Jacob led X into a narrow fissure in the cliff face, a crack barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through.
The air inside was immediately cooler, the oppressive heat of the sun replaced by a damp, earthy smell.
The passage opened into a small, hidden cave, no larger than the ruined house X had sheltered in before. It was clear this was one of Jacob's many bolt holes, a place he knew and trusted.
A bedroll was tucked into one corner, along with a small stack of supplies: a few more canteens, some dried rations, and a box of ammunition for his rifle.
"We'll stay here until dusk," Jacob announced, dropping his satchel to the floor with a thud.
"Traveling in the full heat of the day is a fool's game." He set about his tasks with an economy of motion that spoke of long practice.
He checked the perimeter of the cave, laid out a small piece of canvas, and began to clean his rifle, his gnarled fingers moving with surprising dexterity.
X watched him, the canteen held loosely in one hand, the obsidian pendant in the other. The small, cool weight of the stone was a constant, puzzling presence.
The faint hum it emitted seemed to pulse in time with X's own heartbeat. Jacob's reaction to it had been telling.
This small object was a key, a piece of the puzzle that the old survivalist recognized.
"You said the pendant is trouble," X said, breaking the silence. "What kind of trouble?"
Jacob didn't look up from his work. "The kind that gets people killed," he said bluntly.
"The curse that's poisoning this land… it's not just a random sickness. It has a source. A will, of a sort. The stories say that artifacts like that,"
he nodded towards the pendant, "are tied to that will. They're like beacons. Some say they amplify the curse, draw the blighted creatures in. Others say they're tools of control, used by whatever is driving this madness."
He paused, wiping a cloth down the barrel of his rifle. "I was a historian, once. Before the world burned. I studied the old kingdoms, the pharaohs of the river valley."
The admission hung in the air, a surprising piece of personal history from the tight-lipped man. "A historian?" X asked, intrigued.
"A long time ago," Jacob said, his voice distant. "I read the legends. The warnings on the tombs. Most of my colleagues dismissed them as superstition, deterrents for ancient grave robbers. But the language they used… it was specific. They spoke of a 'plague of the soul,' of a king's rage lasting beyond death. When the cataclysm happened, when the sky fell and the earth cracked, I remembered those stories. And when the blight started to spread, when the creatures started to change… I knew it wasn't just radiation or some new-world virus. It was something older."
He finally looked at X, his eyes holding a deep, ancient sadness. "I lost my family in the early days. Not to the cataclysm itself, but to the chaos that followed. I've been alone ever since. Surviving. Watching the world die a slow death. I believed it was beyond saving."
"And now?" X prompted.
Jacob sighed, a sound like stones grinding together. "And now, a person with no memory who can read the old tongue," he gestured to the stele X had described finding, "and who can survive a Ripper attack with their bare hands, shows up carrying a cursed artifact. It's the first thing in thirty years that hasn't felt like just another step towards the end. It feels… like a beginning. And that terrifies me."
He offered X a strip of dried, salted meat. It was tough and chewy, but it was food, and X ate it gratefully. The small act of sharing, combined with his confession, felt like a bridge being built across the chasm of his distrust. It was a fragile thing, but it was there.
"Why help me?" X asked, the question that had been nagging at him since Jacob had appeared. "You could have taken the pendant and left me."
"I thought about it," Jacob admitted without shame. "Would have been the smart play, but I saw the way you fought. There was no fear in your movements. Just… precision. And then I saw your face when you told me you couldn't remember anything. You weren't lying. In this world, a lie is a tool. Honesty is a liability. It makes you a fool."
He paused, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "Or it makes you someone worth taking a chance on. I'm getting too old to tell the difference. But my gut tells me leaving you out here would be a bigger mistake than bringing you along."
As dusk began to settle, painting the sky outside the cave in hues of deep purple and blood orange, Jacob packed his things. "Time to move. We'll travel by night. It's cooler, and we're harder to spot."
X stood up, feeling stronger than before. The water and food had worked a small miracle, and the brief rest had cleared some of the fog from his mind.
X looked at the pendant in their hand. It was a tangible link to the mystery of the curse, and, perhaps, to the mystery of X's own identity. X threaded a strip of leather, salvaged from his own tattered clothing, through the pendant and hung it around his neck.
The cool obsidian rested against their skin, a constant reminder of the fight, the rescue, and the new, uncertain path ahead.
"The Well is three nights' walk from here," Jacob said, standing at the entrance to the cave. "The journey won't be easy. This land is full of things worse than Rippers." He looked at X, a silent question in his eyes.
Are you ready?
X met his gaze and nodded, touching the pendant. For the first time since waking in the sand, X was not entirely alone.
He had a companion, however reluctant, and a destination, however dangerous. It was enough.
"I'm ready," X said, and the words felt true.