Only Skeletons Remain

Chapter 22: The Nightmare

Miguel jolted awake, his breath catching in his throat. But he wasn't in the Bandito camp. He was somewhere else—somewhere far darker.

The air was thick with the smell of burning metal, acrid and suffocating. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows against the cracked walls of the streets. He recognized the architecture immediately—it was DEMA. But something was wrong, twisted. The sky above wasn't the familiar black canvas of night. Instead, it glowed a sickly orange, choked by clouds of smoke and ash.

Screams pierced the air—inhuman, tortured sounds of agony and rage. The ground beneath Miguel trembled, and he stumbled, trying to find his footing. He could see them now: the Bishops, towering over the wreckage, twisted forms of power and control. Nico's stag antlers gleamed, dripping with molten gold; Sacarver's wolfish maw snapped at anything that dared approach. The other Bishops were there too, each more terrifying than the last.

But in the distance, there was movement—figures charging toward the Bishops. The Ancestors.

The clash of the Ancestors and the Bishops echoed through the streets, a war of godlike forces. Runeheart, with his massive form, locked in brutal combat with Sacarver. Aegishorn's stag antlers clashed against Nico's twisted form, their battle sending shockwaves through the crumbling city. Starling's massive moss-covered wings beat against the air, creating gusts that sent debris flying. Trua lashed out from the waters that had risen through the streets, dragging Bishops into the depths.

And then he saw his father.

Dante stood at the edge of the battlefield, his face pale and eyes wide with terror. He was younger, his features unscarred by time and war, but the fear was unmistakable. His voice, however, was eerily calm, cutting through the chaos as he called out to Miguel.

"Run!" his father shouted, his voice strained, as though the weight of everything was crushing him. "Run, Clancy, before it's too late!"

Miguel froze, staring at his father's pleading expression. But the ground beneath him cracked, a chasm splitting the earth, pulling him back toward DEMA's heart—the tower. It rose impossibly high, the source of the city's control and power, but now it was crumbling, its neon lights flickering like dying stars.

He tried to move, to escape, but his legs felt like lead. Every time he turned, a new horror blocked his way. Nico's antlers were dripping with blood now, and Sacarver's eyes gleamed with hunger. The Ancestors fought valiantly, but the Bishops were relentless, their control suffocating.

His father's voice came again, more desperate this time. "Run! You have to leave! They'll take everything from you!"

But it was too late.

The ground gave way entirely, and Miguel fell into the chasm, darkness swallowing him whole. As he plummeted, he could hear the faint, desperate echoes of his father—pleading for him to escape, to run before the war consumed him too.

The last thing he saw before the darkness overtook him was Loki's burning eyes, watching, waiting.

Miguel awoke with a jolt, his chest heaving. He looked around the tent he was in, grateful to be back in the land of the living. He pushed out of his tent, walking down to the river. He washed his face in the cool water, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding. He had gotten a glimpse of a war he had only heard stories about. Centuries before him. 

"Miguel?" Lara's voice came up from behind him, and Miguel turned to face her.

"Lara, why are you awake?" Miguel asked, walking towards her. He gently cupped her face, his fingers trembling against her skin. She was real. He wasn't in that sick battlefield.