As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the wheat fields, Jared dropped the machete to the ground. His arms trembled from exhaustion, his skin slick with sweat and dust. The ache in his muscles was matched only by the emptiness in his stomach.
He trudged back toward the camp, his feet dragging through the dirt. The food booth had already closed. A few men huddled around a barrel fire, trading scraps of stale bread and whispered stories of home. Jared didn't bother asking for food—he knew the answer.
Near the edge of the field, something small skittered past his foot. A beetle. Without hesitation, he snatched it up and popped it into his mouth. Crunch. Bitter. But it was something.
He sat on the broken crate, staring at the horizon. The stars were beginning to appear, indifferent to the suffering below. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear Kerra's voice—soft, broken, singing a lullaby in Aka-pak. The only familiar sound in a place that had stripped them of everything.
Jared closed his eyes.
He didn't know how long he'd be here. He didn't know if he'd ever truly learn Zo-pak. But he knew one thing: survival wasn't just about food or shelter. It was about remembering who you were, even when everything around you tried to erase it.
Tonight, he would remember.