Arrival at shelter

The wind carried the scent of rust and old decay as Ariel's eyes lifted up. She could see the shelter's walls now—tall, reinforced metal slabs, patched together from salvaged wreckage. Spotlights swayed lazily over the entrance, illuminating the deep trenches dug along the perimeter. Above, crows circled in slow, knowing spirals.

Frank led the way, his tall frame casting long shadows against the cracked asphalt. He lifted a hand, signaling the others to slow their pace. Violet adjusted her glasses, her fingers twitching near the shaft. Oswald and Rolf exchanged a glance—silent, but filled with unspoken tension. None of them trusted this place.

Two guards stood at the entrance, clad in mismatched armor, their rifles slung casually over their shoulders. One of them, a woman with a scar tracing down her cheek, lifted a hand.

"State your business," she called.

Frank took a step forward. "We're from Viktor's shelter. We came to discuss collaboration." His voice was steady, practiced. He had done this before.

The guards exchanged looks. The woman's lips curled slightly—was that amusement? Without another word, she stepped aside and pounded twice on the metal gate. A loud creak followed as it slid open just enough for them to pass.

Ariel inhaled sharply. Something felt wrong.

Inside, the shelter was eerily quiet. Makeshift tents and old shipping containers lined the inner courtyard. A handful of people loitered around, their gazes sharp, assessing. No one spoke. No one smiled.

Ariel felt a chill crawl up her spine. This wasn't just a shelter. It was a fortress.

And they had just walked into its jaws.

The meeting chamber was nothing like Ariel expected. Instead of a cold, military-style briefing room, it was warm—almost luxurious. A long wooden table stood in the center, surrounded by mismatched chairs, some looking like they belonged in an old noble's manor, others just salvaged metal stools. The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with old, weathered tomes and strange artifacts. A massive tapestry hung at the back, depicting a burning star over a rising city.

The man sitting at the head of the table smiled as they entered. He looked human—mostly. His sharp, ageless features and the golden rings swirling in his irises marked him as something more. He wore a long, dark coat with embroidered sigils, and a faint glow seemed to pulse beneath his skin, as if magic itself ran through his veins.

"Welcome," he said smoothly, his voice deep and commanding. "You must be Frank. And you—" his gaze landed on Ariel, lingering just a second longer than necessary, "—must be Ariel."

Ariel stiffened. The way he said her name felt too familiar.

Frank didn't react, stepping forward and extending a hand. "You must be the leader here."

The man stood, shaking Frank's hand with a firm grip. "I am," he confirmed. "You may call me Lazarus."

Lazarus gestured for them to sit. Despite the warmth in his tone, Ariel couldn't shake the feeling that he was studying them. Calculating.

"Viktor spoke highly of you," Lazarus continued. "He believes an alliance would benefit us both. I see his wisdom in sending you."

Frank nodded, playing along. "Our shelter could use allies. We face constant threats, as I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," Lazarus said, though the way he smiled made it unclear if he truly sympathized. His gaze flicked back to Ariel. "And you? What do you think?"

Ariel hesitated. Why did he care what she thought? "I think it's… good to keep an open mind."

Lazarus chuckled. "A wise answer."

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "You must be tired from your journey. I've had quarters prepared for you." With a casual flick of his hand, an attendant in a dark blue cloak stepped forward. "She will take you to your lodgings. Rest. We'll talk more soon."

As they stood to leave, Frank glanced around the room once more. He had noticed it the moment they entered, but now it was undeniable—this shelter was dominated by supernaturals. Magic-users, shapeshifters, and other gifted individuals moved freely, speaking in open, confident tones. Humans without abilities were the minority here, and yet, there was no fear. No resentment.

Violet walked beside him, her expression soft. She had noticed, too.

"This is how it should be," she murmured under her breath. "No one looking at us like we don't belong."

Frank said nothing, but his fingers curled into a fist.

In his own shelter, people like him and Violet were treated like weapons, not equals. Here… it was different.

And that difference made him uneasy.

Their quarters were surprisingly comfortable. Too comfortable.

Ariel had expected cold, damp concrete and rusting bedsprings—like the shelters she had seen before. Instead, the room was cozy, with thick rugs on the floor and a fireplace crackling in the corner. The walls were reinforced with wooden planks, the beds covered in actual mattresses with thick, woolen blankets. A small table sat between the beds, with an old oil lamp flickering softly. It felt too much like home.

That alone put Ariel on edge.

Frank dropped his pack on the floor in the adjacent room, already checking the locks. Oswald and Rolf were settling in, speaking in hushed tones. Meanwhile, Violet sat on the edge of one bed, running her fingers over the soft fabric of the blanket.

"They're being too generous," Ariel murmured, standing near the door.

Violet exhaled. "Maybe not everyone sees us as enemies."

Ariel didn't answer. She was still thinking about Lazarus. The way he looked at her. The way he knew her name.

Frank stepped into their room, his expression grim. "We're not taking any chances," he said. "We keep watch in shifts. One of us awake at all times."

No one argued. It was an unspoken rule in situations like this.

Frank took the first shift. Then Oswald. Then Rolf.

Ariel took the last.