Footsteps echoed down the broken streets, crunching over dust and debris. The settlers moved as one, drawn toward the sleeping giant that had ruled their lives. They walked slow, steps unsure, like each inch closer made the air heavier.
They stopped when the worm came into view.
Its body stretched across the clearing, motionless, its armored hide rising like hills of scarred stone. Some settlers stood frozen, gazes fixed. Others stepped forward, words slipping out like breath.
"So this is what it really looks like…"
A man reached out, fingers brushing a long scar on its side.
Nearby, a woman clutched her shawl close, knuckles pale.
"It took my daughter."
No one replied.
Then a laugh cracked the silence—bitter and sharp.
"And without it, we'd all be dead. The only reason this settlement survived was because of them. The ones we gave up."
A rough voice answered.
"That wasn't survival. That was slaughter. Drugging them, leading them right to its maw—"
"Don't."
Another man stepped forward, eyes hollow. His voice broke just above silence.
"I still hear my son's screams."
A younger settler clenched their fists.
"So what now? It's just asleep? How long before it wakes up hungry again?"
The quiet that followed pressed in on all sides.
Then a voice rose, calm but sharp, like a knife pulled slow from its sheath.
"Maybe we should kill it."
The words hit like a spark to dry grass. A few stepped back. Others didn't move.
"Kill it?"
An older woman stepped forward, her voice cracked and raw.
"And what happens when the lower ones come? Do you think they stay away because of us?"
She pointed at the creature, her finger trembling.
"This is what keeps them back. If it dies, we die."
The tension twisted tighter, drawn across every face, every breath.
Mark stepped into the open.
"Enough."
One word, but it carried weight. It stopped them all.
He stood tall, the lines of his face cut deep by time and loss. His voice didn't shake.
"I know what this thing has taken from us. Every one of us has lost someone. Every one of us has bled for this place."
He turned to the worm, his jaw set hard.
"But fighting each other won't change that."
He faced them again, voice cold but sure.
"We have a plan. A way out. But if we're going to survive, we do this together. No more sacrifices. No more waiting for death. We leave—before it wakes up and decides we're not worth keeping anymore."
No one moved. Mark's words still hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
Then he let out a breath and turned to Max.
"What do we do?"
Max didn't flinch.
"We're building a stone cart—big enough to drag the worm through Sandworm Valley."
A wave of shifting feet followed, eyes flicking between one another.
"A cart? For that thing?"
Someone scoffed, it sounded rough.
Max kept going, gaze locked on the group.
"How many Stage 3 earth users do we have?"
Mark dragged a hand through his beard, brow furrowed.
"Twenty-four. We lost alot. They've been holding this place up—patching walls, holding tunnels, fixing what the attacks tear down. We wouldn't still be here without them."
"Good," Max said.
"We'll need every one of them. They'll shape the path, keep the ground firm while we move the worm. If we start now and keep moving, we'll be gone before it wakes."
More voices rose. Low murmurs, rising and falling like wind against broken stone. Doubt curled through the crowd, thin but steady.
A woman stepped forward. Her face was lined, eyes sunken from too many sleepless nights.
"And if it wakes up while we're moving it?"
Her hands fidgeted with the ends of her sleeves, twisting the fabric.
Max met her stare.
"We're going to put it back to sleep—with the Nightveil Drought."
Silence stretched between them. Heavy. Unspoken fears pressing against their ribs.
Near the edge of the group, a tall man rolled his shoulders. His arms were crusted in dust and old cuts, veins thick with strain.
"We've lived under this thing's shadow. Given it our own. And now we carry it like royalty?"
His laugh held no joy.
"Feels like a bad joke."
Mark stepped forward, voice hard.
"You have a better idea?"
The man opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Max didn't wait.
"Once we're past the valley, my brother kael will kill it. But until then, it stays alive—its presence is the only thing keeping the lower ones back."
The settlers glanced at one another. Doubt lingered in their eyes, clashing with something harder to name.
Mark gave them a breath, then stepped forward. His voice rose above the ruin around them.
"We've been waiting for salvation that was never coming. This is the only way out. Either we move—or we die here, buried in what's left."
Stillness.
Then heads lowered. Hands curled into fists. The silence broke—not with noise, but with decision.
Max caught the shift. Slow. Heavy. But real.
He gave a single nod.
"Then let's get to work."
————
They moved through what remained like ghosts in their own home. Tired limbs dragged packs behind them. Dirt-streaked faces passed cracked walls and burned-out posts. The weight of loss hung over their shoulders, pressing them into the dust.
They took only what mattered—dried food, water, scraps of metal, a few tools. Every item they touched seemed to carry a memory, and every memory was another cut they didn't have time to bleed.
Ash stopped near the edge of the street. A man crouched beside a broken doorway, staring at something in the dirt. Ash saw it—a carved toy, splintered down the middle. The man didn't speak. He picked it up with both hands, then tucked it away with a nod like he was closing a chapter. Then he stood and walked.
They were all doing it.
Leaving everything behind.
Kael stepped up beside him, arms crossed, his face shadowed by his hood.
"You think this is gonna work?"
Ash's grip tightened around his blade. The handle felt heavier than usual.
"It has to."
Across the square, Max moved like a fire through dry grass. Orders rolled off his tongue, sharp and fast. He split the settlers into groups. Directed the stronger ones to help load supplies. Sent the younger ones to dig out anything buried that could be of use. His eyes missed nothing. If anyone hesitated, he moved to them—silent, but there. They listened.
Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was hope. But they moved.
Mark approached, his face carved with years of survival. His voice was steady, but the tension underneath was palpable.
"We're ready."
Max turned, scanning the group one last time. The lines on his face didn't ease.
"Good. Then let's move."
Suddenly—
A deep groan rolled through the valley, low and guttural. The ground trembled.
Ash snapped toward the sound.
"The worm."
It hadn't moved. Its bulk lay draped across the ruins like a fallen cliff. But the sound—deep and raw—tightened every chest in the crowd. A child clung to his mother, his face buried at her side.
Max's jaw locked.
"We're out of time."