Elias had no notion how long he sat with his back to the wall, sword draped across his lap, waiting for the beasts' return. The mist never cleared. It thinned only, curling in the gaps between the broken stones, carrying the distant whisper of screams.
His breathing slowed gradually. His brain, still trying to hold onto modern logic, demanded an explanation.
He had none.
Okay… He clenched his hand on the sword, the leather hilt cold on his skin. Not a dream. Not a joke. No headset, no wires. The Script—whatever that is—is real. Those things were real.
And that name—Reader.
He forced himself to stand, legs complaining. The far side of the courtyard had a ruined archway, half-covered under ivy and moss. Beyond it, a hillside of rubble fell into what seemed to be a path, winding toward the distant silhouette of buildings ahead.
If there's a city, there are people. If there are people, there are answers.
The path was worse than it looked—loose rocks slid underfoot, and thorny weeds snagged at his jeans. Every sound made him tense, expecting another growl in the fog.
By the time the initial forms solidified, his shoulders hurt from clutching the sword for so long.
He suspected at first it was another ruin—split walls, burned timbers, collapsed roofs. But as he approached, details defined themselves—shudders of light in upper windows, faint movement in shadowed alleyways.
It wasn't empty. Just… scarred.
A figure appeared on the roadside. Cloak drawn tight, hood raised. The stranger carried a spear and moved with the easy wariness of one who was used to danger.
When Elias moved forward, the stranger stopped and lifted the spear—not in overt menace, but in warning.
"Announce your banner," the voice called out. It was male, rough, and accented in a way that Elias had never heard.
"I—uh—I don't have a banner," Elias said.
A pause. The man tilted his head. "What faction do you serve, then?"
"I don't…" Elias broke off. Telling him he had no idea what factions were appeared to be a good way to end up on the pointy end. "I'm… not from here."
That got a longer pause. Then the man lowered the spear slightly.
"Outlander?"
"I guess."
The hood fell from pointed features and pale eyes. "You're lucky you weren't taken in for a scavenger. Come on. The gates will close soon."
The "gates" were two huge wooden slabs bound in iron, inset in a wall that had clearly been rebuilt multiple times. Elias followed the man through, noting the layers—older stone at the bottom, newer wood patched in further up. Scars of siege damage marked almost every surface.
Inside, the settlement hummed in a subdued, suspicious way. People hastened, heads down, speaking in low voices. Soldiers in patchwork armor strolled in twos, patrolling. The smell of smoke hung over everything.
Elias took it all in with mute desperation. People. Food. Shelter.
And maybe, just maybe, someone who could explain to him why the sky seemed to have been rent in two.
The man led him to a low stone building near the center. Over the door, a sign worn smooth by time bore a symbol—two crossed quills over an open book.
It was warmer within. Against the far wall was a long desk, stacked with parchment and inkpots. Behind it, a woman sat in a grey cloak, her hair braided tight against her head. Her eyes looked up as they entered.
"Another stray?" she asked, tone neutral but not unkind.
"Found him at the east ruin," the man replied. "No banner. No weapon but a rusted sword."
Her gaze went to the sword Elias was still holding. "Rusted or not, it's still steel. Did you use it to kill anything?"
The question was so blunt Elias was startled he didn't laugh. "Yeah. Two… things. Big, wolf-like. Rotten."
That got a reaction. The man's face concentrated. The woman laid down her pen.
"Carrion beasts," she said.
Elias nodded uncertainly. "That what you call them?"
"Yes. And if you were near the east ruin, you were well within their hunting ground. You shouldn't be alive." She leaned forward. "Who sent you?"
"No one. I told him—" Elias nodded at the man—"I'm not from here. I don't even know where here is."
Silence. The man and woman exchanged a look. Finally, she stood.
"Then you'll want to speak to the Warden."
The Warden's office was at the top of a narrow stairwell in the same building. The room was cluttered with maps, ledgers, and weapons—some polished, others still crusted with old blood. The man behind the desk was broad-shouldered, his dark hair streaked with grey. His eyes, narrow and judging, roved over Elias as if he was measuring him for a coffin.
"So," the Warden said, his voice low and controlled, "you strolled in off the carrion fields, no banner, no armor, and you expect me to believe you're not a spy."
"I'm not a spy," Elias said. "I'm not… anything. I don't even know how I got here."
The Warden's fingers tapped against the desk. "You sound like a coastal outlander, yet your apparel…" His eyes narrowed. "Strange cut. Foreign stitching."
Elias glanced down at his hoodie. "Yeah. It's… from afar."
The Warden leaned back. "Then tell me this—when you were out there, did you see anything strange? Anything that… wasn't part of the battle?"
Elias hesitated. The glowing words seared in his mind.
The Reader dies here. A shadow moves in the fog. A knife falls from the wall.
Admitting that could get him locked up. Or worse. But lying… something gave him the sense that lying here was not safe.
"I saw… letters," he stammered. "In the air. Golden light. It… spoke to me. And then they came true."
The Warden immobilized. The woman from downstairs, who'd followed them up, drew a sharp breath.
"Warden—"
"I know," he said, cutting her off.
He studied Elias for a long moment, eyes unreadable. "You'll stay here tonight. We'll talk again in the morning."
They gave him a cot in a small side room. The blanket was scratchy, the pillow thin, but it was better than mud and fog. Still, sleep came slowly.
His mind wouldn't stop replaying the day—the shove at the train station, the war zone, the beasts, the Script.
Reader.
The word was heavy, portentous in some manner he couldn't understand.
When sleep finally claimed him, it was shallow and restless. He was jarred awake by shouting.
Not the distant, muffled kind from beyond walls—this was close, persistent.
Boots boomed down the hall outside his door. A horn sounded, low and thunderous.
Elias drew his sword and pushed his way through into the hall. Yesterday's woman was already present, cloak over night gear, spear in hand.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Scouts reported a raiding party," she said. "South wall. Get back in there."
"I can help," he said before thinking.
Her eyes fell to his sword, then back to his face. "Help by staying alive."
She was gone before he could answer.
The horn blew again. Elias paced, every nerve on edge. The building shuddered—impact with the wall? He could not simply wait there.
He cracked open the door and slipped out. The main corridor was empty, but outside, through the narrow slits in the wall, he could make out movement—dark shapes darting through smoke, flashes of metal.
And then, the light.
The Script appeared, more focused now, words burning his vision.
The gate buckles. The carrion slip through.
Elias's stomach dropped. He had no clue how far ahead these predictions were. Seconds? Minutes? But if it was true, something was imminent and very wrong.
He raced for the stairs.
On the top of the wall, chaos ruled. Soldiers fought in tight clusters with raiders in hasty armor. The air reeked of smoke and blood. The Warden stood there, sword glinting in torchlight.
Elias searched the gate. The wood creaked beneath violent blows from outside. With every strike, the iron bands protested.
The Script hadn't failed yet.
He dashed to the Warden. "The gate's going to give!"
The man hardly gave him a look. "Keep back, outlander."
"I mean it! If it breaks, worse than those raiders is coming in—carrion beasts!"
That got his attention. His eyes slit. "How do you—"
The gate burst apart.
The first carrion beast through was bigger than the ones Elias had battled before—its spine crested, its skull plated with bone. Two smaller ones followed, leaping over the splintered wood.
The Warden roared orders. Spears grouped. Arrows flew.
Elias gripped his sword more tightly. The beast's eyes locked on him, molten and unwavering.
This time, he didn't wait for the Script to instruct him on what to do.
He rushed.