“It remembers,” she says again, quieter. “People. Movement. Paths.”
“Paths?” Illadon asks.
She nods. “Used ones.”
I straighten slowly, scanning the buildings again. The structures aren’t random. They rise in layers, density increasing the farther inward we look. What appeared chaotic from a distance resolves into intent at closer range. Streets curve where they should have gone straight. Alleys narrow in ways that funnel rather than divide. Sightlines break abruptly, forcing turns that feel… guided.
Someone planned this place. Or adapted it.
“We don’t go straight in,” I say. “Not yet.”
Talia nods immediately. Too quickly. She feels it too.
“Flank first,” she says. “Edge structures. Learn how it lays out before we step into its heart.”
Her instincts are good. Sharp. Dragoste swells from somewhere deep inside. Surging desire to claim, to protect, to pronounce. I take a deep breath, tightening my jaw to keep my tongue from betraying me.
She looks over for confirmation and our eyes lock. My lips part. My tongue rises. The words are there…
I look away and nod sharply. Her quick inhale fills me with regrets that I do not have time for. I avoid her eyes, motioning to move.
We angle east, moving parallel to what must have once been a primary route. I take point keeping the pace measured. This isn’t clearing ground. It’s listening with our feet.
The deeper we go, the stranger the acoustics become. Wind slips between buildings and vanishes. Sounds carry too far, then cut off sharply, swallowed by geometry instead of distance. Even our footsteps feel muted, as if the ground is deciding which ones deserve an echo.
Talia adjusts her stride to stay upright. I don’t comment. The effort shows anyway. Sweat beads at her temple despite the cooling air. Her jaw stays tight. She’s pushing. I want to carry her again. If nothing else to stop and let her rest but there are too many places for danger to hide and no place that looks safe.
Illadon drifts closer to Rverre without being told. Not protective panic—coordination. They move like they’ve practiced this in their heads. That bothers me more than it should. They have had to grow faster than a child should, but I should not be surprised.
We Urr’ki thought the Zmaj lives were easier. They had taken so much from us, driven us deeper and deeper underground until we had only one last refuge. Our children had no chance, but I thought the Zmaj would be different. Seeing it… stirs something.
This world must change. Our children must be given time to come of age. Not forced by the demands of survival. Tajss is a harsh mistress, but she provides. I cannot believe that this is her will. Maybe I’m a fool, but I want more for my children. In my peripheral Talia forces her way on. Strong in will, body, and mind. She will be a good mother.
A loud clink jerks my attention to the side as we pass a low structure with its roof partially intact. It’s an old sign that clings to the façade, swinging in the breeze. The letters are worn smooth by sand and time. I can’t read it, but the shapes suggest a place of trading.
“Someone stripped this place carefully,” Talia murmurs, peering through what was once a window, but is now an opening. “Not scavengers. Survivors.”
“Yes,” I agree, glancing inside and assessing. “Which means they planned to stay alive.”
That’s when I feel it. Not sound and not movement. Attention.
The sensation crawls up my spine, the unmistakable awareness of being measured. Tracked. As if we’ve crossed an invisible boundary and something is now counting our steps. I slow. The others match me instinctively.
“Do you feel that?” Illadon asks under his breath.
Rverre nods. “They’re quiet.”
“Who?” Talia asks.
Rverre doesn’t look at her. Her gaze stays fixed on the shadowed upper levels of the buildings.
“People who don’t want to be found,” she says.
My stomach clenches tight as I scan the world around us. I draw my blade, holding it low. I lead us ahead, then signal a halt near a cluster of half-collapsed storefronts. Enough cover to back into. Enough angles to make approach costly.
“Hold here,” I say.
No one argues. The city doesn’t change, which is worse. There is no sudden noise. No visible threat. Just the persistent sense that we’ve been slotted into a pattern that existed before we arrived. Talia shifts her weight and hisses softly before she can stop herself. Her hand presses briefly to the wall.
