Cosmic Sentinel:

  a SCANT few

  Written by:

  Reinventor

  PART ONE

  On an ordinary day, much like any other, Grubnash, burrow-master of Clan Rustfang, made his daily rounds—until something gleamed in the dirt, catching his eye.

  He had just finished inspecting the newest tunnel his workers were carving into the mountain and was now searching through the loose scree for food—worms, grubs, ants—whatever he could find. The debris had been piled near the entrance to the clan’s old living area, now abandoned, its tunnels overfilled with refuse and excrement.

  As he foraged, he also kept an eye out for valuables: small bits of ore, perhaps even a gem hidden among the rubble.

  Then, a dull glint in the dirt made him pause.

  Frowning, he reached down, plucking the object from the soil. He rolled it between his gnarled fingers, feeling its weight, then clenched tight to break away the clinging dirt. As he opened his fingers, his eyes widened.

  This wasn’t just a scrap of metal.

  This was something else. Something important.

  The small metallic object was greenish, about half the length of his finger, its color oddly similar to his own skin. Its metal was smooth, though covered in dirt.

  Grubnash wiped it against his tattered cloak, revealing more detail. It wasn't just an ordinary scrap of metal—it was a key. But unlike any key he’d ever seen.

  It didn’t have teeth like those used by big people. It wouldn't open their doors or unlock a chest. Instead, the end was triangular, decorated with small, carved squiggles.

  He turned it over, curiosity deepening. What could it unlock? He’d heard of wizards having magic keys—perhaps this was one of them.

  As if confirming his thought, the opposite side of the key didn't have the usual hole for a keyring. Instead, it was solid and flat, bearing a strange, embossed symbol he could clearly feel as he ran his finger over it.

  He didn’t recognize the symbol, but its presence felt heavy—deliberate. A mark of something beyond his understanding.

  Grubnash had never held anything touched by magic before. The only spells he knew of were the shaman’s simple tricks—useful for burrow life, but hardly the stuff of legends. This, though… this was different. It didn’t pulse with power or hum with enchantment, yet something about it felt unnatural.

  Important.

  He glanced around nervously, then slipped the key quickly into his pocket. Normally, he'd share anything valuable he found with his clan, using it to better all their lives. But this felt different—like a secret not meant for everyone's eyes.

  The small act of thievery made his insides twist. It reminded him of something his father might do.

  His father would have bragged loudly, holding the key high, expecting admiration and inviting anyone brave enough to challenge him. Grubnash was different—he wasn't his father. But sometimes, his Goblin nature and greed still shone through.

  A startling clang echoed suddenly through the cavern, pulling Grubnash from his thoughts. This wasn't the usual crunch of pickaxes hitting stone. This sound was hollow and strange, almost musical, ringing through the burrow like a bell.

  Every Goblin froze, even those mid-swing. All eyes turned toward the worker who'd struck the unusual object.

  Grubnash’s gaze settled not on the young worker, but on the sliver of metal now exposed in the rock wall. Its dull gray surface reflected the torchlight, clearly standing out against the surrounding stone.

  The worker backed away, unsure if he’d done something wrong.

  Grubnash, however, rushed forward. Irgug, the clan shaman, was already on the move as well. Side by side, they sprinted as fast as their stubby legs would carry them.

  They reached the site together, snatching tools from the still-frozen workers and chipping away at the stone. None of them knew what they were uncovering, but their excitement was evident.

  In each Goblin’s mind, vivid images formed of what might lie behind this strange object. Maybe it was weapons and armor, buried long ago. Maybe it was treasure, hidden away by old warlords or forgotten cults. Or perhaps something else entirely—Dwarven artifacts, or even a long-dead dragon’s hoard.

  More Goblins joined in, hacking at the rock with feverish energy. Piece by piece, the metal surface emerged, revealing something wider than any chest or vault door. Their imaginations soared, but as more of the object came into view, their excitement shifted into a new kind of wonder.

  This was no meager treasure. It was far too large, too solid.

  It was a wall.

  A wall belonging to something huge.

  And that only made their curiosity grow.

  "An' dat, ya sick'nin li'l whelps, is how da great Grubnash an' me foun' da Grayfang," Irgug finished, shaking his gnarled staff toward the massive, half-uncovered object. His old arm trembled with the effort, the motion slow and unsteady.

  The young Goblins clapped politely. They had grown up with the enormous, gray-hued metal wall-like object buried at the far end of the cavern, its true nature still a mystery.

  The workers who had spent years digging at it had argued endlessly as more and more of the smooth, unnatural surface was revealed.

  Some believed it was part of an old temple, buried by time, its secrets locked away beneath the mountain. Others insisted it was the edge of a dungeon, leading to forgotten tunnels filled with traps and treasure.

  A few had wilder ideas—maybe it was a great fortress wall, shielding a kingdom of lost creatures sealed away long ago.

  No one truly knew.

  However, among the listeners, one young Goblin sat unusually still, his sharp eyes filled with something more than casual interest.

  Among those young Goblins was Hyruk, Grubnash's youngest son. Unlike most others, Hyruk was certain this discovery was a huge ship.

  He was different. His mind worked faster than most of the burrow's Goblins, and he had the drive to match his wits. While other Goblins did only what was required, Hyruk worked harder and smarter, staying at the excavation site longer than anyone else, piecing together the small limbs they had access to into an intricate, if somewhat unsteady, scaffold to allow the miners to remove the rock from higher up.

  He didn’t need to. As Grubnash’s youngest whelp, he had more status than most. But instead of using that to avoid work, he threw himself into it. It was clear, even at his age, that he was meant for more.

  Finding the massive object had changed everything. The old ways of raiding, feuds, and war had begun to slowly fade away, but were now mostly just a memory.

  Their clan was changing, and it all started with the finding of what was commonly called the Grayfang.

  The ‘ship,’ as Hyruk believed it to be, had become a goal they could strive for, something they all hoped to one day finish removing from the stone. An ancient mystery unseen for millennia, it represented a path to great wealth and opportunity. But more than that, it offered the promise of a new life.

  Some Goblins saw it as a potential source of immense power, far beyond what any other Goblin tribe would have. Yet, the more they dug, the larger the object seemed to be, and the less likely it felt that they would ever truly finish unearthing it.

  Throughout his life, Hyruk toiled away, carefully removing the rock from around the Grayfang. He worked with a sense of wonder and pride, tirelessly exploring the strange gray metal object, and distinguishing himself from the other workers through his diligence and curiosity, while leading them by example, both in his work ethic and his continued path of neutrality over chaos.

  His two older siblings were the opposite; they had no interest in the Grayfang. They were drawn to the typical Goblin ways, each harboring a thirst for violence and a lust for power. Due to their nature, each formed a faction, gathered followers, and declared war on the other, both determined to claim the role of burrow-master.

  The conflict tore through the clans, their rival factions wiping out a large portion of the community with no regard for who was caught in the crossfire.

  In the end, they killed each other simultaneously, their battle leaving no victor, only ruin.

  This left Grubnash, now old and feeble, with no one else left to take the position. Hyruk, the only surviving whelp, became the burrow-master. The title was thrust upon him, a burden born from his siblings’ violence and greed—a role he never wanted to fill.

  One encouraging thing he did gain was the chance to become the next keeper of the triangular key Grubnash had found so many years ago: an ancient artifact whose true purpose had never been found.

  As Grubnash lay on his deathbed, he reverently handed over the shiny metal key to Hyruk and spoke of its supposed importance. “Keep it safe, whelp. Maybe one day you get ta fin’ da hole ta stick it in,” Grubnash wheezed, struggling for breath, but with a crooked smile playing on his lips. To him, the key had always been important, a secret, a treasure known only to himself, but now he knew his time was at an end and entrusted its safe keeping to the only Goblin he trusted. “I give dis treasure ta you now. Good luck wif it.”

  To Hyruk, receiving the key symbolized something great, something he could cling to. Not only as a memory of his father, but as a symbol of the goal he wanted to obtain—not just for himself, but for the clan as a whole: a dream that the Grayfang engendered.

  His father may not have put the pieces together, but the moment the key touched Hyruk’s hand, he knew. It had to be the key to unlocking the Grayfang, to proving once and for all that it was indeed a ship—and that it was the clan’s destiny to learn its secrets.

  Shortly after the clan war ended, Grubnash passed away, leaving Hyruk as leader of a weakened clan.

  He saw it as his duty to clean up after his siblings’ idiocy, to continue the excavation of the mysterious Grayfang—a project that, more than ever, he was convinced was some sort of vessel. Whether it was meant for land, sea, or air, he couldn’t yet tell.

  But now, Hyruk led a clan smaller than any in recent memory. He had no love for the violence that had claimed his brothers. Instead, he focused on something greater.

  Using his greater-than-normal Goblin intelligence, he would rebuild the clan, restore its strength, and shape its future without making the same mistakes as those who had done so in the past.

  He saw the continuing excavation as a unifying theme for his burrow, a source of purpose that had brought the clan together in the past and would lead them to prosperity in the future.

  Along with his continued labor excavating the Grayfang, Hyruk established a new trade route with a Goblin clan nearer the surface to help rebuild his own. Through them, he acquired an Elf concubine.

  Goblins could reproduce with any species, but the mother’s intelligence often influenced the offspring. He sired many whelps with her, yet none possessed the drive and intelligence he desired—until at last came Friguk, who surpassed even Hyruk’s own wits.

  Content that he had produced a suitable heir, Hyruk spent the rest of his life following his usual routines and pushing on with the excavation.

  Over the years, he meticulously searched every new inch of the exposed metal, dreaming of the day he would discover the way inside.

  His crew uncovered a large transparent window high on the vessel’s metal wall, offering a brief glimpse of the Grayfang’s mysterious interior. Strange glowing glyphs and dark crystalline panels confirmed it was indeed a ship, far beyond anything they had imagined.

  Legends of flying machines had reached their burrow—tales of large balloons or metal wings—but none of that resembled the Grayfang’s design. The vessel’s true nature remained as elusive as the keyhole Hyruk yearned to find.

  Despite his tireless efforts, the continued expansion of the Grayfang’s area, the increase in the clan's size, and the expanding areas of trade he established, his one true desire was never met: he never found the place to use the small artifact, nor did he set foot inside.

  Years later, with his son Friguk taking over, the aging burrow-master felt at peace with what he had accomplished. Handing the key down to Friguk, Hyruk pinned his hopes on his son, the new leader, wishing he would be the one to finally board the Grayfang and perhaps even guide their clan away from the mountain.

  Finally, after generations of relentless toil, a seam was revealed along the seemingly endless wall along the metal of the Grayfang, exposing a small, triangular opening along its surface.

  Friguk, his heart pounding, stood among his clan. He was aloft, balanced on a makeshift scaffolding. The structure was built not only to give him the height needed to reach the keyhole but also to allow the rest of the clan to watch the moment unfold.

  He had been the first to see the significance of the odd keyhole once it was uncovered. Generations ago, Grubnash had found the key, and now, after clearing the last debris from inside, he held the green-hued metal key aloft, his fingers trembling with anticipation.

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  The watching Goblins grew silent as he reached up, carefully aligning the small triangular key with the opening.

  The moment had finally arrived. Every Goblin held their breath as Friguk slid the key in. Then, with a small twist, the ancient lock released with a soft, precise click.

  The Goblins cheered, their excitement echoing through the cavern. Yet, even in their celebration, none truly understood what they had just done. They had awakened something ancient, something beyond imagination.

  Their cheers faded as a sudden sound resonated through the cavern—a soft hiss, then the sound of metal scraping on stone. Every Goblin fell silent, their eyes fixed on the enormous vessel.

  A large rectangular panel slowly detached from the ship, unfolding from its underside with deliberate movement, until it hovered a mere inch above the cavern floor, held aloft by unseen forces.

  Friguk leaned forward from his vantage point, peering up into the newly revealed darkness within the ship.

  Inside, Friguk froze in awe. Soft, golden lights cast strange shadows across silvery panels and shining instruments he had no words for. Large and small ropes, tubes, or something similar not within his vocabulary hung and ran along the undisturbed interior. The quiet hum in the air felt alive.

  The ship’s gleaming interior contrasted sharply with the dark, dirty, and uneven surfaces of the Goblins’ cavern, into which it was now exposed.

  The clan had spent generations excavating this vessel, and now they felt a deep reverence toward what they'd finally uncovered. They crowded around the entrance, staring in slack-jawed awe at the astonishing sight. Everyone longed to step inside immediately, eager to learn the secrets they'd worked so hard to reveal. Yet, a sense of unease held them back. None dared to be the first to set foot onto the mysterious floating platform.

  Days passed as Friguk painstakingly tried to learn how to operate the platform. At its center stood a single metal pillar, the top capped with a dark crystal, strange glowing runes floating just above it. The symbols were unfamiliar, unlike any language the clan had ever encountered.

  Finally, Friguk mustered his courage, reaching out with a trembling finger to touch one of the illuminated glyphs. As he did, he felt a strange resistance, as though he were pressing against a beam of hardened sunlight, solid yet warm beneath his fingertip.

  Then, the platform lurched, rising slowly, carrying him upward into the ship—making him the first Goblin to ever set foot inside the Grayfang.

  Stepping onto the strange metal floor beyond the open door, he hesitated, glancing around in awe. The dim hallway stretched before him, unlike anything he'd ever seen. His amazement grew with every step inside this ship of wonders—a vessel his ancestors had spent generations unearthing.

  To Friguk and his kind, the highly advanced devices and glowing panels seemed like pure magic, beyond Goblin knowledge or understanding.

  The possibilities both thrilled and terrified him. He wanted the vessel to remain pristine, untouched, until his clan could one day unravel its secrets. So he was careful, making sure not to touch anything.

  He turned to the few Goblins who had followed him and narrowed his eyes, his mind already crafting a plan.

  "Don’ touch nuffin’," he warned, his tone heavy with authority. "Da magics in dis might get mad an’ kill us all."

  He loved his clan but knew them too well. So he instilled the fear of the ship in them—to keep them safe, but more importantly, to keep the ship safe from their ignorance and curiosity.

  In the weeks that followed, more of the clan explored the ship. They began to grasp just how advanced it was—far beyond anything they had imagined. But as their understanding grew, so did their divisions.

  Some wanted to tear it apart and sell the pieces, caring little for its mysteries or purpose. Gold in hand was better than secrets left unanswered.

  Others, including Friguk, sought to master the vessel. They dreamed of piloting it, leaving the mountain behind, and venturing into the wider world—or perhaps beyond.

  A few saw an even greater ambition: ruling from the skies, raining terror upon the land below. This idea took strongest root among those whose mothers had been of poorer stock, where the old Goblin ways still held sway.

  Yet, since the days of Grubnash, raw violence and conquest had slowly faded, replaced by something else—a hunger for knowledge, for discovery. Friguk welcomed and encouraged this shift, knowing it was the only way forward.

  The ship held promises, its mysteries whispering of change, of power, of a life beyond the mountain. Excitement and unease grew within the clan, the Grayfang no longer just a buried dream, but a gateway to something greater.

  But as always with Goblins, differences became disputes, and disputes became outright conflict.

  And so, the continued excavation of the ship ground to a halt.

  Without the constant chipping away at the stone surrounding the Grayfang, the burrow grew restless. Agitation spread like fleas.

  Scuffles broke out. Heated arguments echoed through every tunnel. Hunting parties fractured, and the sting of unfocused energy settled over them all.

  It lasted for weeks—weeks of rising tempers and escalating violence—before the scales finally tipped.

  When Friguk was assassinated.

  For all his hard work and love for his people, he got a rusty dagger in the back, its dull blade driven in by the leader of the faction that wanted to tear the ship apart, piece by piece.

  The treacherous Goblin hadn’t even called his name. He had crept through the gathered crowd and struck without warning, his cowardice plain for all to see.

  But murder didn’t make a leader this time. The clan’s elders refused to hand him the title of burrow-master. A backstabber didn’t deserve to rule.

  Instead, Friguk’s young son took his place, the title of burrow-master passing from father to whelp, as it had for generations before.

  Like his father before him, Friguk sired children with the still-enslaved Elven female.

  Elves were highly prized in Goblin society for their softness, durability, and long breeding potential. A single Elf could birth more whelps in her lifetime than any Goblin female, making her one of the most valuable possessions a clan could have.

  In Goblin culture, it was accepted that the same female who birthed you might also bear your own children. It was simply how breeding worked, not something to be questioned.

  Thus, Friguk’s only son, Daegnon—named for and shaped by his mother’s heritage—assumed leadership of the clan at just three years old.

  Goblins aged fast, their bodies and minds developing far more quickly than big people. Their growth was closer to that of wild animals—dogs, bears, beavers, and the like. So though only three, Daegnon had the maturity of a human teenager—young but fully capable of leading the clan.

  More than that, he was smarter than the rest of his brood.

  In fact, his intelligence nearly reached that of a big person. Not quite as sharp as a human or elf, but closer to a simple-minded human—far beyond typical Goblin standards.

  When Daegnon took over from his father, he knew there was no convincing the Goblins who wanted to dismantle the ship. They would never follow his vision of leaving, exploring, and discovering what lay beyond the mountain.

  So he wouldn’t convince them—he would prove them wrong.

  He would claim the ship by making it fly. Those who followed him wouldn’t just be burrow-dwelling Goblins anymore—they would become Sky Goblins.

  To make that happen, he needed to find the ship’s control station. If he could learn how to operate it, he could defend the ship from those who wanted to tear it apart. Once it was fully removed from the rock, he and his followers would leave this mountain behind forever.

  As the new burrow-master, Daegnon now held the triangular key, the artifact he hoped would grant him access to areas no Goblin had explored before. With this in mind, he spent hours each day scouring the ship, carefully searching its rooms and common areas, determined to find the control center.

  Several days passed with no success. Then, one evening, just as he was about to give up, he found something.

  It was a hidden room, one the others had overlooked. The only reason he noticed it was pure chance. As he dragged his fingers along the cold metal walls of a hallway, his calloused fingertips brushed against a slight ridge, a break in the otherwise perfectly smooth surface.

  Curious, he pressed against it. A panel sprang open at his touch, revealing two small holes inside.

  His heart pounded. He recognized the mechanism immediately, it was similar to the ship's entrance lock where the key had been used to bring down the platform.

  Without hesitation, he placed the triangular key into the uppermost hole… but it refused to turn.

  His ancestors had only ever found one key. Could there be another? The thought made his heart sink. He couldn’t count the number of years since Grubnash had found this key; if there was another necessary, it would have been lost to time.

  Then, he looked closer at the second hole. Unlike the first, this one was larger, and round.

  An odd thought popped into his head.

  Slowly, cautiously, he placed his smallest finger into the lower hole, bracing for a trap. He was willing to lose his finger if it meant finding a way to fly the ship and take his clan away from Frenargrak.

  To his surprise, there were no spikes, no sudden snap of metal.

  Instead, he felt something squishy—soft, yet springy beneath his fingertip.

  He hesitated… but then pressed inward.

  As his finger pressed inward, a strange hum filled the air, followed by a soft chirp, unlike anything Daegnon had ever heard. Behind the key, still lodged in the upper hole, a faint glow appeared.

  Daegnon reached up with his free hand and gave the key a gentle twist.

  Immediately, the wall ahead began sliding open with a soft hiss of long-held air.

  Startled, Daegnon jerked his hand back, his finger slipping free without resistance or injury. But he barely noticed. His attention was locked on the room beyond the door.

  As the opening widened, apprehension melted into curiosity.

  Slowly, cautiously, he stepped forward and entered.

  The square-shaped room contained a large, throne-like chair, surrounded by dark plates of shiny glass. Its presence dominated the space. The grayish metallic chair, cushioned in darker gray fabric, sat amid the glossy black walls, positioned as though it were the heart of the ship itself.

  Though still cautious, Daegnon’s teenage curiosity urged him forward.

  He climbed into the massive chair, its proportions far too large for his small frame. He shifted about, struggling to find a comfortable position. After some awkward adjusting, he finally settled—almost laying flat, but sideways, wedged awkwardly onto the strange throne.

  He wasn’t sure what the chair was for, but its placement alone told him it was important.

  So, of course, he had to try it out.

  Then, something startling happened.

  A strange set of glowing glyphs materialized in midair. Their sudden appearance and eerie light caught him off guard.

  Daegnon squeaked in terror.

  A small puddle may have formed on the oversized seat beneath him.

  For a few moments, he froze, his heart pounding, breath caught in his throat.

  The luminous script floated before him, casting an unearthly glow. The symbols pulsed and shimmered, almost alive, their energy sending a tingling sensation down his spine and making the hair on the back of his toes stand on end.

  As the initial shock faded, Daegnon’s mind began to catch up with what he was seeing. These weren’t random lights—they were coming from the ship itself.

  He leaned forward cautiously, eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of the strange, glowing glyphs before him.

  Then, something else caught his eye.

  A faint reflection coming from something he hadn’t noticed before.

  He slowly turned his head, curious as to what new wonder the ship was introducing to him next.

  The glow from the icons, lightly bathing the room in a soft yellow light, were shining off of a peculiar looking helmet hanging at the end of a silvery rope.

  The rope itself was unlike anything else he’d seen on the ship—not smooth, not coiled, but ridged, tightly grouped grooves running along its surface as it extended into the dark ceiling above.

  Inside the helmet, another set of glowing runes shimmered faintly.

  The visor-like helmet seemed to beckon him, its small internal light pulsing in perfect rhythm with the glyphs.

  The ship was speaking to him.

  The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

  Every instinct in Daegnon’s body screamed caution, but his curiosity gnawed at him, pushing him forward.

  ‘What is dis thing? Why it has glows inside?’ His mind raced with questions, each more bewildering than the last, but none strong enough to stop him.

  He stepped closer, drawn to the enigmatic helmet, a strange mix of fear and anticipation leaving him trembling in the dim light.

  His long, slender fingers reached out, hesitant yet eager.

  He took hold of the helmet, pulling it closer.

  He wasn’t entirely certain why he was so drawn to this device, or why placing it upon his head seemed like a good idea, but he slid it on anyway, maneuvering it around his long ears.

  It didn’t fit well—far too large for his small Goblin head. A narrow indentation pressed against his nose, but it was too tight, unable to accommodate his bulbous nostrils.

  But, as soon as it settled over his eyes, the helmet activated.

  A blinding cascade of flashes burst through his vision, his mind suddenly bombarded with unknown and unwanted sensations.

  Bringing with them the realization that this ship—this technology—was not made for Goblins.

  His dreams of flying away in the ship vanished in an instant.

  The flood of information from the helmet didn’t just sear Daegnon’s eyes and brain—it ripped through him, leaving him dazed and sick.

  Colors and images streaked past too fast to grasp, incomprehensible glyphs and shifting icons flashed at the edges of his vision. Shapes morphed and shattered—orbs, vast glowing voids, swirling spots of light.

  It was everything and nothing, a whirlpool of sensation without meaning, knowledge without comprehension, a storm of thoughts that weren’t his own.

  He didn’t know exactly what he had done, but a strange sensation passed over him, as though he were sliding down a massive underground waterfall into a vast pool of cold, sticky liquid.

  The lights kept flashing inside his eyes, colors dancing, images burning into his mind.

  Then, the sliding sensation shifted—it was no longer a slide.

  He was falling.

  He kicked his legs in fear, but there was nothing beneath him.

  A hot flash surged through his body, something strange and alien coursing through him, leaving him questioning who he even was.

  Then, the sliding returned—but backward… or maybe sideways. His brain couldn’t keep up with the sensations twisting through him.

  Finally, it slowed, and his body felt like his own again.

  As quickly as his still-dazed mind would allow, Daegnon ripped the helmet off his head and ran from the room, screaming.

  His legs were soaked, leaving a wet trail behind him—but he no longer cared.

  His plans to use the ship against the Goblins who wanted to tear it apart were completely forgotten.

  All he wanted now was to get away—to leave this cursed ship and crawl into his tent and hide.

  But when he reached the exit, his horror deepened.

  That was no longer an option.

  Daegnon ran straight to the exit, but it was sealed tight.

  He rammed his finger into the magic button, but nothing happened.

  The ramp was supposed to open whenever he pressed the strange "down" icon—but now, it refused to budge, a small buzzing sound mocking him with every frantic push.

  His gut twisted and he almost lost his last meal.

  Within moments, other Goblins arrived and gathered around him, their pale green skin slick with sweat, eyes wide with the same fear clawing at his insides.

  The stench of panic filled the air. He wasn’t the only one who had left a puddle beneath him.

  For several frantic minutes, they pounded on the door, pressed the buttons, cursed, and growled—but nothing worked.

  Then, Glix arrived.

  The small group watched as she stormed up to them, leaping the last few feet down.

  Unlike the rest, she wasn’t drenched in sweat, nor did she look as though she had just been staring into the eye of a beholder.

  She was shaken—but not as ruined as they were.

  She didn’t waste time explaining.

  She barely even looked at them before grabbing Daegnon by the wrist.

  "Somethin’ bad happened," she muttered, her voice sharp with urgency. "Real bad. Ya gotta see fer yerself."

  Then, without waiting for a response, she yanked him away.

  Glix led them upward, retracing the same path Daegnon had taken before everything went wrong. The evidence of his hasty retreat was still slick beneath their feet as they moved through the hall.

  To Daegnon’s relief, she didn’t take them back to the cursed room with the chair—instead, she led them across the hall.

  They entered a familiar space, the one where Friguk had first glimpsed the ship’s interior through its large, translucent window. As the group stepped inside, the weight of what Glix had been trying to tell them finally sank in.

  The sight before them was not the mountain they had known all their lives.

  No stone walls. No fires flickering. No torches glowing, no clan members bustling about.

  Just darkness.

  And beyond it, as far as their wide, disbelieving eyes could see—nothing but tiny, shining specks in an endless black void.

  The burrow was gone. Their mountain home was no more. They were in a place with no name, no walls, no ground beneath their feet.

  Their old lives had ended.

  And if they were going to survive, they would have to learn how to command this vessel.

  The thought of enduring that experience again sent a shiver down Daegnon’s spine, making the hairs on his toes stand on end.