The forest had a rhythm.
Not a calm one, like before the world changed—but something deeper. Unpredictable. Alive. Every creak of a branch or whisper of wind felt like a warning wrapped in silence.
Nuel sat cross-legged near the fire, rolling a piece of dried fruit between his fingers. He wasn't hungry, but eating seemed easier than sitting in silence with two people who weren't sure if they trusted each other.
Nyra was sharpening her blade on a smooth stone, eyes flicking toward Elara every so often.
Elara, meanwhile, was bent over a sketchpad Nuel hadn't realized she had until this morning. Her fingers moved with quiet purpose, charcoal smudging across the page.
"So…" Nuel said after a long pause. "What are you drawing?"
Elara blinked as if she hadn't noticed him until now. She turned the pad toward him.
A portrait. Of him.
It wasn't perfect, but the detail was startling—eyes shadowed, jaw tense, hair tousled just enough to make him look more heroic than he felt.
"I draw what I remember," she said. "And I remember you. Even if I don't understand why."
He stared at it, unsure how to respond. Compliment her art? Ask about the memory? Joke that she should've drawn Nyra too?
But Nyra beat him to it.
"Convenient that the one thing you remember is him," she muttered.
Elara's expression didn't change, but Nuel saw the faint flicker in her eyes. Hurt, maybe. Or doubt.
"Nyra," Nuel said gently, "maybe ease off a little."
"She's still Rift-touched," Nyra said without looking up. "You want to trust her. I get it. But don't forget what lives on the other side."
"I haven't forgotten," he replied. "But she hasn't done anything to earn suspicion either."
Nyra didn't answer. The blade scraping resumed.
Elara stood, quietly slipping the pad back into her satchel. "I'll get some water," she said, not waiting for permission before disappearing into the trees.
Nuel gave it a few seconds before he stood to follow.
---
He found her near the stream Nyra had shown them earlier. She was kneeling by the water, fingers trailing through the surface. She didn't look up when he approached.
"I'm not here to interrogate you," he said, crouching nearby. "I just wanted to check if you're okay."
She was quiet for a while.
"It's strange," she said softly. "I don't remember my home. Or my family. But I remember cold. I remember standing alone on glass floors, looking through cracks in the sky. And then I heard your voice."
He shivered at the image.
"What did I say?"
She looked at him now, eyes steady. "You didn't say anything. You just... were. Like a light in a place that had forgotten warmth."
Nuel rubbed the back of his neck. "No pressure, then."
That made her smile faintly. Not wide. But real.
"You don't have to believe me," she added. "I wouldn't blame you."
"I don't think you're lying," he said honestly. "I just think none of us know enough to be sure of anything yet."
He offered her a hand. She hesitated, then took it.
Her hand was colder than he expected—but steady.
---
Back at camp, Nyra was packing supplies.
"We move in an hour," she said without turning around. "There's an outpost a few miles south. Empty now, but it'll give us shelter for the night."
Nuel helped roll up the sleeping mats. "Is it safe?"
"Safe enough," she replied. "Better than staying here with a beacon in your chest and a Rift echo at your heels."
He frowned. "Beacon?"
Nyra looked up at him. "That bracelet isn't just decoration. It's a signal. Not loud, not constant—but every time it pulses, something out there hears it."
Nuel glanced down at his wrist. The band looked dormant. Innocent.
But he remembered the way it had burned when it first bonded. The visions. The pain.
"So I'm a walking flare."
"More like a candle in a pitch-dark room," Nyra said. "One that's slowly growing brighter."
"And Elara?"
Nyra finally met his eyes. "I don't know yet. But we'll find out soon enough."
---
They traveled under the shade of ancient trees, following the remains of an old road cracked by root and time. Birds had returned to this part of the woods, though they didn't sing—just watched from high branches, eerily silent.
Elara walked beside Nuel, her movements graceful but tentative, like every step was a new memory forming.
He noticed her looking at everything. Touching bark. Running fingers through ferns. Like she was rediscovering the world one sense at a time.
"You ever draw the forest?" he asked.
She nodded. "When I can hold still long enough."
"And Nyra?"
Elara hesitated. "Not yet."
He chuckled. "That's fair."
Nyra led them with confidence, her cloak catching every breeze. She moved like someone who'd been alone too long and didn't know how to unlearn it.
But Nuel also noticed the way she kept glancing back at them.
Not just out of suspicion.
Almost like she didn't want to admit she cared.
---
They reached the outpost before dusk.
It was a low building—half sunken, its roof covered in moss, doors broken in. But the walls still stood, and the lower level was intact. Enough to lock down for the night.
Inside, Nuel spotted old signage. British military. Or what was left of it. A distant comfort, even if it meant little now.
Nyra swept the area first, then signaled them in.
They lit a lantern in the center room—walls half-scorched, some old radios scattered about. Nuel sat near one and twisted a few knobs. Nothing but static.
He sighed and leaned back.
Elara sat across from him, sketchpad in her lap again.
This time, she wasn't drawing him.
She was drawing Nyra.
"Brave move," he whispered.
Elara gave him a sly smile.
And for a moment, under a cracked ceiling and a sky full of fractures, they were just three people trying to be human again.
Trying to belong.