The darkness settled in slowly.

  At first, it was only the lights—flickering once, twice, then dying altogether. Emergency strips along the tunnel walls failed in uneven patches, leaving long stretches swallowed by black. The air grew thick with dust, concrete grit still drifting down from the collapsed entrance behind them.

  No one spoke.

  The tunnel was enormous—wide enough for a Warden platoon to advance shoulder to shoulder, tall enough that Bulwarks could pass through without ducking. The rails ran down its center, disappearing into the void ahead, twin lines of steel that caught what little light remained and stretched it into thin, broken reflections.

  Somewhere far behind them, something rumbled.

  Not an explosion.

  Not a weapon.

  The sound of a city settling into ruin.

  Rhys stood frozen, his breath loud in his ears. The silence pressed in on him, heavier than the noise outside had ever been. Each distant vibration sent a shiver through the tunnel walls, a reminder that the world above was still tearing itself apart.

  People began to stir.

  A child whimpered. Someone whispered a prayer. Boots scraped against concrete as the crowd shifted uneasily, uncertain whether staying still or moving was the greater danger.

  “Should we… should we go forward?” a man asked, his voice echoing unnaturally.

  “Forward to where?” another replied. “The rails are dead.”

  Elias swallowed and tightened his grip on Rhys’ sleeve. “If we stay here, we’re just waiting for it to find us.”

  Amélia nodded, though her face was pale. “Tunnels like this don’t collapse all at once. If something else falls… we won’t even hear it coming.”

  A deeper tremor rolled through the ground, strong enough to knock dust loose from the ceiling. The crowd flinched as one, a collective intake of breath.

  That decided it.

  Slowly, cautiously, the mass of people began to move.

  Footsteps echoed, multiplied, turning a few hesitant strides into a low, constant murmur. Someone activated a handheld lamp; its weak beam carved a narrow cone through the darkness, revealing stained concrete walls, exposed cabling, and old emergency signage half-scraped away.

  The tunnel felt endless.

  Rhys walked in silence, every sense stretched thin. Somewhere deep inside his head, the whine hadn’t stopped—it had only dulled, like a distant machine still running, still aware.

  Still listening.

  Amélia glanced back once, toward the buried entrance, then forward again into the black.

  The walking didn’t make the tunnel feel any shorter.

  Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time blurred in the dark, measured only by aching legs and shallow breaths. The crowd began to slow, uncertainty creeping back in.

  “How far does this tunnel go?” someone called from ahead.

  No one answered.

  Another voice followed, sharper this time. “Is there even another city on this line?”

  Murmurs spread—fear, exhaustion, doubt weaving together. People stopped again, some turning back as if the collapsed entrance might somehow reopen itself.

  Elias swallowed.

  His heart pounded as he stepped forward just enough for his voice to carry.

  “It leads to Ironford,” he said. His words echoed down the tunnel, fragile but clear. “It’s… it’s the nearest town on this line.”

  A few heads turned.

  “How far?” someone asked.

  Elias hesitated, then told the truth. “By train, it’s under an hour.”

  “And on foot?” a woman pressed.

  He tightened his jaw. “A long walk.”

  The silence that followed was heavy. Someone cursed under their breath. Another sank down against the wall, covering their face with their hands.

  “That’s impossible,” a man said. “We won’t make it.”

  From deeper in the crowd, a different voice rose—older, steady, worn smooth by years of bad odds.

  “Then what’s the alternative?”

  People looked around, confused.

  “Going back?” the voice continued. “Into a city that’s already dead?”

  The speaker stepped forward into the dim light—an elderly woman wrapped in a dust-stained coat, her back straight despite the tremors still rolling through the ground.

  “This tunnel is still standing,” she said. “That means we are too. Ironford is far, yes—but it’s there. And that makes it our only choice.”

  She glanced back once, toward the darkness behind them.

  “Standing still won’t save us.”

  Something shifted.

  Not hope—not yet—but resolve. The kind born when there’s nothing left to lose.

  The crowd began to move again.

  Elias stepped back beside Rhys and Amélia, his hands trembling now that the moment had passed.

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  “You didn’t have to say anything,” Amélia whispered.

  Elias shook his head. “Someone had to.”

  Rhys looked ahead, down the endless rails vanishing into black.

  Ironford.

  It sounded like a place that still existed.

  And for now, that was enough to keep them walking.

  The crowd shuffled forward, boots dragging over rails that hadn’t carried a train in decades. Dust drifted in the still, stale air, illuminated in streaks by weak handheld lamps. The tunnel was enormous—wide and tall, yet somehow still oppressive. Every vibration echoed like distant thunder, every cough or shuffle amplified into ghostly multiples.

  Rhys and Amélia stayed close to Elias, hands brushing against his. Behind them, the mass of civilians moved slowly, some leaning against walls, some whispering, most silent, too exhausted to speak.

  Hours—or maybe minutes—passed. No one kept track. No one wanted to.

  Then a faint glimmer appeared ahead. Shapes, twisted and broken in the dim light. They slowed, approaching.

  It was an abandoned train. Its cars sat rusted on the tracks, half-collapsed, windows caked with grime. Some of the crowd whispered hope. Others shook their heads, exhausted.

  “Maybe someone can get it running,” a man muttered, stepping forward.

  “I—I can try!” a younger voice piped up. Two or three others followed. They fumbled along the engine, testing levers, banging on panels, shaking wires loose.

  Rhys, Amélia, and Elias sank down against the tunnel wall, letting the people pass them. Dust fell from the ceiling, coating their hair and shoulders. The quiet was different here—not oppressive like before, but heavy with anticipation.

  Rhys let out a low whistle. “I don’t think I’d even know where to start with that thing.”

  Elias shrugged, eyes fixed on the struggling group. “Neither would I. Fuel cells, engines… trains are complicated.”

  Amélia leaned her head slightly against Rhys’ shoulder, murmuring, “At least we’re not alone.”

  Rhys glanced at her, and for a moment, the chaos outside the tunnel—the Stormbreaker, the destroyed city, the walls torn apart—felt distant.

  The team working on the train cursed and laughed nervously, sparks flying from a panel. The engine groaned as if waking from a long sleep.

  Somewhere deep in the tunnel, dust and small rocks shifted from the ceiling, a reminder that the city above still burned. But for now, they had a fragile chance, and the three friends let themselves sit—together—on the cold concrete, waiting, hoping, and watching the people around them try to reclaim a piece of their escape.

  The crowd buzzed with anxious whispers as some of the volunteers fiddled with the train. Rhys, Amélia, and Elias sank against the cold tunnel wall, dust settling over their shoulders. That was when the old woman approached.

  She moved carefully, her steps surprisingly light for someone so aged, and crouched slightly to meet their eyes.

  “You three,” she said softly. “How are you feeling right now?”

  Rhys exchanged a glance with Amélia. “Tired… scared,” he admitted.

  “Scared is normal,” she replied, nodding. “And tired is good. You’ll need your strength soon.” Her gaze lingered, a little too long. “Tell me… do you know where your parents are?”

  Amélia stiffened slightly, her hand brushing Rhys’ arm. “My mother… she’s gone,” she whispered.

  The woman’s expression didn’t change, though her eyes seemed to study Amélia carefully. “And you, young man?” She looked at Rhys.

  “I… I don’t know,” he said. His voice faltered. “I think she might still be alive somewhere. Maybe… serving the UF.”

  “Interesting,” she murmured, tilting her head. Then, almost innocently, she asked, “And the two of you together—are you close?”

  Rhys felt his cheeks heat up. “Uh… yeah. We stick together.”

  “Good,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “It’s important to have someone to rely on. You’ll need each other.”

  Her questions kept coming, subtle and probing:

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “Are you afraid of the dark tunnels?”

  “Do you ever dream of the city above?”

  The questions seemed harmless, even caring—but something about the way she tilted her head, her quiet observation of every flicker in their expressions, made Rhys shiver.

  Amélia noticed too, and whispered, “She’s… weird.”

  “Maybe she’s just trying to help,” Rhys murmured back, though his gut told him otherwise.

  The woman nodded, as if she had heard them. “Perhaps,” she said. “Perhaps. But the world above… is changing. You’ll need to be ready.”

  And with that, she drifted back toward the crowd, leaving the three of them uneasy in the flickering light of the abandoned train, the echoes of the tunnel making her soft voice seem almost like it belonged to someone far older than she appeared.

  The volunteers banged, twisted, and prodded the train for what felt like hours. Sparks flew, steam hissed from cracked pipes, and the engine groaned like it was waking from a long death—but nothing worked. One by one, they gave up, muttering curses under their breath. Some slumped against the walls, exhausted. Others shuffled back into the crowd, defeated.

  Rhys frowned, scanning the rusted machinery. “We can’t just sit here,” he muttered.

  Amélia nudged Elias. “Go check it out. You might be able to fix it.”

  Elias froze, hands tightening into fists. “I—I don’t know anything about trains. I can barely touch the engine!”

  “Then learn fast!” Rhys snapped, though not unkindly. “We don’t have time to wait for everyone else to fail again.”

  Amélia stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “We’re with you. You can do this, Elias. You always figure things out.”

  Elias swallowed, hesitated, then took a cautious step forward. The crowd parted slightly as he approached the train, eyes following him like a spotlight. He knelt, wiping dust and rust from levers and panels, fumbling with switches, twisting valves, pressing buttons without knowing what they did. Sparks flew again, and he flinched at every hiss of steam, every metallic creak.

  Minutes passed. The tunnel seemed to shrink around him. Rhys and Amélia stayed close, whispering encouragement, their hands brushing his back as he worked.

  Then, slowly, impossibly, a low rumble ran through the train.

  The engine coughed. Shook. Gurgled. And roared to life.

  A cheer erupted from the crowd who had tried before, their exhaustion and despair melting into awe. People who had watched silently now clapped, shouted, and lifted their arms.

  “You did it!” Rhys grinned, clapping Elias on the back so hard it nearly knocked him over.

  Amélia laughed, her relief bright and warm, brushing dust from his shoulders. “I knew you could! You just needed a push.”

  Elias stood, flushed, his hands trembling slightly from adrenaline. “I… I didn’t think I could,” he admitted, but the smile on his face was proud.

  The crowd swarmed forward, eager to board the train. Children pressed their faces to the windows, adults chattered excitedly, and even the older volunteers who had given up smiled at him.

  For a brief moment, in the middle of the tunnel, amid dust and echoing footsteps, Elias was a hero. And the three friends—hands brushing, shoulders pressed together—shared a small victory before the darkness ahead reminded them why they were running in the first place.

  The train lurched forward, groaning and shivering as its nearly empty fuel cell struggled to keep the wheels turning. The tunnel walls slipped by slowly, shadows stretching and flickering in the dim lights. Outside, the dust hung thick, and the silence of the people standing along the narrow aisle pressed down like a weight.

  Rhys, Amélia, and Elias slid into a worn bench seat, their shoulders brushing. For the first time in hours, they could breathe—not from relief, exactly, but from a quiet reprieve from the terror outside.

  Rhys stared at the tunnel ceiling, tracing a crack with his eyes. “We’ll always stick together,” he said softly, almost to himself.

  Amélia turned her head, her red hair catching a faint glimmer of light. “Of course we will,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her hand lingered near his, fingers brushing the back of his. “We’ve done it before. We always come back to each other.”

  Elias let out a small, bitter laugh. “It’s not like we had much choice. You two were always faster than me, smarter than me, braver than me… I just follow.”

  Rhys shook his head, finally looking at him. “No. You keep us alive. Don’t you forget that. Without you, none of us get this far.”

  Amélia leaned forward slightly, voice quiet. “We protect each other. That’s what makes us… us.” Her eyes met Rhys’, then flicked away, as if noticing for the first time how close they really were. “No matter what happens, we’ll find a way. Together.”

  Rhys reached over and lightly touched her hand, a fleeting contact, neither bold nor shy, just grounding. “Together,” he echoed.

  Elias watched them, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “You two are ridiculous,” he said, though the warmth in his voice betrayed him. “Always thinking you can carry the world. Let’s just survive the tunnel first.”

  The three of them sat like that, shoulders touching, hands brushing, a fragile triangle of trust in a world that had already shown them how easily everything could be destroyed. Outside, the people standing silently along the aisles pressed forward, the train creaking as it fought to keep moving.

  But inside, for just a moment, the three friends didn’t have to fight. They only had to remember: they had each other.