Chapter 50 – Foundations of Sand and Stone
The morning wind off the dunes carried the smell of dust and roasted spice through the city.
John and Tamara walked side by side along the main avenue, their shadows stretched long between the sandstone walls. The city hadn't quite woken yet; the shouts of merchants were still distant, and the air shimmered with heat that hadn't arrived.
Ember padded silently at John's heel in his smaller form, silver fur catching the sunlight like quicksilver. Tamara's cloak fluttered lightly behind her, pale blue against the ochre stone. She looked rested for the first time in weeks, though there was still a tightness in her eyes that no sleep could fix.
"Three houses today," John said, scanning the list in his hand. "One near the western bazaar, one close to the Alchemist quarter, and another in the upper terraces."
Tamara smiled faintly. "You sound like you've been doing this for years."
"Can't be that hard," he replied. "Find a roof that doesn't leak, a wall that doesn't crumble, and enough room for six people and one bear."
"And a lab," she reminded.
John grinned. "And a lab. Right."
They turned a corner into a quieter district. The walls here were taller, the streets cleaner. Carved stone archways cast cool shade. Tamara slowed her pace, watching the sun bleed through latticed balconies above.
"It feels strange," she said softly. "We were fighting for our lives a few days ago. Now we're house-shopping."
"That's the world for you," John said. "One moment you're bleeding, the next you're bargaining."
She gave a short laugh, but her gaze lingered on him. "You make it sound simple."
"It's not," he admitted. "But I like pretending it is."
The First House
The first place sat near the western bazaar—a squat building with a wide courtyard and faded red walls. The broker, a tall woman with a voice like sandpaper, led them through with exaggerated pride.
"Spacious kitchen, reinforced doors, privacy from the market noise," she said.
Tamara trailed a finger across a cracked wall. "And a roof that leaks."
The broker winced. "Only when it rains."
John glanced up at the ceiling where a faint water stain spread like a map. "In the desert, that's not much comfort."
They stepped into what had once been a garden, now a patch of brittle grass and stone benches. Ember nosed a dead plant, sneezed, and looked unimpressed.
"Next," John said.
The Second House
The next was in the Alchemist quarter—a narrow, elegant house with tall glass windows and gleaming floors that smelled faintly of distilled alcohol.
Tamara's eyes widened. "It's beautiful."
"Too clean," John said. "Smells like someone's failed experiment."
As if on cue, one of the windows rattled violently from a distant explosion. A puff of pink smoke drifted down the street.
Tamara covered a smile. "You're impossible."
"I like my walls stable."
He leaned against the doorway, watching her explore. For a moment she stood in a shaft of light, hair catching the glow, fingertips brushing the glass. She looked lighter somehow—like she'd shed some of the weight of the past days.
Alaric's voice stirred faintly inside John's mind.
"You could stay like this, you know. For a while."
Not yet, John thought. I still owe them peace.
Tamara turned, catching him looking.
"What?"
"Nothing," he said quickly, straightening. "Let's see the next one."
The Mansion on the Hill
The third property sat high on a ridge above the city. The road climbed between carved pillars, each etched with old trade runes. At the top waited a mansion of pale stone, its façade lined with arches and open balconies. The air smelled of cedar and mineral water.
When they stepped through the gate, the broker's tone changed—humbler now, as though even she knew this place was different.
"Ten bedrooms. Two courtyards. Private wells. A reinforced cellar that could be converted into a lab. And," she added quickly, "a large central hall for… gatherings."
John stopped in the entryway. Sunlight spilled through stained glass, scattering gold and blue patterns across the marble floor. A staircase curved upward like a ribbon.
Tamara wandered to a side hall and gasped softly. The kitchen was vast—stone counters, hanging racks for herbs, a great oven built into the wall. "Blake will live in here."
"Good," John said. "Maybe he'll finally learn to cook something edible."
She turned to him, amused. "He'll just burn it and blame you."
"Wouldn't be the first time." He walked further in, running his hand along the wall's cool stone. "This could work. Training hall on the lower floor, lab in the cellar, rooms for everyone upstairs."
Tamara's eyes shone with a quiet warmth. "You've thought about it."
He shrugged. "Someone has to."
For a moment they stood in silence, sunlight painting them both in soft color.
Then John glanced around and said lightly, "Feels weird, though."
"How so?"
He smiled—half-teasing, half-nervous. "Like we're buying a house together."
Her breath caught. "What?"
"Didn't say we were," he said quickly, a trace of color creeping into his ears. "Just feels like it."
Tamara's laugh was short but genuine, and her cheeks flushed before she looked away. "It does feel like it in a way we are."
Their eyes met for a heartbeat too long before she turned toward the balcony. The city stretched beneath them, golden and endless.
In the quiet, Tamara's thoughts drifted back—to Revenak, to the webs that had almost claimed her, to the hand that had pulled her free. She remembered the strange steadiness in John's eyes even then, the same calm he wore now.
She'd told herself it was trust. Gratitude. But somewhere between Revenak and the desert, it had become something else.
She pushed the thought down, though her chest felt unsteady. He's my comrade, she told herself. Nothing more.
The broker cleared her throat. "The asking price is one million credits per month, with full access to city supply routes and Association protection."
John whistled softly. "That's steep."
"But doable," Tamara said before she could stop herself.
He looked at her with surprise, then smiled faintly. "Yeah. Doable."
She realized too late that she'd spoken with the ease of someone already included in his plans.
"Then we'll take it," John said.
By late afternoon, the lease was signed and sealed. The keys—a set of six polished bronze talismans—hung from John's belt as they made their way back toward the inn. The streets had filled with life again; the smell of cumin and steel hung in the heat.
Tamara walked quietly beside him, still thinking of that moment in the sunlight, of the way he'd said we'll take it like it had always been they.
"Thank you," she said finally.
"For what?"
"For… letting me help."
He looked at her, puzzled, then nodded. "Couldn't have done it without you."
She smiled to herself. "I know."
When they entered the inn, the common room was louder than before. Blake had somehow managed to turn a corner table into a feast of half-finished plates and empty mugs. Mara, Lysa, and Sera sat with him, deep in conversation that died the moment John walked in.
"Your back!" Blake said, raising his mug. "So—did we buy a palace?"
"Something like that," John said. "You'll see tomorrow."
Tamara slipped past him to grab a seat beside the others. Ember climbed onto the table and began sniffing through the remains of Blake's meal.
John took the empty chair across from Mara and folded his arms. "I never got a chance to ask—what are your specialties?"
Mara straightened, her dark braid swinging over her shoulder. "Shield-bearer. Step 3, earth affinity. I hold the line."
"Lysa?" John asked.
The slender woman beside her smiled faintly. "Scout and trap-layer. I see things before they see us."
"And Sera?"
The quietest of the three met his gaze. "Healer. Light affinity. Still learning."
John nodded slowly. "Good mix. If we're going to rebuild, we'll need that balance."
"Rebuild?" Blake asked, leaning forward.
John looked at him. "Lion's Pride is gone. What's left of us needs something new."
Blake grinned. "Got a name already?"
"Not yet," John said. "But we'll earn one."
Mara's eyes gleamed. "You mean to form a mercenary band?"
"Something like it," John said.
Tamara glanced up from her seat. "You're serious."
"I am."
She studied him for a moment, then smiled softly. "Then I'll follow."
Blake raised his mug again. "Guess that's a vote."
The others murmured their agreement, quiet but firm.
John looked around the table—at the worn armor, the scarred faces, the faint light returning to their eyes—and felt the weight of something new settling over them.
Not a burden.
A beginning.
Hours later, the laughter had faded. Blake and the others had stumbled to their rooms. The lamps burned low, casting amber across the empty tables.
John stood by the window again, watching the city's lights flicker like embers below. Tamara lingered a few paces away, silent.
"It's a good house," she said at last.
"It'll do," he replied.
"For all of us," she added.
He nodded. "Yeah."
For a moment, neither spoke. The night wind brushed through the shutters, carrying the scent of the desert and the faint promise of rain.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we start making it ours."
Tamara smiled faintly. "Tomorrow."
They parted then—quietly, without ceremony. But as she turned toward the stairs, her hand brushed his for the briefest second. Warm. Unplanned. Real.
He didn't move until she was gone.
Alaric's voice whispered faintly in the stillness.
"Foundations must be built before towers rise. You've laid the first stone."
John's gaze drifted toward the night sky.
"Then let's see how high we can build."
Outside, the city of dunes slept beneath its stars, unaware that something new—something dangerous and bright—had just taken root within its walls.