Meighen Island – Shore Camp, Morning After the Vanguard Explosion
Dawn came limping across Meighen Island.
The sky was a smoky canvas of muted golds and bruised grays, the sun straining to burn through the haze left by the ship's final breath. Bits of char and ash drifted down onto the sand like dark snow. The sea hissed where hot metal met cold water. The smell—oil, salt, blood, and burnt flesh—settled thick in every lung.
What remained of the Vanguard smoldered offshore, her forward half submerged and still spilling flame and steam. Iron ribs jutted skyward from her broken deck like the fingers of a drowned titan.
The beach was quiet.
Too quiet.
Not from peace.
But from exhaustion.
Marines moved through the destruction like sleepwalkers.
They retrieved what they could.Weapons. Equipment. Teeth.
A few dog tags, though many had been melted into the flesh or scattered with limbs.
They piled bodies—what was left of them—beneath tarps. Some were burnt into glassy husks. Others were pieces: an arm, a leg, half a ribcage. One stretcher held just a torso. Another, half a man burned beyond recognition, skin peeling off like wet parchment.
Of the Vanguard's full complement, only twelve had survived.
All of them wounded.
Three would never walk again.Two would never see.Several begged to die and didn't have the strength to do it themselves.
None of them would sleep.
The survivors were treated on the edge of the wreck zone, beneath a sagging canvas tent strung between two broken carts and weighted with sandbags to keep it from blowing over. It was not a hospital. It was a windbreak with bloodstains.
There, Corporal Janice Colling worked with her sleeves rolled and no gloves—her hands soaked red to the wrists. The blood had dried into the creases of her palms. Her blouse was flecked with ash and dried salt. Her face was a porcelain mask pulled tight with purpose, pale but composed. Her lips were cracked from breathing too long through cloth.
She had no real tools.
Her scalpel was dull.Her last spool of clean suture thread was half gone.Her "anesthetic" was rum, and even that was running out.
She hadn't used morphine in over a day. The last ampoule had shattered during the retreat.
She whispered instructions to the two marines assisting her—barely older than she was, hands shaking too hard to stitch, but they could hold.
"Hold him here. Wrap the artery. If you let it roll back, I can't find it again."
They didn't understand what she meant, not really.
But they obeyed.
One of the wounded screamed—eyes rolled white, thigh opened to the bone, bone blackened from the blast.
Janice pressed a cloth soaked in lukewarm seawater to his brow and kept working. Needle in hand, she stitched with a rhythm that came from somewhere deeper than thought.
The man bucked. She pressed a knee to his chest.
No morphine. No ether. No chloroform. Just pressure and prayer.
She kept her tone level.
"Almost done. Almost... done."
It was a lie.He bled out thirty seconds later.
She didn't flinch.Didn't cry.Didn't pause.
She just closed his eyes and wiped the blade on her apron before moving to the next.
One had shrapnel in his face. She had no scalpel small enough, so she used a bayonet sterilized in fire.
Another's leg was gangrenous. There was no surgeon to amputate it. She used a saw.
No anesthetic.Just a belt for the man to bite down on.
He passed out after the second stroke.
She hadn't slept.
She hadn't eaten.
Her hands were raw from scrubbing between each patient with cold seawater and charcoal ash, trying to mimic sterilization. Her boots squelched with blood every time she shifted weight.
But she kept speaking to the wounded.Softly.Calmly.Kindly.
"You're not alone.""Penfold taught me this. She saved me once. Now I save you.""You're not going to die here. Not today."
She murmured old lines from Penfold's notebooks.
Sometimes she hummed.
A song Penfold had once taught her in a gas-lit kitchen in East London. A soft melody meant for tea, now repurposed for surgery under firelight.
That memory—her tiny hands bandaging a stuffed doll's arm while Penfold read from a leather-bound anatomy book—that was what kept her upright.
Not duty.
Not the Empire.
But that kitchen.
That voice.
That love.
Janice saw it from the ridge above the camp as she rinsed blood from her hands in a shallow tin basin filled with seawater.
The water had gone pink again.Too much blood. Not enough soap.She reached for the cloth, dipped it, and wrung it out with aching fingers.
She didn't look up at first—not when the scout's cry echoed over the surf, not when the men shouted about "another sign." She just scrubbed at her knuckles, her lips pressed tight, shoulders shaking from exertion but held still by will alone.
Then the murmurs reached her.
"The tide.""It's carved.""He's still out there.""He's mocking us."
She paused.
Set the cloth down on the edge of the basin.
Her boots shifted slightly in the ash-streaked dirt as she stood. She looked toward the water, but not at the wreckage. She looked inland.
The treeline.
The forest that had swallowed the first expedition.The woods that didn't rustle unless they wanted to.
Her brow furrowed—not with fear, but with something heavier.Sorrow. Anger.That quiet, sharp kind that doesn't scream—it just lingers, like a splinter beneath the skin.
She felt it rise—not just for the dead men, not just for the broken ones, but for Penfold.
Penfold, who had dreamed of planting gardens here.Penfold, who had read her the Old Testament and whispered, "Even in darkness, you can be a healer."
And now?
Janice had spent the last two hours cutting flesh with rusted tools, using whiskey as anesthetic, and praying no one would scream too loudly before they bled out.
She clenched her jaw and wiped her hands on the inside of her coat, her fingers still pink, nails ragged.
Her eyes drifted toward the woods again, narrowed.
The shadows were thick between the trees.
Still.
But not empty.
She knew it before she saw it.
Her breath caught—not from surprise, but from recognition.
There, just between two tree trunks, half-concealed by a tangle of low vines and shadow, stood a figure. Small. Still. Watching.
A face hidden behind bone and moss.
But the eyes—they were clear.
Not red. Not black. Not empty.
Just... blue.
Deep, oceanic, cold as arctic ice—but human.
Painfully human.
They stared at her across the distance.
Neither moved.
The wind held its breath.
Then the figure vanished—silent as a blink, like mist into branches.
Janice exhaled, slow and low.
She didn't scream.
She didn't call out.
She just looked down at her hands again—still shaking, still raw.
And whispered—
"Of course he is."
She looked back toward the sea, toward Redgrave's men crowding the tide line around the sign, rifles raised like it mattered.
But she wasn't looking for signs anymore.
Because she had already seen the only one that mattered.
And it was watching her.
---
Cliffs above Meighen Shore, Midday, Hours After the Ash Field
Cain knelt beside a scorched birch stump, half-hidden beneath a curtain of moss. His mask lay at his side, cracked and flaked with soot. One eye swollen. His breath shallow. Each inhale scraped against fractured ribs. His blood had dried into his collar. He hadn't tried to clean it.
Below him, the beach was chaos.
The Vanguard was gone. Only flame remained. A graveyard smoking beneath a gray sky.
Men in red coats and black smoke moved like ants across the ash—dragging corpses, screaming orders no one heard, calling for stretchers they didn't have. He could see the bandages from here—filthy, torn from shirtsleeves. He could see blood-streaked hands, soaked leggings, men too exhausted to weep.
They weren't reorganizing.
They were retreating.
Not in motion, but in spirit. Pulling back from something they couldn't name. Something that burned too close.
Cain could feel it—not just see it.
Their fear bled from them like a fog only he could taste. It pulsed outward, through moss and air and light. He felt it ripple through boots, helmets, torn flags. Felt the way their resolve bent like rotten wood under weight.
Their last ships were preparing to pull back. He heard it—boots on steel, oars scraping, the dull impact of loaded crates.
He could feel the officers hesitating—their words losing authority the moment they left their mouths.
The final stage was beginning.
And they didn't even know what they were fleeing from.
Cain should have smiled.
He should have laughed—he'd won, hadn't he?
But he didn't.
Because something inside him had changed.
It had started last night, on the ship, after he'd lit the boiler and watched the furnace breathe in the oil like it was hungry. When he'd stood at the helm, bleeding and alone, steering a burning corpse toward the shore.
It had crept in between the fire and the silence, like a sliver of doubt beneath the armor.
And this morning, when the air was still thick with ash and smoke, and the wounded lay stacked like old firewood—he had seen her.
Not from far.
He had crept close, just to watch.
Hidden behind a curl of driftwood and bramble, just beneath the ridge above the camp.
And there she was.
Janice.
She wasn't armed. She wasn't yelling. She wasn't dressed in authority.
She was kneeling over a body—one of the blind ones. Her hands stained red, sleeves rolled, her brow furrowed in concentration. She stitched by firelight and ash, whispering something he couldn't hear.
But he felt it.
Kindness. Not showy. Not loud. Just real.
When she stood, she looked up—toward the woods. Toward him.
He'd frozen.
Not because he feared being seen.
But because she didn't flinch.
Her eyes met his—those pale, glacial eyes—and they held him.
And then… she looked back down.
Not afraid.
Just tired.
Her face wouldn't leave him.
It echoed inside his skull louder than any order he'd ever heard.
Janice.
Not a soldier. Not a heretic. Just... human.
The Core inside him pulsed—a steady beat now, stronger with every hour.
Level 4.
It no longer just fed his strength.
It taught him.
Taught him to hear the space between words, the lies in tone, the truth behind the eyes.
He could feel hearts now. Hear the tempo of fear. Smell guilt on breath.
But when he listened to her—he heard neither.
No corruption.
No madness.
No Chaos.
Not even a whisper of taint in her soul.
Just weariness.
And light.
Dim. But pure.
He looked at the beach again.
At the wounded.
At the ones who cried out for mothers. The ones who whispered hymns. The ones who looked at crucifixes and saw shame, not faith.
They weren't loyal to the Imperium.
But they weren't evil.
Just wrong.
And not even that on purpose.
What if I was wrong?
What if the gate isn't holy?
He'd killed dozens—maybe more than a hundred.
He believed it would open the way.
That the blood would pull the stars apart and let him through.
But now?
There was no light.
No voice.
No gate.
Only silence.
And Cain knew that silence.
It was the same silence that filled the ship's chapel when the prayers stopped.
It was the silence of a man begging for command and getting none.
He closed his eyes.
Tried to pray again.
Tried to feel the Emperor's warmth.
But the Light only pulsed.
Cold. Mechanical.
No answer came.
He opened his eyes, blinked once, twice.
The moss shifted below him.
And somewhere, far down the ridge, soft footsteps moved between the leaves.
He turned toward the sound, just as a voice—calm, familiar—called softly into the green.
"I know you're watching."
Janice.
Cain's hand tightened on the hilt of his glaive—but he didn't move.
Not yet.
Janice stepped softly between the stones, moving slowly up the slope, boots crunching gently over burned moss and curled ash. Her long coat fluttered around her ankles. She carried no rifle. No knife. Only a battered leather satchel tied tight and slung over one shoulder.
Above her, Cain stood on the cliff's edge.
Watching.
Not moving.
Just watching.
His face was bare, skull mask dangling at his side. The wind pulled strands of his white-blonde hair across his brow. One side of his jaw was bruised, the skin split near the temple. Dried blood streaked the collar of his shirt.
But his eyes—those cold, glacial eyes—were alive.
And utterly still.
He didn't speak as she approached.
She raised a hand anyway.
"I know you're there," she said gently. "You don't have to hide."
Cain didn't hide.
He didn't answer either.
He tilted his head slightly, curious.
She came alone?
She had seen what he did. What he was. What he had become.
And she came anyway?
Fool.
He almost laughed.
Behind her, down the slope, the boats were leaving.
Small silhouettes of oars dipping, boots clambering up ramps, signal flags snapping in the wind. The surviving British forces were withdrawing, just as he had felt they would.
The last phase was beginning.
Soon the ships would turn.Then the guns would speak.The trees would fall.The cliffs would crack.
And this girl—this small, foolish, quiet girl—was just standing there, staring at him like he was something worth understanding.
"You're going to stay here?" he thought."With me?"
Amusement flickered behind his eyes.
"You'll die."
Still, Janice climbed. She reached the crest of the hill and stood maybe ten paces away from him now. She saw the wounds on his shoulder. The blood crusted on his ribs. The gauntness of someone who hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, but refused to fall.
She opened her mouth to speak—
And the sky broke open.
The first shell screamed overhead.
Then another.
And another.
Cain turned his head to the sea.
From the deck of the Resolute, the final bombardment had begun.
Explosions tore through the southern cliffs.
Smoke gushed upward in massive plumes.
A tree to their left detonated—split by shockwave and fire. Janice screamed, thrown backward down the slope.
Cain turned back.
The next shell hit closer.
He saw it before she did—saw the shimmer in the air, the displacement of wind, the concussive ripple coming for her like a tide of stone.
She tried to run.
She stumbled.
Cain moved without thinking.
One heartbeat.
He was sprinting.
His body screamed with pain—bruises, breaks, fire still in his ribs—but he moved like lightning cutting across a winter field.
He reached her as she scrambled to her feet.
She turned.
"Wh—what are you—"
She never finished.
He grabbed her under the arms, lifted her bodily into the air like she weighed nothing, and ran.
Another shell hit.The blast wave rolled through the trees.Flame bloomed behind them.
Janice screamed, kicking. Her hands pounded against his chest.
"LET ME GO—WHAT ARE YOU DOING—STOP—!"
Cain didn't speak.
He never spoke.
Not when he was confused.Not when he was angry.Not when he was afraid.
And he was all of those things now.
He carried her into the forest—through the moss, past the stones, down a hidden ridge path that curved sharply into the cliff face.
And there—half-hidden by overgrowth and burnt ferns—was a steel hatch, moss-greened and bone-wrapped.
He shoved it open with his shoulder.
And brought her into the cave.
Inside, the air was warm.Still.It smelled of metal, earth, ash, and old blood.
The Light Stone pulsed from deep within, its pale gold rhythm washing the walls in soft, sacred light. It was quiet in the cave, like the island was holding its breath.
Cain laid her gently onto the salvaged furs—carefully, as if he didn't trust himself to let go.
Then he staggered back.
His ribs flared with pain, and his breath caught in his throat, but he didn't cry out. He turned away, glaring at the wall like it had betrayed him. Like everything had.
Janice sat up slowly, still shaking, her voice caught somewhere between confusion and awe.
"You… you saved me."
He didn't answer.
She looked around—taking in the walls carved with strange runes, the makeshift shelves lined with tools and dried herbs, the folded banners, and in the far rear, the massive vein of glowing stone pulsing like a heart of light.
A fortress.
A tomb.
A sanctuary.
"This… is yours."
Cain closed his eyes.
His jaw clenched. His fists shook once, briefly.
Then, barely audible:
"I shouldn't have."
"What?"
He turned to her now. His face was open. Exhausted.
Broken.
"I killed your people."
She nodded.
Softly.
"You did."
"You tried to kill me."
"Yes."
Another silence stretched between them like a fault line.
Then she said what he feared most.
"But I saw your eyes."
She touched the cut on her cheek.
"And they weren't empty."
Cain looked at her—for a long moment.
Then, something shifted.
His shoulders sagged. His gaze dropped.
And he turned away.
Without a word, he knelt at the center of the cave and placed his palm against the moss-covered stone floor. The light stone pulsed brighter, sensing his call.
He exhaled.
Then gritted his teeth and pulled.
His Core glowed faintly beneath his skin as the stone resisted—then yielded.
With a grunt of effort, Cain ripped the Light Stone free, breaking its tether to the cave with a sharp flash of light and a low pulse that shook the walls.
He held it in both hands like a weight he no longer wanted to bear.
Then he stood.
Turned toward the mouth of the cave.
Janice rose behind him.
"What are you doing?"
Still, he didn't speak.
He limped forward.
"Where are you going?"
No answer.
She followed. Faster now.
"Wait!"
He stopped at the threshold, one hand on the rock.
"I can't stay here."
His voice was hollow now. Quiet. Frayed at the edges.
"I've been seen. My face. My cave. My Light. I can't kill you. And I won't kill more. Not for this."
He held up the Light Stone, its glow flickering weakly now.
"I thought I could go home. That if I just spilled enough blood, opened the right wound, something would reach through and take me back."
He looked to the sea beyond the cliffs.
"But I was wrong."
Janice stood behind him, still.
Watching him walk away felt like watching someone vanish.
But then—
Her hand moved.
Instinct.
She reached out and grabbed his hand.
Cain stopped.
Stiffened.
Turned slowly.
His expression unreadable.
"Don't," he said softly.
"I must find my banner again. I must find the eagle."
Janice blinked.
The words struck her oddly. Almost familiar.
"The eagle…?"
A memory clicked.
A lesson. A flag.
The way her tutor had spoken of Prussia. Of the old German Empire.
The black eagle on a white field.
"Wait…" she said. "Are you… are you German?"
Cain froze.
Completely.
The muscles in his jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to hers with sudden alertness.
"Germany," she repeated. "Is that where you're from? You're talking about Germany, right? The Empire?"
His lips parted slightly—but no words came.
Still, something lit in his eyes.
Hope.
Not joy.
Not relief.
But hope.
Small.
Trembling.
Dangerous.
"I… don't know," he whispered.
"But it sounds right."
Janice stepped forward now, both hands up.
"If you're lost… if you're trying to find your way home… then let me help you."
Cain looked at her.
Really looked.
And for the first time since he'd awakened on this island, the world stopped spinning.
In the cliffs below, nestled beneath an outcrop and covered in tarp and stone, lay a small canoe—meticulously prepared, loaded with rations, fur-lined coats, weapons, and tools. Cain had built it months ago, in case he ever needed to flee the island.
He never thought he'd share it.
But now—
He did.
They packed it in silence.
The wind carried smoke behind them.
And ahead?
South.
Down the coast of Greenland.
Toward something called Germany.
Toward a banner Cain didn't remember, but Janice did.