Live to Fight Again (2)
After narrowly escaping Dravik's wrath, their bodies battered but not broken, Solace and Lyra leaned heavily on each other, moving through the desolate wasteland. The world around them whispered of endings, of forgotten cities swallowed by time and silence. Dust clung to their skin, merging with dried blood. Every step was a question with no answer.
They kept moving—away from the battle, away from the Saint who would surely hunt them. Yet there was no safety, only distance.
Lyra faltered first, breath catching in her throat before collapsing to one knee. Solace caught her, his arms strained but firm as he steadied her.
"Are you okay?" His voice rasped, raw from exertion. His gaze swept across the ruined horizon—broken towers leaning like tombstones.
"We need to keep moving," he murmured, though his body screamed for rest.
She nodded weakly, but her legs refused to rise. Her strength had drained away.
So they moved on slowly, his arm around her waist, her weight pulling him down with each faltering step. Exhaustion gnawed deeper than their wounds. The world around them blurred into jagged edges and swirling ash.
Finally, they reached what had once been a great city. Now it was nothing more than a graveyard—collapsed skyscrapers, streets cracked by ancient tremors, metal twisted into grotesque shapes by forces long since passed. A monument to human ambition and hubris.
And yet—shelter.
They found a subway tunnel's gaping mouth beneath a shattered overpass. It exhaled damp, cold air, like the breath of something vast and buried beneath the earth.
His artifact pulsed faintly at his side—a slow, rhythmic heartbeat.
Danger. Beasts.
It never stirred without reason. The dagger reacted to fear, to threat, to turmoil in his blood.
He stared into the darkness, tense and alert. Every nerve screamed at him, yet he whispered into the void, "We have no choice."
Turning to Lyra, he eased her against the crumbling concrete wall. She was pale, her lips bloodless, her face fragile—something he had never thought her to be.
"Rest," he murmured.
He stood, drew a steadying breath, and stepped into the dark.
The cold swallowed him whole.
His boots echoed off ancient stone as he descended the steps, the silence punctuated only by the distant drip of water. His eyes adjusted slowly, shapes emerging from the black.
Two beasts crouched at the far end of the platform.
Rank one. Carrion hounds. Nothing more.
Relief swept over him.
They were little more than vermin.
The creatures turned as one, eyes glowing red like dying embers. Their snarls echoed through the cavern, long drooling strands hanging from jagged teeth. They were humanoid in height, but their limbs were unnaturally long, spines ridged with bone growths. Their skin was the color of decaying flesh.
They lunged.
Solace moved without hesitation.
The dagger in his hand shifted into a katana of black steel, its edge whispering like secrets from a grave.
The first beast reached him—he sidestepped, bringing the blade down in a clean arc. Bone split like paper.
The second snarled and leapt.
Solace's other hand flicked forward, and shadowy tendrils shot from the walls, ensnaring the beast mid-air. It struggled, howling in fury, jaws snapping.
One breath. One motion.
The blade severed its head.
The subway fell silent once more.
Solace exhaled, his body releasing the tension in a slow, steady stream.
He turned, climbing back into the faint light of the shattered world.
Lyra hadn't moved. Her head rested against the cold stone, her breath shallow but steady.
Carefully, he lifted her into his arms. She was lighter than he had expected—or perhaps he had become stronger than he realized.
He carried her into the subway's shadows, laying her down on the platform where it was dry.
Reluctantly, he left her there, venturing back into the city.
It felt hollow.
Every step was calculated, each one a test of luck. He knew that even low-rank beasts could prove dangerous now, his wounds slowing him. But there was no other choice.
After a long search, he found a half-collapsed shop. The door hung from broken hinges, shards of glass littered the floor.
Inside—dust and silence.
But then—there, a single can of beans, lying on its side beneath a fallen shelf.
Relief coursed through him.
He scavenged quickly: the beans, a few intact water bottles, and a first aid kit tucked beneath the counter. He grabbed it all and left without delay, never lingering longer than necessary.
The city watched him leave.
Back in the subway, Lyra still lay unconscious, her breath faint and labored.
Solace worked swiftly, bandaging his own wounds—bruised ribs, a cut along his arm, the skin stitched closed by trembling fingers.
But Lyra…
He paused.
Her injuries were worse. She would need more care.
His face burned with embarrassment as he gently removed the remnants of her torn clothing, keeping his gaze averted. Her skin was pale, covered in blood and bruises. He cleaned the wounds, wrapping her ribs, arm, and the long gash on her thigh in fresh bandages.
His hands were steady, his mind screaming, but survival left no room for modesty.
Once finished, he pulled her cloak over her and sat against the cold stone wall, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
He waited.
Minutes stretched into hours, or perhaps it only felt that way. Exhaustion pressed heavily on his skull, but he refused to sleep.
Lyra stirred.
Her eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding them. She attempted to sit, winced, and glanced down at her bandaged body.
Her gaze lifted to him.
He reached for a water bottle, fumbling slightly, and handed it to her.
"Drink," he said quietly.
She accepted without a word, sipping slowly, her face softening with something like gratitude—maybe even embarrassment. Her cheeks flushed faintly as her eyes shifted away from his.
The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy.
He opened the can of beans, his hands still trembling, and divided it between them.
They ate in silence, the only sound the soft scrape of spoons against metal.
For now, survival was enough.
The storm could wait.
When the meal ended, Lyra finally spoke, her voice low, almost hesitant.
"You… took care of me."
He nodded, unsure how to respond.
Her eyes softened, but the cool calculation never fully left them.
"You've grown stronger," she said softly. "Faster than you should."
"I had to," he murmured.
She didn't argue.
Outside, the wind howled through broken towers.
They slept in turns, though neither truly rested. Every creak of the tunnel walls, every distant sound, dragged them awake.
When dawn—or what passed for it in this broken world—finally broke, they sat in silence, staring at the cracked ceiling.
Lyra's voice, barely a whisper, broke the stillness.
"He will come for us."
"I know."
They didn't speak of Dravik again.
There was no point.
Instead, they focused on what they could control.
Solace gathered their meager supplies and checked the perimeter one last time, searching for signs of beasts or worse. The dagger at his side remained still.
Lyra moved with quiet purpose, wincing with every step but refusing to show weakness.
Together, they made plans.
They would head east—toward the Black Reaches. Dangerous, yes, but less patrolled. Fewer Saints.
Fewer Draviks.
As they prepared to leave, Lyra paused and spoke softly, her voice a touch more vulnerable than usual.
"You've changed."
"So have you," he replied.
Without another word, they stepped into the broken dawn.
And they did not look back.