The journey to Haven took two days.
Two days of moving through terrain that violated every law of physics Marcus had been taught. Two days of Lysera teaching him which plants were safe, which creatures to avoid, and how to move through the Wilds without drawing attention. Two days of learning that survival wasn't about strength or speed—it was about understanding the new rules and accepting that those rules didn't care about human expectations.
They traveled mostly at night, resting during the day in defensible positions. Lysera moved with purpose but without urgency, and Marcus gradually understood that rushing was a good way to draw the attention of things that were better left unnoticed.
The Rivenmaws—the creatures Lysera had killed to protect him—were common enough that Lysera didn't seem particularly concerned about them. But there were other things. Things that moved through the ruins with intelligence and purpose. Things that Lysera recognized and avoided without explanation, and Marcus had the sense that she was sparing him the full horror of what the Confluence contained.
During the day, while they rested in a structure that had once been an apartment building and was now something between a cave and a fortress, Lysera answered questions.
"How long?" Marcus asked on the first day, lying on what used to be a bed frame and was now a decent approximation of a surface elevated enough to provide some protection.
"Since the Stitching? A year and two months. Since I found survivors worth protecting? About eight months." Lysera was cleaning her blade with a cloth, her movements economical and efficient. "How long have you been conscious?"
"I don't know. I woke up about six hours before you found me."
Lysera looked at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. "That's impossible. A human can't survive more than a few hours alone in the Wilds, even an armed one. You're not armed, and you're moving like you've been in a coma."
"Yeah, well, join the club of impossible things. Everything about this is impossible." Marcus sat up, his muscles still sore in ways he didn't have names for. "I was... somewhere else. Before the Stitching. Then during it. I don't have a good explanation."
Lysera considered this. "You're blessed by one of the Weavers."
"The what?"
"The cosmic forces that orchestrated this." She gestured vaguely upward, presumably indicating the Confluence itself. "There are three of them. They have different goals, different philosophies. They work through agents. People they've marked."
Marcus thought about Lilith. About the voice in his consciousness. About the certainty that he was being used for purposes he didn't understand. "Is that why I survived? One of these Weavers wanted me to survive?"
"Probably. Elves have legends about this—Weavers mark individuals for roles they're meant to play in the larger structure of reality. You survived because something vast and powerful wanted you to survive." Lysera paused. "That's either very good news or very bad news, depending on what role was selected for you."
Marcus didn't respond. He was beginning to understand that Lilith's presence in his consciousness was a burden he would have to carry, and explaining that burden to people would only mark him as insane or dangerous—possibly both.
Haven was smaller than Marcus expected.
The valley was naturally defensible—steep cliffs on three sides, a single main entrance that could be controlled, a stream running through it that provided fresh water. The settlement itself was a mix of salvaged structures and new construction. Pre-Stitching buildings merged with structures built from salvaged materials and crystalline formations that had been deliberately incorporated into the walls.
There was a sense of organization here. Of order. Of people who had survived the collapse and were actively building something rather than simply waiting to die.
A scout spotted them approaching and raised an alarm—not of danger, but of arrivals. By the time Lysera and Marcus reached the main entrance, there was already a greeting committee assembled.
The woman at the front was human, early fifties, with gray streaking her dark hair and a bearing that suggested she'd been accustomed to authority before the world ended. She held herself with the kind of confidence that came from making difficult decisions and surviving the consequences.
"Lysera. You're back." The woman's eyes shifted to Marcus. "And you brought cargo."
"He's human," Lysera said, as if that explained everything. "Found him alone in the Wilds. No injuries, no obvious signs of infection. He survived six hours without being killed, which suggests either luck or intervention."
The woman studied Marcus with the kind of assessment that made him feel like he was being appraised for value. "I'm Anya. Chief artificer and currently acting coordinator of Haven's resources." She gestured to the others behind her. "This is Cairn—he advises on things most of us don't understand. Father Thorne—he provides spiritual support and maintains morale. And Harren, who leads our guards."
Harren was military—Marcus recognized it immediately. The bearing, the way he stood, the assessment in his eyes. They exchanged the briefest of nods, a recognition between soldiers that transcended words.
"Welcome to Haven," Anya said, and it sounded like a genuine greeting and a warning simultaneously. "We're glad to have another human, if you're actually able to contribute. We're not. We don't have the resources to carry people who can't pull their weight."
"I understand," Marcus said.
"Do you?" Anya gestured him forward, toward the structures deeper in the valley. "Most people who've survived this long think that surviving gives them the right to rest. To stop working. To assume they're safe now. They're wrong. Safety here is temporary and always conditional. The moment you become more burden than asset, we discuss whether to keep supporting you."
There was no cruelty in her tone. She was simply stating facts. Marcus appreciated that. Appreciated the honesty more than he would have appreciated false kindness.
Lysera guided him toward what appeared to be designated quarters—a structure that had once been a ranger's lodge and had been converted into communal sleeping space. Marcus was assigned a corner and given basic supplies: a cot, a blanket, a change of clothes.
"You can rest tonight," Lysera said. "Tomorrow, Anya will assess what you're capable of. Answer her questions honestly. Don't exaggerate your abilities. Don't minimize your damage either. Just... be honest about what you can and can't do."
"What about you?" Marcus asked.
"I'll be reporting to the leadership council. Telling them about the Rivenmaw activity, the migration patterns of the creatures, things they need to know." Lysera was already moving toward the exit. "Don't wander. Don't cause problems. Don't talk about whatever brought you here unless directly asked. Follow those rules, and you might survive long enough to be useful."
Sleep was complicated.
Marcus's body needed it desperately, but his mind wouldn't settle. Every sound from outside the quarters caused him to tense, waiting for threat. Every creak of the structure triggered combat readiness. It took hours for him to relax enough to actually rest, and even then, his sleep was fractured and full of nightmares.
In the dreams, Jessica walked past him without recognition. David apologized without speaking. Lily asked him why he hadn't saved her, and he had no answer.
He woke multiple times, disoriented, expecting violence.
By dawn, he'd stopped trying.
He was sitting outside the quarters when Anya found him, watching the valley come alive with activity. People working on structures, tending to gardens that grew strange hybrid crops, maintaining defensive positions. The settlement functioned like a military operation but with the purpose of survival rather than conquest.
"Can't sleep?" Anya asked, settling onto a log next to him.
"Sleep's complicated when your brain isn't sure which part of you should be in charge."
Anya smiled slightly. "Fair. Most of us have that problem now." She handed him a wooden bowl containing something that resembled porridge but smelled like it might actually be edible. "Eat. Then we talk about what you can do."
The food was better than he expected. Not good—probably hadn't been good in the pre-Stitching world either—but nutritious and filling. Marcus ate while Anya watched, her assessment continuing.
"You were military," she said finally.
"Combat engineer. Eight years, three deployments."
"Combat training?"
"Enough to not die immediately." Marcus set down the bowl. "But I'm not going to be your elite warrior. I'm damaged goods. PTSD, suicidal ideation, difficulty sleeping, difficulty trusting people. If you're looking for someone to lead your military, I'm not your answer."
"I already have Harren for that. I'm asking what you can actually contribute."
Marcus considered lying. Considered inflating his capabilities. Instead, he was honest. "I understand engineering. I can help maintain structures, repair things, problem-solve around limitations. I can teach other people military basics if that's useful. And I can follow orders without questioning every decision, which apparently is valuable in a survival situation."
Anya nodded slowly. "Can you work with materials that don't follow pre-Stitching physics?"
"I don't know yet. I just got here."
"Good answer. Honesty is worth more than false confidence." Anya stood. "You'll work with me for the next week. I'll assess your actual capabilities versus your claimed capabilities. If you're useful, we keep you and integrate you into the community. If you're not, we provide supplies and send you back into the Wilds. Clear?"
"Clear."
"Also clear: Haven has certain rules. We don't take what's not ours. We don't harm each other without cause. We work together or we die together. Betrayal of those principles results in exile. Survival is communal or nothing."
She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. In the pre-Stitching world, such rules would have seemed harsh. Here, they sounded like common sense.
The first week, Marcus worked with Anya in her workshop—a converted building that served as the settlement's engineering hub. The workshop was impressive. Anya had salvaged pre-Stitching technology and merged it with materials from the Confluence. Crystalline formations served as power sources. Old electrical wiring was being repurposed to channel mana instead of electricity. It was brilliant work that required both technical knowledge and adaptive thinking.
"These crystals," Marcus said, examining one of the Aetherium formations carefully. "They're responding to intent somehow. Or frequency. Or both."
"Both," Anya confirmed. "If you can figure out the right resonance pattern, you can make them do what you want. Amplify magic, store energy, channel it in specific directions. The problem is finding the right frequency."
Marcus spent hours just observing the crystals, trying to understand their properties. And gradually, something shifted. He began to perceive them differently—not as objects but as systems with their own logic. The longer he spent around them, the more he felt something like... attunement. Understanding that wasn't quite understanding, more like his consciousness was learning a new language.
"You have an affinity," Anya said on the fourth day, watching him work. "Most people take months to develop the kind of sensitivity you're showing after four days."
"It's like the crystals are talking to me. Or I'm learning to hear them."
"That's one way to describe it." Anya paused. "Lysera mentioned you might be Weaver-marked. Is that accurate?"
Marcus wanted to deny it. Wanted to explain that he wasn't special or chosen or any of the other things that implied. But Anya had been honest with him, so he owed her honesty in return.
"Yes. There's a presence. In my consciousness. Guidance that I didn't choose and can't refuse. It's been with me since before I woke up here."
Anya considered this. "Which Weaver?"
"Lilith. The one who orchestrated the Stitching."
"Ah." Anya set down her tools. "That's complicated. Lilith doesn't choose people for healing or building. She chooses people for transformation. For acceleration. For pushing humanity toward the next stage of evolution whether it wants to go there or not."
"I know."
"Do you understand what that means?"
Marcus met her eyes. "It means I'm dangerous. To Haven, to people, to myself. And that I'm going to become more dangerous as time goes on."
"Yes," Anya said simply. "And that's why we're watching you carefully. Not in a paranoid way. In a practical way. Because power that's being carefully observed and integrated into community is less likely to become a threat than power that's isolated and desperate and confused."
She said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. And maybe it was.
By the end of the first week, Marcus had proven himself useful enough to stay.
By the end of the second week, he had a permanent position in Anya's workshop and was being integrated into the community's daily life.
By the end of the third week, people stopped treating him like a potential threat and started treating him like a resident.
And somewhere in the back of his consciousness, Lilith whispered: *Good. Let them believe you are manageable. Let them believe they can guide your power toward their purposes. Neither will be true, but the delay is useful. Plant yourself. Build trust. Wait for the moment when transformation becomes inevitable.*
Marcus ignored her, focusing instead on the work, the community, and the strange new life that was beginning to take shape in the ruins of the old world.
He had no idea then that Lily existed. That she would become the center of his world. That her death would be the catalyst that transformed him from weapon into something far more dangerous.
For now, there was just work. Just survival. Just the daily effort of building something functional from the wreckage of civilization.
It would have to be enough.