I scoffed.
I still scoff.
Most days.
Tonight, the air tastes different.
I find myself at the edge of a fenced-off construction site, watching as the earth heaves in slow, pained jolts.
Fresh cracks spider out from a central fault, a thin plume of steam rising where it opens to the cool night air.
Nightfall’s wounds.
Here.
On this world.
I crouch and press my palm to the broken asphalt. The ground shudders and answers me—tired, strained, trying so damn hard to hold.
“Easy,” I murmur. “You’re not alone.”
The earth calms under my touch.
But the crack doesn’t seal.
SoulTaker taint is stubborn like that. It festers.
“You shouldn’t be there,” a voice says behind me.
Female. Sharp. Annoyed.
“That fault’s still active.”
I go still.
Slowly, I rise and turn.
And there she is.
Headlamp. Reflective vest. Work boots splattered with mud and god-knows-what from the marsh.
A tablet tucked under one arm, a field notebook in the other.
Dark hair pulled into a no-nonsense braid.
Eyes like rich, fertile soil—deep brown, steady, assessing me like I’m the hazard here.
Bronze skinned and curves for miles.
She sees the crack first.
Then my hand.
Then my face.
Her brows knit.
“You with the survey crew?” she asks. “Because if you’re not, you’re trespassing on an unstable substrate and about five minutes away from a twisted ankle and a lawsuit.”
