Dax spits out a string of dried meat, glaring at the dark morsel between his calloused fingers. ?If this is the elite diet of the scouts, I preferred the miners' rations. At least that didn't taste like boiled boot leather,? he grunts, low enough to escape the captain’s ears.
Martel doesn't answer his friend. Every breath he takes is a thin whistle, but his eyes remain glued to Captain Cortez's back. He feels Giada’s presence behind him. The thought of being overtaken, of appearing weak right in front of her, injects a nervous strength into his tired legs.
Further back, Don Thomas walks with his head bowed. His rosary, usually sliding through his fingers during the march, remains motionless in the pocket of his dusty cassock. There are no psalms for this void. The cleric’s silence is the most unsettling omen of their exhaustion.
?Halt. Sixty-minute rest,? Cortez orders. His voice seems the only thing the fatigue hasn't touched. As the recruits collapse to the ground, Vargo remains standing, scanning the horizon through binoculars with scratched lenses. He only sits among them after several minutes.
?We are too far north,? he tells the group, looking at no one in particular. ?The Castle's maps are fifty years old. The Silent Wastes to the north are shifting, reclaiming land. If the contaminated zone has expanded, we could be walking on the mouth of a volcano without knowing it.?
***
When the march resumes, the environment shifts with unnatural speed. Over the next bald ridge, a hill appears that has nothing to do with the dying world they know. It is an explosion of vegetation: twisted oaks with thick canopies and an underbrush of ferns glowing with an almost violent green.
?It’s incredible...? Giada whispers, rushing forward a few steps, eyes wide with wonder. ?Captain, look! That isn't stunted growth. It's real life! There are colors there that don't even exist in the Cathedral windows at the Castle!?
Cortez does not share her enthusiasm. ?Diamond formation. Martel, Dax, weapons ready. The goal is to map and scout for resources, especially food. But do not touch a thing without my order.?
Under the canopy of trees, the temperature plummets. The air is thick, heavy with a cloying scent that recalls ripe fruit and iron. Giada smiles, observing the leaves, the trees she finds beautiful, until she notices Martel. He is frozen, paralyzed, staring upward.
?Why aren't they flying? Why don't they move?? Martel asks in a thin voice. On the lower branches, dozens of birds—small sparrows and robins—are perched in perfect poses. But they do not stir. They are statues of feathers, their eyes open and white like glass pearls.
Dax kneels over a patch of dark earth where no grass grows. ?Captain, look here. It’s a graveyard!? Beneath his feet, the ground is a carpet of insects. Armored beetles, dragonflies with iridescent wings, and crawling creatures never seen before lie still by the thousands. There is no sign of decay. They are simply... off.
Vargo pulls the Geiger counter from his hip. The sound it emits is not the usual rhythmic clicking, but an electric roar signaling mortal danger.
?OUT! NOW!? Cortez bellows, grabbing Giada by her backpack and shoving her back. ?DON’T BREATHE DEEP! RUN SOUTH! DO NOT STOP FOR ANYTHING!?
The descent from the hill is a ruinous fall. Wonder has curdled into pure terror. They run until their muscles stop responding, until the taste of blood fills their mouths, stopping only when the Geiger counter returns to a reassuring silence.
Giada is on the ground, hands in the mud, her chest heaving. ?Are we... are we dead? Are we like those birds??
Vargo wipes the sweat from his brow with his uniform sleeve, his gaze fixed on the green hill that now, from a distance, looks like a beautiful paradise. ?No!? he snaps. ?There was no dust, the wind was very weak and blowing north. We were graced by a stroke of luck. But that hill isn't a forest, Giada. It’s a radioactive trap. The Silent Waste doesn't just destroy life; sometimes it mummifies it in an illusion of beauty.?
?But how could the vegetation be so beautiful and thick??
Vargo answers without hesitation: ?Contrary to what most believe, radiation doesn't kill vegetation if it stays within certain levels. But living beings, when the radiation is this strong, die without even noticing. Animals resist radiation better than humans and can lure us into a trap within these green-covered cemeteries.?
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The group resumes the march slowly toward the High King’s Castle. Cortez wants his team examined as soon as possible. It is a precaution; he has seen the signs of contamination more than once. But his protective instinct toward these new recruits makes him more cautious than he would be with veterans.
Giada does not look back again. She has learned that outside the walls, even beauty can be lethal.
***
The fire crackles at the center of the circle, the only point of warmth in a moorland that seems to suck away all hope. The smoke rises straight into a dark, starless sky, lost in a void that does not answer prayers. Giada Ricci stares at the flames, her hands clasped so tight her knuckles show as white as her pale skin. The memory of those birds of feather and glass, frozen in their eternal silent cry, pulses behind her eyelids every time she blinks.
Vargo Cortez watches her, his face partially in shadow, looking as if it were carved from basalt. He knows well that silence after a trauma is more dangerous than the wound itself.
?Ricci, look at me,? he orders. His voice is not a military command, but an anchor thrown into the sea of her anguish. She raises her gaze, nervously brushing back a soot-stained fringe. ?You are still alive. I’ve seen recruits twice your size collapse into delirium for much less, yet here I am, after twenty years of dust and traveling through the mud of the Desolate Waste. If we had been contaminated in that green cemetery, your eyes would already be bloodshot and a metallic taste would stop you from swallowing. You are clean, Giada Ricci. This is just fear, and fear is good: it means your instinct is learning to read the world.?
Nearby, Mira Vance spits a glob of dark saliva into the dry roots of a bush. Her face twists in a grimace of disgust; the poison of envy burns in her throat. She wants a word of approval too—she who grew up without ever being told "well done" or "you are safe." To Mira, the captain's kindness toward his "pet" is proof of the injustice that pursues her even outside the colony.
Julien Martel, sensing the moment, squares his shoulders. His 175 centimeters allow him to dominate the circle around the fire, a physical advantage that constantly reminds him of his social superiority. He clears his throat, imitating Cortez’s authoritative tone but with an added note of velvet.
?The captain is right, Ricci. Even I... I admit that for a moment I felt the chill in my bones. It was a decidedly intense experience for a first outing,? he says, trying to catch her eye. ?But stay calm. If the "invisible kiss" had struck us, you’d already have nausea or those purple rashes on the mucous membranes. We studied it in the survival manuals, remember? We are out of danger. With me and the captain here, you are safe.?
Mira Vance watches Martel with a mix of hatred and pragmatism. she thinks. Secretly, she roots for Julien’s ego, hoping it will act as a shield between the captain and his favorite.
Dax Stern runs a massive hand over his shaved head, interrupting Martel’s flirting. He turns to the priest, who stands apart, counting an invisible rosary between gnarled fingers. ?And you, Don Thomas? Have you seen things like this on your previous expeditions??
The cleric looks up, a melancholy expression illuminating his Anglo-Saxon features. ?To tell the truth, Dax Stern, it is the first time for me as well.? A thin smile curls his lips. ?But you see, this is proof that Providence protects our expedition. Even if you do not believe in God, He believes in you. He led us out of that woods with a favorable breath of wind because your journey has only just begun. We are instruments of a higher will, in the service of God. And of humanity, which must make amends and reclaim this world devastated by the sins of our ancestors.?
Cortez says nothing, but his eyes narrow. He looks at Don Thomas as one looks at a snake trying to slip into a warm tent. To the captain, that god is just another chain used by the Castle to keep hearts on a leash. He is not an atheist—he has seen too many inexplicable things to believe no powers exist beyond humanity—but he trusts in reason and common sense. Blindly relying on a god is simply unacceptable to him.
Kael Wald breaks the silence, approaching Cortez with a parchment roll. With fingers stained by graphite, he points to a spot on the map. ?Captain... I’ve corrected the borders. The Silent Waste of the North has advanced. What was marked as pasture ten years ago is now dead land. Now we know that venturing in that direction is certain death.?
Cortez places a heavy hand on Kael’s shoulder. A quick gesture, but loaded with a respect he never showed Martel. ?Good work, Wald. Your pencil tells the truth better than a thousand prayers.? An obvious jab at the cleric.
The conversation turns grim. Dax asks why the world, after three hundred years, is still so sick. ?The effects of the nuclear winter were supposed to fade, the old texts say,? the strongman grumbles.
?The bombs were only the beginning, Stern,? Cortez replies, staring into the embers. ?The true poison remained in the bones of the earth.?
Kael Wald, feeling the duty to explain the logic behind the horror, interjects: ?The nuclear reactors, Dax. Imagine giant artificial hearts that beat to provide light for the immense cities of the old world. When the civilization of the past vanished, those hearts were left alone. Without maintenance, the cores melted, turning into a radioactive lava that burned through the structures, leaking into the groundwater, into the roots. It is a wound that doesn't heal. The Silent Wastes are the places where the earth still bleeds.?
?And where there are no reactors?? Dax presses. ?They say life has returned differently. Meaner, perhaps.?
?Not meaner, Stern,? Cortez cuts in. ?To the South and East lies the Luminous Forest. A new ecosystem. The scientists of the past said it was impossible, that it would take millions of years before life could be reborn so twisted. Perhaps the Church is right, Don Thomas... perhaps it’s not evolution, but a new, terrifying "creation," isn't it??
Cortez’s irony is sharp, another barb flung straight at the cleric. But Don Thomas remains silent, his smile imperturbable. He knows that debating dogma with a veteran in front of troubled youths is counterproductive. Faith is a plant that grows with the right care, not under the blows of a sarcastic captain.
?The Luminous Forest is full of resources,? Cortez concludes. ?But it is a labyrinth of colors that can kill you before you can admire them. Only elite squads have permission to go near. You are not ready. And you won't be for many years. Now, enough talk. To the tents. Tomorrow we resume the march to the Castle.?
As the group splits up, Don Thomas remains seated before the dying fire. He watches Vargo Cortez meticulously cleaning his dagger. The priest wants to know how much the captain truly knows about the Luminous Forest: the high hierarchies of the Church crave that information, but he fears Cortez is already infecting the souls of those young people with a heresy made of cynicism and survival.