The air thickened as Nick passed the gateway, heavy with smoke, roasting meat, and a sharp chemical undertone. The jungle's quiet yielded to a low, grinding hum: rhythmic hammering, curt bartering voices, the distressed cry of penned creatures.

  His injured calf pulsed with each step on the muddy path. The spear felt flimsy in his grip, the lashed knifea desperate measure. Buildings huddled close, patched with rust-streaked metal and cloudy polymer sheets, leaning against dark timbers salvaged from colossal ruins. Ditches oozed refuse beside the paths.

  Roric strode ahead, the hunters flanking the cart, eyes constantly scanning. Nick matched their pace, feeling the quick, assessing glances slide over him. Outsider. Burden.

  Work was relentless. A man hammered warped metal. Women scraped hides with brutal efficiency. Children sorted scrap or hauled wood, their faces small, serious masks. Guards paced the low walls, clutching crossbows or weapons cobbled from pipes and salvaged parts. Makeshift stalls displayed worn tools, dried herbs, rough textiles. Deals were struck in low murmurs. This was a place stripped to function.

  Roric stopped the cart before a larger structure. A woman emerged, wiping grime onto a leather apron. Lines scored her face; her eyes missed nothing. Her gaze swept the cart, Roric, then settled on Nick, hard and appraising.

  "Yield?" Her voice was worn smooth, like river stone.

  "Enough," Roric replied, his tone flat with exhaustion. "Chickens were thick near the line. Torvin's boy..." The name hung, a shared loss. He jerked his chin towards Nick. "Found him. Roadside. Came out of the boneyard. Says fast things with metal hides got his group."

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Nick. "The boneyard? Nothing walks out." A grim statement of fact.

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  "Torn up," Roric stated. "Needs Kaelen."

  She chewed her lip, weighing the risk. A curt nod. "Fine. Kaelen's." Her eyes flicked to Nick. "But then he stays put. Don't need ghosts following him." She turned away, instantly focused. "Right. Strip this cart. Night watch needs the meat."

  Roric nudged Nick towards a dark hut leaking the faint, sharp smell of primitive antiseptic. Relief was cold, brief. Ghosts. He wasn't just an outsider; he was potentially contaminated.

  The hut door groaned. An old man, bent like a weathered tree, peered out. His eyes, startlingly bright, beckoned Nick inside. The cramped space smelled of dried plants and chemicals. Herbs hung like talismans. Shelves crammed with pots, vials, and tools of bone and metal lined the walls. Kaelen pointed to a stool. Nick sank onto it, wincing.

  The old man worked silently, fingers surprisingly deft as they cleaned Nick’s wounds . A soft 'tsk' escaped him over Nick's calf. He applied a thick green salve.

  Coolness flooded Nick’s skin, immediate, profound, muting the pain to a dull echo. He stared at the paste, astonished. Impossible magic in this broken place.

  Kaelen wrapped the wounds tightly, then straightened, holding up three fingers. Payment. Nick untied the knife, his only real tool, offering it reluctantly.

  Kaelen examined the blade, tested its edge, nodded once. From a pouch, he produced stiff hide strips marked with crude symbols. He counted five, tapped the knife, handed two strips back to Nick.

  Nick pocketed the strange currency. Healed, but disarmed.

  He cleared his throat. "Thank you. Is there... somewhere I can stay? Get food?"

  Kaelen’s gaze was distant. "Place is earned." He rubbed his chin. "Gutter block takes traders. Ten strips a night." He saw Nick's lack of reaction. "Or, ask around. Find someone takes pity." A dry shrug. "Risky." He paused. "Shrine, south wall. Roof holds. Can lie down there. Quiet." Another shrug. "Won't feed you."

  Nick nodded slowly. "Food?"

  "'The Grit Pot'," Kaelen said, naming the communal cookfire. "Stew. One strip." He turned away, shuffling back to his shelves, the transaction complete.

  Two strips. Maybe two meals. Shelter, possibly, in a ruin. Nick pushed himself up, the salve already working its strange coolness. He stepped back out, heading towards the rising smoke and smell of cooking. Time to face the hunger, the crowd. Time to figure out how not to die next.