I used to have this nightmare when I was little. The kind that crawls under your skin, seeps into your bones, and wraps itself around your heart like a snake constricting its prey. The kind that lingers even after you wake, an echo of dread whispering at the edge of your consciousness, waiting for the next moment of silence to creep back in. It was more than just a bad dream; it felt like a prophecy.
The visions haunted me, sharp and vivid even as a child, glimpses of a future I was too young to understand but instinctively feared. A mountain of corpses, piled high and grotesque, a tower of the fallen reaching toward a dark, churning sky. The bodies were faceless, nameless—enemies, perhaps. But in a world like ours, who isn't an enemy? And at the apex of the blood-soaked mound stood a lone figure, surveying the carnage as though it were a masterpiece.
Most times, that figure looked just like me.
Silver hair, dulled by grime and sweat, matted against my forehead. A jagged burn scar, an old wound stretching across the left side of my face. Eyes hollow and unblinking, reflecting the bloodied ground below, as if searching for meaning in the devastation.
But sometimes, it wasn't me at all.
She was different. Her hair, black as midnight, wild and untamed, fanned out behind her as though caught in a perpetual storm. Her eyes were empty voids, glistening white, unseeing yet seeing too much. Four wings sprouted from her back—two pristine, feathered and pure, while the other two were rotting, skeletal things, dripping with decay. An angel defiled, a deity fallen. If I had a name for her, it would be 'harbinger.' A creature born of both divine light and malignant darkness.
The nightmare always ended the same way. The figure—whether it was me or her—turning, fixing those hollow eyes on me. And then, silence. The kind of silence that presses against your ears like deep water, drowning out all sound, all thought, all hope.
A voice shattered the memory, yanking me back into the present.
"Lanni! Are you deaf, or just too lost in your own head?"
The rough, familiar sarcasm grounded me. Kvatz. His voice was an anchor in a sea of chaos, a lifeline keeping me from drowning in my own thoughts.
"Not deaf," I muttered, blinking away the remnants of the nightmare. "Just thinking."
"Thinking, huh? You might wanna try being mindless instead. You'd hear better."
I turned to glare at him, but he only grinned, unrepentant as always. Kvatz was like that—constantly talking, constantly teasing. It was his way of keeping us both sane.
"Alright, alright, don't kill me with that look." He held up his hands in mock surrender before tossing a rough sack at me. "Got your ration."
I caught it out of instinct, the weight grounding me in the now. Inside, the contents shifted with the telltale clink of metal. Dried meat, hardtack, a few strips of salt pork, and a flask of what I hoped was water. Meager, but it would keep me moving.
Cinching the bag closed, I slung it over my shoulder and glanced at Kvatz. "Any jobs on the board?"
His face split into that lopsided grin of his as he scratched the stubble on his chin. Kvatz's grin remained, but there was something else behind it—a quiet exhaustion, the kind that seeps into a person so deeply that it no longer leaves marks. It wasn't just amusement that lingered in his gaze, but a weariness so ingrained that it had become second nature. He was the kind of man who laughed in the face of death, not because it was funny, but because it was the only way to keep going.
"Jobs? There's always work," he said with a shrug, his tone light yet undercut by something heavier. "The real trick is picking the one that pays enough without making us corpses in the process."
I let out a slow breath, shifting the strap of my satchel over my shoulder. "As if those two things ever come separately."
The wind picked up, dragging dust through the streets, mingling with the scents of rust, oil, and something sour that never quite faded from war-torn places like this. The settlement was a patchwork of ruin and resilience, old structures barely holding themselves together while new ones were cobbled from whatever materials could be salvaged. Towering skeletons of collapsed skyscrapers loomed overhead, hollowed out by time and conflict, their windows nothing more than dark, gaping wounds. And at the heart of it all was the nerköv hall, where mercenaries and bounty hunters gathered like vultures circling over carrion.
Kvatz leaned against the rusted shell of a transport vehicle, arms crossed, exuding that same effortless confidence he always did. His long coat, once navy but now a faded patchwork of repairs, hung open over a chest plate that had seen better days. The bastard left it half-fastened, claiming he hated feeling suffocated. Kvatz never fought with finesse. He fought with brute force, with a kind of reckless certainty that came from believing he would always find a way out.
"Did you sleep?" he asked without looking at me.
I hesitated. "Some."
"Liar."
I exhaled sharply, adjusting my cloak. "You ever have dreams that feel like something more? Like… echoes of something real?"
Kvatz tilted his head slightly, considering. "You mean premonitions?" He shrugged. "Can't say I have. My nightmares are just old memories sharpened by time."
I pulled my cloak tighter. "Forget I said anything."
To his credit, he didn't push. Kvatz had an uncanny ability to know when to let things lie. It was part of why we worked well together—he was the momentum, the reckless drive, while I was the caution that kept us alive.
The market had begun to stir, traders shouting over prices, blacksmiths arguing over the cost of reforging old blades, and smugglers unloading crates of contraband. The air smelled of sweat and iron, but beneath it all was something older, something metallic. Blood worked into the very foundation of this place. It never truly faded.
"So?" I asked, steering the conversation back to business. "What's on the board?"
Kvatz pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket. "Bounty work, mostly. One's a deserter from the Basillian army. Another's some noble's idiot son who got himself kidnapped. Oh, and there's a military cargo escort through a rift." He glanced at me with a smirk. "Bet I can guess which one you'll refuse."
I grimaced. "We are not taking the escort job."
"Oh, come on." He waved the paper. "Good pay, manageable distance, minimal chance of—"
"Minimal chance of being dragged into a collapsing pocket reality and never coming back?"
Kvatz sighed in exaggerated exasperation. "You worry too much."
"I worry the exact right amount," I countered. "Derelict incursions don't happen by chance."
We both knew the stories. People who ventured into rifts didn't always return, and those who did often came back wrong. I had seen it firsthand—a man who vanished for three days, only to return with hollow white eyes and a voice that spoke in tongues. He lasted a week before taking his own life.
Kvatz tucked the parchment away, still grinning. "Fine, fine. We'll stick to bounties. Less existential dread, more predictable violence. Just how you like it."
I rolled my eyes but didn't argue. Predictable violence was still violence, but at least it was something we understood.
As we made our way toward the job board, Kvatz nudged me lightly. "For what it's worth, Lanni, nightmares don't define you."
I didn't answer. Because I wasn't so sure that was true. The dream—the tower of bodies, the figure at the top—felt too real. And deep down, I understood something I didn't want to admit: nightmares aren't just illusions.
Sometimes, they're warnings.
The marketplace was alive in its usual restless way, a chaotic tangle of traders, mercenaries, and the desperate clinging to whatever semblance of normalcy they could muster. Stalls lined the dirt-packed street, some constructed from scavenged metal sheets, others barely more than fabric draped over wooden poles. The air carried the sharp tang of rust, sweat, and the unmistakable scent of meat left out too long in the heat.
Kvatz moved beside me with that easy confidence of his, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, his expression unreadable save for the faint smirk that never seemed to fade completely. He had that way about him—like nothing could touch him, like he'd seen it all and still found it vaguely amusing. I used to think it was arrogance. Now I wasn't so sure.
We passed by a weaponsmith's stall, where a burly woman with an oil-streaked apron was haggling over the price of a reforged blade. Kvatz cast a glance at the racks of weapons, his gaze flicking over rusted swords, mismatched gun parts, and a few daggers that might have been worth their weight in coin if they weren't so chipped. He didn't linger, though. Kvatz wasn't the type to fuss over his gear. If it worked, it worked.
"Bounty work, huh?" I said, shifting the strap of my satchel. "Any of them worth the trouble?"
He snorted. "That depends. You feel like hunting down some rich brat? Could be easy money."
I gave him a sidelong look. "Easy money usually means bad information. If it were really simple, they wouldn't need us."
Kvatz chuckled, a deep, rough sound. "True enough. The deserter's probably the safest bet. Army doesn't like when its people run, but they're too busy with their own wars to chase them down themselves. They throw kölls at people like us instead."
I considered that. A deserter could mean a simple job, but it could also mean complications. People ran for reasons. Maybe they'd stolen something. Maybe they knew something they shouldn't. Either way, there was always more to it than what was written on a bounty notice.
We reached the nerköv hall, a squat building reinforced with scavenged steel plates, its exterior marked with bullet pockmarks and old bloodstains. The double doors were wide open, and inside, the scent of sweat, ale, and damp stone filled the air. Mercenaries gathered around mismatched tables, some poring over job notices, others nursing drinks and a few engaged in hushed conversations that I knew better than to eavesdrop on.
Kvatz led the way to the bounty board, his gaze sweeping over the posted notices. I followed, scanning the parchment sheets, each one scribbled with varying levels of legibility. The deserter was listed, his name crossed out and rewritten in different hands, a sign that he'd already changed aliases more than once. The noble's son had an absurdly high reward attached, which only confirmed my suspicion that there was more to the story. And then there was the military escort job, the one Kvatz had jokingly suggested.
I didn't need to read the fine print to know it was a terrible idea.
Kvatz tapped the deserter's notice. "This one. Decent pay, and he's not holed up in a warzone. Yet."
I nodded slowly. "We'll need to find out why he ran."
"Of course," Kvatz said, grinning. "That's the fun part."
I rolled my eyes, but there was a familiar ease between us, the kind built over years of surviving together. Kvatz had been in my life for as long as I could remember, a constant presence through warzones, backwater settlements, and places best left unmentioned. We worked well together—not just because we understood each other's strengths, but because we knew when to step back. He was reckless, but not stupid. I was cautious, but not afraid. It made for a good balance.
We took the bounty notice and stepped outside, the midday sun casting long shadows over the fractured streets. Kvatz stretched, rolling his shoulders before glancing at me.
"Think he's worth the effort?" he asked.
I didn't answer right away. The dream from last night still clung to the edges of my mind, that looming tower of bodies, the figure at its peak. I wasn't superstitious—not in the way some people were—but I knew better than to ignore my instincts. Something felt… off.
"Only one way to find out," I said finally.
Kvatz grinned. "That's the spirit."
I thought for a moment. "Hold on, I gotta make some errands before we go, want to join me in a boring, mercantile journey?" The way I said it sounded really corny but we've got to let loose from the horrors of war sometimes. A bit of humor never hurts and I can't have this bastard take all the comedy for himself, now can I?
Kvatz let out a mock groan, dragging a hand down his face as if the sheer thought of mundane errands was the worst torment imaginable. "Shopping? Really? What are we, housewives now?"
I smirked. "What, afraid you'll ruin your reputation by haggling for supplies?"
He scoffed, kicking a loose pebble down the dusty road. "I just think there are better ways to spend our time. Like drinking. Or sleeping. Or getting into a fight we'll regret."
"Drinking leads to regrets. Sleeping leads to more nightmares. And we'll have more than enough fights soon enough." I adjusted my cloak, the satchel slung over my shoulder feeling heavier by the second. "Come on. We need to restock before we take on another job."
Kvatz made a sound of reluctant agreement, but he fell into step beside me anyway. That was the thing about him—he could complain all he wanted, but he'd never actually leave me to handle things alone.
The market had only grown livelier since our last pass through. The sounds of shouting traders and the constant clang of metalwork blended into the ever-present hum of distant machinery, a reminder that civilization—if you could call this mess that—still clung on, despite everything.
We wove through the crowd, avoiding pickpockets and the occasional drunken brawler. A man selling makeshift prosthetics waved at us from a stall cluttered with mechanical limbs, gears, and half-assembled contraptions. Another merchant, the brawny woman we passed earlier, had set up a weapons booth, her wares displayed on cracked wooden crates. I eyed a set of throwing knives, but the weight of my coin pouch reminded me that food and ammunition came first.
Kvatz, on the other hand, had no such priorities. "Look at this beauty," he said, whistling low as he picked up a battered yet still-functional revolver from the weapon stall. He spun it expertly in his hand, testing the weight before cocking the hammer with his thumb. "Old Basillian make. You don't see these often. The Kjera Mark... Three-A?"
The merchant narrowed her eyes. "You touch, you buy."
Kvatz grinned but set the gun down with exaggerated reluctance. "Spoilsport."
I shook my head. "We need supplies. Not more ways for you to get yourself shot."
"Disagree," he said. "But fine, let's do things your way. What's first?"
"Food, then medical supplies, then ammunition."
He groaned again but didn't argue.
"Hey, if you want a new weapon so bad, maybe we can get something with the leftover cash." I said playfully, glancing at his reaction. He suddenly beamed up like the sun and then moped again when he noticed there won't be any money left.
We moved deeper into the market, where vendors sold everything from dried meat and hardtack to questionable-looking tins with labels too faded to read. I bartered for a few essentials—Kvatz, predictably, tried to talk the price down by flirting with an unimpressed trader. I pretended not to know him until the deal was done.
Next came the medical stall, run by a grizzled woman with a permanent scowl. The price for clean bandages and antiseptic was higher than I liked, but infections were deadlier than bullets out here, and I wasn't about to risk it. Kvatz, in a rare moment of practicality, didn't even complain about the cost.
Ammo was the last stop, and by far the most expensive. Bullets weren't rare, but good ones were. I picked up a modest handful—enough to last through our next job, assuming we weren't reckless. Which, with Kvatz, was never a guarantee.
As we walked away from the final stall, Kvatz bumped his shoulder against mine lightly. "You sure you're not actually an old woman disguised as a mercenary? Because this is the most boring thing I've done all week."
I rolled my eyes. "You'd rather be fighting?"
He grinned. "Maybe. At least that way, we'd be earning money instead of spending it."
"Survival isn't free."
"Neither is fun."
We stepped back onto the main street, our errands complete, the weight of our supplies a reassuring presence. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the ruins in shades of gold and crimson. The world was still a broken, war-torn mess, but in this moment, with Kvatz at my side, it felt a little less bleak.
He stretched, rolling his shoulders. "So, what's next? Do we find this deserter, or do you have another riveting chore planned?"
I exhaled, glancing at the bounty notice tucked in my pocket. "We find him."
Kvatz's grin sharpened. "Now we're talking."
And just like that, the brief illusion of peace faded. Reality came rushing back in, bringing with it the weight of the job ahead. Honestly, I had a feeling this one wasn't going to be as simple as we hoped.