Only Skeletons Remain

Chapter 7: The Neon Graveyard

The next morning, Miguel met Lara by her tent, at sunrise, like she said. He stood almost aimlessly, waiting for Lara to slip out of her tent. He stared out at the Walstara Mountains. He then walked over to the extinguished campfire, and he bent down, picking up some dirt between his fingers. 

"Are you ready?" Lara asked, standing next to him.

Miguel slowly straightened up, and he nodded, despite the fear he felt coursing through him. "Yeah. I'm ready."

Lara nodded, and she rounded up the Bandito patrol, and soon, they were making their way towards the City of Neon Lights.

"We have to do this under the cover of night." Miguel said as the patrol walked over to him. "If we're caught, at best, it's execution, and I'm sure you know that."

"What's the worst scenario?" Lara asked.

Miguel's eyes darkened. "You don't want to know."

Miguel crouched low, his eyes scanning the distant silhouette of DEMA's towering neon skyline. The city's lights flickered ominously, casting a strange glow over the barrens that separated the Bandito Camp from the city of captivity. Behind him, the patrol—a few Banditos and Lara—waited for his signal. Tonight, they would slip past the city's defenses, a rescue mission to extract his mother and sisters before the High Council noticed his plan.

He checked the map once more, eyes lingering on the spot that marked the Neon Graveyard, then tucked it away, heart heavy with an unspoken weight. His eyes found the stone wall of DEMA. That wall held so many memories.

"Alright," Miguel whispered, turning to the others, "we move quick and silent. The Nightshriekers are on patrol tonight, so stick to the shadows. Our objective is the High Tower. We get them out, and we get out. No detours."

The Banditos nodded, faces set with determination, each one of them understanding the gravity of what lay ahead. They had to make it in and out before DEMA's bishops caught wind of their presence.

The group moved like wraiths through the darkened streets, keeping low and close to the walls. Miguel's heart pounded with each step, his thoughts racing. The memory of his father's final moments replayed in his mind—his sacrifice that allowed Miguel to escape DEMA. But it was not time to think of that. Not now.

They reached a narrow alley near the High Tower. The streets were empty, unnaturally quiet. As they rounded the corner, Miguel spotted the flicker of movement near the entrance to the Neon Graveyard. His breath caught in his throat.

He froze, hand lifting to stop the patrol.

"What's the hold-up?" a Bandito whispered behind him.

Miguel didn't answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the crumbling archway that led into the graveyard. It wasn't on their route, but something inside him tugged at his soul, pulling him toward it.

"My father... I never found his grave," Miguel murmured, barely audible. "I need to see it."

A Bandito stepped forward. "We don't have time, Miguel. The longer we stay here, the more likely we'll get caught."

Miguel's jaw tightened. "I know." His voice was low but resolute. "But I need to. I'll be quick. Go on without me—I'll catch up."

The others hesitated, but the unspoken weight of his decision held them in place. Miguel shot one last glance at the patrol before slipping away, disappearing into the cold blue light of the Neon Graveyard.

The graveyard was an eerie, silent place, filled with rows of crumbled tombstones, half-swallowed by neon vines that pulsed with light. Miguel's footsteps echoed on the cracked earth as he walked, eyes scanning the names etched into the stone. His heart sank further with every name that wasn't his father's.

And then, there it was—a gravestone, barely standing, weathered and old. His father's name was carved into the stone.

Dante Alvaréz.

Miguel's breath hitched, his hand trembling as he knelt by the grave. He pressed his palm against the cold stone, the memories rushing back—the last time he saw his father, the look in his eyes as he told Miguel to run, to leave DEMA, to never look back.

He swallowed hard, forcing the tears down. "I'm so sorry I forgot you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "But I'm not leaving them behind this time. I'll save them, and I'll take you with me... somehow."

As he knelt there, a strange sensation washed over him, like the very air was shifting. A soft whisper rode the wind, faint but unmistakable.

'Get out, Clancy...'

Miguel's eyes widened as he recognized the voice. His father's. "Papá...?" He whispered. He wiped away a stray tear that fell down his cheek.

The whispers grew louder, a chorus of voices that seemed to rise from the graves around him, pressing against his mind. Unbeknownst to him, his eyes were beginning to glow green. An ancient magic was beginning to stir inside of Miguel.

'Go! They're coming!'

Miguel jerked to his feet, drawing his weapon as shadows began to stir in the mist. Nightshriekers. Their skeletal forms twisted through the neon-lit fog, and their piercing cries filled the air. Among them, he heard familiar voices. The Niners.

"Dammit," Miguel muttered under his breath, eyes darting around for an escape. He was out of time.

Suddenly, a loud crack split the night as one of the Banditos came rushing in from the shadows. "Miguel, we have to move!"

Miguel nodded, stealing one last glance at his father's grave. "I'm coming back for you." He whispered the promise, then bolted toward the rest of his patrol, sprinting into the darkness.

The time for mourning was over. Now, it was time to fight—and save his family.

The night was alive with the clash of metal and the hum of neon. The Artisan District was now a battlefield as the Bandito patrol fought against the Niners. Dust and sparks flew as weapons collided, cries of battle mingling with the shrill wails of the Nightshrieker patrols overhead.

Miguel fought at the front, his twin daggers slicing through the air with deadly precision. Every step was calculated, every strike purposeful. But they were outnumbered, and the Niners were relentless.

Behind him, the Banditos fought fiercely, their bodies moving as one cohesive unit against the overwhelming force. Lara was somewhere in the fray, her arrows whistling through the air, cutting down enemies before they could even see her. Yips from the Banditos echoed through the air. 

"We hold them here!" Miguel shouted over the chaos, slashing at Listo, who dodged it skillfully. "Push them back toward the ridge! Lara, cover our right!"

An arrow zipped past him, embedding itself in Lisden's chest, who snarled and staggered backwards. Lara gave a quick nod from her position atop a nearby rock, her bowstring taut and ready.

But despite their efforts, the bishops surged forward, pressing the Banditos into a tighter formation. Miguel felt the tide turning, their chances of holding the line slipping away. He couldn't let them win. He knew the consequences if he was caught.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his side. He gasped, stumbling back as Reisdro's claws slashed across his ribs. He tried to recover, but Keons was on him in an instant, driving him to the ground with a heavy blow to the head before coiling around him. Keons began to drag him away, like a snake pulling its prey away.

"Miguel!" Lara's voice cut through the chaos, but he was already fading, the world spinning as the pain radiated through his body. He tried to rise, but strong hands grabbed him, dragging him backward into the shadows.

Everything went dark.