Chapter?19 (Anna’s?POV)

  Dawn bled slowly across the jagged skyline, a bruise of charcoal giving way to a thin wash of rose. I’d dragged my crate outside the outpost gates to escape the reek of latrines and unwashed bodies inside; here, at least, the air tasted of river mist instead of stale sweat. I sat cross?legged, shoulders hunched against a chill that gnawed through my patched jacket, and shoveled gruel into my mouth from a dented tin bowl.

  The trader called it “nutri?mash”—oats, wilted dandelion greens, and something protein?ish that left a faint metallic tang on my tongue. A single pearl for the privilege. Highway robbery, but warmth spread down my throat and settled like a small coal in my gut, and warmth was a rare currency. Steam curled from each spoonful, twisting in the dawn light like ghosts.

  While I ate, I ran a mental tally of supplies: half a canteen of river water, two antibiotic tablets, one and a half functional bandages, nine pearls left in my pouch, the steel bar, the rusty bicycle, and a handful of old?world bills so caked with gore they’d probably fuse together if I got them wet. Enough? Never. But enough to keep moving.

  I finished the last gluey mouthful, licked the spoon clean, and set the bowl aside. Time to inspect the damage. I propped the steel bar across my knees and peeled the filthy bandage from my thigh. The gash that, yesterday, had wept pus and fire had shrunk to a thick pink ridge. The surrounding skin felt tight, new. It looked as if a month of healing had been crammed into eight hours—an impossible, unnerving gift of this hell?realm’s “regeneration” stat. I flexed, half expecting agony; only a dull tug answered. I muttered a shaky thanks to whatever cosmic glitch kept me stitched together.

  Next: the knife cut on my forearm. Shallow, but angry. I trickled the last of my canteen over it, watched brown water streak with diluted blood, hissed at the sting. A fresh strip of shirtcloth—once white, now mottled gray—became a snug bandage. Supplies dwindling. I’d need linens, maybe tear down curtains in an abandoned cottage. Curtains. The word triggered a memory I hadn’t earned yet.

  I tipped the empty bowl, wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and hobbled to the overgrown hedge where I’d hidden my rust?speckled bicycle. Dew had frosted the frame in silver beads; the rear tire still clung to its meager breath of air. I slung my pack over one shoulder, slid the steel bar through a side loop like a crude scabbard, and rolled out onto the cracked street.

  The outpost receded behind me—sheet?metal walls already gleaming hot under the new sun, guards smoking cheap tobacco, misery humming like flies. I pedaled past the Iron?Elbow gym. Heavy?bags dangled on corroded chains, swaying in the breeze like executed fighters. The sign’s faded letters still promised discipline and power; all I smelled was mildew and regret.

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  Northbound, tires crackled over broken asphalt, scattering pebbles that rang off derelict cars. My muscles felt lighter, as if the overnight healing had poured oil into rusty joints. Each rotation of the pedals pumped blood that felt warmer, cleaner. The sun painted the road in stripes of pale gold filtered through skeletal maples. Their branches, stripped of most leaves, clacked together like dry bones in the breeze.

  I rode through block after block of cottages. Once?white clapboard flayed to gray, shutters dangling, fences bowing under ivy so thick it looked like the houses were being devoured by green mouths. Children’s toys—sun?bleached trucks, a doll with no face—lay half?submerged in grass tall enough to hide a body. Windows stared blank and empty, but I slowed at each one, scanning for the glint of an eye, the twitch of a curtain. Nothing. Just dust and the hush of abandonment.

  A mailbox leaned drunkenly, flag still raised. Seven years and some poor soul still waiting for good news. I almost put it out of its misery with a swing of the bar but saved the energy.

  Mid?morning heat built in waves. Sweat slicked my spine; the stink of my own body curled up, reminding me why a bath ranked higher than bullets right now. I passed a toppled garden shed and smelled stale potting soil, damp wood, and the faint perfume of wild honeysuckle that had colonized a fence. The scent was so normal it hurt.

  By midday I crested a gentle rise. Ahead, at the cul?de?sac’s end, a cottage stood out—more intact than its neighbors. Age had chewed the paint to flakes, but the roof’s slate shingles still glimmered dully under sun. Vines thick as ship ropes strangled the porch columns. Something in my chest fluttered—instinct or memory, I couldn’t tell. The house felt watched, inhabited. As if it breathed.

  I coasted to the curb, one foot down, heart thudding. In the driveway, I spotted fresh bicycle tracks: thin, wobbly, etched through dust toward the porch. Not mine. Recent. My pulse ticked faster. The cottage’s windows, though fogged with grime, bore smudges where fingers had wiped a view. Inside, real curtains—sun?faded plaid—swayed in a draft. No other house I’d seen still bothered with curtains.

  I swallowed dry air. Could be scavengers, sure. Could be Empire scouts marking territory. Could be worse. Yet a stubborn voice whispered of the city boy who’d vanished in copper light, babbling about inheriting a house. I squashed the thought. Coincidence, Anna. Focus.

  I dismounted, wheeled my bicycle behind a toppled mailbox, and crouched in grass up to my waist. The sun beat on my neck; insects hummed. I watched for movement—nothing but curtains breathing slow. Wind sighed through leaves; crows cawed far off. After a full minute, my heartbeat steadied.

  Part of me wanted to storm the porch, bang the door, demand water that didn’t taste like pennies. Another part—older, feral—insisted anyone behind that door might shoot first, ask never.