Walk Where the Shadows Fade

Chapter Seven

Ádin didn't remember falling asleep.

But when he woke, Fletcher's soft weight was against his chest, rising and falling in slow rhythm. The air inside the bunker felt cooler now, but his skin still carried the memory of fire—his throat was dry, and his muscles ached from the night he should not have survived.

Something was wrong.

There were sounds— above.

He froze. Then slowly, with careful fingers, he nudged Fletcher off his chest. The dog gave a low whine but obeyed.

Ádin climbed the ladder.

Halfway up, his heart skipped.

He'd forgotten to close the hatch.

His fingers scrambled toward the lever, but he stopped just before grabbing it. Through the narrow slit of the half-opened hatch, he saw shadows dancing— too many.

Voices. Chanting. Heavy boots thudding across concrete.

Then—a glass bottle spinning through the air, trailing light.

Ádin yanked the hatch closed just as the Molotov shattered.

Boom—!

The explosion lit the ladder shaft in a violent orange glow. Heat surged through the bunker. The blast knocked him off the rungs.

He fell, slamming into the floor below.

The pain in his back was sharp, but sharper was the burning sensation—his jacket had caught fire.

"Fletcher!" he gasped as he rolled on the ground, slapping at the flames, teeth clenched against the pain.

Fletcher barked—a raspy, guttural cry—and jumped helplessly around him.

Ádin yanked off the burning jacket, tossing it aside, gasping for breath. His skin blistered at the edges, the pain shooting down his arm.

It took nearly a minute to kill the flame.

It felt like an hour.

Panting, soaked in sweat and soot, he crawled to Fletcher, who licked his face softly, whimpering. Ádin placed a hand gently over his muzzle.

"Shh… listen…"

He pressed his ear to the hatch.

Nothing.

No chanting. No boots. No shouts. Just silence.

They were gone.

He waited—ten minutes, maybe twenty. His breath slowed. He must have passed out again.

No footsteps. No more shouting.

Just crackling flame, dying slowly, and the shallow panting of his dog.

He crawled to the wall, then pressed his ear to it.

Nothing.

He listened for a long time.

And longer still—until, without meaning to, he passed out again.

When he woke, hours had passed.

The hatch was still shut. The air smelled of scorched cloth and rust. Fletcher had curled next to him, tail flicking restlessly.

Ádin stood slowly. Muscles trembling, he climbed the ladder again—this time slower.

He opened the hatch, just a little.

The sky above was clear. The streets outside were empty again—rubble, broken glass, oil stains still fresh from torches.

But there was someone standing just a few feet away.

The old man.

The same one who had been near his hatch before—the one he'd ignored. The one who hadn't moved in days.

Now he stood.

Straight.

Tall.

The shadows curled behind him like threads, and he looked Ádin in the eyes—not with the hollow glaze of a beggar, but the certainty of a man who had survived much longer than he should have.

His voice was clear. Low.

"Sorry about the fire, they were ignorant" he said.

Ádin didn't speak.

The old man stepped forward, hands visible.

"I'm Salvator," he said. "Please call me Sal."

Ádin stiffened. His hand hovered over the hatch lever.

"Don't come closer," he warned.

Salvator nodded and stopped. Then reached slowly into his coat. From his pouch, he pulled out a small wrapped cloth. With a single hand, he unraveled it, revealing a cracker, its edges yellowed but intact. Beside it—a full bottle of water.

Ádin's pupils dilated. His lips twitched.

The ache in his stomach became unbearable. The dryness in his throat felt like a blade.

He didn't think.

He just reached.

He yanked both items from Salvator's outstretched hand, slamming his blistered back to he shaft of the ladder and eating like an animal—no shame, no words.

Crumbs spilled from his mouth. Fletcher whimpered below. Ádin broke half the cracker and dropped it down the hatch.

But Sal reached into his pouch again. "There's enough for the dog" he said. "Here."

Another cracker. Another water bottle.

Ádin didn't thank him. Just tore the second cracker in half and dropped the larger portion in Fletcher's bowl, pouring the water out for him.

"Eat, well" Sal said. "You've earned it."

Ádin didn't answer.

He climbed back up to Sal, breath heaving, cheeks full of food, eyes narrow with suspicion.

"I don't trust you," he said finally, his voice muffled. "You're one of them. A cultist."

Sal didn't deny it.

He just lowered himself onto the ground, his coat shifting with weight. The way he sat told Ádin everything he needed to know— warrior, or something like it. His shoulders never dropped. His spine never curled.

Everything about him was deliberate. Measured.

He was older, yes. But not weak.

His beard was grey at the tips, black beneath, trimmed short. His eyes—a strange shade of slate—never blinked longer than necessary. A scar ran across his temple, disappearing beneath his hairline.

No tremble in his hands.

No wasted movement.

He was the kind of man who had led armies—or something worse.

"What happened?" Ádin asked, softer this time.

"They went," Sal replied. "I told them the truth. That you are the true child of prophecy."

Ádin barked a bitter laugh, coughing mid-bite. "Bullshit. You're one of them. you lots are murderers, all you do is kill people and justify it in the name of a false god. You think saying that is going change my mind or something?"

"Hmm. That's a bit rash, don't you think?" Sal muttered.

They sat in silence. Ádin chewed slower now. The only sound was the crackle of plastic wrapping in his hand.

Then Sal said it.

"Walk where the shadows fade."

Ádin froze.

His jaw stopped moving.

He swallowed hard and stared.

"…What did you just say?"

Sal's expression didn't change.

"I said, 'Walk where the shadows fade."

Ádin's body had gone stiff.

His eyes flicked between Sal and the empty street.

"How do you know that?"

"Great, now I have your attention" Sal said calmly, "its imprinted on your body. In codes. In patterns. All the answers"

Ádin's lips parted, but no words came.

His head shook slowly—confused. Then angry.

"You don't know that."

Sal raised his hands again, still calm.

"I'm not here to hurt you. And don't worry It's not written in some book, or etched in scripture. It wasn't the stars that told me either."

"…Then what? Who told you?"

Sal looked at him with something unreadable.

A sadness, maybe.

"Maria did."

Ádin's breath caught.

His heart skipped.

"…What?"

"She told me you'd be stubborn. That you wouldn't believe it. But that you'd have to. Eventually."

Ádin stood, cracker crumbs falling from his fingers.

"How do you know that name?" he whispered.

Sal didn't smile. He just nodded.

"I knew her. We were friends. Or soldiers, whatever you wanna call it. But same war. And she trusted me with the truth. The real one."

Ádin didn't move.

His knees wanted to buckle.

His mouth opened, but the questions tangled in his throat.

"You don't have to believe me" Sal said. "But you're already standing in the past, Ádin. Whether you believe it or not… you're the last piece of it."

The street was cold. The wind rolled through broken stalls and whispering cloth.

Fletcher padded up to Ádin's feet, ears low, eyes watching Sal with suspicion.

Ádin clenched the water bottle in his hand.

All he could think of was her face.

Her voice.

Walk where the shadows fade…

And the world he thought he knew began to peel back—layer by layer.