The wind carried whispers through the ruins.
Not voices—mories.
Kael tightened the strap across his torn armor, ignoring the blood seeping from his arm. Pain was a language he spoke fluently. He stood at the edge of the cracked plain, twin swords resting against his shoulders, eyes fixed on the skeletal remains of a fallen city half-swallowed by ash.
Behind him, Lyra knelt, reloading her handgun with steady hands.
“You should’ve let take the claw,” she said.
Kael smirked without turning. “You already take enough risks.”
She snapped the magazine into place. “And you take too many.”
They moved.
Each step into the ruins felt heavier, like the city itself resented survivors. Buildings leaned at impossible angles, their insides gutted by fire and ti. Lava fissures pulsed beneath broken streets, glowing like the veins of sothing still alive.
A corpse twitched.
Lyra raised her gun instantly.
“Don’t,” Kael whispered.
The corpse collapsed back into the rubble, motionless. A fake death. The worst kind.
Zombies learned now. Slowly—but enough.
Kael’s mind drifted as they walked. The night everything ended returned uninvited. Sirens. Screams. The sky tearing open. He had been a soldier once—before the dead learned how to hunt.
Before Lyra saved him.
She broke the silence. “You rember your na?”
He glanced at her.
“My real one?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Kael,” he said. “Before the fall... it ant ‘strength.’ Funny, right?”
Lyra allowed herself a small smile. “Lyra ans ‘song.’”
Kael snorted. “World ended. You still sing?”
She looked ahead, eyes sharp. “Only when it deserves it.”
A roar echoed through the streets.
Not a horde.
One.
Heavy footsteps shook the ground. A massive shape erged from between shattered buildings—a mutated brute, swollen with muscle, skin stretched tight over bone. Its eyes burned brighter than any zombie’s.
Kael drew both swords.
“Big one,” Lyra said calmly.
“Your call,” Kael replied.
She exhaled once. “Legs first.”
Kael charged.
The brute swung. Kael ducked beneath the blow, blades flashing. Steel bit deep, severing tendons. The monster scread, staggering forward.
Lyra fired—three shots, perfect spacing. Knees shattered. The brute crashed down, shaking the ruins.
Kael leapt, both swords plunging into its skull.
Silence returned, thick and oppressive.
Lyra approached, nudging the corpse with her boot. “They’re changing.”
Kael pulled his blades free. “So will we.”
They reached the heart of the city as the sun dipped low, painting everything in dying gold. At the center stood a cracked monunt—nas etched into stone. Thousands. Millions.
Lyra traced one with her fingers.
“We survive,” she said softly, “so soone rembers.”
Kael stood beside her, sword planted in the ash.
“No,” he replied. “We survive so the dead learn to fear us.”
In the distance, horns sounded—low, ancient, unnatural.
The darkness was calling them by na.
And it knew they were coming.
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