The wind carried ash like it remembered fire.
It swept down through the alleyways of Ashspire—cold and sharp, curling around rusted beams and broken glass as if searching for something it had lost. The city had been dead for years, but the air still moved like it had a pulse. A slow, ragged one. Smoke coiled from the mouths of chimneys that hadn't seen real heat in months. Windows blinked in and out of focus behind soot-streaked glass, and every corner reeked of rust, oil, and something sour that never quite went away.
Cael moved swiftly through the wreckage, guiding his sister over a frost-slick pipe with one hand firm on her back and the other clenched tight against his thigh. The street had long ceased to be a street—just broken stone stitched together with ice and forgotten bones. Skeletal buildings leaned into one another like dying men, holding each other up out of habit. Crumbling storefronts blinked dim holo-signs from decades past, still advertising warmth that no longer existed.
Lia's breath came out in ragged puffs that hung in the air before vanishing. She didn't complain—not about the wind slicing through her coat sleeves, not about the secondhand boots Cael had bartered for that morning that already leaked at the soles. She was small for her age, whip-thin and sharper than anyone gave her credit for. Her silence wasn't passive—it was precise. A weapon honed by years of learning when to vanish, when to speak, and when to run.
The jacket draped over her shoulders was Cael's. Worn at the cuffs, patched along the spine. On her, it dragged behind like a ghost of someone older. He kept his steps quiet, feet moving with the careful rhythm of someone who had learned early that noise was a luxury. Their path wove beneath collapsed scaffolding and behind a shuttered clinic. A sign reading "Hope Center" swung from a broken hinge, the "O" flickering erratically.
Then came the buzz.
High-pitched, steady, unnatural.
Cael's arm shot out, barring Lia across the chest in one fluid motion. She halted instantly, her eyes flicking to his without a word.
Above them, a patrol drone swept across the skyline—sleek, matte black, its surface seamless except for the single red eye pulsing every few seconds like a heartbeat. It drifted slowly, scanning. Waiting. Watching.
They ducked into a narrow alley flanked by two collapsed buildings. One side had collapsed inward, forming a lean-to of twisted steel and splintered beams. Cael guided Lia beneath the overhang, crouching low, his breath shallow. The cold bit at his knuckles, but he didn't move.
Ashspire wasn't silent. It just sounded like grief trying to hold its breath.
Water dripped steadily from rusted drainpipes into shallow pools already frozen over. The wind moaned softly through broken window frames. Somewhere, far off, a scream cut the air—short, high, desperate—and then abruptly ended. No one moved. No one questioned. That was how it worked now. The city didn't flinch anymore. It endured.
"Not much farther," Cael whispered against Lia's ear, his breath fogging the collar of his jacket. "Warmth. Then food."
She nodded. Just once. Eyes forward.
They passed a frozen fountain in the next square, the statue at its center crumbled down to armless stone legs. Behind it, an old man sat hunched beside a rusted heat drum, its flames small and colorless, more smoke than warmth. He didn't speak as Cael approached—just tilted his chin toward the tin cups stacked behind him.
Cael reached into his coat, pulled out two ration tokens, and slid them across the reader. It blinked blue. The vendor, without a word, handed over two cups of steaming broth. It was thin, oily, and smelled faintly of salt and powdered kelp.
Cael passed one to Lia and sat beside her on the cracked stone edge of the fountain. They huddled close to the drum, the meager heat barely cutting through the layers of ash and cold that had sunk into their bones.
Lia stared into her cup. "Do you think Mama would've liked this?" she asked quietly, without looking up.
Cael froze for half a heartbeat. The question struck him unexpectedly. He hadn't thought about their mother in days, maybe weeks. The grief had become too splintered—shards buried beneath routine and hunger.
"She'd say it needed pepper," he answered finally, managing a tired smile.
Lia nodded, a ghost of amusement flickering at the corner of her mouth. "Then we should find some."
He touched her shoulder gently. "We'll check the next market."
The vendor tapped his wrist twice. Sharp, metallic. A warning. Time to move on.
They left the square without looking back, sliding through a fence broken open at the base and into the shadow of an abandoned train station. The rails were long since covered with frost and rot, and the platform had caved in on one side. They followed a narrow stairwell down, where thick mist gathered around their feet and the walls sweated condensation in sluggish drops.
The Underline.
It had once been part of Ashspire's underground metro system—back when Ashspire had things like metros and schedules and hope. Now it was just a dark place that hadn't yet been scavenged clean.
Steam hissed along old copper pipes, and graffiti spiraled across the walls—layers upon layers of slogans, names, warnings. Some scratched in haste. Others painted with care. BURN THE BOARD.EVERY KING DIES.THE GAME IS A LIE. A child's drawing of a knight sat beside a tally mark list, streaked with what looked like blood.
Lia ran her fingers along the wall as they moved. "It smells like metal and mushrooms."
"Means we're close," Cael murmured.
He pushed open a rusted utility door and stepped into a small maintenance alcove—barely a room, just a hollow carved out beside the vent lines. A warm pipe ran along the wall. There was enough space to sit. To hide. To sleep.
He set down their things, dropped the tarp over the door, and weighted the edges with scraps of iron bar.
They curled up beside the pipe, sharing the last heat like it was a secret.
Time passed slowly there.
The hum of the city faded into the steady drip of condensation. Somewhere above them, sirens howled—soft at first, then louder, then suddenly gone. Lia rested her head against his arm, her eyes half-lidded. "Do you think we'll be okay?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. Not because he didn't want to—but because he didn't know how.
The air in the room shifted. The silence grew taut, too still.
And then it came.
A change in pressure, like the world had exhaled.
Above them, soft mechanical clicks echoed—barely audible, but unmistakable. The drones were back, but these didn't sound like patrols. These were faster. Cleaner.
Something flickered outside. Light scanned across the tunnel entrance in a tight grid.
Lia straightened slowly, her small hand clutching his sleeve. "It's starting," she whispered.
He nodded. The Harvest was no longer a rumor in the wind. It was here. Alive. Moving.
He motioned for her to stay quiet, and they both shifted further back into the shadows. The room held its breath.
And then came the footsteps.
Not the heavy drag of the desperate. Not the uneven pace of scavengers.
These were controlled. Even. Methodical. A sound that echoed without rushing.
Closer.
Cael felt the chill creep into his spine. He tightened his grip on the rusted pipe, knowing it would do nothing.
Closer still.
The tarp fluttered at one corner.
Then a hand—black-gloved, fingers precise—peeled it slowly back.
Lia went utterly still, her body folding into the shadows behind Cael like she'd practiced this a thousand times.
Two figures stepped into view.
Collectors.
Their armor was layered, matte black with silver veins running like circuitry along the plates. The visors were seamless—faceless reflections that bent the room around them. No insignias. No names. Just emptiness and order.
One raised a scanner, and a blue light passed over Cael's face.
Ping.
A match.
The second one moved.
Not like a human. Not quite. Too fluid. Too fast.
Cael swung the pipe in desperation.
It never connected.
The flash of white light came like a blade across reality. It swallowed the room, the pipe, the cold, even Lia's fingers clinging to his jacket.
And then—
Nothing.