The sun was a fading ember behind the jagged skyline of Avalon, bleeding its last orange light across fractured stone and steel. Long shadows stretched over the city's ancient walls, turning the streets into a patchwork of light and darkness. Neon signs sputtered awake, buzzing softly and casting bursts of color against cracked facades and rusted ironwork.
Avalon was a city of contradictions—an oasis of life perched on the edge of a world that was slowly dying. Its walls, carved from weathered stone and reinforced with steel, held back the chaos beyond: forests reclaimed by wild growth, skies streaked with unnatural hues, and creatures no longer quite human. Inside, the city struggled to maintain its fragile pulse.
The market square throbbed with uneasy energy. Merchants hawked their wares with practiced smiles, their voices rising and falling in rhythms meant to lure buyers but too often swallowed by the tension in the air. Children darted between stalls, clutching stolen sweets or worn trinkets, their laughter quick and sharp, brittle as glass.
Among the crowd, wary eyes tracked the slow march of soldiers in dark uniforms and battered armor. Their presence was a reminder that safety was never guaranteed—only negotiated with vigilance and force.
Near a stall selling roasted meats and spicy herbs, a pair of elderly women whispered in hushed tones, glancing nervously at the patrol passing close by.
"They say the monsters have been seen closer to the walls again," one murmured, her voice barely audible over the din.
"Still, the Council sends no reinforcements," the other replied. "They're too busy arguing over power, as always."
Across the square, a group of young men clustered near the fountain, their eyes sharp and restless. They bore the scars of street fights and long nights spent in back-alley brawls, their loyalty shifting like smoke between rival factions.
Zion moved through it all like a shadow folded into twilight—lean and precise, standing at five foot nine, with a posture that hinted at strength hidden beneath ease. His dark hair caught the flickering neon, and his eyes, sharp and unreadable, scanned the crowd with a soldier's discipline.
A cigarette hung loosely between his fingers, the smoke curling in lazy spirals as he exhaled. Beside him, a battered notebook peeked from the folds of his worn jacket—a silent testament to thoughts kept private, plans made in quiet moments.
He passed a small tavern, its wooden sign swinging in the breeze, and caught the smell of spilled ale and smoke. The murmur of voices drifted out, some laughing, some arguing. Life in Avalon was stubborn, clinging to moments of warmth despite the cold that pressed in from all sides.
A child with wide eyes stared at Zion briefly before ducking behind a vendor's cart. A stray dog, ribs visible beneath its matted fur, padded silently across the cobblestones, its cautious gaze flicking toward the soldiers. The city was alive, but only just.
Zion's boots made no sound against the cobblestones as he moved toward the city's wall, where the patrols gathered before dusk. The sun slipped fully beneath the horizon, and the first stars blinked uncertainly in the smog-choked sky.
Here, at the edge of Avalon's fragile haven, the weight of the world felt heaviest. The distant howl of monsters carried on the wind, a reminder that safety was an illusion.
His jaw tightened, muscles tense beneath the worn fabric of his jacket. He had walked these streets for years, fought battles most only heard of in whispered rumors, and survived nights darker than any before.
The city needed soldiers like him—men who could carry the burden of war without breaking.
And yet, sometimes, even he wondered if the price was worth paying.