Chapter 1: The Dust Road and the Silence.
The sun was a merciless eye in the pale, bleached sky. For two hours, it had stared down without blinking, baking the cracked earth and searing the very air they breathed. The year was 1601 Post-Menma, an age defined not by progress, but by what had been lost. The lone, dusty road stretched before them like a faded scar upon the land, winding through endless fields of wildflowers that drooped under the oppressive heat.
Inside the rickety wooden cart, the heat was a physical weight. It pressed down from the frayed canopy, radiated up from the floorboards, and clung to the air in a stifling, invisible blanket. Dust, fine as powdered bone, coated every surface in a gritty veil. It stirred with each jarring lurch of the wheels, catching in the shafts of sunlight that pierced through tears in the fabric, dancing like frantic, golden flecks before settling once more. The world outside was a silent, sun-drenched painting, but inside the cart, the journey was a slow, grinding torture.
A young man sat stiffly on the left bench, his back aching with a discomfort that had long since blossomed into a dull, throbbing anger. His short, unruly black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his skin, naturally pale, seemed almost translucent in the gloom. He wore a simple, loose-fitting black jacket and grey trousers, the attire of a traveler with no desire to be noticed. But his anonymity was betrayed by the irritation flickering in his dark eyes. Every jolt of the cart sent a fresh wave of frustration through him, a coiling serpent in his gut. This journey was more than just uncomfortable; it was a waste. And time, he knew, was a currency he could no longer afford to squander. Every wasted moment felt like a betrayal.
Across from him, on the right bench, a girl lay as still as a figure carved from stone. The cart rocked and swayed, but she remained a fixed point of serenity in the chaos. Her long, flowing hair, the colour of midnight, was streaked with strands of a deep, impossible blue that seemed to drink the light. It cascaded over the rough wooden bench like a spill of liquid silk. A thin, simple cloth of the same deep blue was tied over her eyes, obscuring her expression and lending her an air of profound mystery. Her stillness was unnatural, an eerie calm that was more unsettling than any outburst could ever be.
The young man, Fulan, found his gaze drawn to her against his will. His own agitation seemed foolish in the face of her absolute peace. He wondered, not for the first time, if she was even conscious. How could anyone sleep through this infernal shaking? How could she be so unaffected by the suffocating heat? The questions circled in his mind, rubbing against his frayed patience. He had a sudden, perverse urge to shatter that calm, to do something drastic just to see a reaction, to prove that she was a living, breathing person and not some phantom he had imagined in his heat-addled mind. The thought amused him for a dark moment before he dismissed it, slumping back against the hard wood with a sigh.
The silence, thick and heavy, was finally broken by his strained voice. "Old man," he said, his tone sharper than he intended. "It has been two hours. Surely these beasts can move faster than this."
From the front of the cart, the driver glanced back through the small wooden window between them. He was an elderly man, his white hair a wispy halo in the breeze and his face a roadmap of wrinkles. Yet, his smile was unwavering and kind. "My apologies, young sir," he replied, his voice a gentle hum above the creaking of the wheels. "These two are family. The mare is twenty-four, and the stallion is twenty-six. They are not as spry as they once were." He patted the flank of the horse nearest to him. "And their Menma isn't what it used to be."
Menma. The word hung in the air, resonating with a quiet power. It was the unseen force that had reshaped their world. It was a virus, the stories said, that had swept across the Earth centuries ago, wiping out the old world of steel and science. It had shattered the arrogance of humankind, erasing their towering achievements and plunging them into an era of regression. But it had not only taken; it had also given. Those who survived its touch were granted abilities beyond the natural design, strange and unpredictable powers that became a part of their very being. The Menma had not stopped with humans. It had seeped into every living thing—the soil, the trees, the beasts of the field. It had rewritten the rules of nature itself.
Fulan frowned, his frustration momentarily forgotten. "Twenty-six years?" he asked, his curiosity piqued. "That is well past the average lifespan for a horse."
The old man's grip on the reins tightened, a flicker of pride in his gentle eyes. "Aye, their Menma granted them long life in their youth. But time takes its toll on all things, Menma or no." He chuckled softly. "Many have told me to replace them, to buy a pair of foals with strong Menma for work. But to discard them simply because they have grown old… that's not something I can bring myself to do. They have shared my road for so long. They are my family."
Fulan fell silent. He had expected a practical answer—a matter of cost, or lack of availability. Instead, he was met with a simple, profound loyalty. These horses were not just tools to the old man; they were companions, living reminders of journeys taken and burdens shared. For a moment, Fulan felt a flicker of something foreign within his chest, a feeling akin to respect. He lowered his head, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. Such loyalties, he thought, were a luxury he could not afford.
The cart rumbled on. The sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, painting the edges of the sky in shades of orange and pink. The oppressive heat started to relent, replaced by a cooling breeze that carried the scent of sun-dried grass and distant blossoms.
As they rounded a wide bend in the road, the driver slowed the horses, his cheerful humming ceasing abruptly. "We are getting close to Petita Village now," he announced, though his voice had lost its earlier lightness.
Fulan leaned forward, peering past the old man. The landscape ahead seemed unchanged—the same rolling fields, the same dusty road. Then he saw it. To the side of the path, half-hidden in a thicket of overgrown thorns, was a shape. It was the splintered, sun-bleached remains of another cart, tipped on its side like a fallen animal. One of its wheels was broken, pointing an accusing spoke at the sky. Dark, ominous stains marred the weathered wood, telling a silent story of violence and loss.
The air grew tense. The gentle creaking of their own cart suddenly sounded loud and vulnerable in the quiet evening. The old driver was silent, his back rigid.
Fulan's body went taut. His earlier weariness vanished, replaced by a sharp, cold alertness. His hand moved instinctively to his side, his fingers flexing around empty air where a weapon ought to have been. The road ahead was no longer just a tedious path. It was a threat.
And then, for the first time since the journey began, the girl across from him moved.
It was a small, subtle motion. She did not sit up or speak. She simply tilted her head, her blindfolded face turning with unerring precision towards the distant wreckage. The gesture was slight, almost unnoticeable, but in the heavy silence, it was as loud as a scream. She was aware. She had been aware all along. And the silent journey between them was suddenly charged with a new and dangerous current.