The Reckoning

Chapter Three

The air was thick with incense and iron. The poles had fresh bodies tonight.

Ádin slowed his steps as the marketplace opened before him, its tangled streets crawling with voices, firelight, and scavenged refuse. At the center of the cracked plaza, three heretics hung from makeshift crucifixes—lashed together poles of rebar and bone lashed with rope and rusted chain. Their heads lolled in different directions, their skin darkened and raw. Two were still alive, trembling like leaves in the breeze, their mouths open in hoarse pleading. The third, his eyes gone—hollow sockets glistening with congealed blood—swayed without sound, breathing in sharp, shallow gasps.

Ádin's jaw clenched as he walked past, careful not to look too long. Children of the Sun, he thought. They carve the eyes out first. Don't want you seeing the dawn.

He adjusted his hood, tugging it forward to shade his eyes. The people didn't walk here—they slithered. Bent backs, scarred faces, hands wrapped around plastic bottles filled with brown liquid and hope. The moon hung swollen in the sky like a pale, cracked god, spilling silvery light over jagged rooftops and the smog that never fully cleared.

Vendors barked from their stalls

"Three caps for thigh meat! Salted! From a clean scorch!"

"Drinking skulls! Sun-cured and hollowed proper!"

"Barbecue buzzers! Caught in the Old Drain last night!"

One of them thrust a crooked stick toward Ádin, a writhing black insect still squirming on its tip. Its wings had been singed, and the vendor gave a yellow-toothed grin. "Alive adds the flavor," he said.

Ádin didn't stop. He pulled his pouch closer to his chest and moved on.

Everything here reeked of desperation—ashes, piss, and sweat fused together in the air like a second skin. Children too small to speak shuffled barefoot through the rubble, whispering songs in broken tongues. And all the while, behind every rusted cart and canvas tarp, the cults watched. Not just the Children of the Sun—though they were the loudest—but also the others. Moon-masked figures muttered prayers near the plaza's edges. Somewhere, a Star cultist burned blue candles in the open and let the wax drip over a woman's screaming back.

Ádin moved carefully. He didn't belong to any of them, and that meant he belonged nowhere.

Up ahead, a checkpoint pulsed with torchlight. Three Sun cultists, cloaked in dust-colored robes and tall iron masks, poked through people's bags and pouches. One man cried as they overturned a flask of water, then struck him for weeping.

Ádin turned away, slipping down a narrow alley between two leaning shacks. The ground squelched underfoot with wet grime. He checked behind him. No one followed.

The alley funneled him toward a crooked stairwell, part of a building that had collapsed at an angle, its windows like broken eyes. He crouched there in the dark, his thoughts trailing backward—to hours earlier, to the quiet voice of someone who couldn't speak.

—

He had woken to the hum of the solar lens in the ceiling, its dying battery giving off a weak, pulsing light. The bunker was cold. Fletcher lay curled on a pile of faded cloth and plastic insulation, his ribs rising and falling slowly, as if even sleep was something hard-earned.

Ádin crouched beside him, hand resting gently on the scar around the retriever's neck. Fletcher stirred, and Ádin smiled without joy.

"You know where I'm going, don't you?" he whispered.

Fletcher whined—just a faint, gravelly sound. He couldn't bark. Not anymore.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm just gonna sell it. Just one."

He reached for the shelf, pulling down a tarnished object—*an old compass, cracked and faded, its needle shivering slightly.

"I know what Grandma said. 'Don't trade away the past. That's how they burn you.' But…" He sighed. "It's been four moons, Fletch. Four. Nothing solid. You're skin and bones, and I'm not far behind."

He sat on the edge of his bedroll, the weight of silence pressing down. His fingers traced the compass's edge, the tiny constellation carvings on its back nearly rubbed smooth.

"Maybe she's out there," he said softly. "Maybe she's alive. Maybe she'll come back, and maybe she'll be mad I sold it. But if she does… she'll see I'm still here. We're still here."

Fletcher nuzzled his hand, the sound of his breath raspy and warm.

"Don't do that. You'll make me stay. Don't you dare."

He laughed, a choked, tired thing. Then he stood, pulling on his jacket and drawing the hood up.

"I'll be back before the moon peaks. Or sooner, if I get lucky. Keep the place warm, alright?"

Fletcher didn't respond. But his eyes stayed open until the hatch clicked shut.

—

Now, Ádin walked through the tunnel beneath the old transport rail. The floor was slick and uneven, and the deeper he went, the heavier the air became. Old incense clung to the walls. So did breath. The space pulsed with whispers—some in prayer, some in madness.

Figures sat or lay around him in heaps. One old woman combed her fingers through hair that wasn't there. A man laughed, quietly, rocking with his knees pulled to his chest. Someone was curled into the wall's curve, repeating a chant about bone and light.

He felt it then—that *watching*. The air tasted like dust and teeth.

A man sat near the wall, hunched behind a crate stacked with bottle caps and melted tech parts. Ádin stepped carefully toward him and leaned in.

"Ash lives" he whispered.

The man glanced up. His expression didn't change, but he slowly shook his head.

"Not here," the man rasped. "Not now."

Ádin turned. That was when he saw her.

A woman sat nearby, her posture alert, her eyes too sharp for the haze of the others. She looked older than she was—gray hair tangled with wire pins, skin dry and creased from exposure. But her eyes shimmered, and her voice, when it came, was ragged with conviction.

"What did you just say to him?"

Ádin didn't answer.

"Ya carrying something? That pouch look heavy." She stood, joints cracking. "Don't walk like that if you're empty. Ya looking for Ragar?"

"No," Ádin said quickly.

"Because he ain't here. He's hiding. Scorched his whole bloodline, they did. You a follower?"

"I don't know him." He started to walk past.

But she kept talking, her voice rising, shaky and strange.

"Only a fool walks in with his hood up and speaks code in this place. I've seen too many burned not to know the scent."

Ádin kept walking. His heart pounded. Behind him, she muttered something in a voice not meant for him.

"Kul'dar eshka vorlan… Dren'sah ull'mek…"

Then louder. Repeating. Over and over.

The man with the caps stood, watching silently.

Someone else nearby picked up the chant.

"Ull'mek… Ull'mek…"

"Heretic," the woman whispered. "He carries relics. Look at his pouch."

"Heretic!" someone echoed.

Then more voices. Too many.

"Heretic!"

"Burn him!"

"He walks with ghosts!"

Ádin ran.

He shoved past the bodies, boots slipping on wet stone, the chanting behind him rising like fire.

"Heretic!"

"Scorch the false child!"

He bolted into the tunnel's final curve, the shadows peeling away as he neared the exit. The pale moonlight poured through the jagged opening ahead—and silhouetted in it was a figure. A cultist. Iron mask glinting, robe trailing.

They locked eyes.

The figure stepped forward.

Ádin didn't wait.

He burst from the tunnel mouth, the cold night rushing against his face, boots hammering the cracked pavement.

And the chase began.