The morning light seeped through the broken slats of the boarded-up window, casting fractured rays across the worn wooden floor. Rowan stirred beneath the patched-together blankets, one arm draped over her forehead as she let out a slow breath. The air was cool against her skin, the morning chill lingering in the half-repaired home she had claimed as her own. It was still a work in progress—exposed beams, cracked walls, and a missing section of the roof in one corner—but it was hers, built by her own hands, piece by piece.

  She pushed the covers aside and sat up, stretching. The muscles in her back protested slightly, but it was nothing compared to the usual aches of survival. Clad in only a black crop top and boxers, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet touching the cold floor. A shiver ran up her spine, and she exhaled, raking her fingers through her tangled black hair, pink streaks catching in the dim light.

  With a yawn, she stood and made her way to the small mirror propped against the wall, a salvaged relic from a ransacked home. The reflection that greeted her was familiar yet always strange—blossom-colored eyes, dark hair messy from sleep, and her left arm, a permanent reminder of what she had become. The obsidian-like surface of her limb pulsed faintly, heat radiating from the cracks where molten crimson light glowed beneath. Her gaze drifted downward, taking in the sculpted lines of her body, muscles honed from years of survival yet never stripping her of her femininity. Her shoulders were broad but smooth, arms toned yet graceful, and her thighs, thick with honed strength, tensed slightly as she shifted her weight. The muscle beneath her skin was firm, yet it only added to her natural curves rather than diminishing them. The strap that would later sit against her thigh would press into flesh that was both powerful and feminine, a testament to the balance of endurance and beauty she carried within herself. There was power in her form, a balance of resilience and beauty, a body built for endurance yet undeniably her own. She traced a hand along her abdomen, feeling the firm definition beneath her fingertips, a quiet admiration flickering in her eyes. The strength she had cultivated was hard-earned, and despite everything, she could still take a moment to appreciate it. With a light smirk, she flexed her human arm, watching the muscle tighten beneath her skin before relaxing once more. Even with all that she had lost, she remained herself. Reaching to the small table beside the mirror, she grabbed her glasses and slid them onto her face, the world sharpening into clearer focus as she studied herself in the dim morning light.

  Reaching up, she gathered sections of her hair, securing them back into the usual ties with practiced ease. The motion was muscle memory by now, her fingers working deftly as she tied back the strands she always did, letting the rest fall where it may. Her eyes flicked to her arm as she adjusted a loose strand behind her ear. It had taken time to master the delicate movements with it—despite its unnatural appearance, it responded as easily as her human hand. In some ways, it was even more precise.

  Dressed in her usual outfit—a fitted tank top beneath her reinforced green jacket, combat shorts with her utility belt strapped snugly around her waist, and her sturdy boots—she felt ready to face the day. Her arm, still radiating warmth from within, pulsed as she flexed her fingers. There was work to be done, and she was nothing if not useful.

  Her mind ran through her schedule as she moved through the small space, gathering her gear. First, she had plans to assist the workshop with some repairs. They had welding to do, and her arm’s heat made the process far easier. Before that, though, there was breakfast. Moving to the small cooking area she had cobbled together, she retrieved a ration pack, heating a portion of food over a salvaged burner. As it cooked, she poured herself a cup of coffee, holding it lightly in her corrupted hand. The liquid, once lukewarm, quickly heated to steaming as the faint glow in her arm flared, the heat radiating just enough to bring it to the perfect temperature. She took a sip, savoring the warmth before setting it down and finishing her meal. Then, in the afternoon, she was to meet with Garrick—something she was actually looking forward to, as he was the only person left who had helped raise her, the closest thing to family she had left. As she thought of him, images of burning bodies suddenly flashed through her mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Her grip on the fork in her hand tightened instinctively, the metal bending slightly beneath her fingers. She quickly exhaled, shaking her head to dispel the memories, forcing herself to focus back on the present before setting the warped utensil aside with a quiet sigh. And in the evening, as always, she had wall patrol.

  Standing near the window, she glanced outside. The settlement was already alive with activity—people moving between makeshift homes, some working on fortifications, others tending to what little crops they could manage. It was a fragile peace, a sense of normalcy carved out of a world that no longer had room for it.

  She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders as she watched the settlement stir to life. The air carried the familiar morning sounds of voices, hammering, and the distant clang of metalwork—reminders that life, however fragile, carried on. She stepped outside of her house, the door creaking slightly as she pushed it open. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant smoke from the blacksmith’s forge. She took a slow breath, letting it settle in her lungs before exhaling. The settlement stretched before her, alive with movement—people working, talking, building.

  Maren was systematically gathering materials to reinforce a damaged section of the Settlement’s perimeter when Rowan approached. Positioned beside the supply truck, the blacksmith loaded salvaged materials with practiced efficiency, her muscular arms flexing under the weight. Auburn strands clung to her freckled face, damp from exertion and the residual heat of the forge. Soot and sweat streaked her exposed skin, testaments to hours of labor. She wore rugged overalls fastened over a dark sports bra, scuffed boots betraying years of wear. A leather tool belt, stocked with various implements, hung from her waist, jingling softly as she moved.

  "Need a hand?" Rowan offered, her voice drawing Maren’s attention. At the sight of her, a broad grin split the blacksmith’s flushed features.

  "Hell, darlin’, figured I’d be done ‘fore you got here. Tryin’ to save you some work," Maren replied, resting her hands on her hips.

  "Left early. Needed the air," Rowan responded, stepping up beside the truck to assess the loaded supplies. "What else do we need?"

  Maren exhaled through her nose, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. "That breach ain’t just a crack anymore. Something hit it hard—probably a Tunneler. Concrete’s fractured around the edges, and the rebar’s bent to hell. We need more steel supports. Got a few, but I was hopin’ to scavenge another decent piece from the scrapyard. Also gotta weld a new brace in place. Got the torch, but I’m runnin’ low on flux."

  "Got it. You good on fuel? We can stop by the Bunker for more from Darko if we need it," Rowan offered, lifting a bundle of rebar with ease and tossing it into the truck bed. The difference in strength between them was stark—Maren, accustomed to heavy lifting, moved with practiced control, whereas Rowan’s corrupted arm made the task effortless.

  "We can refuel after. I’ve got enough for now, but Garrick says best practice is keepin’ the tank above half."

  As they finished loading, Maren stretched, inadvertently revealing a fresh burn on her left forearm. Without thinking, Rowan reached out, her corrupted hand wrapping around Maren’s arm. Unlike most, Maren didn’t flinch. Instead, she hummed in quiet curiosity, glancing between Rowan’s molten-veined limb and where their skin met.

  Rowan rotated Maren’s arm slightly, inspecting the burn. It was minor—nothing compared to the collection of scars the blacksmith had accumulated over the years—but still fresh, raw, and pink beneath its salve.

  "How’d this happen?" Rowan asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Maren exhaled through her nose, her expression softening. "Damn tongs slipped while I was forging a new hinge. Caught the forge’s edge with my arm. Ain’t serious. Slapped some salve on it and went right back to work. Been burned worse makin’ stew."

  She gave Rowan’s shoulder a reassuring pat, the warmth of her calloused palm lingering before she withdrew.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Rowan opened her mouth to advise caution when working with fire, but before she could, Maren clapped her hard on the back. Rowan staggered slightly, her words cut off before she could voice them.

  "I’ll be fine. I ain’t the one launching headfirst into a horde. And I sure as hell ain’t the one who got a damn finger sliced off by a Tunneler," Maren teased, swinging into the driver’s seat.

  Rowan rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smirk as she climbed into the passenger side. "How’d you hear about that?"

  Maren snorted, turning the ignition. "Garrick told me yesterday while you were still on cleanup duty. Said you looked mighty pissed about it."

  "Wouldn’t you be if you lost a digit?" Rowan countered as the truck rumbled forward. She rolled the window down, letting the breeze stave off her usual motion sickness. "Though, to be honest, it wasn’t the finger. It was the recruit that ‘saved’ me."

  "Overeager?" Maren guessed, navigating toward the more desolate part of the Settlement.

  Rowan often forgot how expansive their claimed territory had become. It encompassed part of the residential district, where they lived; sections of the judicial district, which housed the fire station, school, and police buildings repurposed for training recruits; and a portion of the market district—their destination. The market district was isolated, its structures looted long ago, standing as hollowed relics until the Settlement could establish a stronger infrastructure.

  "He broke my one rule: don’t aim for the side I’m on. He was a damn good shot, but it wasn’t worth the risk," Rowan said with an exasperated huff.

  Maren nodded, eyes steady on the road. "I get it. Ain’t just about you. If you go down, we all feel it. You hold this place together in more ways than folks like to admit."

  Rowan exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. "Yeah? Try convincing the recruits of that before they pull something reckless."

  Maren huffed in agreement as the truck rolled to a stop in front of the market district’s ruins. The towering wall of the Settlement loomed in the distance, a fifteen-foot barricade of concrete and steel. It had existed long before Rowan’s time. Even Garrick had no knowledge of its origins. Their only option now was to expand and fortify.

  The midday sun cast long shadows as they moved to the back to unload their supplies. The scent of rusted metal and dry earth filled the air as they gathered what they needed—Maren hoisting a heavy steel brace over one shoulder while Rowan carried the welding torch and extra supports with ease. The ruined section of the wall loomed ahead, its cracks and gaping holes stark against the solid expanse of concrete and steel.

  They worked in a practiced rhythm—Maren handling the structural reinforcements while Rowan welded the pieces into place, her corrupted arm pulsing with an unnatural glow as she directed bursts of molten energy to fuse the metal. Sparks flew, the sharp hiss of welding filling the air as the repairs took shape. Maren wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist, muttering occasional curses under her breath as she secured the rebar and adjusted the new braces.

  By the time they finished, the wall stood firm once more, reinforced with fresh steel. Satisfied with their work, they retreated to the truck, lowering the tailgate before settling onto it. The warmth of the metal seeped into their backs as they lay there, gazes drifting up to the vast stretch of sky above. Wisps of clouds moved lazily across the blue expanse, and for a moment, the weight of survival felt just a little lighter.

  "That one there kinda looks like a horse, don’t it? All stretched out like it’s runnin’," Maren mused, pointing a gloved finger toward the sky.

  Rowan squinted, tilting her head. "You sure? Might just be your horse obsession talking, because to me, it looks like a lopsided dog."

  "You just lack creative vision. Knowin’ you, you’re probably sittin’ there thinkin’ ‘bout the best way to fight a cloud."

  "I’ll have you know I drew a marvelous stick figure the other day. Yes, it was for a formation diagram, but it was still art," Rowan countered, crossing her arms with mock indignation.

  Maren chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. Rowan followed shortly after, their laughter fading into the still afternoon air. Eventually, silence settled between them, the kind that carried unspoken thoughts and quiet reflections. A faint ache stirred in Maren’s chest. She glanced at Rowan, the presence of her friend both a comfort and a blessing. With a quiet sigh, she turned her gaze back to the sky.

  "Used to do this with my pops. We'd lay out in the grass, make up stories with the clouds. Said there was a whole kingdom up there of winged folk," Maren murmured, crossing an arm over her stomach. "He always made me feel like the world was bigger than the hell we had to live in. I used to believe him, y’know? That there was somethin’ better out there, waitin’."

  Rowan was quiet for a moment before she spoke, her voice softer than before. "Maybe there still is. Doesn’t have to be winged folk or kingdoms, but something worth fighting for. You still believe in that, don’t you?"

  Maren exhaled, rubbing her gloved fingers together absently. "I dunno, Ro. Feels like all we do is patch up walls and count bullets. Hard to dream when survival’s the only thing we get."

  Rowan shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. "Then I’ll dream for you, until you can again. Nobody's getting through that wall today, and you’re here, breathing. That’s gotta mean something."

  Maren swallowed, blinking up at the sky as if it held answers. Then she smiled, just a little. "Yeah... guess it does."

  They lingered for a moment longer, allowing the sky to hold their thoughts before Rowan finally sat up, nudging Maren’s shoulder. "You ready to see Darko?"

  "Nope. But unfortunately, we gotta." Maren pushed herself up with a groan, though Rowan knew she was only half-serious.

  With that, the two hopped back into the truck, the engine rumbling to life as they made their way toward the Bunker.

  The truck rumbled along the worn dirt road, kicking up small clouds of dust as Rowan and Maren made their way toward the Bunker in the Judicial section of the Settlement. The engine's steady hum filled the quiet between them, but it wasn’t long before Maren leaned her elbow against the open window, glancing toward Rowan with a smirk.

  "Y'know, if anyone could figure out how to open them doors without a keycard, it'd be Darko. Bastard’s got a mind like a damn puzzle box."

  Rowan snorted, keeping her eyes on the road. "You better be careful, Maren. Talking like that, someone might think you actually like him."

  Maren rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "Likin’ someone and recognizin’ their usefulness ain't the same thing, Ro. Man's a pain in my ass, but I ain't stupid enough to deny he knows his way around a problem."

  Rowan grinned. "Mmmhmm. Keep telling yourself that."

  Maren huffed but let it slide, shifting in her seat to get more comfortable. "Anyway, reckon he’s been busy with those students of his. Handpicked ‘em, didn’t he?"

  "Yeah, from what I heard. Took his sweet time picking out recruits he thought had the discipline to handle the job. Don’t think he was looking for the strongest fighters, more like the ones who wouldn’t crack under pressure."

  Maren nodded. "That tracks. Darko ain’t got patience for hotheads or glory hounds. He wants folk who listen, think before they act. Means they ain't always the fastest learners, but they don’t make the same mistake twice."

  Rowan tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, thoughtful. "Makes me wonder what he sees in them. Bet he watches them like a hawk, testing them every chance he gets."

  Maren chuckled. "Oh, no doubt. I’d put money on him havin’ some elaborate mind games just to see who breaks first."

  Rowan smirked. "Wouldn’t surprise me. Man probably sets up fake sabotage just to see if they catch it."

  "Hell, I’d be disappointed if he didn’t."

  They shared a laugh, the kind that came easy after years of shared experiences. The road stretched ahead, leading them deeper into the Settlement, where the Judicial section loomed with its reinforced buildings—a stark reminder of the world they lived in, where order had to be rebuilt from the ashes. As they approached the Bunker, its entrance stood distinct from the surrounding structures: a square steel building, its thick doors gleaming beneath layers of dust and wear. Beside the entrance, a high-tech console was embedded into the wall, its screen dark until activated. The place exuded a quiet authority, a stronghold of knowledge and discipline, and inside, Darko waited, likely preparing whatever lesson he had in store for his recruits today.