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Chapter 2 - Falling Fire (Part 2)

Daybreak didn't mean safety. In daylight, the ash-mist merely hid its tracks. He added another layer where the salt line was thinnest, and Shadow tried to sit up slowly. She glanced outside, then patched the section near her with brisk, if unpracticed, strokes. Alan didn't correct her—movement was enough; there was no need to speak. He withdrew the bone needle, loosened the fire pouch half an inch, felt the heat at his chest "ease," then pressed it back down again.

Alan needed water badly. He paced the wreck twice and scraped a little rime from a split coolant pipe—white frost with almost no taste. He split it in two; Shadow refused. He didn't hesitate and licked all of it clean. He would not make useless sacrifices for the sake of "decency."

He returned inside the salt line, sat, and sorted the day's tasks: find water; look for dry grass; secure something hard to break the wind; collect more salt; leave no tracks; avoid low ground; don't provoke monsters; don't get into conflicts with people either.

Shadow's fingers brushed the strap across her chest. "Will you leave here?"

"Yes."

"Take me with you."

"That depends on whether you can keep pace," Alan answered. He gave neither promise nor refusal. He remembered her name, but in his head he stuck on another label: burden.

The gray brightened; the edges of scrap iron began to throw back a dull shine. Alan lifted the pouch for a finger-width of light to read the night's traces on the ground. The beasts' circuit lay there as a string of shallow hollows. He chose the opposite direction, intent on following the ridgeline north.

He rose and began gathering the salt, moving slowly, taking only the inner half and leaving the outer ring in place as a false "door." It would cost anyone who came later a few wasted minutes. He propped a metal sheet upright to jam the gap, then wrapped a torn strip of cloth around the outermost rim of salt, faking the scuff of "footprints." If anyone came, they'd follow that false trail instead of the path he truly took.

"Let's go," he told Shadow. She struggled to her feet, face white as paper, but still able to walk. He bound her waist carefully with cloth to keep the wound from splitting. They said nothing, shouldered their packs, and moved north along the rock, hugging the wall. Every twenty steps Alan looked back, checking for new shadow-beasts on their trail.

After three hundred steps, he stopped. Three crossing tracks scored the sand ahead—fresh, evenly pressed. Not beasts. Human. Trained. The prints vanished at the base of a twisted metal tower, then turned west along the tower's shadow. Alan drew back the foot he'd lifted and waited at the stone's edge for the wind to turn. He did not give chase; catching up meant exposure. He pressed a pinch of salt into a crack in the rock, leaving a tiny white dot.

Shadow whispered, "A marker?"

"Not for us," Alan replied. "For what returns."

She didn't understand, but didn't ask again.

They skirted the tower. The wind thinned the wreckage-stench to a faint smear. Alan kept his palm over his chest; the fire's temperature was steady, controlled. He spoke softly to it: "No sudden moves." It wasn't conversation. It was training. The fire didn't answer, and he needed no answer—only obedience.

Two more rock lips passed beneath their boots; to the north the ground rose higher, and the wind came meaner. Alan halted in the lee of a low bank and set Shadow down. He cracked the pouch for a sliver of light to read the footing, then covered it again. In the dirt he drew a short line of salt—no longer than a palm—set low where others wouldn't notice. Not a ward, only a start point. He slid the bone needle back into his sleeve and lifted his eyes toward a darker smear farther north—mountain shadow or heavier mist, he couldn't yet tell. No matter. By day, reach its edge; by night, crouch at its feet.

Shadow rubbed the corner of her mouth, voice raw. "You saved me—without asking who I am, or whether I'm good or bad."

"Being alive matters more than the answer," Alan said.

"You'll ask, eventually."

"When it matters."

The wind shredded their words until they were barely sound at all, and there was nothing more to say. Alan tightened the chest strap, fixing the pouch firm. He set the crowbar where his back could find it fast, and moved the knife to his chest. For now, he needed only three things within reach: salt, blade, fire. He touched each in turn, then made a quick judgment on the ground ahead: rising slope, scattered scree—hard for monsters to charge, and just as hard for men. Shelter from wind, worse angles for sightlines. Weighed and chosen, he kept moving.

"Don't fall behind," he said. Shadow nodded, clenched her teeth, and kept pace. They slid along the stone, northward.

By noon the wind shifted from the north, and a warm current, stinking of rust, rolled at their backs. Alan hugged the wall. He knew what it meant: movement among the wrecks behind them—or someone lit a flame. He didn't look back. Looking wouldn't grant him more truth. He quickened his step, slid his body half a length forward, drew Shadow to the inside. Suddenly his chest gave a soft pop—he clamped a hand down.

Afternoon light was brief and dull. They stopped beneath a third rock shelf. Alan dragged a flat iron panel under the lip to serve as a lid. Shadow hovered at the edge of sleep, lips split and peeling. Alan scraped the last frost-bit of salt to her; she licked it once and pushed it back. He didn't argue and finished it himself; his tongue tingled numb. He drew the salt line in a half arc again, leaving the opening to their backs. Bone needle set, crowbar laid flat inside. He loosened the pouch a fraction; his chest relaxed for one heartbeat—then he tightened it again.

"Rules for today," he said softly. "One—no talking inside the salt. Two—watch the wind, not the mist. Three—no noise when tending flame."

Shadow learned to nod quickly. She knew this wasn't a time to argue. She closed her eyes and matched her breathing to four-beat time. Alan took the watch again; he knew true night hadn't arrived—what came before was only rehearsal.

Before the sun dropped, he glanced at the cut on the back of his hand. Salt in the fine wound burned like hell, but it had stopped the bleeding. He wiped the blade clean on cloth; the edge had been chewed dull by grit, and he didn't care. A knife only had to bite soil.

In the distance a toppled metal tower leaned against the sky. When wind ran through its hollow pipes, a low hum rolled out. Alan listened for the hum's meter to read the wind's rhythm. On the third heavy beat, he touched the pouch at his chest. It answered steady, on time.

He allowed himself to close his eyes for a single second, then opened them again.

Night fell back in. Harsher than yesterday, dragging water in its teeth. Alan laid a thicker band of salt at the door and held the bone needle tight; Shadow gripped the crowbar. They said nothing, only watched the entrance like two carved figures. The fire rested against his heart, properly behaved, no longer imitating any voice. He knew he'd earned a chance, but the wastes loved to kill you right when you declared victory. He didn't believe in "safe," not even now.

When full dark settled, he summed the day into three points in his head:One— survived the night.Two— Shadow could move.Three— the northern tract was passable.

Then he turned them into three orders:One— keep the fire under control.Two— keep the salt supply unbroken.Three— watch the wind, not the people.

The wind clawed harder. He let his thoughts go, counting the gusts, holding the post, waiting for the next breath-mark to arrive. Dawn was a long way off, and he had only one task left to do:

Live to see the next night.

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