Amélia climbed the tangle of vines wrapped around the rusted metal, the skeletal remains of the massive lightning canon serving as her ladder. Every step creaked and groaned beneath her boots, but she didn’t mind; the smell of moss and iron filled her lungs, sharp and earthy.

  At the top, she finally spotted Rhys, perched on the lightning canon’s tip, legs dangling over the void, eyes closed as if the world below didn’t exist.

  “Are you daydreaming again?” she called, her voice carrying lightly on the wind. Rhys’s eyes fluttered open, meeting the familiar, watchful face of his childhood friend—half amused, half exasperated, like a parent scolding a mischievous child.

  “Something like that,” Rhys murmured. “Dreaming.”

  “Dreaming about what?” Amélia asked, sliding down to sit beside him. Her knees pressed close to his, the warmth of her presence grounding him.

  The wind tugged at her long red hair, whipping it across her face and shoulders. Though she wore only a sleeveless vest and shorts, the breeze didn’t make her shiver; the warmth of the sun and her restless energy kept her steady.

  “I don’t remember,” Rhys said, staring out at the jagged skyline, the ruins stitched together by smoke and rust.

  “Hmmm,” Amélia murmured, quiet, thoughtful. She let her gaze linger on the city below, the twisted towers, the shattered streets, the distant glint of a UF patrol.

  “The city looks so small from up here,” Rhys said, leaning against the cold, twisted metal of the lightning canon.

  “Yeah,” Amélia replied, her red hair whipping across her face in the wind. “Nullwalkers probably see us the same way.”

  “Probably… though this one’s a unique specimen.” Rhys tapped the lightning canon’s steel frame with a knuckle. The echo rang hollow, carrying across the ruins. “I still can’t believe the UF soldiers managed to take this one down.”

  They fell into a quiet silence, the wind filling the space between them, tugging at hair and clothes, rattling the vines tangled around the monolithic metal.

  “Who knows how many died trying to shut this thing down,” Rhys murmured, voice colder now, almost lost to the gusts.

  If only you knew… Amélia thought, glancing at the jagged remains of the lightning canon beneath them.

  “But it does make a great park,” Rhys said, breaking the weight with a grin. “The view alone is amazing, and getting up here? That’s a real challenge. And inside… the limbs are like a maze. We used to play hide-and-seek in here when we were kids.”

  Amélia laughed, a light, warm sound that blended with the wind. “And Elias… he was impossible to find.”

  Rhys chuckled. “Yeah. He always picked the most absurd spots. How many times did we give up and just wander around calling his name?”

  “And I remember how afraid of the dark you were,” Amélia teased, nudging him gently with her shoulder. “You’d always hide behind me whenever we went inside this thing.”

  “Yeah… well,” Rhys scratched the back of his head, eyes glinting. “I was a kid. Now… the dark should be afraid of me.”

  Amélia rolled her eyes, though the corner of her lips lifted. “In my book, you’re still the kid Mother would have a headache worrying about.”

  “Stop acting like you were all mature,” Rhys said, his gaze catching hers as the wind tousled his black hair across his forehead. He pulled her slightly closer, playful, yet protective. “I was the one who fed you while Mother went off to work.”

  Amélia crawled closer on her knees, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I still remember the day Mother brought me home. Things were simpler then.”

  Rhys glanced out over the city, the ruins stretching into the horizon, sunlight glinting off shattered glass and twisted metal. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Simpler times… before everything got complicated.”

  Amélia stayed quiet, letting her gaze follow the horizon, her heart settling in the memory—and in the presence of the boy she had grown up beside.

  Five years ago…

  Rhys stirred the pot of stew, the aroma of simmering vegetables and spices filling the modest kitchen. He had grown familiar with this task, to the point his mother trusted him to cook on his own. The small home wasn’t much—just a kitchen with the essentials, a dining table, and a tiny living room beyond. Upstairs, two rooms awaited: one for him, one for his mother.

  He stood on a stool to reach the pot, his small hands steady despite the steam rising to tickle his nose. Just as he tasted a spoonful, a sharp knocking echoed from the door.

  Heart racing, Rhys ran to open it.

  A tall figure filled the doorway, a crisp white military uniform adorned with gleaming badges and medals. It was his mother, Orphelia, her presence commanding yet warm.

  “Welcome home!” Rhys exclaimed, stepping back… and then froze as he noticed someone peeking from behind her leg—a girl with striking red hair and fiery eyes, staring at him with wide, cautious curiosity.

  “What? Mom, there’s someone hiding behind you!” he stammered.

  “They’re not hiding from me,” Orphelia laughed, stepping inside. The girl stayed close to her, small and tense.

  Orphelia knelt to Rhys’ height, and the girl remained tucked behind her frame, almost like a shadow. “Rhys, this is Amélia. I found her today while on duty. She doesn’t have a home… so she’ll be living with us for now.”

  Rhys blinked. “What?! You can’t just—bring a random girl into our home!”

  “I could have put her in a refugee camp, all alone,” Orphelia said gently, her eyes softening. “But I couldn’t come up with the heart to do it.”

  “All alone? What… what do you mean?” Rhys asked, his young mind trying to grasp the weight of her words.

  “Rhys, please. Be kind to her. Treat her like she’s your sister from now on.”

  “Uh… okay, Mom,” he mumbled, unsure but willing to obey.

  Orphelia reached forward, patting his hair with a firm, loving hand. “I have to leave again. I’ll be back late tonight. Eat well, and don’t cause any trouble.”

  “But Mom, the stew!”

  “Leave some for me. Make sure you two eat properly,” she said, smiling. She trusted him—he wouldn’t betray that.

  As the door clicked closed, Rhys turned to face Amélia. The room felt suddenly quiet, the weight of the moment pressing against him.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  “So… uh, you hungry or something?” he asked, trying to break the silence.

  Amélia didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the floor.

  “Hello? Is someone there?” Rhys waved a hand, leaning forward.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said softly, almost a whisper.

  Rhys frowned, glancing at the pot of steaming stew. “Are you sure? It’s kind of dinner time…”

  A sudden grumble from her stomach betrayed her words. Her cheeks flared red.

  “Not hungry, huh?” he said with a teasing grin.

  She said nothing.

  “Alright… how about just a cup of stew, then?”

  Still no answer.

  “Fine,” Rhys sighed, crouching beside her. “If Mom wants me to treat you like a sister, I guess I have no choice.” He gently took her small, hesitant hands and guided her to the dining table.

  Amélia slid into a chair, and Rhys ladled a generous portion of stew into a bowl, setting it in front of her before sitting down himself.

  “Alright, eat up,” he said.

  She stared at the bowl, blinking rapidly, swallowing nervously—but didn’t move.

  “You’re so stubborn,” Rhys said, exasperated. With a small smile, he scooped up a spoonful and held it to her lips. “Don’t be picky. There’s plenty! You can have as much as you want.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widened, hesitating.

  “Yeah. I’m a pretty good cook. Somewhat of a chef, actually.”

  “Chef?” she repeated, curiosity breaking through.

  “Yeah. Taste it—you’ll see.”

  She opened her mouth. The first bite made her eyes widen in surprise. A faint smile tugged at her lips, her cheeks warming. She eagerly took another bite, then another, until her face brightened, full of life and color.

  “Want more,” she said quietly, almost shyly.

  Rhys laughed, a light, relieved sound. “Told you. No one can resist my irresistible stew.”

  He kept feeding her, and as Amélia ate, her small body slowly relaxed. For the first time in a long while, her heart felt a little lighter. Here, in this modest kitchen, she had found a place that could maybe—just maybe—be home.

  Rhys leaned back against the lightning canon’s spine. “Do you ever think she’ll come back?”

  Amélia’s breath caught. “Your mother?”

  “Yeah. I mean… generals don’t just disappear, right? The UF needs people like her.”

  The wind pressed against Amélia’s chest, heavy, like it knew the truth. She never left the battlefield, she thought. She just never came home.

  “She always said duty came first,” Amélia replied carefully. “Even before herself.”

  Rhys smiled faintly. “That sounds like her. I used to hate it when she left. But now… I kind of get it.”

  Amélia’s fingers curled into the fabric of her vest. You shouldn’t have to understand that, she wanted to say. You were just a kid.

  “She believed in the United Front,” Rhys continued. “Believed they could protect people. Protect us.”

  Amélia nodded. “She believed in you, too.”

  Rhys turned to her. “You think so?”

  “I know so,” Amélia said, her voice firm despite the ache behind it.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. The lightning canon creaked beneath them, old metal complaining in the wind.

  “She’ll come back one day,” Rhys said softly. “I know she will.”

  Amélia swallowed. If believing that keeps you alive, she thought, then I’ll carry the lie.

  “Yeah,” she said aloud. “She will.”

  Rhys laughed. "Who knows? I might even become a UF soldier before she comes back. Maybe I'll destroy a massive Schreitpanzer like the one we're sitting on right now?"

  Amélia laughed, she tried to, as she pressed her palm onto the lightning canon's cold metal. If only you knew you're sitting on the thing that vaporized your mother.

  “Rhys,” Amélia said suddenly, then stopped.

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Just… don’t change too much, okay?”

  He laughed. “That’s a weird thing to ask.”

  “I know,” she said, smiling faintly. Please don’t change into someone I can’t protect.

  Amélia felt heat rush to her cheeks, a faint red blooming across her face before she could stop it. Rhys noticed immediately.

  “Do you have a fever or something?” he asked. “You’re really red right now.”

  “Wha—” Amélia didn’t get the chance to finish. Rhys leaned closer and pressed the back of his hand gently against her forehead.

  “Hm. You feel normal to me,” he said thoughtfully. “You sure you’ve been resting properly?”

  Amélia jolted and shifted away, heart pounding.

  “I’m fine! Stop treating me like a child!”

  Rhys let out a quiet sigh before turning his gaze back toward the city. “Alright, missy.”

  “And stop calling me that!”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Amélia wasn’t angry. If anything, her chest felt lighter. She liked that he worried, that he acted this way around her without thinking. Maybe it was too early to expect more—too early for the words she carried inside her, the ones she knew she’d never have the courage to say aloud.

  Metal clanged behind them, followed by hurried footsteps.

  “Hey—wait up!”

  Amélia turned first. Elias emerged from between two broken support beams, slightly out of breath, his sleeves rolled up and his hands faintly glowing red beneath a layer of dust.

  Rhys squinted. “There you are. Thought you got lost inside the maze again.”

  “I was looking for you,” Elias said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You two disappear every time the siren ends.”

  As Elias reached them, Rhys’s eyes dropped to his hands. The glow pulsed softly, veins of red light crawling under the grime.

  “Whoa,” Rhys said, grabbing Elias’s wrist before he could pull away. “Your hands are still powered.”

  Elias froze. “Don’t touch—”

  Too late. Rhys let go, shaking his own hand. “They’re warm. Like… really warm.”

  Amélia leaned in, curious. “Fuel cells again?”

  Elias nodded, flexing his fingers. “They rushed the batch today. Stabilizers were off, so I had to recalibrate them manually.”

  Rhys whistled. “Fuel cells? At your age?” He grinned, equal parts impressed and smug. “Look at you. While we’re busy shoveling crystals into grinders, you’re building the things that keep Wardens moving.”

  Amélia crossed her arms. “Show-off.”

  “I’m not showing off,” Elias protested. “Someone has to make sure they don’t explode.”

  Rhys laughed. “See? That’s exactly why they let you do it. You’re the only one smart enough not to blow up the refinery.”

  Amélia tilted her head. “Meanwhile, if Rhys touched a fuel cell—”

  “—the city would go dark,” Elias finished.

  “Hey!” Rhys shot back. “I could handle it.”

  “You tried to recalibrate a gauge once,” Amélia said. “It screamed.”

  “It screamed because it was broken.”

  “It screamed because you touched it.”

  Elias smiled despite himself, rubbing the red glow from his palms against his trousers. “At least your jobs don’t make your hands hum for hours after.”

  Rhys clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the price of genius, I guess.”

  Amélia added softly, “Still… it’s kind of amazing.”

  Elias looked away, embarrassed. “It’s just work.”

  “Yeah,” Rhys said, gazing back toward the city. “But not everyone our age gets trusted with the things that keep it alive.”

  For a moment, the teasing faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the ruins and the distant thrum of generators—powered, in part, by the work of three kids who were never supposed to carry that kind of weight.

  Then Rhys smirked. “Still doesn’t mean we won’t beat you at hide-and-seek.”

  Elias groaned. “I was hoping we’d all grown out of that.”

  Amélia laughed, and for a brief moment, the world felt lighter.

  The sun slipped toward the horizon, washing the city in copper and fading gold. From this height, the ruins felt distant—almost gentle—while the living parts of the city slowly woke for the night. Street beacons flared on one after another, their Magnitium cores humming softly. Shield pylons along the walls pulsed in steady rhythm, a reminder that the city still stood.

  Generators rumbled beneath it all. The city was tired—but alive.

  Amélia shifted her weight. “It’s getting late.”

  Rhys nodded, standing and rolling his shoulders. “Yeah. Curfew patrols will be out soon.”

  They began their descent, carefully climbing down the lightning canon’s massive frame. Vines creaked underfoot, and the hollow metal echoed with each step. Even dead, the machine felt immense—its shell still warm, as if it refused to forget what it once was.

  When they reached the ground, the sky had deepened into dusk.

  Rhys turned to Elias. “You should come eat with us tonight.”

  Elias blinked. “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” Rhys said easily. “Amélia always makes too much.”

  Amélia shot him a look. “I do not.”

  “You absolutely do.”

  Elias smiled but shook his head. “Not tonight. I’ve got to head back early.”

  “Fuel cells?” Amélia guessed.

  “Double output,” Elias said. “Wardens are rotating shifts.”

  Rhys sighed. “Figures. Guess the city doesn’t get days off.”

  “Neither do we,” Elias replied. He adjusted his bag and stepped back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t let the refinery eat you alive,” Rhys called.

  Elias lifted a hand in farewell before turning down a side street, swallowed by the glow of streetlights and the low hum of evening traffic.

  Rhys and Amélia watched him go, then started toward home together.

  The streets were busy in a quiet way—workers returning from shifts, UF transports rolling past, sentry drones gliding overhead. Windows lit up as families settled in for the night. Life continued, stubborn and fragile.

  As they walked, Rhys glanced toward the horizon, where the city walls cut against the darkening sky.

  “She’d like this,” he said suddenly.

  Amélia looked at him. “Like what?”

  “The lights. The fact that everything’s still running.” He smiled faintly. “She always said as long as the city breathes, there’s hope.”

  Amélia didn’t answer right away.

  They walked on, side by side, toward the small place they shared—toward warmth, toward routine, toward a life built from what remained.

  Behind them, the lightning canon stood silent.

  And somewhere in the city’s glow, hope lingered—quiet, fragile, and unresolved.