Shadow finally lowered the crowbar. Her throat burned with thirst, her voice rough and broken."Why did you save me?" she asked.
"You're not a monster," Alan said.
"You went through my things."
"I had to be sure you weren't a Fire-Chaser."
Shadow gave a faint laugh—dry, more breath than sound. "And do I look like one?"
"Doesn't matter who you look like," he said quietly. "Looking human is enough."
He offered her the remaining half of his biscuit. She shook her head.He put it back into his mouth, chewing slowly until it softened, swallowing without expression.
"You said the fire doesn't talk," she murmured.
"Mm."
"What if one day it does?"
"Then we live long enough to see that day," Alan replied.
Shadow said nothing more. She curled up beneath the ragged cloth, holding it tight to keep her heat from escaping.Alan pressed the Fireseed against his sternum; this time it stayed calm.He stared at the white salt line until it blurred, merging into a single solid band.
The third wind passed. The fourth began—drier now, carrying sand instead of mist.The darkness lifted little by little; gray crept in from the horizon. Dawn had arrived.
But daylight didn't mean safety.In the sun, the gray fog only hid its body better.
Alan patched the weakest section of the salt line. Shadow sat up slowly, helped mend her side. Her hands were clumsy but quick.He didn't correct her—movement was enough.
He loosened the Fireseed a finger's width, letting warmth spread for a moment before tightening it again.He needed water.
Alan searched around the wreck twice, scraping frost from a cracked cooling pipe.Barely enough to wet his tongue.He split the frost in two portions. Shadow refused hers. He ate it all, unbothered. Survival had no space for courtesy.
Back inside the salt line, Alan sat down, listing tasks in his head:Find water. Find dry grass. Find cover from wind. Gather more salt. Leave no tracks. Avoid the lowlands. Avoid monsters. Avoid people.
Shadow touched the bandage at her waist. "Will you leave this place?"
"Yes."
"Take me with you."
"That depends on whether you can keep up."
He remembered her name, but in his mind he labeled her something else—burden.
The gray brightened; the edges of scrap metal glimmered.Alan lifted the Fireseed's cover just enough to see the marks left by the beasts overnight—shallow arcs in the dust.He chose the opposite direction, along the northern ridge.
He collected only half the inner salt, leaving the outer circle untouched.A false door—for those who came later. Let them waste time there.
He propped a metal sheet upright and wrapped a torn cloth around the outer edge of the salt line, shaping the illusion of footprints.If anyone came, they would follow the wrong trail.
"Let's go," he said.
Shadow struggled to her feet, pale, trembling, but able to move.Alan tied a strip of fabric around her waist, tight enough to hold the wound closed.Neither spoke as they moved, carrying their packs, hugging the stone wall as they went north.
Every twenty steps, Alan turned back, scanning for movement.
After three hundred paces, he stopped.In the sand ahead—three sets of footprints, deep and fresh, all equal in stride.Human. Trained.
The tracks vanished beneath a twisted metal tower, then bent west into the fog.Alan froze, watching, silent. Then he stepped back into the rocks, waiting for the next gust of wind.
He didn't follow. Chasing meant being seen.
He took a pinch of salt and pressed it into a crack between stones, leaving a tiny white mark.
Shadow asked softly, "Is that a trail sign?"
"Not for me," Alan said. "For what comes back."
She didn't understand, but didn't ask again.
They passed under the tower. The wind carried away the smell of wreckage.Alan's hand never left his chest. The Fireseed's warmth pulsed, steady, obedient.
"Don't move," he whispered—not to her, but to the fire.
It gave no answer. He didn't need one. He only needed obedience.
Two more ridges later, the ground rose higher, and the wind grew sharper.Alan stopped under a low ridge, set Shadow down.
He opened the Fireseed a crack to light the ground, studied the path ahead, then sealed it again.He drew a short salt line at his feet—just a hand's width.Not a barrier. A beginning.
He slipped the bone needle back into his sleeve and looked northward.A shadowed shape lay far ahead—mountain or fog, he couldn't tell.It didn't matter. If daylight found them first, he'd reach its edge. If night came first, he'd crouch beneath it.
Shadow rubbed her mouth, voice faint and hoarse. "You saved me, but you never asked who I am—or whether I'm good or bad."
"Being alive matters more than either," Alan said.
"You'll ask, eventually."
"When the time comes."
The wind carried their voices away. They didn't speak again.
Alan tightened his straps—salt, knife, fire. Those three, always close.He checked his surroundings: uneven ground, scattered stones. Monsters couldn't run fast here, but neither could men.Good for cover, bad for sightlines. He accepted the trade.
"Don't fall behind," he said.
Shadow nodded, teeth clenched, following close.
They moved north.
By midday, a warm gust blew from behind, thick with the taste of rust.Alan froze, pressing himself to the wall.That smell meant movement back at the wreck—someone had fired a weapon, or worse.
He didn't look back. Looking wouldn't help.He pulled Shadow closer and kept moving.
Then—a muffled pop against his chest. He pressed his palm flat over it. The Fireseed had flared once, then stilled.
They stopped beneath a third ridge. Alan dragged a metal sheet into place overhead, a makeshift roof.Shadow drifted in and out of sleep, lips cracked and bleeding.Alan scraped the last frost from the salt pouch and offered it.She licked once, pushed it back.He finished it without hesitation, his tongue numb from the cold.
He redrew the salt line into a half-arc, leaving the opening behind them.He pinned it with the bone needle, laid the crowbar across the inner floor.
Then he whispered the day's rules:"One—no talking inside the salt.Two—watch the wind, not the fog.Three—when fire burns, keep silent."
Shadow nodded.
Alan took the first watch. He knew true night hadn't come yet.This was rehearsal.
He checked the wound on his hand. Salt stung, but stopped the bleeding.He wiped his blade clean. The edge was dulled, but still enough to pierce earth.
Far in the distance, the fallen tower moaned as wind blew through its hollow pipes.He listened to the rhythm, counting its deep notes.When the third note came, he touched his chest. The Fireseed pulsed in time.
He let his eyes close—for just one second—then opened them again.
Night had returned.The wind was colder, carrying moisture.
Alan added another thick layer of salt at the door, gripping the bone needle tight.Shadow crouched with the crowbar ready.Neither spoke. They watched the door together, still as statues.
The Fireseed stayed calm this time.
Alan knew he'd survived one more night—but the wasteland killed those who believed in safety.
When the darkness finally swallowed them, he summarized the day into three truths:One—survive the night.Two—shadows can move.Three—the north is open.
Then he turned those truths into orders:Keep the fire steady.Never run out of salt.Follow the wind, not men.
The storm raged outside. Alan counted its rhythm, slow and calm.There was nothing left to do until dawn—except one thing.
Live long enough to see another night.