The day reaches us sideways.
Not with light first—but with sound.
The outskirts of Tauran wake before the sun clears the industrial roofs. Somewhere nearby, metal wheels grind along rail spurs. Steam vents hiss awake like animals stretching their lungs. Boots move on cobblestone, steady and indifferent.
The smell of the city hits me immediately—coal smoke, wet brick, old oil, and something faintly sweet from a factory downwind.
Civilization.
My arm still hurts.
But it is… quieter now.
My bone no longer grinds. The heat has settled into a deep ache instead of sharp refusal. When I flex my fingers, slowly, carefully, they respond.
And that's enough.
Ashlynn notices my right arm before I say anything.
"You're healing," she murmurs.
"Slowly," I answer.
Gary doesn't comment. He's already adjusted his expectations.
The eastern outskirts of Tauran stretch outward in uneven layers. Narrow brick houses lean shoulder-to-shoulder, their chimneys coughing smoke into the grey sky.
People walk past us wrapped in coats, faces tired, eyes forward. No one stares too long. Three more bodies mean nothing here.
Ashlynn walks close to me. Not because she's afraid.
Because she's choosing proximity.
"I'm not from the capital," she says suddenly.
Gary doesn't turn. I do.
"Where, then?" I ask.
"South," she replies. "Near the floodworks. Port city. Less smoke." A pause. "Less people watching."
She doesn't elaborate. I don't press and simply nod.
Moments later.
We reach a cluster of older houses near a collapsed retaining wall. This part of the city looks forgotten—brick patched with stone, iron fixtures repaired too many times to count. Gary stops in front of one such building.
There's no markings or insignia.
Just a narrow door and a window shaded with thick cloth.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He knocks three times as he calls for someone. "Zepp... are you alive still?"
Pause.
Once more. "Zepp..."
The door opens immediately.
An old man peers out. His beard is white, his eyes sharp despite the years. When he sees Gary, his expression softens—not with relief, but recognition.
"You're late," the old man says.
Gary inclines his head. "We were delayed."
"Eight months of delay," the old man scoffs.
His gaze shifts to me. Then Ashlynn. It lingers a fraction longer.
"Come in," he says. "Before you bring the street with you."
Inside, warmth greets us. Real warmth. A coal stove crackles in the corner, iron kettle already boiling. The air smells like bread and broth.
"Sit down," the old man says as he points at chairs by the table.
Gary sits first. Me and Ashlynn sits next to each other opposite of Gary.
The old man—Zepp moves with practiced efficiency. He hands us cups of water, then bowls of something thick and steaming. Chicken soup.
I eat slow and savor every bite. Every slurp. But Ashlynn, she eats fast like she might not eat again.
Zepp doesn't ask questions while we eat. He lets us enjoy our food.
Only after.
"You're hurt," Zepp says, pointing at my arm.
"Yes," I answer.
He nods. "You'll live."
Not reassurance.
Diagnosis.
"You can take bath in that room," Zepp says as he points toward a room located in the back of living room.
"Wait here," He adds.
A moment later he comes back with sets of clothes. "Here." he says as he places them on the table.
He offers clean clothes. A basin of water. Soap that smells faintly of herbs I don't recognize. Ashlynn takes the chance to bathe without hesitation. Gary positions himself near the door, back to the wall.
I still sit in the chair, waiting for my turn. The smell of floral soap hits my nose.
After we finish our bath and finally earn our rest, I open the red notebook.
Allen's.
The cover is worn smooth, the red dulled by handling. The first pages are filled with cramped handwriting, diagrams interrupted mid-line, sentences trailing off into nothing.
I read further.
Some parts are gibberish—filled with drawings and writings that make no sense. All the gibberish pages sit right next to torn pages. Six torn pages in total.
Some fragments describe places—their locations, their functions. Others describe individuals—their names, what they do, fragments of their stories. All of it is written in pieces. Incomplete.
Many pages remain empty.
When my eyes can no longer focus, I close it then sleep.
—
I'm standing in a room lit by shifting colors. Not lanterns. Something brighter. Louder. The kind of light that doesn't care who it exposes.
Music pounds through the floor. People move too close. Someone laughs right next to my ear.
I turn—
And see her.
Green eyes. Brunette. That smile.
I've seen her before.
She grins like she already knows how this ends.
I don't answer fast enough.
Another girl steps in from my right. Blue eyes. Dark hair. Annoyed.
"Allen!"
She slaps me. Hard.
Irritated.
—
Morning returns more gently this time.
We eat in silence. The city hums outside, louder now. Alive.
Zepp stands by the window, watching smoke rise between rooftops.
"You'll want the northern outskirts," he says. "Things have changed."
Gary nods once.
Ashlynn looks at me. I nod too.
My arm flexes again. Still damaged. Still weak.
At least it's still mine.
After we finished, we leave quietly.
Behind us, the house returns to anonymity, as if it never held us at all.
Ahead, Tauran stretches.
And somewhere within it—