing the turbulent clash of warriors.

“Erend!” Aloy’s voice cut through the roar.

He suddenly veered, with only a moment passing through the fog.

In that fleeting moment, the Bristleback surged through the billowing smoke on his blind side, a dark shadow with deadly intent. It drove its formidable tusks deep into his ribs, the impact reverberating like thunder as it lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing against the cold, unyielding stone. His hammer skittered away, clanging loudly against the bridge supports, the sound echoing in the eerie stillness.

Aloy didn’t hesitate; she acted quickly. Bow raised, draw back, and release—her arrow hit a canister and caused it to explode in a burst of acid vapor. “Seams!” she shouted, already slipping across the slag-covered rock to keep the machine distracted.

“On it!” Buffy was a shadow at her side, two arrows in quick succession—first into a vent seam to release pressure, second to pin the rear joint. The Bristleback reeled, vents shrieking.

Another was circling back. Aloy cut across the rubble, felt the heat rake her cheek, and fired a shot through the exposed rib of armor under its throat. Green fire ruptured. Shrapnel hissed past her ear.

“Left!” Buffy called, vaulting over a fallen spar. Aloy pivoted with her—Buffy drew her charge with a taunting step and a quick shot to the optic, forcing the beast to half-rear. Aloy seized the opening and buried a precise shot in the glowing vent. It convulsed, toppled, and went still.

The last Bristleback lowered its head and charged directly at Aloy.

She dropped, rolled under the swing of a tusk, rose on one knee with her spear in both hands, and drove the tip into the crack where plating met hydraulics. The impact threw her backward—but it also widened the seam. Buffy’s arrow struck it moments later. Aloy followed with one final shot into the split canister.

The blast struck the basin hard. For a moment, there was only white heat and the sound of metal screaming. Then everything faded into the wet hiss of cooling acid.

Aloy staggered to her feet and ran to Erend.

He lay on his side, one arm pressed across his chest, breathing heavily. Blood darkened the edge of his beard; stubbornness still burned through the pain.

“Still breathing?” she asked, dropping to a knee.

“Yeah.” He managed a crooked grin that quickly turned into a cough. “Caught me at my best— as usual.”

“You call this your best?” She kept her voice steady to hide the twist in her stomach.

“Who needs ribs?”

“Apparently, you,” Buffy said, crouching opposite and lowering her bow. “Congratulations, you’re benched.”

Erend squinted at her. “And you are—?”

“Your guardian angel with better aim.” She didn’t smile.

He let out a breathless laugh that hurt. “Figures Aloy brings sass for backup.”

Aloy looked up again. “Aldur! You holding?”

“Would prefer not to test gravity!” came the strained reply from the pillar above. He was wedged against a warped strut, one leg twisted, with knuckles white on the metal.

“I’ve got you.” Aloy was moving before the echo faded. The scaffold was hot enough to burn through glove leather; acid had chewed edges to razors. She climbed anyway, reached him, and slid an arm under his shoulders. “Slow. Breathe.”

They descended inch by inch, syncing each move with his breath until his boots reached the stone. Aldur sagged against a beam, his face gray.

“Thanks,” he rasped. “Ribs… not happy.”

“You’re in good company,” Buffy said, jerking her chin toward Erend.

Erend tried to sit straighter, failed, and settled for bravado. “Wouldn’t be the first time I played bait.”

“Try not to make a habit of it,” Aloy said—quiet, sharper than she intended.

He opened his mouth to quip, then reconsidered and pressed his palm more firmly to his side. “Point taken.”

The basin exhaled—steam rising in slow ribbons, the acid pools dimming from fierce green to a dull, toxic glow. Bits of machinery pinged as they cooled. Beyond the shattered bridgework, the wind tugged at a torn prayer flag someone had knotted to a girder long ago, making it whisper like cloth over a blade.

Buffy scanned the wreckage. “We clear?”

“For now.” Aloy’s gaze followed the distant part of the valley where faint smoke still stained the light. She felt the pressure of time in her ribs like a second heartbeat. Then she looked back at Erend and eased the urgency just a little—enough. “You’re not moving on those ribs.”

He let out a rueful laugh. “Didn’t plan on impressing anyone by collapsing a second time.”

“Good,” she said. “Impress me by staying put.”

Aldur snorted and then winced. “Captain’s real good at giving orders. Not so good at following them.”

“Noted,” Aloy said. She slipped an arm under Erend’s shoulder with Buffy mirroring her on the other side. Together, they helped him to the shade of the broken scaffold, placing him in a position where his breathing didn’t grind like sand in a gear.

For a long moment, none of them spoke. Wind wove through the wreckage. The metallic smell in the air softened until Aloy could taste dust again instead of acid.

She took a breath—deep and steady—before meeting Erend’s eyes.

Heat still shimmered above the wreckage. They sat in the half-shade of the scaffold while the wind pushed the acid haze west. For the first time since the fight, Aloy could hear debris ticking as it cooled—a small, tired sound that matched Erend’s breathing.

He had his hammer across his knees, one arm wrapped tightly around his ribs. Aldur dozed beside him, face pale. Buffy crouched near a dead Bristleback, wiping acid from her arrows. The smell of burnt metal lingered.

Erend broke the silence. “You didn’t come all this way just to drag me out of a hole, did you? What’s really going on?”

Aloy met his gaze. “The Spire fight didn’t end anything. HADES was just a part of something bigger. There’s a signal out there—one that woke the subfunctions. The Blight, the storms, the machines starting up again—it’s all connected. If I don’t find what’s left of GAIA, everything will perish.”

Buffy’s hands froze; the rag hung loosely from her fingers.

Erend stared. “You’re saying it’s not over?”

“Not even close.”

He gave a humorless laugh that jarred his ribs. “Of course it isn’t. And you were just going to handle it by yourself?”

“Someone has to.”

“Then let us help!” His shout cracked across the canyon, sending birds wheeling from the ridge. “You don’t have to keep doing this alone!”

Buffy stood, her voice steady but calm. “Hey. She’s on your side. And you’re both still breathing—let’s keep it that way.”

Erend glared, pain fueling the anger.

Buffy didn’t back down. “Look at her. She hasn’t stopped moving since I met her. If there were an easy way to share this, she’d have taken it.”

Aloy kept her gaze steady. “I need the embassy to happen. If I can’t reach the West, I can’t find GAIA. I can’t stop this.”

Erend let out a rough breath. “A couple of days’ rest. If that.”

“Even if you weren’t hurt,” she said softly, “what I have to do—it’s better if I do it alone.”

He laughed once, hollowly. “Alone. Yeah, that figures.”

The words hovered between them, heavy as the heat.

“After the Spire,” he continued, voice lowering, “you just left. No goodbye. We fought beside you, bled beside you, and you disappeared. What kind of person does that?”

Buffy’s tone softened. “Maybe the kind who didn’t know if stopping would make it worse.”

Erend’s expression shifted—hurt giving way to something quieter, weary. “Doesn’t make it right.”

Aloy didn’t look away. “I left when I did, how I did, for a reason. A good one.”

“Oh, thanks for sharing,” he muttered.

“Listen to me.” Her voice steadied. “Life on Earth is in danger, Erend. Everything living. And only I can stop it.”

He rubbed his face, the fight draining out of him. “Well… that’s a reason, I guess.” He tried to smile but couldn’t. “Guess I’m an idiot.”

Aldur winced as he stirred. “Captain, we should move before I pass out.”

“Yeah.” Erend pushed himself upright, grimacing. “We’ll go to Barren Light and get patched up. If you want that Embassy to happen, you’ll need that Sun-Priest—Vuadis, right?”

“I know him, met him last night," Aloy said. “I’ll clear the valley of Bristlebacks and send Vuadis to you. I’ll meet you there.”

He nodded once. “Well... guess that’s kind of like a goodbye.”

“I’m sorry?”

He let out a brittle laugh. “You? Sorry? That’d be a first.”

“Where’s this coming from?”

He shook his head. “Forget it. It’s nothing.”

“It sounds like something,” Aloy said.

“Doesn’t matter.” He used the hammer as a crutch and pulled himself up. “Just… don’t vanish again, alright?”

“I’ll try.”

Buffy crossed her arms and tilted her head. “You’re not half as tough as you pretend.”

Erend flashed a crooked grin. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”

Aldur groaned. “Yeah—of getting gored.”

Erend scowled without heat. “Both of you shut up before I cough myself inside out.”

Aloy’s smile was faint but genuine. “I’ll see you at Barren Light, Erend.”

He met her gaze, the edge in his eyes softening. “Yeah. You’d better.”

They watched him limp away with Aldur leaning on his shoulder until the heat shimmer swallowed them.

“He’s mad at you,” Buffy said.

“I know.”

“He’s not wrong.”

Aloy nodded once. “No,” she murmured. “He’s not.”

The wind shifted, sweeping the metallic tang east. Buffy nudged her shoulder. “Come on. Before the next herd decides we look interesting.”

Aloy exhaled, turned west. “Let’s move.”

They began ascending the ridge, boots crunching through slag until the canyon's noise faded into the wind.

~*~*~

The sun blazed over Chainscrape, its rays making the rooftops shimmer like molten gold. The air was thick with the sharp smell of hot metal mixed with the rich aroma of ale, while the steady sounds of hammers hitting anvils created a jagged symphony. Life was gradually returning to the town, but a clear sense of unease still lingered in the air, like a forge fire flickering uncertainly, struggling to fully ignite.

Aloy’s gaze fell on Varl and Spike, who lounged near the tavern steps, looking as if they had just emerged from a tough day deep underground. Varl’s armor was streaked with a fine layer of red dust, giving him the appearance of a warrior fresh from battle, while Spike bore a scar on his sleeve from acid, a mischievous grin on his face that seemed to show he wore the mark with pride.

“You’re back,” Aloy said, stopping beside them.

“Yeah,” Spike replied, brushing off his coat. “You missed the scenic tour of the quarry—lots of rocks, fewer pigs.”

Varl added, “The mine collapsed on its own before we arrived. Whatever tunnel the Bristlebacks used—it’s sealed now.”

Aloy frowned. “Collapsed on its own?”

Varl nodded. “We found the dig site. Ulvund’s men were mining deeper than they should have, past the safe boundary. It looks like they accidentally opened a path to the west. The herd came through before the whole thing caved in.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “So this all started because someone couldn’t read a map?”

“Or didn’t bother to,” Spike muttered.

Aloy asked, “Does Magistrate Javad know?”

Varl nodded. “He does. We gave him the report. He says the valley’s safe now, but Ulvund is still refusing to lift the stoppage.”

Aloy exhaled slowly. “Of course he is.”

Spike leaned back against the railing with his arms crossed. “He’s been pacing his foundry all afternoon, demanding reparations and new contracts. The man has more ego than sense.”

Buffy crossed her arms, looking toward the sound of Ulvund’s voice echoing across the square. “What’s the plan? Should I politely ask or threaten dramatically?”

“Neither,” Aloy said. “He caused this. He can fix it.”

Spike grinned. “I love it when she gets all righteous. It makes the day more interesting.”

Varl’s tone stayed steady. “Be cautious when you push him, Aloy. He’s the kind who hides behind titles. Don’t give him a reason to delay the Embassy.”

“I won’t,” she assured him. “He’s had enough excuses.”

Aloy began walking toward the foundry, sunlight glaring off the metal railings. Workers turned to watch her pass—faces streaked with soot, both expectant and tired. The noise of Ulvund’s voice echoed from the open doors ahead, booming over the clatter of machinery.

Buffy fell into step beside her. “You’re going to get him to blow the whistle, aren’t you?”

Aloy kept going. “One way or another.”

The foundry yard buzzed with a symphony of noise—steam rushing through massive pipes, chains rattling like restless spirits, and the harsh metallic rhythm of Oseram industry stirring groggily to life. Aloy moved through the chaos with a grace that sliced through the din like a finely sharpened blade.

At the center of this chaos, Ulvund demanded attention, his figure a whirlwind of motion as he shouted commands that seemed to fade into the air. His arms flailed passionately as he confronted a pair of miners, their faces flushed a bright crimson, every vein of frustration visible.

The moment his eyes landed on Aloy, his voice shot up to an almost comical pitch, showing the change in the chaos around him.

“Ah! The Nora champion herself, slayer of beasts, breaker of boundaries! Tell me—did you bring news from the Almighty Sun, or just more delays?”

Buffy muttered, “He’s worse than the noise.”

Aloy stopped a few steps away from him. “The valley’s clear. The Bristlebacks are gone. It’s time to blow the whistle.”

Ulvund blinked, then let out a quick, theatrical laugh. “Gone? Because you say so? Machines come and go in this cursed canyon. Until the Carja confirm the Daunt is safe, no one’s working.”

“Funny,” Spike said from behind Aloy, “coming from the man who dug into the West to start with.”

The merchant’s smile hardened. “I don’t know what your outlander companion told you, but my crews followed standard mining procedure—”

—without authorization,” Varl interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “We saw your mark on the tools. You tunneled where you weren’t supposed to. The breach happened there.

The gathered miners shifted nervously. Ulvund’s confidence wavered for a moment, then blazed back. “Unsubstantiated rumor. Nothing more.”

Aloy’s tone remained steady, but the yard grew quiet around it. “It’s enough that the tunnels are sealed. The valley’s safe. Your men are ready to work, and the Embassy can’t move forward until you lift the stoppage. Blow the whistle.”

“I will not,” Ulvund snapped. “Not until the Sun-King’s magistrate agrees to my compensation for lost ore and—”

Buffy’s hand twitched toward her bow. “You really don’t want to finish that sentence.”

Petra’s voice echoed from the edge of the crowd. “He might if you let him hang himself first.”

Heads turned as Petra strode in, wiping soot off her arms with eyes bright with challenge. “You know what’s funny, Ulvund? You keep calling this your valley, but it’s our blood that keeps it running.”

The miners whispered. One of them nodded. Another spat into the dirt.

Ulvund raised his chin, forcing a smile. “This is a business dispute, not a—”

—not anymore,” Aloy said sharply. “You’re holding up an entire region because of your pride. The valley’s open. The threat’s gone. Blow. The. Whistle.”

For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was the clatter of a loose chain somewhere above.

Spike leaned against a post, his grin razor-thin. “Don’t make her ask again. She’s not great with patience.”

Ulvund’s throat tightened. The eyes on him—his own workers, Petra’s smirk, Aloy’s stillness—shut him in more tightly than any walls could.

Finally, he turned, face flushed, and barked, “Foreman! Blow the whistle!”

The Oseram at the controls hesitated, looked at Aloy, then pulled the lever.

The industrial horn above the foundry roared to life — a single, thunderous note that echoed across the valley and shook the dust from the rafters. Steam vented from the vents, rattling the pipes, and the echo bounced off the canyon walls like a storm breaking.

For a brief moment, no one moved. Then the yard exploded with activity. Cheers, laughter, and the clang of hammers returning to their rhythm filled the air. The sound of work resumed, bright and fierce as sunlight.

Buffy covered one ear. “Okay, that’s loud.”

Petra laughed, brushing soot off her arm. “That’s the sound of shards flowing again.”

Spike smirked. “And one pompous arse getting exactly what he deserved.”

Aloy watched the foundry’s steam rise into the sky, the white plume twisting against the deep blue afternoon. The valley was alive again—for now.

Petra moved up beside her. “I’ll stay here,” she said. “Make sure Ulvund doesn’t forget what a second chance looks like.”

Aloy nodded. “Good. Chainscrape’s going to need someone who actually cares about it.”

Petra grinned, all wry pride. “Go on, then. I’ve got my hands full enough with these fools.”

Aloy looked back one last time at the foundry, then headed west down the sunny street where workers were already making space for the caravans.

“Come on,” she said to the others. “We still need to find Studious Vuadis before we can leave for Barren Light.”

The sound of the whistle still echoed through Chainscrape as Aloy led Buffy, Varl, and Spike toward the tavern where the Carja delegation had taken refuge. The forges were active again; the air pulsed with the rhythm of hammers and the hiss of steam.

“Let me guess,” Buffy said, falling into step beside her. “This is the part where we politely ask the pompous priest to come along?”

Aloy shook her head. “I’m not asking.”

Spike smirked. “Now that, I’m looking forward to.”

They pushed their way through the tavern door.

Inside, Studious Vuadis paced among stacks of scrolls and ornate cases, his voice rising and falling like an unwanted sermon. Two attendants hurried around him, trying to keep up.

“By the Sun’s mercy,” Vuadis sighed, “how this backwater persists is a mystery. Dust on every surface, intolerable heat—honestly, it’s barbaric.”

Spike leaned toward Buffy. “He’d last five minutes in a dive bar in London.”

Buffy whispered, “He’d last five seconds around Petra.”

Aloy crossed her arms. “Studious Vuadis.”

He turned, startled, then forced a smile. “Ah—the Nora huntress. Yes, I remember you from last night. I trust you’ve come to apologize for… whatever that was.”

Aloy didn’t blink. “The valley’s clear. The Bristlebacks are gone. Ulvund blew the whistle. You need to go to Barren Light—now.”

Vuadis blinked quickly. “Go? Now? Without formal approval from Magistrate Javad? Surely you’re exaggerating—”

“I’m not,” Aloy cut in. “I cleared the machines myself. The stoppage is over. You were sent here to oversee the Embassy, so do your job.”

The priest’s mouth opened and closed. “W-well… yes, of course, but the proper escort, the ceremonial preparations—”

Buffy crossed her arms. “Translation: he’s stalling.”

Varl’s tone remained steady. “Captain Erend’s waiting at Barren Light. You’ll have all the escort you need.”

Vuadis straightened himself, trying to regain his composure. “This is highly irregular.”

“So was the herd of machines trampling your supply lines,” Aloy said. “The difference is, I fixed it. Now you need to move.”

One of the attendants hesitated near the doorway. “The wagons are ready, sir.”

Vuadis glared at him and then at Aloy. Her expression remained unchanged.

At last, he exhaled sharply. “Very well. If the Sundom’s interests demand it…”

Spike muttered, “Could’ve just said ‘yes.’”

Aloy stepped aside, gesturing toward the door. “Then go. Every hour you waste is another hour the Tenakth spend wondering if the Carja still mean to honor the peace.”

Vuadis stiffened, straightened his robe, and strode past her, with his aides following. “See that my baggage follows promptly! And someone polish the emblems—they’ll expect a proper reflection of the Sun’s grace!”

Buffy watched him leave and groaned, “Does he ever stop talking?”

Spike replied, “Only when someone else starts walking.”

Aloy didn’t answer. She was already looking west, beyond the canyon’s edge, where the sunlight glowed golden against the ridges. “Come on. Once he’s on the road, we’re heading for Barren Light.”

Varl nodded. “Finally.”

The door closed behind them. Outside, Chainscrape rattled and roared—alive once again. And somewhere beyond the noise, the faint echo of the whistle still lingered, urging them toward the mountains and the awaiting Embassy.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight – No Rest for the Chosen

The descent from the ridge coated Buffy’s teeth with a fine layer of dust and blinded her with the relentless glare of the sun. Below, Barren Light appeared trapped in a fierce battle between order and utter fatigue. The Carja fortress shimmered in the light, its imposing gates tightly shut, standing as a stronghold of control amid the chaos surrounding it. Outside, disorder reigned—makeshift scaffolding and colorful tents sprawled randomly across the landscape, while the rhythmic clang of hammers echoed, each strike signaling half-finished repairs. Merchants shouted exaggerated prices that no one could practically afford, their voices rising and falling in a loud cacophony of desperation. Soldiers, caught in a false sense of confidence, acted as if this tumultuous noise was a sign of control, though every face showed underlying anxiety.

It was the kind of chaos that usually indicated a coming break.

Buffy wiped her forehead and squinted at the scene below. “Why does every civilization that survives an apocalypse end up filled with tinkerers, kings, and people trying to sell wares at outrageous prices?”

Spike’s mouth curved into a smirk, pale against the heat. “Because even when the world ends, love, someone still wants to make a profit.”

“Guess that makes capitalism the real immortal,” she muttered.

Varl smiled quietly as he adjusted the strap on his spear. “At least here, the tinkers keep the walls standing.”

“Yeah,” Buffy replied. “Points for functionality.”

Aloy moved purposefully, her sharp gaze scanning the busy camp as if she were an artist scrutinizing a canvas for flaws. There was a fierce energy in her motions—a restless drive—that Buffy recognized all too well. It reminded her of the unsettling stillness she felt after a Slayer dream, when reality seemed to shift unpredictably, and fleeting flashes of understanding flickered through her mind like fireflies in the dark.

Spike must have sensed it too; his eyes tracked Aloy with a mix of admiration and unease, as if he were witnessing a storm forming on the horizon. A familiar ache tugged at Buffy’s heart, one she hesitated to admit. The love she had for him hadn’t faded with the chaos around them—it had simply shifted, settling into a quieter, more profound presence. It lived in the small moments: the way Spike's expression softened in understanding, reflecting her own thoughts as if their souls were connected.

As they reached the bottom of the slope and entered the busy area, the scene burst into action around them. An Oseram shouted commands over the noise, his voice cutting through the chaos as he pointed toward crates spilling over with machine parts. The air was thick with the sharp smell of hot metal combined with a sense of desperation, blending like flavors in a strong stew. Buffy's senses were overwhelmed; the sounds, smells, and sights of the camp surrounded her, each adding to the tense atmosphere that vibrated with the threat of conflict.

Aloy stopped beside them. “Barren Light is the last part of the Sundom before the Forbidden West,” she said, her voice calm but tense. “I wonder what that Carja horn means? Maybe they’re about to start the Embassy soon.” She checked her gear quickly and efficiently. “All right, I should find whoever’s in charge here. But first, I could resupply at my stash. It might be worth taking a look around, too.”

“Translation,” Spike murmured, “we're doing recon with style.”

Buffy smiled gently. “Better than sitting still.”

They hadn’t gone far when a voice pierced the noise like a rusty saw.

“Is that… The Savior of Meridian! Can we have a word?”

An Oseram man with a grin too wide for his face hurried toward them. His vest was patched in every shade of rust and hope—the kind of merchant Buffy could spot from a mile away. The apocalypse could destroy the world, and they’d still find something to sell.

“Ah. Savior, tell me, are you looking to get into No Man’s Land, by any chance?”

Aloy shifted slightly, polite but wary. “Maybe. Why do you ask?”

“Ah! To put it plainly, there’s treasure out west—unclaimed scrap and ancient metal. And I have a sturdy band of salvagers who know the lay of the land.”

“You’re not afraid of the Tenakth?” Aloy asked.

“Terrified,” he said cheerfully. “But I conduct most of my business in No Man’s Land—neutral territory and all that. Barren Light is our port of entry, assuming its doors aren’t closed for an Embassy. I was hoping your arrival might mean they’ll be opening soon. After all, I’ve got a business to run!”

“I want that Embassy to happen just as much as you do,” Aloy replied. “Believe me, I’m working on it.”

“Good to know! And keep us in mind. If you do manage to open the way, our main camp will be just past Barren Light. We’ll buy any scrap you have on you, and if you’re looking for machine parts, we’ve got the best in the West, guaranteed!”

“All right,” Aloy said. “Maybe later, then?”

“If you can get those blasted gates open!”

Aloy’s gaze drifted toward the massive sealed doors. “Guess I’m not the only one who wants to get those gates open,” she murmured.

The man waved and turned to pursue his next customer.

Buffy watched him leave, feeling half amused and half exhausted. “The world ends, and people still hustle. Some things never change.”

“The world doesn’t end,” Spike said. “It just keeps selling tickets.”

Varl chuckled softly. “That’s one way to put it.”

Buffy surveyed the crowd again—the workers, guards, and delvers pretending not to be afraid. Everyone was waiting for something bigger than themselves to happen. It felt too familiar. She had seen this kind of tension before: Sunnydale before a prophecy, soldiers before a breach.

Her Slayer senses—somewhat dulled from her long sleep but still present—buzzed faintly at the back of her mind. The air here felt charged, as if the West itself was breathing against that gate.

Across the square, a voice called out, bright and hopeful. "Anyone want to play some Strike? Anyone? Let's play some Machine Strike!”

Buffy blinked and then snorted. “Seriously? Apocalypse pending, and somebody starts a board game?”

Spike let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “The world’s always ending somewhere, pet. People just don’t notice until it’s their turn.”

She looked at him, feeling that familiar warmth beneath his sarcasm. “Yeah, you’re definitely not wrong about that.”

The crowd surged around them—loud, pulsating, and alive with anticipation. For a fleeting moment, Buffy found herself beside the man she had once saved and the woman who seemed to constantly avert the world’s end, wondering if perhaps destiny favored a certain kind of hero.

As they neared the imposing gates, the noise shifted from the busy clatter of workers to a heavy silence that pressed against her senses. The rhythmic clang of hammers quieted behind the formidable walls, and the air cooled, thick with the echoes of countless lives that had crossed this sacred ground.

From the outside, Barren Light looked like an unbreakable fortress, but inside, it revealed a different reality—small and stifling, dwarfed by its own shadow, and eerily silent. The ancient arches, crafted in the distinctive Carja style, towered above, their surfaces telling stories of forgotten battles. Beneath the scaffolding shimmering with fresh timber, remnants of a turbulent past—burn marks and rusted chains—were woven into the rock, whispering tales of history long gone.

Buffy sensed it before she fully understood: this site was not just a border post; it was a cage.

Spike noticed it too; his voice lowered. “Feels off, doesn’t it? The place hums with something wrong. Not just old blood—resentment.”

“Yeah,” she replied softly. “This wasn’t just some checkpoint. This was where people ended up when the Carja didn’t want them seen again.”

Varl, walking ahead with Aloy, glanced back as if he had heard her tone. His eyes briefly flicked to the wall then away. He didn’t need to respond; he understood.

In the middle of the central yard, a group of Oseram Vanguard soldiers gathered around the supply tents, their armor marked by battle scars—dented, burned, and stained with soot. Despite these signs of wear, the shining metal still radiated resilience and pride, reflecting the soldiers' dedication to their cause. Aloy's gaze sharpened as it fixed on a familiar figure, and she picked up her pace, her heart pounding with anticipation.

“There’s Erend,” she said. “Looks like he’s had a few.”

Buffy followed her gaze. The large Oseram captain sat on a pile of crates near the command tents, laughing too loudly at something that didn’t seem funny. A heavy metal flask hung from his hand, glinting in the light. Even from a distance, he looked like a man trying to forget painful memories.

“Gentlemen,” Aloy called out as she approached.

One of the men next to Erend—Aldur, she thought—got the hint. “That’s our cue.”

The soldiers slowly dispersed, leaving Erend sitting alone among the crates.

“Taking the edge off?” Aloy asked.

Erend gave her a sideways grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He lifted the flask slightly in salute. “If the end of the world is coming, I don’t want to be sober for it. Now, let me guess—you’re in a hurry, right? So, whatever you need, go ahead and ask.”

Aloy lightly crossed her arms. “How have things been since I—”

“Since your silent departure?” Erend cut in, his grin tightening. “Not bad. The Vanguard is holding strong. I helped Avad pick up the pieces after the battle with the Eclipse. I took a month to bury Ersa in the Claim. When I returned, I was assigned to babysit Vuadis on his way to the Embassy. I thought that would be an easy job.” He snorted. “But of course, things went sideways.”

“You got blindsided,” Aloy said softly. “It wasn't your fault.”

“A couple more of these,” he shook the flask lightly, “and maybe I’ll believe you.”

Aloy hesitated before asking, “I was wondering if you were able to lay Ersa to rest like you wanted.”

Erend’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Uh, yeah, we did. You should have seen the crowd that showed up to pay their respects. Half of them owed her a favor, and the other half owed her their lives. In the end, everyone drank—you know? It was the rowdiest funeral since... well, since ever.”

Aloy smiled faintly. “It seems like she would have liked that.”

“Yeah, damn straight. She would have put them all under the table.”

Buffy felt a twist in her chest. Grief lingers in men like him—loud laughter hiding the bruise underneath. Spike’s hand brushed against hers, subtle and grounding. He said nothing; he didn’t have to.

Aloy’s tone became steadier. “What do you know about the Embassy?”

“Not much,” Erend replied. “Only that Avad really wants it to happen. He’s set on making peace with these… Tenakth. But from what I hear, they’re not too keen on the whole diplomacy thing. They do most of their talking with blades and arrows. So, if you’re heading their way, be prepared. Things might get ugly real fast.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Aloy said. “What do you know about this place?”

“Nothing good.” He looked around, the humor fading from his voice. “It was where the Carja dragged all the captives they took from the Forbidden West during the Red Raids. The lucky ones became slave labor. The rest were hauled off to the Sun-Ring in Meridian.”

“For sacrifice,” Aloy said quietly.

“You got it. The Tenakth made sure to wreck the place before they chased the Carja out of the West. I can’t say I blame them. Now Avad’s paying the Oseram to rebuild it, but no matter how much new stone they put up, it’ll still be stained in blood.”

Buffy exchanged a glance with Spike. The way he tilted his head indicated he was thinking the same thing she was: no matter the world, people always find a way to hide their sins behind prettier walls.

Aloy adjusted her pack. “I’d better get going.”

“Right,” Erend said. “Off to do complicated ‘Aloy’ things. Just don’t disappear completely this time?”

“No promises," she said with a fond smile.

He laughed once, then sighed. “...I guess what I’m really trying to say is, if you ever do need me—”

“I know where to find you,” Aloy replied. “Hopefully sober next time.”

“Don’t count on it. Be careful out there, Aloy.”

She nodded at him, a gesture that spoke volumes, before turning back to the others.

Buffy observed her for a long moment before speaking. “He’s keeping it together with jokes,” she said softly.

Spike let out a quiet laugh. “The oldest trick in the book.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed. “But she makes people want to try anyway.”

Varl stepped up beside them, his expression thoughtful. “That’s what leaders do,” he said simply.

Buffy glanced from him to Aloy, who was already moving toward the command steps, sunlight catching her hair and determination evident in every line of her shoulders. “I guess some people are just made for it,” she said. “But take it from someone who knows…it doesn’t make it any easier.”

~*~*~

The heat inside Barren Light was like a living thing, a tangible force that wrapped around Spike like a shroud. It was no longer just the sun’s relentless gaze; it carried the weight of countless histories seeped into the very stone beneath his feet, a tapestry of echoes woven with guilt. Every breath was heavy with the metallic scent of old iron, a reminder of past conflicts and unburied sins. Though Spike didn’t need to breathe, he could almost feel the oppressive air tightening around his throat, like a ghostly grip from the haunting past of the place.

He and Buffy moved together toward Erend and Varl, their strides slow and easy—like those who had survived the chaos of war too many times. Aloy had separated and gone to the far end of the courtyard, where a nervous soldier sat hunched inside a rough-made cell, the hastily built bars casting shadows on his tired face. His armor, worn and tarnished, hung from him like a second skin, and his face showed the strain of sleepless nights, full of worry. They called him Conover.

Spike’s once-sharp hearing had dulled over time, due to technological upheaval and centuries of chaotic noise, but he still managed to catch faint threads of conversation drifting through the air like smoke. A story unfolded—a gate left open, a name whispered like a curse—Laruvik—and something sinister lurking in the shadows called the Eclipse.

The very mention of "Eclipse" sent an involuntary shiver down his spine, as if deep-rooted instincts awakened from sleep knew all too well the folly of humanity’s obsession with cults and their harrowing rituals.

Conover had uncovered a betrayal within his own ranks— a comrade selling secrets to the darkness. In a desperate chase, he followed the man into the abyss, only to be ambushed. The fight spiraled into chaos, and in a split second, he fought back, taking a life in self-defense. Spike’s heart twisted as he thought about it—a matter of survival, but to the cold eyes of soldiers, distinctions like self-defense were just minor details drowning in accusations. They found him standing over the lifeless body, and in an all-too-familiar scene, they labeled him a murderer. It was the same old story.

Spike vividly imagined the scene, feeling the flicker of wavering torchlight dance along the cobblestones, with the metallic tang mingling with dread in the air. Here lay the wrong man, forever burdened because it was easier to blame than to uncover the truth—shedding light on the core of human nature. Time hadn't changed mankind's heart; it had only fortified its walls, raising barriers against both the past and the uncomfortable honesty of its true self.

“A man develops a conscience, and the world still devours him alive,” Spike muttered under his breath.

Buffy heard him, of course. She tilted her head and gave him that half-smile—soft around the edges but sharp in the middle. “Sound familiar?” she asked.

"Too bloody familiar," he replied.

Aloy and Conover’s voices lowered as they ended their conversation, with her hand briefly resting on the bars. That kind of gesture—quiet and decisive—made it clear to Spike that she had already made her choice.

He looked back at Erend, who was sprawled across a stack of crates as if he had been born there. The Oseram captain tipped a large flask to his lips and grinned. “Didn’t think she’d actually let you two tag along,” he said. “Aloy’s usually a solo act.”

Buffy smirked. “She doesn’t strike me as someone who just leaves people the way she found us—or lets us wander off on our own.”

Varl couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

Erend raised an eyebrow. “What’s so funny? Are you her prisoners?”

Varl leaned in, lowering his voice to a feigned whisper. “They’re Old Ones.”

Erend froze mid-swig. The words sank in just as the burn of the liquor hit him, and he began coughing so hard that the crate beneath him shook.

Spike laughed outright. “Bloody hell, mate! I was going to ask for a sip of that!”

Erend blinked, his eyes watering as he tried to catch his breath. “I’ve never heard an accent like that before.”

Buffy and Varl both laughed, but Spike groaned. “That’s because I’m from where the language originated, you bloody tossers! I can’t believe I’m watching the world restart, and not a single one of you speaks the Queen’s English! I bet across the pond it’s the same—accent-free drones, every last one! Bloody Faro!”

He was about to launch into another rant when movement at the far ramp caught his eye. Aloy had returned, her stride quick and her face set with determination. A Carja officer in gilded armor followed just half a step behind her—Lawen, the second-in-command if Spike recalled Erend's earlier grumbling correctly.

Erend followed Spike’s line of sight and groaned into his flask. “Oh, boy. I’ve got a bad feeling Nozar’s about to get the full Aloy experience.”

Spike smirked, watching Aloy walk toward the command tower like a storm in human form. “Good,” he said. “Looks like someone here still has teeth.”

The shouting burst out like a tempest before Spike could decipher any of the words—it was one of those heated fights full of the tension between authority and defiance, crashing down like thunderous waves against ancient stone.

Buffy was the first to turn, instincts sharp. On the parapet, Aloy stood out against the bright horizon, flanked by a group of Carja soldiers. The warm glow of her copper hair shimmered in the sunlight, glowing like a flare in the afternoon glare. Moments later, the crystal-clear sharpness of her voice pierced the courtyard, echoing with urgency that charged the air.

“Open. The. Gates.”

Every word hit hard like a hammer.

Spike almost laughed—not at her, but at what he witnessed. The way she moved when she was angry was lean, precise, and fearless. He had seen that stance before, standing in alleyways and crypts, facing gods and monsters. It was a Slayer's stance, through and through. No matter what the world threw at her, she would dig in even deeper.

"Bloody hell," he murmured. "She even sounds like you when you get like that."

Buffy's mouth twitched at the remark. "I guess we have a type."

Up on the wall, the Commander—Nozar, if Spike remembered Erend’s mutterings—stood up straight. "That’s it! Arrest her!"

Aloy didn’t even flinch. "I’d like to see you try."

Erend groaned from his seat on the crates, rubbing his forehead. “It’s not gonna work,” he muttered, then shouted, “Hey Nozar, you stupid bastard! You think you got the authority to keep that door shut in the Savior of Meridian’s face? Whaddaya think Sun-King Avad’s gonna do when he hears what you did? Promote you? Ha!”

Varl tilted his head toward Buffy and Spike. “Supporting fire?”

They both nodded without hesitation.

Erend grinned, lifting his flask as a toast. “Let her through, boys. To saving the world.”

Nozar's jaw clenched tightly, but he raised his hands, his voice cutting through the noise as he ordered the gates to open. The huge gears groaned threateningly, their metal teeth grinding as the massive doors started to move.

The air vibrated with the harsh sounds of metal screeching and chains straining as a rush of sunlight streamed through the widening chasm. Dust and a gusty wind blew in from the west, carrying the dry, wild essence of the untamed expanse beyond.

Aloy descended the ramp with determination, her gaze fixed straight ahead, steady as she crossed into a new world. Varl was close behind, his senses alert and sharp, always watchful. Next to them, Buffy moved forward with a quiet, purposeful stride, ready for whatever was coming, while Spike stayed at the rear, his presence a steadying weight against the shifting sands.

As the sunlight bathed them, the landscape burst with vibrant colors—the endless desert, the rust-red cliffs standing guard in the distance, and the vast sky arching overhead, a fierce blue that seemed to swallow the horizon whole.

Varl broke the silence first. “So, this tribe that Avad told us about—the Tenakth. Do we need their permission to head west?”

“Yeah,” Aloy replied. “I figured it would be nice if they weren’t trying to kill me the whole time.”

Spike kicked a rock down the path and watched it vanish into the sand. “This embassy hasn’t even started yet. Do you think they’ll just be okay with us marching through their front yard?”

Aloy’s voice hardened, more to herself than to them. “No more politics. No more delays.”

Varl gave her a small, knowing smile. “Well, at least now we have some good backup.”

Aloy glanced back at them, a wry smile softening her face. “I guess we do. We’ll see how it goes.”

Buffy rolled her shoulders, smirking. “Don’t worry. This isn’t our first diplomatic endeavor.”

Spike snorted. “That one ended with fire, love.”

“Still counts,” she shot back.

Spike couldn’t help but laugh. The sound surprised even him. The West stretched out before them, wild and waiting, and for the first time in too many years, he didn’t feel like a ghost following someone else’s story.

~*~*~

The walk from Barren Light to the border felt like a journey through time, lasting only about ten minutes, yet the heavy silence stretched it into what seemed like forever. Waves of heat shimmered across the valley, distorting the landscape until the distant horizon rippled like water, making the metal line cutting through the dirt appear to dissolve into the earth. Buffy imagined it had once been a relic of the Old Ones—abandoned train tracks long forgotten. Now, however, it served as a stark boundary, simple but clear, separating the East from the West.

She trotted alongside Spike, their boots crunching rhythmically on the gravel like a military march, the sound steady as a metronome in the eerie silence. Ahead, Aloy and Varl moved purposefully, their gazes sharp and focused, scanning the horizon for any sign of life or danger. The quiet wrapped around them like a thick fog, so heavy that even the distant hum of machines—usually a constant backdrop—had faded into an unsettling hush.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the silence—deep, commanding, and unnervingly near, causing a shiver down Buffy’s spine.

“That is the line between East and West. Cross it and die.”

They halted abruptly.

From the shimmering, sun-baked haze, shapes began to appear: men and women with skin painted in bold streaks of white, gray, and deep blue, the colors vivid and striking against their skin. Their armor was a rough combination of animal hide, wrought metal, and polished bone, each piece carefully carved with geometric patterns and ancestral clan symbols. The Tenakth.

They seemed to rise from the very sands of the desert, like spirits forged from its grit and sunlight—yet everything about them was tangible and grounded. Every movement radiated discipline and readiness. They did not preen or flinch; these were warriors whose presence alone commanded respect.

Buffy remained still, her instincts sharpening before conscious thought could catch up. She had witnessed countless armies in her time, from the ancient Knights of Byzantium to demons cloaked in human guise, but this... this was different. There was a deep conviction behind the vibrant paint. An unbreakable strength rooted in honor, free from ego.

Aloy raised her hand, calm but steady. “Hold on now—let’s take it easy.”

The one ahead—tall, scarred, with eyes like cold steel—moved closer. “None may walk this valley until our signal sounds. That was our accord with the Carja.”

“I’m not Carja,” Aloy replied calmly. “I came here on my own to ask for a right of passage.”

His gaze shifted toward the fortress behind them. “But they opened the gate for you, did they not? What is the meaning of this violation?”

Another Tenakth spat into the sand. “Why send a child? Do they want to parley or not?”

A second one hissed, “The Carja can’t be trusted. This is known.”

Buffy’s hand moved close to her weapon—not from fear, just instinct. The spears looked sharp, and the way the Tenakth held them showed they had already decided who was worth bleeding for. Spike’s eyes followed her movement too, a half-predatory gleam behind his smirk.

Aloy held her ground. “Forget the Carja. This has nothing to do with them. I need to go west to save lives. Maybe even yours.”

The High Marshal's voice grew colder. “The only lives you can save are your own. By turning back. Now.”

The air grew thinner; even the sun seemed to hesitate. Buffy planted her feet firmly, her whole body recalling the feeling of words breaking apart and the fight beginning.

Then suddenly, another voice sharply broke the tension.

“Hold.”

The line of Tenakth shifted as a man stepped forward, younger than the others — broad-shouldered with hair braided back. His armor was worn but well maintained. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty-nine, yet he carried himself with the gravity of someone who had seen too much. There was resolve in his stance, not arrogance; diplomacy wrapped in discipline.

“She’s telling the truth about one thing,” he said. “She’s not Carja. She’s a Nora from the Savage East. And if she seeks to save lives, should we not listen? Let me speak to her. One last favor for a fellow Marshal before he is taken away?”

The High Marshal hesitated briefly before giving a reluctant nod.

Buffy exhaled slowly, feeling the weight lift off her shoulders. “Guess diplomacy’s not entirely dead,” she murmured.

Spike gave her a sidelong look. “No, just limping along with better paint.”

She nudged him gently but kept her eyes fixed on Aloy. The redhead stood small against the blazing horizon, fierce and unyielding, sunlight turning her hair into flames. Buffy felt a twist in her chest—recognition, pride, and a touch of old pain. That defiance, that incredible courage… she’d seen it before in herself.

“She’s not a Slayer,” Buffy whispered, more to herself than to him. “But damned if she doesn’t look like one.”

Spike brushed his hand against hers, grounding her. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Bloody right she does.”

The Tenakth continued their march, their formation shifting smoothly as a young man—calm and poised—gave a subtle nod to Aloy and Fashav. The importance of this silent communication was clear. With an instinctive understanding, the two moved aside, letting the dry wind stir and swirl tiny dust particles around them like ghostly shadows dancing in the sunlight.

Buffy and Spike lingered nearby, carefully keeping a respectful distance that kept them below the radar. Buffy could almost feel the electricity in the air, a tight energy that hung heavy with anticipation, indicating that something significant was about to happen. In this world, words were a luxury; every movement, every fleeting glance, was filled with deep meaning, and each gesture was a silent sign of the unbreakable bonds between them.

Fashav’s voice rang out clearly through the silence. “A fearless, red-headed Nora. You must be the so-called ‘Savior of Meridian.’”

Aloy’s response was quick and instinctive. “Just Aloy.”

“I am Unyielding Fashav, once of the Carja High Command, last of the Army of the Setting Sun.”

Buffy blinked. The last of an army. The weight of it pressed through the heat. This man wasn’t old, maybe late twenties, but his voice sounded like it came from someone who’d seen the world burn twice and still tried to build something out of it.

Aloy tilted her head slightly. “You’re Fashav? Avad gave me a message for you… that he waits for you in Meridian, where you belong.”

“Hmm. Avad has always been polite. Now I’m even more curious about you, knowing that you have the confidence of the Sun-King. But such an association with the Carja could work against you here, as it often has with me. As you can see, tensions are high—this embassy is a delicate matter. They’re about to send me back to the Sundom, a move that might help ease painful grievances. And now you arrive, unheralded…”

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” Aloy said. “I just need to go west.”

Fashav gave her a long, deliberate look. “So you say. I might be able to help. But I need to know why—along with some assurance that I won’t regret it.”

Buffy shifted her weight, catching the faint, amused sound Spike made quietly under his breath. “He’s testing her,” he murmured.

“Smart man,” Buffy muttered. “Knows who holds the cards.”

Aloy didn’t blink. “How did you come to be among the Tenakth?”

“It’s quite a story, but not a quick one. Though I suppose neither of us is going anywhere before the Embassy begins. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“I guess we have time.”

Buffy arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Of course we do,” she whispered. “Not like we’re busy surviving or anything.”

Spike’s mouth twitched. “You love it.”

She mostly ignored him.

Fashav’s expression softened slightly. “Very well. I marched with Sun-King Jiran’s raiders when they came west, hoping to curb their worst impulses. I failed, of course. They committed unspeakable atrocities, prompting the Tenakth to retaliate. When the clans overran our forward camp at Cinnabar Sands, I stayed behind to help the last stragglers evacuate… and was captured. I didn’t make it easy for my captors, mind you, and they paid me back in kind on the way to their capital. I had lost so much blood during the trip that I was as good as dead when they brought me before Chief Hekarro. I thought I was gone for sure, so I resorted to desperate measures.”

Aloy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So, when you met the Tenakth Chief, you did something desperate?”

“I’d kept my ears open as the Tenakth dragged me along, and I heard mutterings about a kind of trial by combat that they revere. So, when they flung me at Hekarro’s feet, I demanded this rite called the Kulrut, thinking that by winning I could request a boon… my life, or even my freedom. The other Tenakth howled, but Hekarro stared them down, and then his gaze fell upon me. Evidently, he appreciated my ingenuity. He allowed me to participate in the Kulrut. Little did I know what I was in for!”

Aloy’s tone softened, her interest shining through her voice. “You said the Kulrut is a Tenakth trial by combat?”

“Yes, but it is no ordinary trial. It doesn’t pit men against each other, at least not directly. Instead, the combatants fight machines in a great arena, and only the strongest survive. Believe me, it is no easy thing to stare down a charging machine while hundreds around you scream for blood.”

Aloy’s mouth quirked faintly. “I know more about that than you might think.”

“Do you? Well, then you have my respect. Like you, I lived through it to claim my prize. I had hoped for freedom, but that wasn’t on offer. Only service to the Chief.”

“You wound up serving the Tenakth Chief?”

“The winners of the Kulrut must serve the Chief as his Marshals.”

Aloy’s brow furrowed. “You mentioned that word before. What does it mean?”

“The word itself refers to a kind of protective spirit from the ancient past. In practice, Marshals are Hekarro’s roving lawgivers—part magistrate, part judge, part executioner. I won my place among their ranks and served as honor demanded, but many Tenakth still spat on the ground when I walked by. Or they did, until I started forcing them to the ground to grind their faces in it.”

Spike smirked. “My kind of diplomacy.”

Buffy nudged him, but her eyes remained on Fashav. “He’s not bluffing. Look at him—this guy’s lived it.”

Aloy tilted her head. “I guess that’s one way to deal with it.”

“As you may have noticed, violence is the native tongue of the Tenakth. To survive, one must master it. The truth is, though, the Carja speak it too, more than they should. I can’t blame the Tenakth for hating them.”

Aloy hesitated. “So then, are you still Carja?”

“Part of me, yes, always. Yet there is much to admire about the Tenakth, especially their Chief. I’ve heard stories about what it was like before his reign. Three clans, always at war, constantly slitting each other’s throats. Hekarro and the Marshals have crafted a delicate peace, and now he looks to the future. Who knows? Maybe that future will include cooperation with the Carja.”

Aloy’s voice dropped. “The Carja talk about Hekarro as if he’s a monster.”

“The Carja feel compelled to demonize him, if only because he swept them from the field. He is indeed fearsome. When I was first taken before him, I thought he would flay me alive. But he is no bloodthirsty tyrant like the Mad Sun-King was. I think that if you were fortunate enough to meet him as I was, you would find that he only wants the best for his people. I hope you do speak to him. I’m sure you’d interest him. So. That’s my story. You’re the first Easterner to hear it—but not the last. The Carja need to know what I have learned.”

Buffy glanced at Spike. “Sounds like a man who knows which side of history he wants to be on.”

He gave a slight shrug. “Let’s hope he picked the right one.”

Aloy studied him carefully. “Yeah. The way you talk about the Tenakth is very different from how they do. I’ve never seen markings like those on a Carja before.”

“The Carja see ink as decoration. For the Tenakth, it is much more. A litany of deeds, a record of vanquished enemies.”

“Looks like you’ve vanquished quite a few.”

Fashav chuckled, the sound warm but tired. “I’ve fought my share of battles. But I feel that my life, like my markings, is only half complete. This side shows my martial deeds. Before I die, I’d like to see the other half marked with the laurels of peace.”

“Are you glad to be going back to Meridian?”

“I’ll admit that I wouldn’t mind sleeping in a feather bed, or sipping wine from the southern vineyards. But I have another goal in mind. As someone who knows the Tenakth and the Carja, I’m in a unique position to advocate for both. If Sun-King Avad is amenable, I hope to establish a lasting peace.”

“The Tenakth don’t seem that peaceful…” Aloy said softly.

“They’re not, as a rule. But these are difficult times. Chief Hekarro knows that survival often requires change. Even if that change means putting aside centuries of war.”

Buffy’s heart tightened slightly. She’d seen that kind of determination before—it’s the kind that can burn people alive if the world doesn’t meet it halfway. But here, standing in the heat and dust, it didn’t come across as reckless. It sounded hopeful.

Aloy’s voice softened. “You asked why I need the right of passage… I’ll tell you—but you won’t like my answer. Six months ago, the world nearly ended in Meridian. That threat still exists. It’s getting worse every day—much worse—causing storms, poisoning the water, and angering the machines. The source of it all has moved west. And I’m the only one who can stop it.”

Fashav’s expression changed, with sympathy and belief flickering behind his eyes. “I’ve seen the signs. And I’ve heard tales of incredible events in Meridian… an army of demons, defeated by a red-haired champion. So I’m inclined to believe you. The burden of your task is written across your face, clearer than any mark of mine. I’ll grant you this to serve as proof of your right to travel into Tenakth lands.”

He extended his knife—then pulled it back.

“A task so important. And it’s just the four of you? Take it from one who aspires to be a diplomat. Allies are essential. Chief Hekarro knows the West better than anyone. He may be able to help you. He can be intimidating to others, but don’t let that deceive you. He is a man of his word.”

Aloy gave a slight nod. “Maybe. If I need him.”

“Your choice. You can find him at his palace, past the mountains to the southwest. Tell him I sent you, and he’ll listen to wha—”

A shadow swept across the sand.

At the top of the ridge, a banner soared in the wind—white, grey, and blue, snapping tight in the sunlight.

Every Tenakth looked at it. Marshals shifted formation, precise and quiet. The valley appeared to freeze.

Buffy felt Spike straighten up beside her.

“That’s the signal,” he said softly.

Buffy nodded. “Yeah. Sky Clan.”

The Sky Clan had arrived.

~*~*~

The air had changed.

A palpable tension filled the air, heavy and electric, sparking an instinctive stirring deep inside him long before any words broke the silence. It was a subtle shift, almost like a breath held in unison, as if the world itself was waiting. The Tenakth moved in perfect sync, their eyes drawn upward to the ridge, where shadows flickered in the fading light, hinting at secrets yet to come.

“Look! The Sky Clan’s banner!” called the High Marshal, his voice cutting through the heat.

The banner fluttered with vivid shades of white, pink, and blue, shining in the harsh glare of the desert sun, creating a bold contrast against the deep, fiery reds of the canyon walls. Behind it, figures appeared—there was no mistaking them, they were Sky Clan warriors. Clad in light whites and grays, their armor was a patchwork of scars and stories, each dent and scrape a sign of battles fought and survived, their movements steady with the determination of those who have thrived amid chaos.

Spike's gaze followed them briefly, enough to notice the telltale hitch in Aloy’s breath. She paused for a moment, her body revealing a fleeting shock, like Slayers caught in a transformative realization. Her eyes fixed on the tall warrior leading the Sky Clan, the leader’s commanding presence radiating authority. But just as suddenly, her gaze snapped away—too quick, too instinctive. The desert dust clung to her skin, accentuating the flush of crimson creeping over her cheeks, sharply contrasting with the dry landscape around her.

Spike raised an eyebrow and leaned toward Buffy, his voice lowered. “Well, that’s new. Our fearless redhead’s just gone weak in the knees.”

Buffy followed his glance, saw the flush, and noticed Aloy’s deliberate refusal to look again. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m joking, love?” he murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s the first proper heartbeat of attraction I’ve felt from her since we met.”

Buffy’s lips curled, partly amused and partly protective. “Huh. I guess even world-savers get hit with the crush bug.”

“Yeah,” Spike said softly, his eyes still on Aloy. “And by the look of him, he’s the kind who could tear a tank in half.”

“Eyes forward, Romeo.” Buffy elbowed him lightly, though she was grinning now. “Let her have her moment.”

Spike huffed, but his grin stayed as he turned back toward the ridge just as the younger Tenakth Marshal called out, his voice hoarse but proud.

“Marshals – it wasn’t easy, but I brought the Sky Clan with me.”

“And the commander?”

“Ah… no. I could only convince a few. He isn’t yet aware we left.”

Marshal Fashav nodded slowly. “We have banners from all three clans. If there are fewer from the Sky Clan, it can’t be helped.”

The High Marshal thought about it then raised his chin. “He’s right. Sound the horn.”

The deep bellow of the horn echoed across the valley—ancient, metallic, like thunder dragged through iron. The sound reverberated through Spike’s ribs.

Aloy turned toward Fashav. “What’s going on?”

“Not all Tenakth can stomach the idea of parley with the Carja,” Fashav replied, calm even as dust swirled around his boots. “But enough have come for us to begin.”

Aloy nodded and began stepping back, her stance shifting toward moving forward—the way she always did when she believed she could outpace the world. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

“No.” Fashav’s tone stopped her. “The other Marshals will not permit it. You wanted safe passage. You have it—after the Embassy.”

Spike noticed her jaw tense. Patience clearly wasn’t her strong suit.

Someone shouted, "The Carja have opened the gates!"

Spike turned, his gaze fixed on the valley where a group of Carja warriors moved purposefully. The afternoon sun reflected off their ornate gilded armor, creating a shimmering display that rippled like liquid gold. Among them, they carried a heavy chest, its surface intricately detailed, with gold hinges that gleamed brilliantly, catching every ray of sunlight as if the chest itself was burning with promise and power.

Buffy muttered under her breath, “It’s never a good sign when politicians carry luggage.”

At their front, the nervous priest—Vuadis—dramatically lifted his hands.

“As the Sun rises over a land at war, so, too, can it set over a land at peace. Today is such—”

He never finished.

A scream echoed from the cliffs above, a woman’s fierce voice tearing through the sky.

“Fashav! Hear me, Marshals! You who claim to be Tenakth!”

The atmosphere around them grew tense. Spike saw the Tenakth soldiers stiffen, as if hit by a sudden thought. Aloy froze, her eyes shifting toward the sound.

Marshal Fashav’s expression hardened, years of discipline tightening his features. “Regalla,” he muttered under his breath. “Chief Hekarro’s biggest mistake. A rival he should have killed.”

Spike looked up. The woman was on the ridge—tall and painted in red and black, radiating a fierce authority that needed no introduction. Even from a distance, her voice carried with power.

“You have forgotten that our people were born in blood – the blood of the Carja! Instead, you pledge your spears to a Chief who conspires with the enemy! Hekarro has betrayed us! The Embassy is proof! And all of you Marshals are his accomplices! For this, I condemn you to death!”

The High Marshal stood firm. “You’ll need more than toothless threats to intimidate us, exile!”

The ridge suddenly turned into chaos.

"Lancers... FORM UP!” Regalla shouted.

Machines thundered into view — bristlebacks, gleaming with acid and metal. Warriors rode them, their weapons shining in the haze.

Spike’s gut twisted. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “She’s got herself a cavalry.”

From the Carja line, Nozar’s voice cut through the growing noise. “They’re… riding machines!”

Varl’s disbelief mirrored his. “Where did they learn to do that?”

Aloy’s voice was flat and grim. “Sylens.”

The name hovered in the air like a curse.

Nozar turned to Fashav, panic creeping into his voice. “Fashav! Come with us now… or not at all!”

The Tenakth Marshal didn't hesitate. He turned toward the Carja gates, shouting orders. Fashav and the Carja warriors broke into a run, the clash of metal echoing off the canyon walls.

Buffy sprinted after them, calling back, “I’ll try to keep him alive! You guys take care of the rest.”

Spike instinctively followed her, with all senses sharp.

Up on the ridge, Regalla raised her hand high.

“Archers! Light them up!”

Flames erupted into the sky, a fiery cascade that painted the air with vivid orange and red.

The valley itself seemed to convulse in a wave of fire, the ground trembling under the onslaught.

Arrows hurtled down like lightning, leaving trailing flames that hissed as they sliced through the smoky, thick air, sounding like hell’s own breath. It caused Spike to halt as he heard the Marshals shouting orders urgently, their voices drowned out by the loud clash of metal and the agonized cries of mechanical monsters tearing through the choking smoke.

Spike's instincts warred within him, but all he could think about was her—Buffy.

With the agility of a hawk, she darted alongside the Carja soldiers toward the gates, her armor shining in the sunlight as if forged from the very essence of victory. When the first volley struck, she remained unshaken, her resolve unwavering; she pivoted with deadly grace and drove her spear deep into the chest of an unsuspecting Tenakth rebel, the man collapsing silently to the ground.

Meanwhile, Aloy and Varl were already moving urgently, their hearts racing as they hurried to help a wounded Marshal. With resolve, they lifted him from the chaos around them, dragging his battered body to the safety of a half-collapsed barricade, the air heavy with the smell of smoke and fear.

“Get to cover! No!” Aloy shouted, her voice raw from the smoke as another Marshal fell.

Regalla’s voice cut through everything, commanding and furious. “Archers—keep them back! Left flank! To the Carja! Run them down!”

The rebels surged forward, their mounts thrashing in spray of acid. The scent hit Spike’s nose before his mind caught up—blood. Human. Sharp. Hot.

He blinked, suppressing the hunger.

For years, he had lived off animals, synthetic feed, anything that wasn’t human. He had learned control for her. But now the air was thick with blood, screams, burning metal—and Buffy was in the middle of it.

The line of Marshals swayed as one fell, then another, their ranks thinning under the weight of chaos. Fashav erupted into the melee, a primal roar ripping from his lips as he struck down a rider, his blade slicing effortlessly through armor and flesh, splitting man and metal like a seamstress cutting fabric. Every move reflected a soldier's discipline, sharpened to deadly precision through struggles that etched pain into his very core.

Besides Fashav, Buffy was a vision of deadly grace, her spear darting through the air with a brilliant flash that matched the rhythm of his strikes. They moved in perfect sync, an elegant duet of violence; with each thrust and parry, it felt as if they had battled together a hundred times before, their bodies instinctively knowing each other’s next move. The clash of steel and the cries of the fallen surrounded them, but amid that chaos, they found a rhythm, a pulse that pushed them forward, relentless and fierce.

Aloy’s voice rang out again, a blend of command and defiance. “They’re not going to make it!”

“Open the gates! Open the gates!” Vuadis screamed, his voice high and panicked.

Spike caught sight of a Tenakth bow and the flash of the string—then Vuadis collapsed, an arrow stuck in his throat. His heart jumped into his throat. Aloy was right.

“Carja! Stand your ground!” Fashav bellowed.

Buffy pivoted and braced herself as fire rained down. The sound was deafening—metal striking metal, machines screaming. For a brief moment, Spike lost sight of her in the smoke, but then he found her again, standing shoulder to shoulder with Fashav, her spear embedded in the side of one of those monstrous mounts.

And then it happened.

He watched carefully as the bowstring quivered, the taut arrow glinting ominously in the fading light. The sharp twang of the string cut through the air, a haunting sound that echoed deep within him. There was no time to hesitate; his body was already a blur of motion.

Buffy, sensing the impending danger, turned just in time to see the lethal missile aimed directly at Fashav. In that split second, her instincts kicked in. Without hesitation, she lunged forward and positioned herself in the path of the deadly projectile.

The air cracked with a sudden, wet thud—a deep, resonant sound that signaled impact. She gasped sharply, a quick breath slicing through the tension. In an instant, she sank to one knee, her armor dull in the fading light, a cruel arrow protruding from her chestplate, its fletching still trembling as if echoing the violence of its flight.

Spike’s world turned red.

There was no hesitation or second thought. The hunger roared inside him as if it had been waiting for years to burst out. His face changed, with bones and muscles reshaping into a demon's form. The smell of blood cut through his senses like a knife.

He moved before the nearest rebel could even cry out—one second alive, the next torn open. Spike ripped through them—claws, teeth, rage, all of it spilling out at once. He felt a throat break under his hands, warm blood filling his mouth before he could stop it. He spat, then sank his fist into another man’s chest, tossing him aside like a rag doll.

They screamed in terror at the sight of him. Some turned and ran, while the smarter ones used arrows. But all their efforts failed. He was a tornado of sharp teeth and unrelenting rage, cutting through Regalla’s ranks like a vengeful force of nature come to life.

Behind him, Aloy’s voice cut through the chaos. “Buffy!” she cried, desperation cracking her tone. “Hey! Come down and fight fair!” She snarled at Regalla.

“Lancers! Take the center!” Regalla roared back.

“Get ready!” Aloy shouted to Varl and the remaining Marshals.

“Stick to cover! Archers on the ridge! Here they come!” The High Marshal’s command barely carried over the chaos.

Aloy and Varl fought side by side, their figures a blur of motion through the swirling smoke—spears shining like silver against the dark, arrows whizzing through the air with a sharp whistle. But to Spike, their heroics were just background noise. His focus stayed fixed on Buffy, whose armor was stained with the crimson marks of battle. He could see the heartbeat of life in her hand as it twitched, as if struggling against the pain of injury, desperately trying to rise despite the overwhelming odds.

He charged at another rider, yanked him off his mount, and growled over his shoulder—his voice more growl than man. “You bloody bastards—touch her again and I’ll gut the lot of you!”

The High Marshal collapsed nearby with a heavy thud that echoed through the chaos. A towering Tenakth warrior, his skin painted with intricate strokes of grey-blue that shimmered in the sunlight, sprang into action. This was the very soldier Aloy felt an immediate connection with when he arrived. He stood defiantly in front of a bristleback charging from the edge, its massive form a blur.

Spike, frantic and determined, lunged forward, desperately trying to shield him, but the machine was a whirlwind of ferocity, striking with a feral speed that left Spike scrambling.

With a menacing hiss, the bristleback’s razor-sharp jaws clamped down, its metal teeth grinding mercilessly through armor like a knife through flesh. Just as despair began to creep into Spike’s heart, he arrived at the scene—the air thick with the scent of machine oil, blood, and hot steam. With a powerful kick, he connected with the beast's head, pushing his full weight against it, forcing it to topple backward. The creature roared in protest, spewing a foul mixture of acid and hissing steam that filled the air with a noxious cloud, a testament to the wild chaos of their battle.

The Marshal screamed once—then fell silent. His arm was merely a stump just below the elbow.

“Bloody hell,” Spike hissed, shoving the wreck aside.

For the first time, Aloy turned, her eyes fixed on the wounded man—on the blood, the broken arm, the emblem on his armor. He wasn’t dead. Not yet.

Amid the loud clash of battle, where steel rang out and cries of bravery echoed, Spike caught a fleeting look of something crossing her face—an expression that seemed out of place amid the chaos. Maybe it was recognition, shining like a distant star in the chaos. Or perhaps it was the start of it, a tiny spark of understanding beginning to grow against the backdrop of war’s fury.

The smoke thinned into a red haze. The screams had dulled to a low moan carried on the wind. The air reeked of ash, acid, and blood—too much blood.

Spike stood knee-deep in the chaos, his uneeded breath coming in desperate gasps, each inhale trembling with the weight of the battle. A few feet away lay Buffy, her body sprawled as Fashav had pulled her from the onslaught, her armor a shattered remnant of its former glory, charred and splintered. A broken arrow jutted out sharply against her ribs, a cruel reminder of the violence that had just unfolded, glinting ominously in the dim light.

He dropped beside her, fingers trembling as he brushed dirt from her cheek. “Come on, love. Don’t do this to me.”

Fashav pressed two fingers against her throat, furrowing his brow. “I can feel her heart. But she’s not breathing—”

“I know,” Spike rasped. “She’ll be fine. Just... give her time.”

The Tenakth Marshal looked at him with a gaze that cut through skepticism, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. Still, there was an undeniable seriousness in Spike’s voice—a raw, steady confidence—that made him stay silent, emotions swirling inside him.

Across the wide battlefield, Aloy and Varl fought bravely, their figures moving together like a relentless storm as they stood side by side against the remnants of Regalla’s rebel forces. The air around them crackled with tension, their movements now a frantic dance, urgency visible on their faces. With their backs pressed firmly against the lifeless bodies of fallen Marshals, they pushed forward, the burden of their fight against fate heavy on their shoulders.

“Just you and me now, Varl!” Aloy shouted over the din.

“We’ve been through worse!” Varl replied.

Spike tore his gaze away from Buffy just long enough to look upward. The girl stood like a warrior on a battlefield, her hair shining like polished copper under the bright sun. Her spear, gleaming with a mix of blood and oily sheen, caught the light in a deadly dance, showing her fierce resolve. From where he stood, he could hear the strong thrum of her heartbeat—steady, defiant, and pulsing with life.

“I can keep going!” she yelled, and Varl only grunted in response, striking down another Tenakth rebel.

But they were completely surrounded.

Then a voice spoke—deep and commanding.

“Enough! YOU! Outlanders! I’ll skin you both! Chief! Grant me the honor of this challenge!”

A hush spread through the remaining Tenakth. The woman on the ridge—Regalla—raised her chin. “Granted.”

Spike watched as the warrior stepped off the cliff and fell—but then didn’t. The air shimmered. A wing of golden light spread from his back, catching the wind like a bird of metal and fire. The sight made him swear under his breath.

“Bloody hell... he’s flying.”

The glider crumpled beneath Grudda as he crashed into the earth, a deafening thud echoing across the rocky terrain. In a smooth, explosive motion, he punched Varl in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground like a ragdoll. A second, powerful kick followed, landing with a sickening thump, and Varl lay still, defeated and motionless among the scattered stones.

“You’re next, girl,” Grudda taunted.

Aloy’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve never seen a shield like that…”

Spike struggled to follow their movements as a dazzling spectacle unfolded before him—light clashed with light, metal screeched against metal. He had watched Slayers fight for centuries, yet this was something new. The weapons crackled and hissed with a strange, advanced technology beyond his understanding, transforming the battle into a hypnotic dance rather than just a fight. Aloy pushed forward, her spear shining like a comet, slicing through the air as she targeted the weak spots of the shield. With a quick roll, she narrowly dodged the heavy fall of her opponent's weapon, leaving Spike in awe of the sheer skill displayed in this dance.

“Now’s my shot! Give it up!” she yelled.

The ground shook as the shield shattered, metal shards and sparks flying like dust.

Aloy lunged and thrust her spear through Grudda’s chest plate. The Tenakth hit the ground with a heavy, final thud.

The girl straightened, breathing heavily, covered in ash and sweat. “Your turn! Come down here and face me!”

Regalla looked down from her perch, her face unreadable. “No. It was an honorable challenge. You’ve earned your life today. Comrades! Mark this day! You have destroyed the Marshals and slaughtered the Carja! So begins our war on Hekarro! Move out!”

Her army withdrew into the canyon, leaving wreckage and silence behind.

The wind was the first to return—cool, almost gentle.

A few Tenakth survivors stirred, helping each other to their feet. One shouted, “Get him to the camp, now!” as they lifted the Marshal, who had lost part of his arm.

Aloy moved past the bodies until she reached Varl. He was still breathing, although blood trickled down the side of his mouth from where he had been punched.

“You gonna make it?” she asked, crouching beside him.

Varl forced a pained grin. “You’re going on without me, aren’t you? Guess I’m stuck with Erend. For now.”

Aloy shook her head, helping him up. “Come on. I’ll take you back to the fort.”

Spike barely heard them.

He had Buffy’s head in his lap, his hands covered with blood that wasn’t his. The arrow was already broken; he carefully worked it free, pressing his palm against the wound. “It’s all right, love,” he whispered. “You’ve had worse. Remember Rome? You walked that off in half a day.”

Her skin was clammy, her breathing barely noticeable, but she was there. He could feel the faint rhythm beneath his hand.

Aloy turned to him, eyes wide, face covered in dirt. “You sure she’ll be all right?”

Spike offered a tight, trembling smile. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She’s immortal, remember.”

He didn’t mention the rest—that every time she died, she dreamed of it. Each time, she woke up screaming, remembering the cold, the dark, and the sound of her own heart stopping. He couldn’t protect her from that. He never could.

Fashav knelt beside them, arm bleeding from a grazed blade, gazing at the vampire with a mix of fear and awe. “What are you?” he asked softly.

Spike looked down at Buffy, brushed blood-soaked hair from her face, and managed a bitter grin. “Just a man who keeps losing the same girl and refuses to stop trying.”

He held her tightly as the acrid smoke began to clear, revealing the bleak landscape beneath a bruised sky. The mournful notes of Barren Light's horns echoed softly through the canyon, a haunting elegy for the fallen and a calling for the living to come home. Each resonant sound seemed to linger in the air, weaving an unforgettable tapestry of loss and longing that echoed against the rugged walls surrounding them.