The valley swallowed them in heat and smoke.
As Aero and Mica descended toward the cluster of tents and walls, the smell hit first—charred meat, smoldering ash, and something metallic underneath, like old blood. The wind barely reached here, trapped by the jagged ridges surrounding the camp. Without it, the heat sat heavy, baking skin and breath alike.
Eyes tracked them before they even reached the outer ring.
Figures stood on makeshift watchtowers—ramshackle platforms lashed together from scavenged timber and rusted steel. Spears tipped with jagged scrap glinted in the sun. The guards didn't shout or demand they halt, but the tension in their stillness was sharp enough to cut.
"Friendly place," Aero muttered.
"Friendlier than the wasteland," Mica replied, though her tone carried an edge.
A man stepped forward as they neared the camp's perimeter. He was broad-shouldered, wearing a sleeveless vest that exposed arms latticed with burn scars. His hair was cut close to the scalp, his jaw covered in rough stubble. In his hand was a polearm fashioned from a salvaged blade welded to a length of blackened rebar.
"Strangers," he said, voice like gravel. "You come here for trade, shelter, or trouble?"
"Shelter," Mica answered without hesitation. "And maybe work."
The man's gaze flicked to Aero, lingering for a moment on the blood crusted along his side and the faint green shimmer still clinging to his skin. "You look like trouble."
"Accident," Aero said.
"Mm." The man stepped aside, jerking his chin toward the camp. "Leader'll decide if you stay. Don't steal, don't stab unless you're stabbed first, and don't touch the wells."
Aero and Mica passed under an arch of twisted metal that marked the camp's entrance. Inside, the chaos of the Ashfall Encampment unfolded.
People moved everywhere—hauling crates, mending clothes, sharpening weapons. Children darted between tents, their faces smeared with soot. Fires burned in shallow pits, the smoke curling into the still air. There was no central order to the place; it was a sprawl of survival stitched together with rope and grit.
But Aero noticed something—every few minutes, a tremor shivered through the ground, so faint most people didn't react. He felt each one in his bones, the rhythm unmistakable. The heartbeat was still there.
Mica led him toward a large tent at the camp's center. Its sides were patched from different fabrics, some dyed deep crimson, others the pale beige of old sails. Two guards stood at the entrance, each armed with short, curved blades.
One of them stepped forward. "The Leader is busy."
"He'll want to see us," Mica said, not slowing. "Tell him Mica brought someone interesting."
The guard's brow furrowed, but he ducked inside. A moment later, the flap lifted, and they were waved through.
The air inside was cooler, filtered through strips of damp cloth hung near the ceiling. The space was large, its floor covered in woven mats. At the far end sat a man in a high-backed chair of carved stone, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp.
He was older—mid-forties maybe—with skin weathered by sun and wind. His hair was long and black streaked with silver, tied back with a strip of leather. A jagged scar cut across his cheek, stopping just short of his left eye. He wore a sleeveless tunic of dark fabric and a necklace of carved bone beads.
"So," he said, his voice smooth but carrying a weight that silenced the room. "Mica brings me someone… interesting."
Mica gave a short bow. "Aero. Found him picking a fight with a storm-beast. Won."
The man's gaze settled on Aero. "Storm-beasts don't die easy. Either you're lucky, skilled, or lying."
Aero met his eyes. "Bit of all three."
The man's lips curved faintly. "Name's Kaelen. I keep this camp from tearing itself apart. For now."
He rose and crossed the space between them, moving with the ease of someone who could kill without thinking about it. Stopping just short of Aero, he studied him—his stance, the blood, the faint pulse of green energy still leaking from him.
"That energy," Kaelen said softly. "Not magic. Something older."
Aero's pulse quickened. "You can sense it?"
Kaelen's expression didn't change. "Hard to miss. The wasteland hums with it sometimes, deep underfoot. But yours…" His gaze sharpened. "Yours moves like it knows where it's going."
Before Aero could reply, a tremor rolled through the ground—stronger than before. The mats rustled, and a low creak passed through the stone chair behind Kaelen.
Everyone in the tent went still.
Kaelen looked toward the ground as if listening. When the tremor passed, he straightened. "You feel that, don't you?"
Aero hesitated, then nodded.
Kaelen's smile was thin. "Then you'll understand this—nothing in the wasteland moves without reason. And the things buried deep? They're patient. They wait."
"What is it?" Aero asked.
Kaelen stepped back, turning toward a map spread across a low table. It wasn't a map of any civilized region Aero recognized—it was the wasteland itself, marked with crude ink lines and symbols. One spot near the camp was circled in black, with radiating lines drawn out like veins.
"We call it the Heart Below," Kaelen said. "Some say it's a relic from before the wars. Others think it's alive. Whatever it is, the ground has been pulsing like that for weeks now. Stronger each day."
Aero's throat went dry. The vision he'd had—roots, light, the colossal heart—was no coincidence.
Kaelen's gaze flicked back to him. "And now you show up, carrying the same energy I've only ever felt in those pulses. Makes me wonder if you're a coincidence… or a signal."
Mica glanced at Aero, her playful mask slipping. "He's not here to be your weapon."
"Didn't say he was," Kaelen replied. "But if the Heart Below wakes up, none of us will be here long enough to argue."
The tremor came again—sharper this time, enough to make dust sift from the tent's supports.
Kaelen's tone dropped. "Rest. Eat. Decide if you want to walk away from this or dig deeper. But know this—out here, walking away rarely means you get to keep walking."
Outside the tent, the camp had grown quieter. People paused in their work, glancing uneasily at the ground. Aero followed Mica toward a smaller tent she said they could use, but his thoughts were far from rest.
The heartbeat wasn't just under the wasteland anymore.
It was in him, answering each step with its own.