Silence. That's the only thing in Lucius's mind — silence, no thought, no idea, just calm. The rush of the last few hours has passed. For the first time, his head is clear and not fogged by panic or pain.
'What about Liam and Lune? Where could they have gone? Maybe they went back to Lune's house, but I'm pretty sure they'd find that too dangerous. Where else could they have went?'
While Lucius is deep in his thoughts, a man approaches with a bottle of water and a bowl of stew. "Here — Emilia said you might need it. Eat up." He sets the bowl and bottle down on the floor and leaves.
Lucius picks up the stew and slowly starts to eat. He's definitely had better food in his life, but it's alright. Maybe a little more salt would help.
A few meters away, Sergeant King is speaking to the medic treating him. "What happened to the boy I brought in? His wounds are gone — he couldn't even stand up, and now he's eating like nothing happened. Did I miss something?" His voice carries enough irritation that the medic has to hide a small smile.
"Yeah, you missed quite a bit. The woman who helped him is called Emilia. What was strange is that nobody found her — she just showed up. Her explanation was that she thought about which building could shelter the most people and went there." The medic pauses. "She's a special one. She only has one skill, not like most people here who got two. But her skill is unlike anything I've seen. She can heal people — but the way she does it is different. She regrows the wound entirely. It's extremely painful. It's a wonder your boy didn't pass out."
Sergeant King's eyes widen. "You mean she can heal anything? Completely? With no drawback except pain?" He shakes his head slowly. "That's godlike. I've only ever seen skills that enhance the body until now. I didn't think they could go this far."
"Yeah, she's something else," the medic says. "I've got a theory about skills — that there are categories of them. So far I've seen three types. First are body-enhancing skills like Fighting Experience, that boost what your body is capable of. Then there are skills that affect other things or other people — Emilia's would fall into that category. She heals others, not herself. And then there's a third type I've only heard about once — the ability to create matter. Apparently one person at another base can create a blade out of thin air. But that last one might just be a rumor."
King leans forward slightly. "It would make sense though. We don't know how far these skills can go. Maybe eventually we'll see people flying through the air, throwing fire. We know nothing about any of this." He pauses. "Speaking of which — do you think Emilia could do that healing on my arm? I want to know how it feels."
The medic looks at him for a moment. Then he stands, walks over to Emilia, and taps her on the shoulder, speaking quietly.
She walks over to Sergeant King — head high, dark hair tucked behind one ear, blue eyes catching the dim light of the basement.
"Good day, Sergeant. My colleague tells me you'd like me to fix your arm." A polite smile. "Hold still — it won't take more than a few seconds."
She extends her hand and hovers it over the broken arm. The same golden circle appears beneath her palm, and another forms directly over the break in his arm.
Less than a second later the pain begins. It shoots through his body all at once. His spine goes rigid. His hands clench the armrests so hard his knuckles go white. A sound escapes him that he clearly didn't intend to make.
A few seconds pass.
"Done," Emilia says. "Your arm should be fully functional." She glances across the room at Lucius — one look, a small smile — and then turns back to her next patient without another word.
Sergeant King sits for a moment, dizzy and lightheaded, flexing the fingers of his formerly broken arm with an expression caught between amazement and wounded pride. Then he stands, walks over to Lucius, and looks him over.
"You can't go to the General looking like that," he says. "Down the hall, last door on the left — bathroom. Room next to it has clothes, military issue. They'll fit well enough. Make it quick."
Lucius finds the bathroom without trouble. It's a converted school bathroom, the mirrors still intact, the fluorescent light above flickering every few seconds. He turns the tap and waits. Cold at first, then barely warm — warm enough.
He looks at himself in the mirror before stepping under the water. He barely recognizes the face looking back. Blood has dried into dark lines across his cheeks and forehead. His nose is swollen and sitting slightly wrong. There are shadows under his eyes deep enough to look permanent.
He thinks of Lune. He thinks of Liam somewhere out there in the dark.
Then he steps under the water and lets it run.
The blood comes off slowly. The water at his feet runs brown then pink then clear. He stands there longer than he needs to, forehead resting against the cold tile, the warmth of the water on his back the only comfort available to him right now.
'They made it out. Liam is smart and careful and Lune is stronger than anyone gives her credit for. They made it out.'
He keeps telling himself that until it feels closer to true.
He shuts the water off and dries himself with a rough towel that smells like detergent. In the room next door he finds a stack of folded military clothes — dark trousers, a plain fitted shirt, a jacket with no insignia on it yet. Boots lined up along the wall. He finds a pair close enough to his size and laces them up.
He looks at himself in the small mirror on the wall. The face is still bruised, the nose still sitting wrong. Emilia fixed what would have killed him. The rest is just a record of what happened — and he finds he doesn't mind that. Let it stay.
The person in the mirror looks less like a casualty and more like someone who survived on purpose.
He goes back to where the sergeant is waiting.
King looks him over once. "Better. Let's go."
They take the stairs. Four flights of old school stairwell, the walls still covered in student artwork that no one has bothered to take down. Paintings of landscapes, collages, a large mural of a sun on the third floor landing. Lucius looks at it as they pass. Someone painted it carefully, probably spent days on it. The world it came from feels very far away.
At the second floor landing, King speaks without slowing down. "I sent Marsh ahead with a full report while we were in the infirmary. The General will already know the details."
Lucius nods and says nothing.
The fourth floor is quieter than the floors below. The hallway is lit properly — actual electric lights instead of the dim improvised lighting of the basement. Two soldiers stand at either end of the corridor. They clock Sergeant King and nod, their eyes moving briefly to Lucius with an unreadable expression.
King stops before the door in the center of the hall. He straightens slightly — not a dramatic change but enough that Lucius notices it. Even King adjusts himself for whoever is behind this door.
He knocks twice.
"Enter."
The voice is not loud. It doesn't need to be.
The room was once a headteacher's office. The desk is still there — heavy dark wood, out of place against the military equipment now surrounding it. Maps cover two of the walls, marked with colored pins and notations in small precise handwriting. A generator hums somewhere nearby, powering the single lamp that illuminates the room clearly.
Behind the desk sits a man who looks like he was built to occupy exactly this kind of room.
He is older than Sergeant King by perhaps ten years, though it's difficult to say precisely. His hair is cut close, more grey than dark. His face is angular and weathered in the way of someone who spent decades outdoors in difficult conditions. His eyes are a pale grey that catches the light in a way that makes it hard to tell if he's looking at you or through you.
He wears his uniform with the ease of someone who has worn one their entire adult life. No decoration beyond what is necessary. His hands are folded on the desk in front of him — completely still.
He does not stand when they enter. He simply watches them cross the room until they stop before the desk.
"Sergeant King." His voice is measured. Precise. Every word placed deliberately, nothing wasted. "Sit down. Both of you."
There are two chairs already positioned before the desk. Lucius sits. His back straightens without him deciding to — something about the room demands it.
The general's pale eyes move to Lucius and stay there for a moment. Not hostile. Assessing. The way a person looks at something they are deciding the value of.
"Your name," he says.
"Lucius Thorn."
"Age."
"Nineteen."
A brief pause. "King's report tells me you killed a hound alone before encountering his unit. With improvised weapons and no prior experience with the system."
It isn't a question. Lucius answers anyway. "Yes."
"He also tells me you sustained a gunshot wound and multiple fractured ribs and continued fighting. That you used yourself as a decoy so two others could escape." Another pause. "That you broke his arm."
Sergeant King shifts almost imperceptibly in his chair.
"Yes to all of that," Lucius says.
The general is quiet for a moment. He unfolds his hands and opens a folder on the desk — Lucius's stat window information, written down by someone.
"Your stats are not exceptional," the general says, without judgment. It is simply a fact he is establishing. "Your skill set however is unusual. Fighting Experience is common enough. But Hollow Braveheart—" he pauses on the name, "—I have not seen this before. The description tells us very little about what it actually does."
"I don't fully understand it myself yet," Lucius says honestly.
The general looks at him. "That is either refreshing honesty or a significant problem. Possibly both." He closes the folder. "What I can identify from King's account is that it produces a quality that cannot be trained into a person. It isn't Charisma — your window makes that clear enough. It operates through something else entirely. Some people make others around them steadier simply by being present, independent of how likeable or persuasive they are. That quality is rarer than any stat and worth considerably more to me than high numbers on a page."
Lucius says nothing. He isn't sure what the right response is.
"You are not military," the general continues. "You have no training, no rank, no proven loyalty to this structure. Under normal circumstances you would be placed with the civilians until a role could be assessed." He pauses. "These are not normal circumstances."
He leans back slightly — the first movement he has made that isn't completely controlled.
"You will remain here. You will be assessed over the coming days. You will follow the structure of this base — its rules, its hierarchy, its decisions. In return you will be fed, housed, and protected. You will have access to resources that would otherwise be unavailable to you." His pale eyes hold steady on Lucius's face. "I am not offering you charity. I am making an investment based on limited but notable evidence. Whether that investment pays off depends entirely on you."
He lets the silence sit for a moment.
"Do you have questions."
Not a question. An invitation that sounds like a formality.
Lucius looks at the man across the desk. He thinks about Lune. He thinks about Liam. He thinks about what access to military resources actually means in a world that collapsed six hours ago.
"The two people who escaped from King's unit," he says carefully. "If they're found — what happens to them."
The general's expression doesn't change. "That depends on what they are capable of and whether they present a threat to this base."
"They're not a threat," Lucius says. "One of them has a skill that could be useful to you. The other has heightened awareness and combat experience."
The general studies him for a moment. "You're already negotiating."
"I'm answering your question," Lucius says. "You asked if I had questions. I do. That's mine."
Something shifts almost invisibly in the general's expression. Not warmth exactly. Something closer to recalibration.
"If they present themselves or are located and pose no threat to this base, they will be assessed like anyone else," he says. "That is the best answer I can give you."
It isn't enough. Lucius knows it isn't enough. But it's something, and something is what he has to work with right now.
"Understood," he says.
The general nods once and looks to Sergeant King. "King. Get him settled. Assessment begins tomorrow."
King stands. Lucius follows.
They are almost at the door when the general speaks again, without looking up from his desk.
"Thorn."
Lucius stops.
"The people you sacrificed yourself for," the general says quietly. "I hope for your sake they were worth it."
Lucius doesn't answer. He walks out the door.
In the corridor King lets out a long slow breath. "You did well in there. He doesn't recalibrate for many people."
Lucius says nothing. He is already thinking about tomorrow.