For the first time in what felt like weeks, the day belonged to silence.
No gunfire, no collapsing steel, no molten roars from Rift-born nightmares. Just the Hollow Plains stretching wide and cracked beneath a bruised-red sky, and the ruined farmhouse cellar that had become their refuge.
Ethan sat at the cellar door, the faint wind tugging at his hair. Beyond, the scorched fields whispered under the breeze, their broken furrows glowing faintly with Rift scars. This was a world undone, but it was still standing.
Behind him, laughter broke the quiet.
It was morning and Travis was back on his feet.
Still pale? Yes, with the look of someone who'd burned his Awakening almost dry, but Travis was alive and stubborn as ever.
He crouched over a scavenged pot set on a jury-rigged fire pit, stirring with a broken wooden spoon with a serene look of enjoyment on his face. The smell of roasted grain and canned meat drifted through the cellar.
