They walked in near silence for the first hour, boots crunching over brittle leaves and roots coiled like veins beneath the earth. The woods had swallowed the old world whole—trees growing through the carcasses of billboards, vines crawling over abandoned cars like nature reclaiming a debt long overdue.
Luma followed a few steps behind Kera, watching how the older woman moved—deliberate, eyes scanning constantly, body loose but ready. She wasn't just walking—she was reading the land.
"Do you always walk that quiet?" Luma asked, breaking the silence.
Kera didn't turn. "I listen more than I speak. Keeps me alive."
Luma nodded, then frowned. "You said others came before me. Flame-bearers."
"Yeah," Kera said. "Some made it. Some didn't."
"What happened to them?"
Kera stopped suddenly, turning just enough for Luma to catch her eyes. "They underestimated what was left out here."
Luma felt her stomach twist. "Like what? Wolves? Raiders?"
"No," Kera replied. "Loneliness. Doubt. Memory."
They kept moving.
Hours passed. The sky darkened behind them, streaked in hues of copper and bruised purple. The sun didn't set gently out here—it dropped, like a curtain falling between acts.
By twilight, they reached a narrow ravine filled with rusted satellite dishes—dozens of them, pointed skyward like flowers frozen mid-bloom.
Kera crouched near the edge and motioned for Luma to do the same. "We camp here. There's a cave under the signal graveyard. Dry. Safe."
"Signal graveyard?"
"Old comms array. Back when they tried to rewire the wild. Didn't work. Nature doesn't sync."
Luma smirked. "Guess they couldn't debug reality."
Kera cracked a rare smile. "Cute."
They made their way down carefully, weaving between satellite skeletons and broken consoles half-swallowed by moss. The cave was small but deep, hidden behind a collapsed antenna. Kera lit a flint-stone fire—no matches, no lighters. All muscle memory.
The fire caught slowly, dancing inside a ring of stones like it had been waiting to speak.
Luma sat across from her, pulling off her boots, flexing sore feet.
"You were prepared," Kera said. "Aziel teach you all that?"
"Yeah. But reading it and living it…" She shook her head. "Different planets."
Kera nodded. "He's a good man. Wise. But the world out here doesn't bend to wisdom."
Luma looked into the flame. "Do you believe in Solmere?"
Kera was quiet for a while. Then: "I believe in what it could be. And that's enough to keep walking."
Luma chewed on the words. "Did you ever reach it?"
Kera's jaw tightened. "I reached the gates."
She didn't elaborate.
Luma didn't push.
After a while, Kera reached into her bag and pulled out two hand-wrapped parcels—one for each of them. Inside: dried fruit, strips of cured root, and a handful of bitter, crunchy seeds.
Luma chewed slowly. "You really gave up everything?"
Kera raised an eyebrow.
"The tech. The connection. The safety."
Kera stared into the fire, face lit orange. "They called it safety. I called it sleepwalking. I'd rather starve awake than feast numb."
Luma felt something stir in her chest. Not guilt. Not fear.
Conviction.
She took the medallion from under her shirt and held it out to Kera.
"You ever carry one?"
Kera's eyes softened. "I did. Once."
"Where is it now?"
"I buried it. Along with the girl who used to wear it."
Luma looked at her. "What made her die?"
Kera didn't blink. "Trust."
The fire cracked. Neither of them spoke for a long time.
That night, Luma lay on a bed of pine needles and old fabric, staring up at the jagged ceiling. Kera slept lightly, hand on her blade, twitching at every wind gust.
Luma didn't sleep.
She couldn't.
The journey wasn't just testing her strength—it was changing her. Carving something sharper, quieter, more dangerous.
And in the morning, they would move again.
Toward a place no one could promise still existed.
But still—toward it.