The night was heavy with the kind of silence that made even the trees seem to hold their breath.
A low mist crept along the ground, curling around Elian's boots as he stood watch at the edge of the property.
The stars were dim tonight, hiding behind thick, roiling clouds.
Something was coming.
He could feel it in his bones — a tension humming beneath his skin like the tight string of a bow pulled to breaking.
Behind him, the others slept in the old farmhouse, safe — for now.
Elian tightened his grip on the rifle slung across his chest.
He was done losing the people he loved.
Not again.
Never again.
--
The first hint of trouble came with the wind.
It carried the faint smell of smoke, of gun oil, of something sour and metallic.
Enemies.
Not the wild dogs or desperate scavengers they usually encountered.
This was different.
Organized.
Hunters.
Elian scanned the darkness, heart pounding.
A flicker of movement.
A glint of something metallic catching the faintest sliver of moonlight.
He ducked low, signaling with two sharp taps on the ground — a code he and Kael had devised for silent alarms.
From inside, he saw a flicker of lantern light die instantly.
Good.
They were awake.
Ready.
---
It came like thunder.
A gunshot ripped through the night, shattering the fragile peace.
The bullet struck the old oak tree near Elian, sending splinters flying.
He rolled, coming up behind a rusted tractor, rifle already shouldered.
Two figures moved through the mist — fast, precise, deadly.
Not amateurs.
Not scavengers.
Mercenaries.
Bounty hunters.
Or worse.
He fired.
One of the figures went down with a grunt, disappearing into the fog.
The other returned fire, forcing Elian to duck low.
Another sharp whistle — Kael's signal.
She was flanking.
Good girl.
---
The fight spilled into their precious garden — the one place they had built with sweat and aching hope.
Boots crushed delicate sprouts.
Bullets ripped through the makeshift scarecrow Maren had so proudly fashioned.
Elian moved like a wraith, every step calculated.
He caught glimpses of Kael weaving between cover, blade flashing in the dark.
Maren was at the upper window, her sniper rifle barking out sharp, deadly retorts.
Asher, bless his brave little heart, huddled with Liora in the root cellar — exactly as they had drilled.
It wasn't a battle for conquest.
It was a battle for home.
For the right to dream.
For each fragile, precious tomorrow.
---
Elian caught the leader near the well.
A tall figure, clad in black, a cruel smile glinting in the mist.
"You think you can keep what's not yours?" the man sneered, raising his pistol.
Elian didn't answer.
Words were wasted on men like him.
Instead, he surged forward, catching the man's wrist and twisting savagely.
The pistol clattered to the ground.
They grappled — brutal, dirty.
Fists and knees and teeth.
Elian's world narrowed to blood and breath and survival.
In the end, it wasn't skill that saved him.
It was rage.
Pure, burning, righteous rage.
With a roar, Elian drove the man's head against the stone well.
Once.
Twice.
Until he slid down, unconscious or dead — it didn't matter.
Elian stood panting, blood streaming from a cut over his eye.
It was over.
For now.
--
Dawn broke slowly, bleeding pale gold across the battered fields.
The bodies were dragged outside the fence.
A grim warning to any others who might think them weak.
Kael sat on the steps, cradling a broken arm but grinning fiercely.
Maren was stitching a graze along her own ribs, cursing under her breath.
Asher and Liora emerged from the root cellar, blinking sleepily.
Elian knelt, gathering them both into a tight, wordless hug.
"You did good," he whispered into Asher's hair.
The boy beamed, clinging fiercely.
Maren tossed a rag at Elian.
"Patch yourself up, idiot."
Kael laughed, then winced as her broken arm shifted.
Elian smiled through the exhaustion.
They were battered.
Bruised.
Bloodied.
But alive.
---
That afternoon, they buried the dead — not out of mercy, but necessity.
Corpses drew scavengers.
Disease.
More trouble.
When the grim work was done, they stood together in the ruined garden.
"We need rules," Kael said quietly, cradling her arm in a sling fashioned from Maren's scarf.
Elian nodded.
Not just rules.
Laws.
Foundations for the world they were building from ash and bone.
So they swore it:
No harm to innocents.
No stealing from one another.
No betrayal, ever.
Every life within their walls would be fought for, no matter the cost.
A pact sealed not with ink, but blood and shared scars.
And hope.
Always hope.
---
Two days later, when the bruises had faded to sickly yellows and purples, Elian ventured out alone.
Beyond the woods lay a place he had avoided for months — an old house choked in ivy, sagging with neglect.
His childhood home.
He stood before it, heart a wild drumbeat in his ears.
The door hung askew, creaking mournfully in the wind.
Inside, dust lay thick over shattered memories.
A broken rocking chair.
A child's crayon drawing still taped to the wall.
A cracked photo frame, half-buried under debris.
Elian knelt, brushing away the dirt.
The photo showed a boy — him — grinning gap-toothed between a smiling mother and a serious, proud father.
He sat there for a long time.
Not mourning.
Not anymore.
Remembering.
Promising.
He rose as the sun dipped low, tucking the photo carefully into his jacket.
He would not let their sacrifice fade into forgotten dust.
He would build something worthy of them.
Of all he had lost.
Of all he still had to protect.
---
When he returned, the others had prepared a feast.
A real feast — by their standards.
Roasted rabbit.
Wild greens.
Even a small, battered radio crackling out broken snippets of old songs.
They danced under the bruised sky, feet stomping in the dirt.
Kael laughed, twirling clumsily with Asher in one arm and her broken one hanging uselessly at her side.
Maren rolled her eyes but eventually let herself be dragged into a stiff, awkward waltz with Elian.
Even Liora gurgled happily, waving chubby fists at the stars.
It wasn't perfect.
Nothing was.
But it was theirs.
And in that wild, ragged, beautiful moment, it was enough.
---
And Far, Far Away...
In a hidden bunker beneath a ruined city, a man studied a grainy satellite image.
Four figures.
A garden.
A fire.
Hope.
He smiled, a cruel, patient smile.
"Found you," he murmured.
War was coming.
But for now — for just a little longer — the tiny, stubborn flame of peace burned bright in the wasteland.
And sometimes, even the smallest flame could light a revolution.
---