Archive of Our Own

Wind whistles against his ears as Couriway shoots off another rocket, hardened elytra open on his back sending him soaring up into the clouds. The cold wet engulfs him for but a moment before he breaks through the uppermost layer of clouds into the frigid brightness of the atmosphere. The warmth of the sun against his back isn’t enough to drive away the chill of being so high, but it’s comforting in its own way. He leans forward to dive back towards the cloud layer, stomach falling in tandem with the rising of his heart.

It’s rare to get a moment to breathe in his profession, and rarer still to have the time and resources to take a flight. Far-Rangers with elytra are few and far between, but it seems like there’s always another Structure appearing that requires them. Never an End City with a ship, of course, because it seems like the universe just doesn’t want to give the Rangers any more elytra. But shipless End Cities are becoming more and more common, and if it’s not those its other Structures appearing with inconvenient entrances.

He’s just come from a Fortress looming large over the landscape, its entrance seventy feet up in the air. Any elyta-less Ranger who tried clearing that would quickly find themselves plummeting to their deaths upon leaving the entrance.

But he’d coasted safely down as the Structure vanished behind him, which the mayor of the little hamlet unfortunate enough to have the Fortress appear smack-dab in the town square had been quite grateful for. Lucky for them he’d been nearby when the broadcast came through. Less lucky for him, because he’s ostensibly been on leave. But no rest for the weary.

He pulls up and over into a wide backwards loop in the sky. One hand stretches out to brush through the cloud layer once he’s back right-side up. It’s hard to be annoyed about extra work when his elytra lets him do this. Problems exist on the ground; the sky is worry-free.

One more rocket sends him off into a tight corkscrew. The last one he can spare, unfortunately, so he spins through a few more loops before bracing himself and diving back towards the ground. He hits the cloud layer and his world narrows to cold wet dark mistbefore bursting out the other side.

After that, conscious of the possibility of curious eyes watching from below, he levels out into a steady glide to lose the speed and coast safely to the ground. And sure enough, he’s over farmland: a few farmers working the fields have stopped to stare upwards in awe. He can’t be giving them the impression Far-Rangers are impulsive daredevils instead of steady, dignified problem-solvers, no matter how many of them are in actuality the former far more than the latter.

The moment he touches down, his elytra softens to drape in loose folds over his back. To the unaware, it’s simply a dull golden cloak. It’ll harden once he straightens it back out and lets it catch the wind, but for now the unassuming form is ideal. And much more comfortable to walk with.

He’s touched down just off a beaten dirt road. On the non-ditch side, of course, because he values dry boots. After the rain the other day, puddles fill the cart tracks worn into the road. But the dead-center is relatively dry, so that’s where Couriway walks. From the air he’d seen a small village in the distance; hopefully they have an inn or something. He’s not quite ready to go back to sleeping rough.

Scrubby trees intermittently line the road, separated by rough grass and rougher underbrush. This part of the Wilds is close enough to the Capital that the wildness only creeps in, it doesn’t overwhelm the well-organized crop fields. Practically civilized when compared to the desert that sprawls further east, or the jagged mountains piercing the sky to the north.

But the sun is shining, the wind softly rustles his hair and swirls leaves in little eddies under his feet, and Couriway tilts his face back and breathes.

Sudden beeping interrupts his peace. His radio, clipped to and bouncing against the outside of his pack. It’s the three-tone, tri-pitched alert that signals an urgent incoming message from HQ, and his heart skips a beat. A general alert. Notice for all available Rangers to stop and pay attention, because there’s an emergency. The last time Couriway heard this alert, it had been the Trial Chamber that had spawned two years ago that required an entire contingent of Rangers to clear.

The general channel is already full of chatter.

"… is it?"

“-even at this distance, I’ve never seen anything-"

"Pillars! It’s Pillars, it looks like Pillars, but, no, there’s something else-"

“-energy readings off the fucking charts, I mean- Cub, shut that sensor off, it can’t read anything this high-"

"Rek, back up!"

"... comms, clear the comms, people-"

With so many overlapping voices, the radio is functionally useless. Someone will restore order eventually, so Couriway pauses his walking and leans against a tree, mind whirling. He’d heard someone mention Pillars. Incredibly rare; even he’s never had a chance to see one in person. He’s… not sure he knows anyone who has, actually.

The three-tone alert sounds again, and this time when Couriway turns the volume back up, the channel is clear. The wind blows through again, dragging a chill down his spine. The leaves overhead shift, and a sunbeam strikes directly into his eyes.

"… general alert for all Rangers, especially those within a day’s travel of the Capital or any flyers within a day’s flight." It’s Hbomb’s voice, concerningly missing the levity normally present. He must be the ranking figure at HQ today. “A Pillars has spawned along the banks of the Jens River near the village of Steckholm, about a day from the Capital. In addition to the normal features of this Structure, there’s also- We-” his voice breaks off and the radio falls silent for a second. “We’re combing the historical records for any information about Pillars, or something to explain the- Nevermind. Doc’s got some thoughts on that, but for now we don’t know much."

Sudden foresight strikes Couriway, excitement and anxiety rising in equal measure. Facing a new Structure is like a dream come true for any Ranger worth their salt. Gloryhounds and daredevils, the lot of them. High risk, high reward.

Hbomb continues. “For now, orders are as follows: Any Ranger within a day's travel of the Capital, or anyone with an elytra within a day's flight, make your way towards either the Capital or Steckholm. Top priority is containing the boss mob that spawned. Anyone not confident in their ability to do that, we’ll also need evac on the civilians in the surrounding areas, and to start establishing supply and aid lines from the Capital."

Another voice breaks in, female and lilted. Couriway’s favorite comm officer, False. “It might not be a bad idea to get a few field Rangers in here to HQ to help with research and logistics efforts."

“Right, yeah, good call False-” Sudden beeping drowns out Hbomb, before abruptly cutting off. “Yeesh! Impulse, manage your machines! Sorry folks. But that’s everything we know at the moment. This channel will remain general information, with this message broadcasting on repeat until we know more. We’ll send out another alert when things change, but for now you have your orders. Use the other long-range channels for general coordination, and save the chatter for the short-range bands. HQ out."

Couriway’s been to Steckhelm, once. About a year ago, passing through on his way further east to hunt down a tricky Mineshaft. It’s a quaint little fishing village on the banks of the Jens, with quiet people living quiet lives. The mental calculations are quick. He’s well within range of HQ’s response range, despite being on the opposite side of the Capital from Steckhelm with two remaining rockets.

He jets straight up into the sky, elytra easily hardening against his back. One rocket left. When his upward momentum falters, he levels off, angling slightly down to keep some speed. Afternoon sun to his left, he glides north north-east, in what his mental math tells him should get him close enough to Steckhelm to spot the mysterious Structure.

He leaves the radio volume turned up, loud enough to be heard over the whistling wind in his ears. True to Hbomb’s words, HQ’s channel keeps up a steady repeat of that initial broadcast. No change. At one point, Couriway contorts himself enough to grab the radio while keeping his flight path flat and sets the device to pick up the nearest short-range band.

It’s all faint, garbled chatter, unfortunately. The radio cycles through the channels it can, but nothing comes through clear except for Hbomb on the general long-range. He gets snatches, words and phrases and curses. Typical Ranger fare.

Below, one dark bend of the Asa River undulates like a great snake, so he leans into the wind and curves more north. He’s making good time, but it could be better. An explosion of red reflects off the gathering clouds just overhead as he sparks his last rocket and shoots up.

There’s no sun to warm his back once he’s through the cloud layer, just higher, darker clouds casting the world into gray liminality. But- there.

The mysterious Structure, though still a ways in the distance, is stark black against dull gray clouds. It’s tall, Couriway realizes with growing dread, to be visible this high. He closes the distance and slowly details emerge.

The initial panicked chatter immediately following the radio alert had been right. It looks like a Pillars; or at least, like the images he’s seen in old reports. Pitch-black, impenetrable stone towers stab through the sky like stitches through a wound. There’s ten, he knows, despite the distance. Ten towers in a Structure so rare as to be considered barely more than a myth.

He draws closer. The sky grows darker, and sudden gusts of wind threaten to send him careening off course, but Couriway is too experienced a flyer to let some silly wind blow him around. He hopes it’s less intense closer to the ground, however. The kind of storm that’s brewing is one that sends Rangers with new elytra spinning to their deaths if they aren’t prepared.

He banks to circle outside the Structure. Close enough now to spot strange crystals bobbing gently atop the towers, bright like miniature suns. Inside the ring of towers, there are no clouds, but outside they hang thick like cotton. On the ground inside the Structure is bare and empty, save a faint spot of gray-black in the very center of the ring. He doesn’t see or hear any other Rangers.

He dives closer, and there’s a strange sensation, almost like passing through a bubble, as he breaches the perimeter of the dark stone ring. But it’s there and gone again, fleeting, almost like an imagined sensation. Nothing visibly changes, though the blustering winds have vanished.

The risk seems worth the reward. Couriway lands atop the closest tower, carefully avoiding the angrily-pulsing crystal at the center. It dances atop a small raised slab. It’s hot, he realizes abruptly, a dry heat that bakes the ever-present cloud-moisture from his clothes even at a distance. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the steam emanating off him. A small relief, to be comfortable.

He tries the radio, a short-range channel first. “Hey, anyone here? This is Ranger Couriway, I’m atop one of the towers of the Pillars. What’s the situation?”

No response but the crackle of the radio.

Repeating his message across all the local channels yields no response. There’s no way he’s the first person here. That initial response to the alert made it seem like a handful of Rangers were already on site. There’s only so many radio channels, there’s no way they haven’t heard him.

He tries a long-range channel next, the ones tuned to repeaters scattered across the kingdom to make sure Far-Rangers can always get a hold of someone in the Capital. “HQ? Hello? This is Ranger Couriway, I’m atop the Pillars Structure near Steckhelm, awaiting guidance. What’s the plan with this thing?”

The radio is silent. He waits a moment, then right as he’s pressing the button to try again it crackles. “-way? Cour- ...in plea- rep-” before it cuts off again. With all the interference, the voice is unidentifiable.

“HQ? Yeah, this is Couriway.” His relief mingles with the sudden dry scratchiness of his throat, and he coughs to clear it. “You’re breaking up something awful, can you repeat what you just said?”

More silence, then the garbled static of a voice not transmitting fully. “-port, there’s int- ...ence... can’t get any- goddamn- ...eadings! -away… increasing!"

“Wait, what’s increasing?” The air feels charged, dancing against his skin like electricity. The crystal hums. “HQ, what’s going on?”

The radio says nothing, so Couriway eyes the crystal. Generally, things that stand out in Structures are meant to be broken. The humming increases in pitch, and the pressure pushes against his shoulders, like something is trying to push him to the ground.

Then faint, rhythmic booms echo through the air, like the wingbeats of some great bird. They’re getting louder. Soon enough, the sound echoes loud like thunder, close enough to shake even the dark towers under his feet. Then it all goes silent.

Something glides through the clouds. Something huge and dark and silent. The faint dread lying quietly in Couriway’s stomach, silent since all that chatter over the radio, rises up with a vengeance. That shadow was… big.

When he raises his radio to speak, his voice comes out an unintentional whisper. “HQ, this is Couriway. There’s something else here. Something-”

Another thunderous wingbeat shakes the air loud enough to drown out any response. The dark shape glides past again, still obscured by clouds. All Couriway can do is freeze in abject animal terror. Whatever is circling the Pillars, it’s larger than anything he’s seen before.

The fear sinks deeper into his bones. Some distant, logical part of his brain, the part that’s pure experienced Far-Ranger, is screaming at him to move, take off into the air and use his smaller size to evade and examine the creature, collect information to get back to HQ so they can put together a plan. It’s unlikely he can take this thing on his own.

Another wingbeat, closer this time, knocks his knees to the hard stone and his thoughts out of his head. He needs- needs to see what he’s up against, what it is that’s circling the Pillars-

And the thing is. He’s no stranger to monstrous creatures in Structures. Few Rangers survive their first desperate dance with a Warden deep within an Ancient City without being specially trained for it, let alone survive three times over. But even the Warden’s oppressive presence is nothing compared to this. The Warden is calm until agitated. This creature circles the sky like a shark in the water circles a bleeding animal.

Couriway isn’t used to feeling like prey.

Somehow it ends before it even begins. Once more great wings thunder through the sky, this time close enough that he gets a glance at void-black scales and a single, malevolent purple eye as the clouds are blown back. Then it’s rushing towards him with an echoing roar, and the last thing he sees is a gaping fanged maw before he knows no more.

Couriway jolts up with a cry, heart beating out of his chest as he struggles against whatever he’s tangled in. Blankets, he realizes abruptly as he takes deep, heaving breaths. His blankets, soft and gray and tangled up in his limbs in intricate knots. He’s in his bedroll, laying on soft grass. Above him, tree branches sway leisurely in the light breeze, casting dappled shadows over his lap.

He… recognizes this area? Maybe? He’s at the edge of a forest. Several yards to the left is a beaten path that winds through gently-rolling hills of yellow grass off into the distance. He’d woken up here yesterday, he thinks, then gone to dispel the Fortress that materialized in the center of a small town. Then that radio alert, he’d flown north to chase word of a mysterious Structure-

Thunder and rage, circling in the sky, then a purple eye in the clouds, an endless gaping maw filled with teeth-

Couriway clutches a hand to his throat desperately. His pulse beats, fast as a rabbit, but present. He’s alive, he’s not dead, no matter what his mind and memories earnestly believe. That was yesterday, but he’s here, not there or nowhere, here on firm ground with memories that don’t fit and skin clear of new injuries.

His heartbeat slows as he breathes deep. A dream, he decides, half-hysterical and calming down fast. Vivid and almost-real, but not. There’s nothing else it could be. He’s not one for dreams, usually, but there are exceptions to everything.

Whatever he’d seen wasn’t real. He’s heading due east, to catch up with Far-Ranger friends on the border of the great desert for his mandatory leave. A quick glance in his pack shows seven rockets: six his standard requisition, the last his attempt at crafting his own. He’d used all seven, over the course of the dream.

Slowly, his terror and confusion fades under the morning sun. Fades, or is actively pushed to the side.

It’s just after he finishes demolishing breakfast that one of the local radio channels spits out news of a Fortress spawning. That happened in the dream too, he muses, quickly finishing the last of his meal. But Fortresses are common, so it’s just coincidence that he’d dreamed one and one appears in real life as well.

He radios back saying he’ll take it, and gets the confirmation. A gut feeling has him leaving his rockets stashed and his elytra soft, so he takes the road. The name of the village sounds familiar and his brain says it’s not far. He’s quickly proven correct.

The Fortress is visible long before the village. A monstrous structure of dark red brick, its bridges and boxy, covered halls twist through the sky like some great maze. Many Structures are labyrinthine in nature; Fortresses are easier than most since part of their tangles remain uncovered. It makes them good training Structures for new Rangers.

Not this one, though. The actual meat of the Structure is suspended far, far above the ground, on sturdy, stick-like legs of brick. Directly underneath is the small village that reported the spawning. Surrounded as it is by more flat farmland, there’s no easy way to scale the Structure.

So that’s why he only had two rockets, near the end of the dream. Couriway shakes that thought away immediately. Just a dream. No matter how true it’s proving to be.

Normally, he’d stop in at the village first. There’s no danger to them with the Fortress so high in the sky, but keeping locals abreast of what’s being done about Structures near them is always good practice. Keeps them from getting in his way. Not applicable, in this situation, and he doesn’t feel mentally prepared for conversations with frightened villagers right now.

One rocket sparks, and he’s soaring into the sky. The Fortress is high enough he actually needs a second one to clear the lower levels and glide above the open bridge section. Standard practice is to locate the two outer spawners and break them first before diving into the covered halls in search of the third. Lessens the number of mobs that might chase him into a dead-end.

From his vantage point, he immediately spies one blaze spawner. A raised structure surrounded by fences, with the ominous metal spawner resting right in the middle. Two blazes have already appeared, summoned once he breached some invisible border, and the living columns of fire orbit the spawner lazily. He banks, scanning for the second spawner, and sees it off towards one edge of the bridges. Practically the other side of the Fortress.

Since he’s close enough to activate one of the spawners, he heads there first. His bow is still unstrung on his back (he’ll fix that when he lands and has a moment of peace), so he unsheathes the short sword on his belt and dives.

Predictably, the blazes both launch fireballs the moment he locks eyes with them. In the air they’re easy enough to dodge, but once he lands he could be in trouble. And after the dream last night, the confusion of this morning, he’s forgotten to find something to use as a shield.

It’s no problem now, the blazes go down to a few hits of his trusty blade. The spawner, too, crumbles after several seconds of whacking at it.

But it’s never just blazes in a Fortress. Not seconds after the spawner breaks, a familiar ominous rattling tickles his ears. And sure enough, he spins to see an ash-covered figure shambling his way. A wither skeleton, carrying a black sword and malice in its death-dark eyes.

Couriway’s never gotten a solid answer on what exactly skeletons are. He’d asked one of the older Rangers when he’d still been wet behind the ears, if the skeletons in Structures were real people. She’d just laughed and given no answer. He’d then asked Geosquare when they’d shared a room in the Capital one night, and the other Ranger had hummed consideringly. “As real as any Structure,” they’d said, and then they rolled over in bed before Couriway could ask any more questions.

Real enough to kill, that Couriway knew for sure. Plenty of Far-Rangers, new and experienced alike, died to skeletons. Plenty more to wither skeletons, whose very touch decayed flesh and armor alike. Thank luck and fortune they rarely left Structures, and never appeared on their own.

This wither skeleton goes down easily. Experience has him blocking the first clumsy swing with his own sword, then counter-attacking on the backswing. Dodges the grasping, skeletal hands, then slices down again. Avoids the ashy bones that clatter to the ground in a haphazard pile, decay still clinging to them.

Pushes aside the thoughts that whisper you’ve done this before.

Couriway’s feet unerringly lead him to the second spawner. The open bridges of this section of the Fortress can be a maze of twisting paths that dead-end with drops off the side of the Structure, or worse, dead-ends with hostile creatures behind you. Instinct (knowledge?) has him hopping from one bridge to another, ducking around crossroads and at one point scaling the warm nether bricks to a higher section of bridge. Somehow, he knows the way.

His path is not uncontested. The zombie piglins, as always, gaze sightlessly past him and grunt seemingly to themselves. They’re never a threat unless someone's stupid enough to attack one. Wither skeletons clack threateningly at him, but few bother to give chase. Those that do are swiftly dispatched. An arrow from a regular skeleton slices his sleeve, but its aim is atrocious and its movements predictable. It gets destroyed just like its withered cousins.

Three blazes orbit the second spawner. He regrets, once again, that he failed to bring a shield with him.

One is unlucky enough to float towards him, whispering and hissing like the crackle of a campfire. It shoots fire and misses, and then drifts into range of his sword. One down.

The other two keep their distance. The spawner between them hums, and from the sparks that jump from the iron Couriway knows it’s active. More blazes will appear if he doesn’t move quick enough.

No time for hesitation, then. He sprints forward, feels his elytra ripple from soft to hard and back to soft with the speed, but doesn’t chance a glide here. With everything still familiar-unfamiliar, he won’t risk soaring straight off the side of the bridges in pursuit of a landing space that isn’t there. Fire whistles through the air above and around him.

He pivots when he’s closer, ducking to the side and approaching the first blaze from the side. It still rotates to face him, but not quick enough to get off another attack. His hand burns when his swing goes too deep into the fiery column, but the blaze vanishes and there’s just one more.

It floats higher, not quite out of reach but getting there. Couriway readies himself to jump, reaches out for the dark fences surrounding the platform for some extra life, and then the spawner pops.

Two more blazes appear. The first, practically on his elbow, burns a hole in his shirt and forces him to adjust his trajectory. “Crap!” he hisses, then uses his grip on the fence to spin himself away before he loses any more skin.

Then he’s suddenly within range of the second, the blaze spinning in place with something that a kinder man might call curiosity. Two hasty sword swings and it vanishes. No time to dwell.

The blaze in the sky is still there, and it chooses this moment to spit three more fireballs down towards him. He throws himself into a roll to dodge. After a quick scramble back to standing, the third blaze goes down in two more swings. The blaze in the sky floats higher, officially out of reach.

He leaves it. Unwise, yes, but the third spawner is inside the covered section of the Fortress. Betting that the blaze won’t follow, Couriway breaks the spawner with a few hasty swings and then books it.

Speed is always best when working through any Structure. Creatures appear endlessly as long as the Structure stands, especially with intact spawners. More time means more mobs, and more opportunities to let your guard slip and pay the price for it. Rangers learn quickly to move quickly.

He’s spared any more wither skeletons during his sprint to the body of the Fortress. Two regular skeletons get pushed off the bridges to die on the distant ground. A cluster of zombie piglins force him to slow his pace and slide past them, in case pushing through the group triggers them to attack. No fireballs meet his unprotected back or whizz by, so clearly the final blaze lost interest.

Once inside the covered section, Couriway slows again. Hallways twist and wind in mazes of dark brick, peeks of blue sky and gray clouds the only lighting. Creatures could be hiding around any of these corners. But so could the final spawner.

Normally he goes right first, or checks the beginnings of each option and evaluates from there. But instinct clicks in and strangely sends him down the leftmost hallway. He doesn’t fight it. Two turns later when he rounds another corner, he finds himself already moving towards the concealed chest in the corner. Drawn like a magnet, even though he knows he couldn’t see it from where he entered.

There’s nothing of worth inside, bulbous red netherwart and two grimy gold ingots. The lid slams shut and he’s off again.

Halfway down another hallway instincts suddenly scream and he pivots sharply, squeezing through a partially-covered opening into a new hallway. And when he gets to the end and hears the telltale crackle-pop of a spawner, he knows why.

“How in the world-” but there’s never time to ruminate. His entire run through the inside of the Fortress has been uncontested. Here, that’s no longer true.

There is a dead-end room at the end of the hidden hallway. With no windows or even any tiny hints of the outside sky, the room is shrouded in shadow. A single lantern hangs in the doorway.

The third and final spawner in any Fortress is a wither skeleton spawner, buried deep and guarded well. Two of the skeletons stand sentinel on either side of the iron cage of the spawner, while a third paces back and forth along the back wall, noticeable only by the enchanted glow of its stone sword.

After eyeing all three creatures cautiously, Couriway ducks back to make sure he’s out of sight. This is going to require some finesse.

He finally takes a moment to string his bow, dark wood bending smoothly in his hands. Three wither skeletons in an enclosed room with one entrance can be a recipe for disaster. He needs to level the playing field.

The skeleton at the back of the room keeps pacing back and forth, so Couriway doesn’t risk a missed shot. He aims instead for the rightmost of the two standing guard, first one arrow then a second. Skeleton down.

Sword outstretched, the left skeleton charges him with no hesitation. With no time for a third arrow, he drops the bow and grasps his sword. There’s no chance to check what the final skeleton is doing before the second is upon him.

Couriway’s not some inexperienced Far-Ranger who falters before a wither skeleton. Like all the ones before, this one relies on power over skill with its sword, and that’s easy to beat. Block the first swing, counterattack with his own, then lop the grinning skull of its shoulders. There’s not even any threat from the ashy decay. The third skeleton falls just as quickly.

Shadows dance across the room, thrown in relief by the flickering light of the lantern. He approaches the spawner, but hesitates before breaking it. With the final spawner down, the Fortress will vanish. And it’s currently pretty high above the ground.

Dispelled Structures take on different forms. Some fade away like mirages, hazy and dreamlike, while others crumble into ever-smaller chunks in a tumultuous crash. A rare few blow away like sand under a desert wind. Others retreat into the surrounding landscape, forcing a reclamation by nature of something that was never truly there.

Once again, instinct warns him to be careful. A quick check makes sure he has a rocket within easy reach and that his elytra is unimpeded from opening. Then he breaks the spawner and spreads his elytra in one quick movement.

The Fortress vanishes instantly with a pop.

“Yikes!” But it’s fine, his elytra catches and he’s gliding away and that’s that. The job is done.

He should go to the village and assure them that the Fortress is dealt with and they should have no more trouble. Though that doesn’t sound very appealing. He waffles over it for a minute, spiraling circles in the sky, but eventually decides he won’t. Faint impressions of handshakes and celebratory speeches from his dream the night before certainly don’t factor into his decision at all.

Gliding over the forest in roughly the opposite direction from the village, he ends up spying a familiar clearing and, upon closer look, a burned-out campfire. His campsite from the morning. Might as well take advantage of what he already knows is a good resting spot, so he lights down upon the grassy dirt and pulls out some rations.

The sun rises higher in the sky, and with it, his unease. Everything feels hazily familiar; more so than a remembered dream, less so than the true belief of déjà vu. Uncertainty is a strange bedfellow after a Far-Ranger’s life of straightforward chaos, and fear an unwelcome one.

The three-pitch alert tone from his radio sends his heart jack-rabbiting into the distance. Dread rises in a murky wave. It’s just like the dream. He scrambles for the device, but finds his hands turning the volume down, instead of up like he should. He doesn’t want to hear whatever the alert is. Before the volume hits zero, he still catches the faint whisper of yelling before it all goes silent.

It’s a coincidence. It has to be. He’s seen some weird things in his time as a Ranger, but prophetic dreams? No way. “No way.” Saying it out loud to the trees and the wind and the shining, shining sun makes it real. “I just had a weird dream. It doesn’t mean anything. The alert’s gonna be for something exciting, but like, a normal kind of exciting.”

He lasts all of ten minutes before he cranks the volume back up.

“... Pillars has spawned along the banks of the Jens River near the village of Steckholm-” He cuts the volume off.

Unlike the dream, he has all five rockets at his disposal. One gets him into the air, then a second sends him spiraling through the endless blue. His head is stuffed with the clouds missing from the sky.

He thinks he gets to Steckhelm before he did in the dream. Having four rockets helps. He sparks the last one the moment the imposing black spires cross his vision. It’s stronger than he expects, feels his pants singe at the heat and his eyes close against the stinging air. But he’s never flown so fast.

Memories of a circling void-black creature soar to the front of his mind. He’d… landed on one of the towers, in the dream. There had been so many teeth.

He’s not repeating that, dream or no dream. Was it a dream? He beelines for the ground inside the Pillars, then flares his elytra wide to come to an abrupt, less-than-graceful landing. A relief, then, that he doesn’t fall and instead stumbles to an ungainly stop. Despite everything, he’s not sure his mental state could handle botching a landing.

The pale ground is crumbly underfoot. Not sand, he realizes as he curiously brushes a hand over it. Whatever material the ground here is, it’s more like a flaky stone, coming away in chips rather than grains. And it’s cold.

He’s seen firsthand how Structures can change the natural environment around them. Lush Caves bring moss and clay and stagnant water to barren stone caverns, craggy basalt and blackstone spires shoot from the ground around Bastions, and of course Ancient Cities summon the creeping, semi-sentient sculk. This feels similar.

But his worries drag his thoughts away from the ground and up towards the sky. Solid gray clouds blanket the air just outside the circle of towers, writhing in a wind he knows isn’t there. Almost like he’s standing in the eye of a hurricane. Any one of those shadows of cloud-against-cloud could be a trick, disguising the movements of the creature he remembers from his dream. His eyes dart all around, but there’s no sign of it.

He’s exposed, here in the center of the towers. A memory of instinctive, animal fear entirely unbecoming of a Far-Ranger strikes. He suppresses the urge to bolt for one of the dark stone towers, to have something to put at his back.

A breath. Fear is unbecoming, and he is not powerless.

The dark wood stave of his bow is solid in his hands, bending fluidly as he loops the bowstring over one end for the second time that day and braces to slip the other loop into place. Now strung, he grabs three arrows from the quiver on his back - two get planted point-down in the flaky ground, and the third nocks into place on the bowstring.

At the end of the dream, he’d stood atop one of the towers and seen a crystal. Pulsing purple and dancing wildly on a plinth of alien-looking stone, its light was almost burned into his mind’s eye. Against that searing brightness, the rest of the scene fades into the background. But…

Years ago, in his first feverish year as a Far-Ranger, he’d spent time in the grand library, researching Structures and all their forms. There were two mentioned instances of Pillars spawning. The first, an entry in a crumbling leather journal written in archaic cursive and fading ink, was illegible to him. The report of the second, more recent Pillars spawn was more readable, but far more technical. He remembers the illustrations, though. Ten obelisks, each with a diamond at the top.

Couriway draws the bow back. The closest tower stretches high enough that he can’t see the top, but that’s alright. Experience draws the bow back, and instinct aims for the sky. No wind to factor in. Nothing moving in the massed gray clouds. He fires.

A massive black tail strikes out from the clouds and bats the arrow away like a horse shooing a fly.

Like a god descending from on high, the swirling clouds part to perfectly frame the creature as it perches atop the tower. It looks like a piece of the darkest night stepped out of the sky. Or the void, and suddenly Couriway is reminded of the ending of his dream. Of the creature that swallowed him whole.

A long neck stretches down to peer poisonous violet eyes in his direction, wicked-looking talons digging into the black stone of the tower. The creature huffs and a thin purple mist drifts silently down to pool on the ground.

It’s a dragon, Couriway realizes distantly. His bow, still held in outstretched hand, shakes violently. Or, his body shakes, and the bow is just how he notices. No wonder he’d woken in such a panic this morning, if he’d dreamed anything even close to this. A dragon. What the hell.

His knees hit the ground and send up a puff of dust. The purple mist wafts closer, and he absentmindedly stretches out his free hand to touch some. The dragon doesn’t move. It just watches. His fingers touch the mist and immediately go numb.

Suddenly, the dragon beats its great dark wings, sending dust and more of the mist straight into Couriway’s face. Unprepared, he inhales, then immediately chokes on the dust. Then he starts coughing, great hacking coughs of such strength he hasn’t felt since his bout with pneumonia two winters ago. The coughing turns to choking when he gets rid of all his air and can’t seem to draw in more, like his lungs won’t cooperate. The last thing he sees before his vision goes black are the purple eyes of the dragon, watching.

Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence. Couriway jolts upright in his bedroll and immediately drops his head into his hands. A… dream. A weird dream, where he dreamed something and it came true. He didn’t know you could dream within a dream.

He goes about his day. But things keep happening. A call about a Fortress that he unerringly beelines towards. Where the spawners are. How many wither skeletons guard the third and final spawner. Little details, familiar and not, each on their own just weird coincidence. Added together, he’s getting a bad feeling.

When he gets the alert on his radio about the Pillars appearing, he’s pacing the clearing of his campsite frantically, packed and with a rocket in hand. The first beep sounds out, sharp and piercing, and he’s in the air without a moment to spare.

Sure enough, the Pillars is exactly where he dreamed it would be. So is the dragon, vengeful and hungry just like the dream. He almost doesn’t feel anything when he gets swallowed down. Almost.

Three times means something’s wrong.

It can’t be a dream, Couriway muses as he mechanically frees himself from his bedroll for the fourth time. Third time? First time? Dreams aren’t recursive. He dreams and wakes, then the waking becomes dreaming for a new waking, and on again. Is he dreaming now?

He pinches his arm, then winces. Real enough for pain.

This time, standing at the center of the Pillars, he manages to draw back his bow, but the shot goes wide and strikes one of the crystals. It explodes and the dragon roars and charges. One razor-sharp claw rends him from head to foot in a single blow before he can even scream.

The next time, when he shoots up gasping from his bedroll, he rolls with it. Jittery anticipation-anxiety-panic is a welcome boost of energy. Everything is crystal clear and focused. Sharp. Stark.

He dispels the Fortress, but not without difficulty. Turns out crystal-clear focus is a terrible form of hyperawareness, like a caffeine high that takes all of his concentration to manage. A rideable wave, but barely. He takes a hit from a wither skeleton, feels the cut on his arm turning necrotic with decay, but before he can tend to it the alert is sounding and like a good Ranger he’s flying for the Pillars.

The dragon waits, just like he hoped, desperately, that it wouldn’t. He fires a desperate bowshot, aiming for its eyes, but the dragon bats it away with one paw. Then dives straight for him. Couriway draws his sword in an attempt to do any kind of damage, land just one hit on the beast, but his sword bounces off the dragon’s armored muzzle and once again he’s swallowed alive.

Frustration rises red-hot in his stomach the next morning. Yesterday morning, today, whatever. What the actual fuck is going on?

Couriway doesn’t even notice that he’s slipping. On his sixth morning in the loop, he rushes the Fortress and ends up misjudging his leap from one bridge to the next. He plummets two stories before he flares his elytra and shoots another rocket to get back up. Then in his haste, he lands basically on top of a wither skeleton.

The ash-black sword slides into his gut like a toothpick into a well-done cake. And to add insult to injury, the skeleton leans in close and fucking chatters at him, rattling its jaws against each other to make a horrible clicking-grinding noise that doesn't stop. Like it’s laughing at his failure. He actually considers punching the damn thing’s head off its spindly shoulders, but he can’t draw his arm back.

The last thing he sees before rotting black steals over his vision is the fucking skeleton walking away.

It’s painful and humiliating and worse still, Couriway wakes up in his bedroll like nothing happened. Nothing ends. More frustration, blazing white and spreading and spreading and spreading until he doesn’t think there’s anything else inside him except fire. He leaves his campsite a mess behind him again.

When he dives for the Fortress, eyes locked on a wither skeleton that is not going to stab him this time, he doesn’t look around. The blaze, hovering just below the walkway of the bridge, is not so unobservant. The wither skeleton crumbles to a pile of ash, then suddenly Couriway’s elytra is on fire. The rest of him catches quickly. Moments later, he’s shooting up from his bedroll once again.

The next four mornings end in a similar fashion. He makes a stupid mistake somewhere in the Fortress and pays for it. And with every death, every instance where he burns alive or falls to his death or feels himself fall apart under cold spreading rot, he just gets worse.

The worst by far is when, with a careless swing, he nicks a zombie piglin. A piglin standing with a group of four of its brethren. Couriway doesn’t even have a chance to curse before they’re on him. Waking in his camp after being torn apart by tusks and hooves is the first time he wants to cry from frustration instead of scream.

Thankfully, rage doesn’t last. Anger has been a fleeting companion in his life, barging in like a swift summer storm and leaving soon after. It’s left a flood in its wake rather than fertile ground this time, but with the cloud lifted Couriway can finally take a short, gasping breath.

For lack of a better option, he names this thing he’s caught in a time loop. The day repeats like a circle, or a path he’s suddenly found himself on and can’t seem to find out where it goes. And after the exhaustion and avoidance, the anger and the recklessness, he finds himself full of almost manic energy. He collects as much information as he can, sums it all up and keeps a mental record. He wishes he could write it down, but, of course, nothing physical carries over after the loop resets.

What he knows: the loop triggers upon his death. And he always dies, today-yesterday-everyday. The terminology is difficult. Most times, it’s the dragon. He’s read all the old myths and it’s always a dragon. His antagonist, he sneers, pretentious like this is some kids story and not his life.

Sometimes, mostly when he dies early, the dragon isn’t there. Those times are normally his own fault, recklessness and carelessness driving his feet too fast or his eyes and reflexes too slow. Like all the times in the Fortress that he doesn’t want to think about. Those weren’t the dragon, though he supposes he could lay some of the blame at its feet. The dragon looms large, of course.

What else. He wakes in the same place at the same time, twisted in his bedroll like any regular morning. No matter how he dies, there’s no physical sign. He’d checked, after the blaze. No burns. And he’s certainly not sporting any scars from the times he’s been devoured whole.

He flies for the desert only once. Feinberg is stationed there pretty much permanently, to counter the endless Structures that spawn on the sands. Couriway’s closest friend, though their paths rarely cross these. He burns all five rockets and glides high enough he struggles to breathe through thin air, and even then it’s just enough for him to make it, to coast down and barely avoid taking a tumble on the shifting sands.

The local Far-Ranger station sticks out from the rest of the village at the edge of the desert. Its tower looms overhead, sandstone and stone and acacia like the rest of the buildings but taller, a different construction. The homes and businesses around it give it a wide berth, though the roads connect it all the same.

He’s in luck. Couriway’s not five steps into the village proper before someone is swooping down from the tower to meet him, landing gracefully on the flattened dirt and reaching out to clasp his shoulder without breaking stride. Feinberg’s hand is warm and solid and real, and Couriway can’t help but lean into it.

“I thought your leave didn’t start for a few days,” Feinberg is saying, tone light as he begins guiding Couriway towards the station. “Can’t believe they’d let you get away early.”

It takes Couriway a moment to remember he needs to reply. It comes out choked and scratchy. “I needed to get away a little early, I guess.” That causes Feinberg’s mouth to tighten with something like concern. Couriway’s friend always has been too perceptive.

But, miracle upon miracles, Feinberg holds his tongue. Instead, he holds open the door to the Ranger station and nods towards the small kitchen off to the side. “You want something to drink? I’m sure that was a long flight.”

“Yeah,” and Couriway starts to make for the kitchen in a daze. Before he gets there, however, Feinberg catches his shoulder again and steers him towards the row of low cushioned seats lining the wall. Then he’s being pushed to sit with a grumbled command to stay there, and Feinberg disappears into the kitchen.

The colorful cushions are very comfy. With nothing better to do, Couriway starts shedding some of his gear, leaving a haphazard pile on the ground beside him. His elytra stays on, even though it bunches uncomfortably between the wall and his back. His rockets, too, remain within arms reach.

When he looks out an unshuttered window, the sun has just crested its zenith. Distantly, there’s some guilt for leaving the Fortress behind for some other Ranger to deal with. Without an elytra, it’ll be difficult. But, he thinks, a little spitefully, he hasn’t really dealt with the Fortress for the past who-knows how many loops.

Undisturbed desert stretches on endlessly, golden-yellow rolling dunes as far as the eye can see. Not a cloud in the bright blue sky. Nothing moves. After waking and waking and waking to green grass and red brick and black stone, the difference is captivating.

He loses time staring out the window, then is startled back to himself when Feinberg crouches in front of him holding out a ceramic cup. The concern is back in the furrow of his brows.

“Tea,” he says, and Couriway takes the cup. Cool mint washes over his tongue in a familiar wave, bringing back sun-touched memories of long days leaning against the railing at the top of the outpost with his friend, staring out over the vast desert. But there’s an unfamiliar hint of sweetness to the drink that keeps him from drifting away again.

He clears his throat. “You added sugar?”

“Seemed like you needed some energy,” is the easy reply. Feinberg settles himself down on a cushion next to Couriway, his own cup in hand. He doesn’t say anything more, seemingly content to relax quietly.

After a minute of sitting and waiting for his notoriously direct friend to say anything, Couriway finally breaks. “You’re being weirdly silent and accommodating.” Feinberg only levels a look at him, then takes a pointed sip of his tea. “That! Dude, you’re being strange. Just… say what you want to say. Don’t give me this weird silent treatment.”

“Well you’re the one flying in at this breakneck pace-”

“Oh, like you can talk about flying too fast-”

“-fumbling a landing like a newbie, saying you need to ‘get away,’ then walking around like a lost lamb with this dazed look in your eyes-”

“Hey-!”

“Can it.” Couriway’s mouth clicks shut over the instant retort. He’s buzzing with more energy than he’s had in an eternity. Feinberg suddenly looks so tired. “Just… drink your tea.”

Couriway takes another sip.

Another eternity later, Feinberg breaks the silence again. “HQ passed a request down the relay. A Fortress, high enough that they need elytra to clear it. The guy on the comm said he couldn’t get a hold of any winged Rangers, so they broadened the search.”

Couriway hears the unasked question. Why didn’t you pick that up? And the easy answer is that he was already on his way here with his radio on silent. The true, more complicated answer is one he’s still hoping to find here.

“Have you ever heard of days repeating?” he asks instead of answers, not meeting his friend’s eyes.

Feinberg scoffs. “Like déjà vu? That’s just coincidences. Nobody actually experiences the exact same thing twice.”

“No, like, entire days.” Couriway can hear desperation sneaking into his voice, feels it creeping icy tendrils through his mind. “Waking up after a dream, and the day going exactly like the dream. And repeating and repeating and-” The furrow is back between Feinberg’s eyebrows. This isn’t working.

It’s hard to talk about this with another person and know they don’t believe it. He tries another tact. “Never mind. Ignore me. What do you know about Pillars? The Structure.”

“Couri…” Feinberg’s the smartest person Couriway knows. If this is somehow connected to the Pillars, he might remember something. “Fine. Okay. Pillars. Rare as fuck. Structure spawns ten obsidian towers in a circle, surrounding a central small monument of unbreakable, alien stone. Each tower has a crystal at the top; break them all, then jump into the portal in the central monument, like a Stronghold. Done.”

“What about creatures? Can they spawn with anything?”

“Like a boss mob- no? No, the Pillars from four decades ago didn’t come with anything. Just the fucking towers and the fountain thing.” Feinberg pointedly puts his mug down on the low table between them, and turns to fully face Couriway. “Where’s all this coming from?”

Couriway opens his mouth, braces himself to spill the whole story, and then a piercing three-tone alert echoes through the speakers in the outpost.

A gut-wrenchingly familiar alert.

It can’t be that late. His heart sinks, but Feinberg only looks up curiously. He stands and says something about going to check the alert, but Couriway barely hears him over the static in his ears. It’s too early. The sun just crested its peak, the Pillars shouldn’t spawn for a couple more hours.

Feinberg comes back lugging a clunky radio with a massive pair of antennas, which he sets on the floor in front of them with a clunk. The alert cuts out and Hbomb’s tinny voice crackles through the air. Couriway doesn’t look at his friend.

“Pillars…” Feinberg says slowly once the message finishes, turning the volume down as it begins to repeat. “That’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“Not a coincidence,” Couriway whispers. His throat is suddenly very dry, and even a deep gulp of the last of his tea doesn’t clear it. “But it’s early.”

“Early?”

“In the day. It’s normally- normally later in the afternoon, when it shows up.”

“Déjà vu, huh. Well, whatever,” Feinberg huffs, then picks up his drink and downs the rest of it like a shot. Then he pushes up to his feet and heads for a door on the opposite side of the room. “Grab your shit. It spawned over the delta. You’re here, so let’s go deal with this.” He shoots a grin over his shoulder. “With the two of us on it, it shouldn’t be a problem.” And he disappears into the other room.

Left staring at a closed door, Couriway’s heart drops. The delta? That’s not- It moved. Like the Structure is following him. Like the dragon-

He picks up his dropped gear and suits up, moving on instinct alone. Sword at his side, quiver and unstrung bow on his back, elytra clasped firmly and flowing loose. Habit has him reaching up to straighten the golden circlet on his head, even though it hasn’t moved since he arrived.

Feinberg’s elytra is sky blue, and he’s wearing the silly pink goggles someone had given him as a prank and he’d decided to own. He’s got a crossbow instead of a bow, sitting at his side opposite a small quiver. The handle of his ax pokes up over his shoulder. He hands Couriway three rockets and keeps three for himself, then heads for the stairs leading up without a word.

They’ve only gone up one flight before Couriway can’t stop himself from asking, desperately, “You’re really not going to say anything?”

Feinberg doesn’t turn around. “What’s there to ask?”

“What’s there to ask- Dude!”

“Relax,” he spins around and keeps walking up the stairs backwards, like the goddamned showoff he is. “Yeah, I’ve got a hell of a lot of questions. And you’re going to be answering every last one of them. But we’ve got a Structure to deal with first.”

Ever the pragmatist. And he hasn’t even tripped over his elytra yet like Couriway knows he would if they swapped places.

But he needs to warn his friend. Couriway knows what he’s walking into, Feinberg does not. “Well, fair warning that I haven’t managed to dispel this Structure yet. And I’ve tried a bunch of times already.” That nets him a stare that is both blank and incredulous. Feinberg is a master of communicating via wordless stares. “I’ve been living the same day, over and over again, for the past who-knows how long. The Pillars always appear. I always die.”

Feinberg fumbles his next backwards step, throwing an arm out to catch himself against the wall. “Okay, well now I have significantly more questions.”

“Shoot.”

They start walking again, slower. Couriway’s heart is beating out of his chest, a lightning-quick snare-beat that won’t abate. The stairs seem endless, but the desert sand is further and further away in every window he glances out of. When they reach the top of the outpost, they’ll have to take off and end this discussion.

“How do you die?” Feinberg hasn’t turned back around forwards, his backwards steps sure and even again. Compartmentalizing, Couriway is sure. One of Feinberg’s greatest strengths as a Ranger is his ability to organize his thoughts and only focus on what’s relevant in the moment.

“A lot of different ways,” Couriway replies, and he’s unable to hide the shiver that crawls down his body. Phantom fire burns his chest with memories of the blazes, creeping cold from withertouch and choking paralysis from dragonbreath. Impact. Being eaten alive. “It’s, uh…” he trails off. How do you tell someone alive how death feels? How does he explain it to himself?

Couriway doesn’t even realize he’s stopped walking again until Feinberg grabs his shoulder. Feeling all the raised hairs and goosebumps covering his own skin, brushing against his long sleeves. He’s died easily a dozen times at this point.

“You- don’t need to tell me that,” Feinberg says, sounding oddly hesitant. His hand is warm on Couriway’s shoulder, even through his gloves and Couriway’s elytra. Couriway finds himself leaning into the touch once again. “I meant more- what are we walking into? That’s killed you so many times.”

Couriway breathes in, deep. Straightens his back, not sure when he started to slump forward. “There’s a dragon.”

A pause. “The fuck does that mean?”

“A dragon. It appears with the Pillars, and it stops me from just dispelling them.” Feinberg’s hand tightens on his shoulder again. “It’s huge. Like a couple of Withers stacked together, with claws and breath that paralyses you. I’ve… I’ve never seen anything like it.” Couriway’s voice trails off.

“Huh. Okay.” Feinberg nods, once, then again. Considering. “Is it better to fight it in the air, or from the ground?”

Standing on flaky pale ground, shooting desperately at the distant towers and futilely sprinting to avoid dragonsbreath. Twisting and turning and diving and climbing through the sky, hot breath and dripping teeth a wingbeat behind.

“Neither.”

Feinberg is nice enough not to comment on the crack in Couriway’s voice. “From what I remember from that dusty old report, there’s no cover within Pillars. We gotta be quick then, mobile and fast.” Brainstorming aloud, half conversation and half muttered thoughts. Couriway is, in this instance, content to listen.

They reach the top of the stairs and Feinberg pushes open the wooden hatch. They both clamber out onto the roof of the outpost, and Couriway immediately has to brace himself and hold his elytra closed against a sudden gust of wind. They’re high enough that it’s cold. Any warmth brought by the tea earlier is long gone.

“The delta’s not far. See that bunch of trees over there, the twisted-looking ones?” Feinberg gestures further into the desert, adjusting the goggles on his head with his other hand. He doesn’t wait for Couriway’s nod before continuing. “A bit past that, in a straight line. Considering how big these things are supposed to be, I doubt we’ll miss it.”

“We won’t,” Couriway says, strangled. His glasses aren’t sitting right on his nose, so he pushes them up. Then brushes his circlet down more firmly against his head. His elytra clasp seems loose, better-

“Stop fiddling and let’s go!” Feinberg sparks his first rocket, and Couriway hastens to follow.

The copse of trees Feinberg pointed out comes and goes under them. They keep going, sand changing from yellow to red to tan to brown in patches and gradients. Shrubs appear, then full bushes. Pops of color from flowers. Eventually Couriway sees the first glint of sun against water in the sand below, a flash of brightness against the dull dark brown of soil, not sand.

Ahead of him, Feinberg spirals into a frantic roll, then adjusts his heading. He’s seen something, then. Couriway squints, and sure enough, a dark mass looms over the distant horizon. His stomach drops, and it’s not from the dive he takes to gain some speed.

It’s not long before they reach it. The Structure itself is impossible to miss. The dry yellow stone between the towers looks particularly out of place contrasted against the muddy brown earth of the delta. So do the circling gray clouds, apparently a part of the Pillars and not incidental.

Feinberg arrows for the top of the tallest tower because of course he does. Couriway follows. There’s no sign of the dragon yet, and it would be impossible to miss. Surely.

They touch down and Couriway immediately puts his back to Feinberg’s, eyes looking out of the circle of towers and through the clouds. Only sand and mud and small trickling streams catch his eyes. With the way the clouds drift, he can only see snatches at a time.

“Any sign of it?” Feinberg asks, breaking the hallowed silence fallen over the Structure. His crossbow is out and loaded, held solidly in both hands. “Because I don’t see shit and that’s concerning. Let’s get this over and done with.”

“Nothing,” and dread rises slowly but surely. Where is it?

Without any hesitation, Feinberg’s arm jabs into Couriway’s back as he braces his crossbow, and then there’s the signature twang of the bolt releasing and a distant explosion. He shifts to grab another bolt and begin the process of reloading, and Couriway keeps his eyes moving. Still nothing.

Two more arrows shoot without incident, one taking out another crystal and the second whiffing, much to Feinberg’s annoyance. He’s winding the string back for a fourth shot when a roar vibrates through the air.

At this point, Couriway knows what’s coming. “Down!” And pushes them both off the tower.

Elytra catch, and this time Couriway leads the way, across the Structure to land at the base of the opposite tower. He throws his back against the cool stone and beside him Feinberg does the same.

They’re both panting. Feinberg looses a low huff, body tense and axe at the ready. “You made me drop my crossbow.” Then his breath catches audibly. Couriway, eyes locked skyward, see the exact same thing.

The dragon is awe-inspiring, as always. Under the desert sun it shines, glimmering metallic as it circles around the towers. Its purple eyes glow, visible even at a distance. Those eyes swing down and Couriway swears their eyes meet. And the dragon charges.

He moves out of the way in time. Feinberg does not.

Couriway later remembers making some kind of noise, wild and grief-filled, as one dark talon impales his friend through the chest.

He… gives up, after that. Shuts down, collapsing to the dry ground, and the dragon doesn’t hesitate.

Of course he wakes up. Flat on his back and staring up at the blue morning sky. Logically, he knows everything reset. Today, Feinberg is alive and well in the desert with no memories of dying. Couriway thinks it will be a long time before he can look at his friend and not remember this loop.

Halfheartedly he tries going to other people. The Capital, twice, first to the other Rangers on leave there. His friends believe them, his acquaintances do not, but they all follow him when the Pillars spawn. The dragon favors its breath attack, that loop, and Couriway watches as they all die.

The next time he tries the scientists and researchers, asking desperately for any and all advice. Has this happened before, the loop? What can they tell him about the Pillars, the dragon? But they have nothing he didn’t already know, that Feinberg already told him. Time loops are impossible, they say, and he smiles absently and nods his head and when the Pillars drop down right atop the Capital, he watches as they all burn.

He considers going to other friends. Silverr, stationed in the northern mountains to combat the ever-encroaching sculk from Ancient City spawns, or Fulham on the shores of the southern ocean. Considers trying to track down Fruit, thinks the fighter is somewhere among the trees of the great western forest.

He doesn’t. Shies away when he wakes up every morning looking to the horizon, thinking about seeing his friends. The Pillars chased him to the desert. What’s to say they won’t chase him all across the continent? So he pushes through the thoughts of his friends. They can’t help him now.

Couriway wakes tangled in his bedroll. As always, the morning sun turns the tree leaves overhead a beautiful vibrant green, dancing and twirling on the branches with the gentle breeze. Distant birdsong lightens the air, and even the grass twinkles with drops of dew.

For the first time, he closes his eyes and ears and pulls his blankets over his head. None of that matters. Not anymore.

He stays curled there all day, even as the sun rises and grows hot, turns his makeshift cocoon into a sweltering oven. His clothes grow damp with sweat, but he doesn’t move. Hunger rumbles his stomach, but what’s the point? Maybe a Structure-less death is the way to end this accursed cycle of waking and dying.

Abruptly, the sun-warmth on his covered back vanishes as darkness blankets the clearing. A familiar roar echoes from the sky, and with a hazy, distant certainty he knows there’s no escape from the dragon yet. He keeps his eyes closed. For once, death will find him vulnerable.

This time, he leaves his campsite and all his gear behind, blankets strewn everywhere and equipment scattered haphazardly. One rocket down and he’s in the sky and zooming higher. The second rocket sparks and he’s through the cloud layer. The cold biting at his extremities seems far away.

He’s through the clouds. The harsh sun beams down, forcing him to close his eyes or be blinded. Not like it matters, though.

Gravity reasserts its hold and he slows. For one shining, golden moment, he’s frozen, perfectly suspended between dark clouds below and sun above. Then he begins to fall.

As his elytra flares in the wind, it hardens again. Cold-numbed fingers fumble with the clasp around his neck. It takes a moment, in which he’s already fallen several meters, but then the clasp is undone and the elytra hardens and flares wide and leaves him behind. It drifts like a dull golden moth, backlit by bright yellow, and he watches as it grows smaller and smaller as he falls further and faster.

Couriway’s days repeat through a black cloud of his own hopelessness, interspersed by the poisonous purple of the dragon raining death on him. A lot of death. Sometimes, when he feels like changing it up, it’s the Fortress that kills him. He always wakes with self-disgust coating his mouth like bile after that. But it’s a change, at least. A chance to not see the dragon.

Time and time again he flies for the village where the Pillars spawn. It has a name, he distantly remembers, but it hasn’t mattered in an eternity. And it’s not like he can’t go ask whenever he wants.

He gets to watch the Structure appear out of nothing, what would be a rare treat for the average Far-Ranger. The air ripples, like heat over the desert (and thoughts of the desert hurt, now, Feinberg’s death never going to feel less like a raw open wound despite that he breathes still in this life), and the massive black towers shimmer into existence like a mirage.

He always dies.

Couriway stopped counting the loops who-knows how many deaths ago. It hasn’t mattered, since nothing he’s done has changed anything. He dies, he wakes to sunlight, he dies again.

But, for the first time in… a while, he wakes and is calm. Frustration, rage, fear, despair, every negative emotion that has ruled his life for this entire ordeal, none of them are here now. There’s no peace, not while he’s still trapped, but acquiescence? He can live with that.

He slowly begins to test the loop. There’s so many variables he could spend a lifetime changing every little detail, all in pursuit of the one thing that will let him escape-

Breathe. There’s been enough anger, enough despair. Now is a chance for investigation.

The days loop by endlessly. Couriway tries to be methodical, logical, scientific like the techs and researchers at the Capital he watches curiously whenever he gets the chance. They’re so careful, with their procedures and controlled environments, and he tries to emulate that.

It’s difficult.

When he tries to test different paths through the initial Fortress, see if he can dispel it fast enough to get to Steckhelm before the Pillars spawn, he finds the endless motions of left right left, then left right right, right right left, right left left, theoretically into infinity… Well, it’s boring. He forgos the next turn in the sequence, ends up spending the day fighting as many blazes as he can. Stress relief, he tells himself. He burns alive, at the end, and wakes with the scent of scorching flesh in his nose.

His plans end up scrapped as he decides to test if there’s a limit to how many blazes a spawner can produce. After several loops, he realizes he’s stopped counting how long he’s been doing it. The spawners create blazes infinitely. He moves on to something else.

As always, it’s always the work of a few moments to blast through the Fortress the moment it spawns. He knows the route by heart, now, and it’s never a hassle to break the three spawners and jet off. Leaving it alone ends badly every time, always the catalyst for the dragon appearing early.

The Pillars become his endpoint. If he doesn’t go too far from Steckhelm, they always spawn in the same place. A lesson learned the hard way, after he’s crushed by one of the towers in an attempt to see if he could get atop one as it appeared. He cannot.

He never quite shakes his fear upon seeing the dragon. But he expects it now, is ready for the momentary freeze and recovers quickly. Sometimes he’s on the ground and sprints for a tower to avoid the initial blast of dragon’s breath. Other times he lands on the towers and can destroy a crystal before he has to take off again, scrabbling at the sides of another tower for purchase to repeat the maneuver.

Death remains a close friend. Sometimes (often) he’s not quick enough and the breath paralyses him before he can escape. Other times the dragon smacks him out of the sky with a paw or a tail or, always a classic, by swallowing him whole. Sometimes it’s his own overconfidence. He gets too close to a crystal and blows up along with it in a sudden fiery burst. He lands hard on unstable ground and breaks something, becoming easy prey for the circling monster. Over and over and over again.

But there are other changes.

Small things, really. His elytra, a close and trusted companion ever since he’d won it in the End City that appeared over the southern jungle, now feels like an extension of his body. Like true wings sprouting from his back, responding to the flex of his muscles and instantaneous thought rather than conscious effort.

One loop, in a fit of curiosity and a little bit of boredom, he’d attempted to land on the dragon’s back. In the sky, dodging swipes of its claws and using the displaced air from beats of its wings to stay aloft, he’d never felt more alive. And he’d done it. Touching down on the solid, shocking warmth of dragon scales was a victory like no other. Getting squashed between those same scales and one of the towers moments later was a small price to pay.

His archery too. He’s always had a deft hand with his bow, but now he’s hitting shots on targets at distances he never would have even attempted before. And it’s a good thing, too.

Couriway has a goal now. A plan, cobbled together from old memories and days and days of experience and a not-insignificant amount of hope.

Feinberg’s words echo through his mind. Ten towers, ten crystals. And he’s seen it with his own eyes. The dragon always begins to chase him after he shoots down one of them. Even if his friend didn’t, doesn’t, know about the dragon, whatever aberration brought it with the Pillars as they spawned hasn’t changed the core fact about all Structures. They can be dispelled.

It’s the only lead Couriway has, and he’s so tired. The overwhelming, all-encompassing emotions of all the loops prior have drained him, left him little more than a hollow caricature of a Ranger moving forward on hope alone. If this plan doesn’t pan out he’s not sure he’ll have the strength to try anything else.

The moment consciousness returns Couriway’s up and on his feet, sliding free of his blankets with graceful ease. He leaves them where they lay. No point in wasting time packing his camp up. Elytra goes on his back, weapons slide into their respective places, and he palms the first rocket.

The dragon’s triumphant screams still ring through his ears. Its claws had shredded through his elytra in midair in the last loop, and he’d plummeted helplessly to smash into the cold ground. He feels none of it now. Phantom pains and echoes of the resigned terror that had engulfed him are all he has left. It’s easy to move past them.

One rocket down and he’s circling in the sky. Three, two, one…

Right on cue, the Fortress ripples into existence. Already facing the right direction, he angles forwards and glides towards it. Back at his camp he’s getting a message through his radio, but that’s so slow. He already knows what he’s doing and where he’s going.

The moment he’s in range he dives for the first spawner. The blazes crackle angrily, but they’re in the same place they always are and it’s the work of a moment to slide past, duck to avoid the fireballs, then crack the spawner open.

No time to waste. Couriway kicks off the ground and spreads his elytra, then dives back down and pushes off again to soar towards the second blaze spawner. Rinse, repeat. He’s got quite the posse of blazes angling towards him now, but it doesn’t matter.

Second spawner down. Then another elytra hop, and he heads to the specific window of the Fortress that leads into the hidden hallway. Quicker than running through the maze of tunnels; he’s not likely to get lost, but occasionally zombie piglins move in such ways so as to slow his progress.

And the fence blocking the window is loose anyways. He digs his swordpoint in, pries it loose, then drops it spinning to the ground below. Inside is empty.

Five paces to get to the spawner room. He has to destroy one of the two wither skeleton guards before turning to the spawner, since they’re both so close. The third, hovering towards the back, is rarely a problem.

He aims for the rightmost skeleton. It crumbles to ash and bone, and he uses the backswing of his sword stroke to make the first chop at the spawner. Then the second, and with three the spawner is gone. Immediately he pivots on his heels, grasps for a rocket, spreads his elytra, and blasts off.

After all his practice, navigating the inside of the disappearing Fortress even at high speeds is nothing. Moments later he shoots out and into open air. Another rocket and he’s off to Steckhelm. The Pillars will have appeared by the time he gets there.

Hope begins to creep through his mind on the flight over. It always does. Even after so long, so many failed attempts, it’s persistent. The feeling gets squashed down with ruthless practicality. Hope keeps his drive going, yes, but hope doesn’t kill dragons. It can wait until he succeeds.

He doesn’t wear his radio anymore, but he still knows when the Pillars materialize. Like his internal clock has an alarm set, ringing out at the exact minute. Like a compass in his chest that suddenly magnetizes. It’s not a comforting feeling, but it is a familiar one.

As he breaks through the swirling clouds that surround the Pillars, he dives for the tallest of the ten towers. Touching the crystal in any way will draw the attention of the dragon, so instead he shrugs his unstrung bow off his shoulder and takes the moment to string it. Checks his quiver, knowing full well how many arrows he has (enough, theoretically). Readjusts his elytra, his glasses, his circlet. Loosens his sword in its sheath at his side.

Takes a deep breath in.

Then out. He steps to the edge, turns, nocks an arrow and shoots the first crystal. Distantly, he hears a muffled roar.

The best way he’s found to do this is to use the height of the tower to shoot as many crystals as he can before the dragon charges. He averages about five. This time, the dragon must be further away, and he manages seven. When he hears another roar, closer, and sees a dark shape shadow the clouds, he drops his eighth arrow and hops off the tower.

The dragon breaks through the cloud layer like a meteor, amethyst eyes and onyx claws locked onto Couriway as he falls. Now comes the tricky, mostly theoretical part. It’s mostly theoretical because while he has managed it, he’s never done it on the scale required for it to actually matter.

When the dragon charges him, he sparks his second-to-last rocket and shoots up to land gracefully on one of the three towers that still have crystals. Below him, the dragon curves right to avoid hitting the tower, then beats its wings and gains some height. Behind him, the crystal hums menacingly.

Dragonsbreath sets off the crystals, he’d learned at one point when stray mist blew one up in his face. The dragon normally avoids attacking him when he’s standing on a tower with one, except-

Except when most of the crystals are already gone.

Couriway calls it desperation, in his head. Many things about the Pillars remain foreign to him, but he hasn’t spent who-knows how many loops facing the dragon in this place to not figure it out. Somehow, the dragon and the crystals are connected.

And when multiple crystals are missing, the dragon doesn’t hesitate to stray closer, blow mist with reckless abandon. Charge him with a crystal at his back.

It takes perfect timing. Too late and he dies to the dragon’s fangs. Too early and the dragon has time to avoid collision.

His first attempt is textbook-perfect, if there was a textbook for these sorts of things. Maybe he’ll write one. He dives out of the way and down, hearing an explosion and the dragon’s pained roar. No time to look.

The second remaining crystal is on the lowest of the towers, so that’s where he heads next. He’ll need his last rocket to reach the last, his first, tower, anyways.

The purple glow of the dragon’s eyes is less, now. After the explosion it had landed on the tower, but now it takes off again. To his experienced eyes, Couriway sees how its wingbeats are labored, how its head hangs lower. But it still charges him again.

It goes the same with the final two crystals. He moves late on the third one, catches the very tip of one talon across his shoulder where it rips a line through his elytra. When he dives off the tower he wobbles midair, feels his breath catch as he drops a few feet, but controls his descent enough to glide the rest of the way and tumble to the ground.

There’s no roar from the dragon after the final crystal. This is the furthest he’s gotten, never managed more than two crystals, but the damage this time seems good. Desperately, he wishes for it to be enough.

He watches as, wounded, the dragon jerkily glides down to land atop the strange gray monolith at the center of the Pillar. It’s never done that before. But there it perches, head down and wings hanging limply, and it waits.

Hope rears its head again, sudden and overwhelming. He throws all caution to the wind, reckless and desperate and seeing an opening, and he runs towards the dragon. Draws his sword.

As the dragon rests, Couriway swings his sword back. Jumps, elytra fanning around him like a golden halo. His sword lands right in a new crack between the dragon’s eyes and slides in easily.

Light flashes, bright purples and greens and blues, an aurora blinding his eyes. His momentum carries him forward and down, and he lands squarely on his feet in the depression at the base of the monolith. Something drips down to pool at his feet.

When the spots in his eyes clear, he sees the dragon dissolving into some kind of dark liquid that glitters like a black opal. That’s what’s gathering beneath him, actually, and in a daze he bends down to scoop some of it into his hands. It’s warm and weightless, like it’s made of pure light.

He starts to sink into the liquid. Distantly, it reminds him of the portal that appears at the end of a… A… There’s a Structure with a portal… The thought floats away. He’s surrounded by warmth.

When Couriway has sunk all the way up to his shoulders, he tips his head back for one last glimpse around him. The last thing he sees as the opalescent liquid covers him is a blue sky with no clouds in sight, and pieces of the ten towers drifting away like dust in the wind.

Couriway wakes up, laying on his elytra in soft grass with the sky a riot of reds and oranges and purples of the most glorious sunset he’s ever seen above him, and cries.