The silence of the dead valley was a thief. It stole sounds, ambition, and time. But it couldn't steal the hard, pragmatic calculation in Seth's eyes. He watched his people move like ghosts through the bunker's gloom, surviving but not living.
They had traded Julian's war for a silent, draining purgatory. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that Julian hadn't just let them go. They were being watched. Their survival was a data point in his grand, ruthless equation.
He found Kael near a seepage of warm water, the blind man's face turned upward as if reading the oppressive ceiling.
"They're using us," Seth stated, his voice low, swallowed by the muffling air. "Julian. He knew we'd run. He wanted to see what was here. We're his canaries, and we didn't die. Now he knows this place has value."
Kael nodded slowly. "The tracer in the supplies. It hums a different song than the valley's static. I can feel it. A tiny, metallic itch."
