[Rowan' POV]
A sharp sting in my side yanked me from sleep, a familiar ache that was starting to feel like an old companion. I exhaled, pressing a hand against the wound, wincing as pain pulsed beneath my fingertips. Come on now, wasn't this getting old? The damn thing had already complicated enough, slowing me down when I couldn't afford it.
And I still wasn't entirely sure I was in the clear—an infection could take me out just as easily as a blade to the gut. For now, all I could do was hope and pray. Not that either had ever done me much good.
The house was quiet, the kind of silence that clings to the early hours before the world fully wakes. But outside, the slum was already stirring.
The distant clatter of carts, the murmur of voices, the occasional shuffling of footsteps—it all bled through the walls, a reminder that life didn't wait for anyone, wounded or not.
I forced myself upright, rolling my shoulders, stretching just enough to shake off the stiffness. The air was cool against my skin, but the warmth of the rising sun had already started creeping through the cracks in the wooden shutters.
Last night's events played through my mind, piece by piece. Finn and Cade. Two new people in the mix. Two unknown variables.
But they seemed capable enough—at least, capable enough to matter. And even if they weren't the strongest, the fastest, or the sharpest, there was something more important than that.
Loyalty. That's what mattered the most when the group is turning their backs on me.
I stepped into the main room, shaking off the last remnants of sleep, forcing myself to focus. Today was supposed to mark a new beginning. If everything went according to plan, the pieces I'd set in motion would start falling into place. But something gnawed at the edges of my mind, a whisper of unease I couldn't quite place.
Had I missed something? Had I been careless?
The thought slithered in, curling around my ribs like a tightening rope, an itch beneath my skin that no amount of logic could scratch away. I tried to shove it aside, bury it beneath something practical, something tangible.
Breakfast. That would do.
Feeling almost celebratory, I decided to cook—a rare indulgence. Noodles with whatever vegetables I could scrounge up. If the others didn't like it, well, tough luck. They'd eat it or go hungry.
I busied myself at the small, worn-down counter, well if you could call it that, grabbing a dull knife and setting to work. The rhythmic sound of chopping filled the space, something steady, something grounding. But as I sliced through a carrot, the unease spiked, sharp and sudden.
What the hell was that? The thought clung to me as I cast a wary glance around the room, my unease lingering like smoke after a fire. But nothing seemed out of place. Just the quiet hum of morning, the faint echo of the slum stirring outside.
Shaking it off, I focused on the task at hand. The next few minutes passed in a steady rhythm—preparing the meal, slow and steady. I stood by the pit[1], staring up at the chimney [2]that loomed above it, an unfamiliar luxury in a life that had known nothing but scarcity. It was strange, still, to have a place like this, a roof over my head that wasn't crumbling or leaking.
Then again, it wasn't like we earned it. More like we acquired it.
I struck the flintspires, coaxing a flame to life, watching as it caught and spread. The scent of woodsmoke curled through the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of vegetables and broth as the pot began to simmer.
It was a small thing, but it anchored me, gave my mind something solid to hold onto. A meal. A simple act of normalcy in a world that never seemed to stop spinning.
I ladled out a portion, the warmth of the bowl seeping into my hands, soothing in a way I hadn't expected. Just as I lifted the first bite to my mouth, a soft creak split the silence.
My eyes flicked toward the sound.
Talia stood in the doorway, barely awake, her hair a wild mess, eyes clouded with sleep. She looked like she'd been dragged through a storm and back, and for a moment, I just stared. Then—unexpected, unbidden—a laugh broke free from my chest. A real, full-bodied laugh, one I hadn't felt in what seemed like a lifetime. After yesterday, I was in a good mood. Nothing better than to just smash some faces in.
Talia blinked, sluggishly processing the scene before groaning, rubbing a hand over her face. "Fucking hell," she muttered, voice thick with sleep. "Since when do you know how to laugh?"
"Since the moment you started looking like you barely escaped a beast in your sleep," I replied with a chuckle, shaking my head.
But the way she stared at me—like I'd just sprouted a second head—made something flicker in the back of my mind. Was it really that strange to hear me laugh? Had I changed so much in just a few days?
I leaned back against the counter, leveling her with a look. "Why is everyone acting like I've never cracked a joke before? Or laughed, for that matter?" My tone was light, but there was something underneath it, something I couldn't quite name.
Talia crossed her arms, tilting her head, lips quirking with amusement. "Rowan, have you seen yourself in a mirror lately?" She gestured vaguely in my direction. "You don't exactly radiate sunshine, you know."
I considered that for a moment, letting her words settle. Maybe she had a point. Maybe I had been walking around like a ghost lately. I exhaled through my nose, nodding slowly. "That might be right... What a sad thing to hear," I mused, voice carrying the faintest hint of mock regret. "Guess I can't even be in a good mood anymore."
Talia scoffed, shaking her head as she stepped closer—too close, her presence brushing against the edge of my space. She peered over my shoulder, her breath warm against my skin as she eyed the pot. "What you got there?" she asked, voice low with interest. "I'm starving."
I turned my head slightly, just enough to give her a pointed look. "Then cook yourself some goddamn food."
She grinned, unbothered, rocking back on her heels. "Nah," she said, stretching the word out lazily. "Don't wanna." I rolled my eyes, but there was something easy about the moment. Something rare.
"Grab a plate, or I'm eating all of it," I said, half-serious, half-teasing.
I didn't have to tell her twice. Before I could even blink, she had a plate in hand, ready to serve herself. This fat-ass and her appetite, I thought, shaking my head. If there was one thing Talia would never turn down, it was food.
We ate in comfortable silence, the only sounds coming from the occasional clink of utensils and the quiet slurping of noodles. I glanced at her, watching the way she hunched over her plate, wholly focused on devouring the meal I had painstakingly prepared. For a moment, I wasn't here in this kitchen—I was somewhere else, somewhere buried in memory.
I saw us as we were back then, fighting together to survive the Risen, pushing through hunger, exhaustion, and the constant weight of danger. I remembered the little girl she had once been, all wild hair and scraped knees, growing into a formidable fighter—someone I could trust to have my back when everything else was uncertain.
And most of all, I remembered that out of everyone, she was the only one who never left. Never doubted me. Never lost faith.
I exhaled, setting my fork down and rubbing a hand over my face. "Talia," I said, my voice quieter than before.
She looked up mid-bite, noodles dangling from her lips, eyes wide and questioning.
I hesitated for just a second before pressing on. "I just wanted to say… thank you." The words felt heavy, like they carried more weight than their simplicity suggested. "For sticking by me when the others turned their backs. For believing in me when no one else did." I met her gaze, holding it. "Out of everyone, you're the one I trust the most. Really."
Talia froze, chopsticks hovering in the air, her mouth slightly open as if the words had short-circuited her brain. "W-what?" she stammered, blinking in stunned disbelief.
I raised an eyebrow. "What's with you today? First, you look like you've seen a ghost, and now you're acting like I just told you the world was ending."
She swallowed hard, setting her plate down with a clatter. "It's just…" She shook her head, a slow grin creeping onto her lips. "You're not exactly the sentimental type, Rowan."
I smirked, picking up my fork again. "Maybe I've been spending too much time around you."
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue, instead reaching for her plate again. The moment passed, but something about it lingered—unspoken, yet understood.
[1] The Hearth Bowl (Fire Basin):
A large, shallow stone or metal bowl embedded into a sturdy wooden table or platform. The bowl would be lined with fire-resistant clay or stone to protect the surrounding wood from direct heat.
The bowl is where the fire is lit, using kindling, wood, or charcoal. It’s deep enough to contain the fire but shallow enough to allow easy access for cooking.
Heat Shield and Insulation:
Around the hearth bowl, a layer of fire-resistant material (like clay tiles, stone slabs, or metal plating) is installed to protect the wooden structure of the kitchen.
A thick layer of non-flammable insulation (such as packed earth or clay) is placed beneath the hearth bowl to prevent heat from transferring to the wooden floor.
[2] Chimney System:
A chimney made of stone, brick, or clay pipes is built above the hearth bowl to vent smoke outside. The chimney would rise vertically through the roof, with a flue to control airflow.
The chimney's interior is lined with fire-resistant material to prevent heat from igniting the wooden walls or ceiling.