Morning comes in through the warped little window as a red smear instead of a sunrise.

  For a moment I lie still and listen.

  Floorboards sigh somewhere beyond the wall. Someone coughs below. A chair scrapes. No reactor hum or drive vibration, no Hive hiss tucked in the back of my mind—just a tavern waking up and the faint clink of crockery.

  Oh. Right. The village. And for once, I don’t hate waking up.

  I push myself upright and the bed frame groans under me in long, creaky complaint.

  Shit. Seven hundred pounds. I slide off the mattress slowly so I don’t put a Sol-shaped hole in the floor.

  Walk soft.

  My feet find cool wood. The room’s tiny—bed, crate, crooked window, my pack slumped in the corner—but it doesn’t feel like a cell.

  I sigh. A hot bath would still be nice. I spotted a wash shed by the firewood—no idea if that’s for every day or special occasions. Most people wake up sticky with sweat and yesterday’s dirt; Valicar’s little monsters erase it before I get the chance. Wanting isn’t the same as needing, after all.

  I catch a smear of myself in the wobbly glass and reach for the cloak on reflex—then stop.

  No. Nobody scrubs floors in a hood. That’s how you get talked about.

  You said you’d at least try to look normal, I remind myself. Black hair, both eyes the same tired blue. No white, no red, no saint-glass glare. At least Valicar can fake that much. I run my tongue over my teeth on reflex—flat, smooth, human. For once I don’t taste my own blood; the nanites have filed the knives down again.

  My shirt might as well be paint.

  I roll my shoulders, crack the door, and listen—low voices, a pan somewhere, wood shifting as the place wakes up. No footsteps on the stairs.

  Good enough.

  I slip out and duck into the little closet by the landing. It smells like dust and onions and old wood. In the dim I yank my shirt off over my head, ball it under one arm, and dig through a heap of linens until I find one that doesn’t smell like mold.

  “Sorry,” I mutter to whoever’s towel this used to be, and wrap it around my chest. I pull until my ribs complain and the weight stops arguing with gravity when I move, cloth rasping against skin as I haul it tight for a first rough pass.

  A board creaks out on the stairs. Someone’s coming up.

  “Shit,” I breathe, yanking the towel the rest of the way around and knotting it fast. It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold. I grab my shirt, ease the closet door open a crack, and dart the few steps back to my room before whoever-it-is hits the landing.

  The latch clicks behind me. I let out a breath I didn’t mean to hold.

  Back in the room, I drag my shirt on over the makeshift wrap. It lies flatter now. I leave the cloak hanging; no need to look like I’m about to rob the place before breakfast.

  I ease the door open and step into the hall. The boards creak, and I take the stairs one careful step at a time.

  Maro’s already behind the counter, sleeves rolled, forearms roped and damp, a stack of clean-ish mugs in front of him. He glances up when the stair creaks and squints like he’s checking which stray he dragged in last night.

  “You’re up early,” he says. “Good. I hate hauling water.”

  “Couldn’t sleep in,” I say. “Old habit.”

  “Useful habit,” he grunts. He ducks, rummages under the counter, and comes up with two battered buckets. “Well’s out back. Fill the barrel by the stove. Don’t fall in. I don’t like fishing.”

  He shoves the buckets into my hands.

  “Got it,” I say.

  “And, Sol,” he adds as I shove the back door with my hip, “don’t overdo it. Take one bucket at a time if you need.”

  “I’ll manage,” I say—much easier than admitting I could bench-press a horse.

  The yard out back is a patch of hard dirt and old ruts, fenced in on three sides. A few chickens pick around an overturned crate, giving me deeply offended little stares like I’m trespassing on their kingdom; somewhere a rooster croaks his opinion about it. The well squats by the back fence, stone ring gone soft with moss, wooden cover shoved aside.

  Morning air hits my face—cool, smoky, grass somewhere beyond the houses. The kind of air humanity used to breathe before industry choked it out… before Dad did his best impression of a reset button and handed people a brand-new world to ruin.

  I cross to the well. The rope bites my palms as I lower the bucket; the pulley answers with a tired squeal.

  Water slaps when the bucket hits. I haul it up without thinking—clean pull, no shake, muscles barely waking up.

  [VALICAR: LOAD ≈ 40 LBS · PHYSICAL OUTPUT RECOMMENDED CAPPED AT 30%. MAINTAIN DISGUISE AS HUMAN FEMALE.]

  If I go any softer I’ll start faking a limp.

  I wrestle the well bucket over and slosh it into one of Maro’s, then the other. Cold water splashes over my fingers.

  I’m reaching for the rope again when I hear it: iron on stone, wheels over ruts, a horse’s soft snort. A wagon turning in off the lane.

  A horse’s head appears past the corner of the tavern—ears pricked, harness jingling. The wagon follows, stacked with crates and canvas-wrapped bundles, axles creaking as it lurches into the yard.

  The driver pulls the horse to a stop when he sees me.

  He’s taller than Maro, but the bone structure’s the same under it: same crooked eyebrow, same stubborn mouth. Dark hair tied back at the nape, skin browned by a life outdoors instead of by blast shields. He looks like someone who’s leaned on the same fencepost his whole life and also like he could pick it up and move it if he had to.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  His gaze flicks over me—shirt, buckets, the way I’m standing like the weight doesn’t bother me. The surprise on his face is there and gone in a heartbeat, replaced by an easy, crooked grin.

  “Well now,” he says. “Either Da finally learned how to conjure help or I took the wrong turn and ended up in a better village.”

  The back door bangs open behind me.

  “About damn time, boy,” Maro calls. “Thought the capital swallowed you.”

  He laughs over my shoulder. “You send me up to the hull with a list fit for a mule train and act shocked I don’t stroll back by supper? That’s on you, old man.”

  “Excuses,” Maro says, but his voice is warmer now. He jerks his chin toward me. “Sol, this is my boy Alkek. Alkek, this is Sol. She’s passing through, helping out a few days to earn her keep. Don’t drag her into your nonsense.”

  Alkek’s eyebrows go up. “I just got here,” he protests. “At least let me earn the bad stories before you start telling them.”

  Maro snorts and disappears back inside, door swinging behind him. The yard settles around us—horse, buckets, and my pulse doing something stupid in my ribs because for half a second I could swear Reid’s twin just pulled up in a wagon.

  Alkek hops down from the wagon. He moves like a man who knows exactly where his feet go—light, balanced, comfortable in his body.

  He wipes his hands on his trousers and offers one to me, palm open.

  “Nice to meetcha,” he says. “Sol, was it… like that old story?”

  Up close his eyes are hazel, green threaded through brown, with a faint scar along his jaw that says life’s already taken a swing at him.

  Gentle, I remind myself, taking his warm, rough hand and keeping my grip light.

  “Sol,” I say. “Like the story.”

  “Figures,” he says. “Name out of a tale and eyes that don’t belong in this dump. Bit unfair on the rest of us.”

  The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it.

  “He already has you on the well?” Alkek nods at the buckets. “Took him a year to trust Hano with that rope. Boy almost managed to drown standing next to it.”

  “Kid looks like he’d lose a fight with a wet rag,” I say.

  He barks a laugh. “You’re brutal. All right, killer—when you’re done with the water, want to tackle some crates with me?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Let me finish this load first.”

  “Deal,” he says, already turning back to the wagon.

  Crates fill the bed wall to wall, tied with fraying rope and Maro’s faith. Some are stamped with hull marks from the old ship; some just have chalk scrawls—BARLEY, SALT, NAILS.

  Alkek braces, gets his arms around the topmost crate, and wrestles it toward the edge. It’s an honest lift—muscles bunching in his forearms, jaw set, boots digging for purchase. He gets it down with a grunt and sets it by the back step.

  He turns and catches me watching, one eyebrow up.

  “Normally I make this look graceful,” he says.

  “You keep rounding your back like that, you’ll fold yourself in half,” I say before I can shut up.

  He pauses. “Come again?”

  “Knees, not spine,” I say. “Keep it close. Turn with your feet. Unless you like healers.”

  He huffs a laugh. “You sound like Keeper Garos at the loading gate. ‘Spine’s not a lever, boy, it’s the only thing keeping your skull out of your ass.’”

  “Smart man.”

  He squints at me. “How’s a road rat know haul-talk?”

  Because I spent a lifetime getting yelled at by the Royal Guard on Earth, Holt on Jericho, Wolf on the Citadel. In the end it all came down to posture.

  “Books,” I say instead. “And old men who like to lecture.”

  He grins. “All right then, Sol-of-books. Ready to prove it?”

  “Happy to,” I say, finishing off the water. “You take one side, I’ll take the other.”

  We crouch, lift together, and carry it over. It’s nothing in my hands; I move like it isn’t. Another crate. Then a third. Before long we’ve got a rhythm: he unties, we lift, we walk.

  On the fourth crate, our fingers brush under the slats.

  Heat snaps up my arm that has nothing to do with Phoenix or strain. My hand jerks like I’ve grabbed a live cable. I keep my face neutral through sheer practice; inside, every instinct screams too close.

  Alkek flushes, just a little, and shifts his grip, pretending it didn’t happen.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to jam your fingers.”

  “You didn’t,” I say. “Takes more than that.”

  “I’m starting to think so,” he mutters.

  We carry in silence for a bit after that. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.

  When we’ve cleared the top layer and moved on to sacks instead of boxes, he kicks one over toward me.

  “Supplies from the high decks,” he says. “For Da, for the tap, for half the old biddies on the lane. They write lists and I play pack mule.” A wry twist crosses his mouth. “Used to take Ma with me. She made them nicer.”

  “What happened to her?” I ask before I can decide whether I should.

  His hands still for a heartbeat as he ties off a sack.

  “Fever,” he says. “Three winters back. Quick and mean. Healers said it wasn’t any plague, just bad luck. Didn’t feel much different.” He shrugs like he’s had practice. “Now it’s just me and Da and whoever he’s conned into washing his dishes.”

  Guilt sneaks in where I wasn’t expecting it. You’ve killed more people than live in this whole town, some ugly part of me says. You watched Phoenix burn through whole worlds. Don’t you dare feel sorry now.

  “I’m… sorry,” I say anyway. The words feel small.

  He glances up, searching my face, finds nothing but whatever I’ve let through, and gives a little half-smile.

  “Folk die,” he says. “Folk work. World keeps going. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss her, just means I can’t spend all day staring at the door, yeah?” His grin turns a shade brighter. “Besides, if I mope, Da will just beat me with a broom and tell me to mop faster. I’m twenty-six, not eighty.”

  Twenty-six, I echo in my head.

  A blink of an eye.

  If you count all the years I slept and all the years I drank my way through galactic wars and Hive sieges, I’m pushing a century, and he’s just starting his life. I was probably shit-faced on the Citadel when he was born, watching Lion burn through the Devil’s fleets. I don’t feel ninety-anything; I feel twenty and tired, like someone hit pause on growing old and just let the trauma run. Maybe Phoenix froze my head there, same as my body. Maybe the bottle did.

  “Twenty-six,” I say. “Good age. Before everything really breaks.”

  He huffs a laugh. “Cheery. How about you, then?”

  “Twenty,” I lie. Biologically, it’s even true. I’ve been twenty for a very long time. “On paper, anyway.”

  He gives me a look at that, one eyebrow ticking up.

  “Not bad,” he says. “Always good to have somebody who can read. This place’ll age you fast if you stay.”

  “Alkek!” Maro barks. “If those crates aren’t inside by midday, the beer’ll go sour out of spite. And quit making eyes at my help—they’ll think I’m running a brothel.”

  Alkek chokes. I nearly drop the sack I’m holding.

  “We’re working,” Alkek yells back, voice cracking just enough to make it worse.

  Maro eyes the stacked crates, the two of us slightly too close to each other, and makes a noise that could mean anything from good job to I’m watching you.

  “Sol,” he says. “When you’re done letting my boy show off, you can come in and start on tables. The morning crowd’s lazier than you.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say automatically.

  Sir, I think a second later.

  Maro rolls his eyes and goes back inside.

  Alkek scrubs his palm over his jaw. “Perfect. New joke for the week,” he mutters. Then, to me, “Sorry. He thinks he’s charming. Nobody’s drowned him yet, so he keeps testing it.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I say.

  He hefts the last sack and jerks his head toward the door. “Go on. If he sees you still back here when the first farmer comes in wanting porridge, he’ll blame me and make me scrub pots till moonrise.”

  “You held me up,” I say.

  “True,” he agrees cheerfully. “Still, save me if you can.”

  I hesitate a second, stupidly reluctant to walk away from the easy warmth of the yard, then pick up my buckets and head for the door.

  “Sol?” he calls after me.

  I glance back.

  “Welcome to Angel’s ass-end,” he says. “We’re poor, loud, and half-drunk most days. It grows on you. Like mold.”

  It’s not a good joke. It lands anyway. I feel my mouth curve before I can stop it.

  “Noted,” I say.

  Inside, the kitchen is already heating up—stove roaring, pans clattering, Maro muttering to himself. I empty the buckets into the big barrel, water sloshing satisfyingly, and set them aside.

  [VALICAR: HEART RATE ELEVATED · NO EXTERNAL THREAT DETECTED]

  Shut up, I tell it, grabbing a rag and heading for the front room. Not everything is combat. Sometimes it’s just… people.

  [VALICAR: LOGGING NEW PATTERN]

  Don’t, I think.

  The taproom is all scrubbed tables and low voices at this hour, farmers drifting in one by one, the world still hazy from sleep. I move between benches with a broom and rag, pretending to be exactly what I look like: a small girl with blue eyes and black hair, working her keep in a place that has never heard the word “Hive.”

  Out back, an axe starts up—steady, measured blows. Alkek turning logs into firewood because that’s what the day needs.

  I catch myself listening for it, and for once, it’s not war I’m bracing for. Just waiting for the next time someone laughs and keeps treating me like I belong here.

  “Angel’s ass-end,” he called it. If I’m not careful, I might let it grow on me.