The sky was a muted gray above Dead Zone 17, Marrowvale—a place where sunlight seemed hesitant, as if unsure it should reach this broken land. The once-thriving city lay shattered beneath layers of ash and silence, its streets cracked and bones of buildings jutting like jagged teeth.
Cael's boots crunched on the gravel as he moved with his squad through the blasted gates, a mix of ragged trainees and hardened veterans alike. The air was thick—not just with dust, but with something heavier. A lingering, aching sorrow that pressed against his chest, slowing his breath.
He kept his eyes forward, but from the corner of his vision, he saw her.
Sela.
Quiet, always watching, always still. She carried her weight with a calm that unsettled him. Their eyes met for the barest moment as she adjusted her gear, then flicked away, focused on the path ahead.
No words. No introductions. But in that glance was a subtle acknowledgment—as if two lost souls recognized each other's pain without speaking it aloud.
Their squad was a motley crew of six: besides Cael and Sela, there was Jarrik — the brash leader who barked orders like a storm; Myka, sharp-eyed and calculating; Ronn, the nervous sharpshooter; Elise, whose laughter was rare but fierce; and Toren, the silent giant whose presence was a quiet shield.
As they moved deeper, the landscape shifted. Twisted metal, half-collapsed buildings, and puddles reflecting distorted skies greeted them. The air grew colder, heavier, and with it, the subtle pressure of regret.
A faint whisper curled at the edges of Cael's hearing, soft as a sigh. He swallowed the panic rising in his throat. This was the Dead Zone's trap—turn your own mind against you.
The skirmish came unexpectedly.
From the shadows lunged a Mocker — a small, insectoid Wretched whose multiple eyes gleamed with cruel intelligence. It hissed a sound like breaking glass and darted toward Elise.
Cael's heart slammed. He reacted before thinking, flicking a thread of his Soulbrand toward the creature. The glowing thread wrapped around the Mocker's limb, causing it to stumble.
Elise took the chance to shove it away with a sharp kick, and Ronn fired a shaky shot that ended the threat.
The squad exhaled, tension hanging heavy in the air.
"This way," Jarrik barked, pushing forward.
As they walked, Cael's eyes kept drifting to Sela. She moved with quiet purpose, scanning constantly, hands never far from her twin daggers. There was a steady calm about her that grounded him when his mind threatened to unravel.
Once, their fingers brushed briefly as she passed, a fleeting contact charged with something unspoken. Neither looked at each other after.
Hours passed in a haze of creeping fog and whispered doubts. The Dead Zone twisted memories and sowed fear. Each member of the squad fought their own ghosts—visions of failure, loss, and broken promises.
Cael felt it gnawing at him—hallucinations of Lira's smile fading, her voice turning into echoes he could no longer trust. But in those moments of weakness, Sela was there—standing just a step behind, a silent anchor.
When night fell, the squad made camp in the hollowed-out shell of a church. The moon's cold light seeped through shattered stained glass, casting ghostly patterns.
Around the flickering fire, they shared sparse words and stolen glances. Cael caught Sela staring at him once, her eyes flickering with a strange intensity, before she looked away.
They never spoke of what lay beneath the surface—regrets, fears, or the silent understanding growing between them.
A sudden noise snapped everyone to alert. Another Wretched—this one a Scorchling, small but deadly, its fiery aura warping the shadows.
The fight was swift but brutal. Cael barely managed to thread its regrets against itself, confusing the creature just enough for Myka's blade to finish the job.
Panting, Cael sank to the ground, the weight of the shard in his pocket reminding him of how far he had to go.
Sela knelt beside him, handing over a water flask without a word. Their fingers brushed again—this time lingered.
Cael's chest tightened, but he said nothing.
The Dead Zone wasn't just a battlefield. It was a crucible—for survival, for madness, for something fragile and vital growing between two broken souls.
As sleep claimed them, Cael lay awake longest, haunted by whispers and the faint pulse of his Mournthread, wondering if survival meant embracing the pain—or becoming it.