"If that's true," Hope muttered, "then the people who get taken without Memories… they're at a disadvantage from the start."
Kelvin's smirk faded slightly. "Yeah."
Hope let out a quiet breath. He had arrived in The Ashlands with nothing but his wits and survival instincts. His scavenger's mindset had kept him alive so far, but he had no special equipment, no weapons, no Memories.
If he wanted to survive this trial, he would have to fight for every advantage he could get.
He exhaled and laid back down again, eyes flickering up to the seven moons above them. Their pale glow cast long, shifting shadows over their makeshift shelter, reminding him of the dangers lurking beyond.
Walker grunted again, muttering something incoherent as he shifted, pulling his ragged cloak tighter around himself.
Kelvin chuckled quietly. "Go to sleep, Hopeless"
Hope closed his eyes again. His thoughts swirled, but he let the exhaustion take over.
Survive first. Everything else comes later.
Hope wasn't sure how much time had passed when he felt a firm grip on his shoulder, pulling him out of the depths of sleep. His eyes fluttered open, and for a brief moment, disorientation washed over him. The dim, flickering light of The Ashlands cast strange shadows against the jagged walls of their hideout, making everything look even more unfamiliar.
Kelvin was standing over him, his face unreadable in the gloom. He didn't say a word—he didn't need to. The slight nudge on Hope's shoulder was enough to convey the message. It was his turn to keep watch.
With a deep sigh, Hope forced himself up, his body protesting the movement. The stiffness in his muscles reminded him of the wounds he had sustained earlier, and though Kelvin's Memory medicine had done its job, the lingering soreness refused to fade completely.
Kelvin, clearly drained from the day's events, didn't wait for any acknowledgment. He simply collapsed onto the rough ground where Hope had been lying a moment ago. The exhaustion in his movements was clear—he was spent, his body finally giving in to the weight of fatigue.
Hope could hear his steady breathing within moments, already slipping into rest.
Rubbing his face, Hope shook his head a few times, trying to rid himself of the lingering pull of slumber. His mind was slow, sluggish, still caught between wakefulness and the remnants of whatever dream had been slipping through his thoughts.
Doesn't matter, he thought, rolling his shoulders and forcing himself to focus.
He turned toward the entrance of their hideout, carefully maneuvering his way forward without making too much noise. The last thing he needed was to wake Walker, who was already irritable enough.
A cold gust of wind swept in as he peered outside, and he involuntarily tensed.
The Ashlands were silent.
Unnaturally silent.
Hope had spent enough of his life navigating the outskirts of the city to know that true silence was something to be wary of. In the slums, where crime and violence lurked in every alley, a quiet night usually meant that something—or someone—was waiting in the darkness, just out of sight.
And here, in The Ashlands, that rule seemed to hold even more weight.
Despite the stillness, he could feel the weight of the land pressing down on him, the heavy, almost suffocating presence of something unseen watching from the shadows.
The cold was relentless. It wasn't just the ordinary chill of the night—it was something deeper, something that seeped into the bones and clung to the skin like a deathly embrace.
Hope pulled his tattered jacket closer around himself, though it did little to shield him from the cold. The air itself felt different here, thinner somehow, carrying with it an eerie stillness that made his instincts scream at him to stay alert.
His gaze drifted upward, toward the sky.
The Ashlands had no stars.
Instead, the sky was dominated by eight luminous moons, each casting a pale glow over the desolate landscape. Tonight, eight of them were visible, their soft radiance illuminating the ruins and jagged rock formations that stretched out into the distance.
The light was strange—brighter than the glow of a normal moon, yet diffused in a way that made it difficult to tell where the shadows truly ended. The shifting hues of silver and faint crimson painted an eerie picture of the wasteland, making it feel even more surreal.
Hope exhaled, watching as his breath turned to mist in the freezing air.
How long until morning?
Did mornings even exist here?
He had no real way of telling time. Back in the city, he had always relied on the position of the sun, the movement of the people, and the distant sounds of life stirring in the early hours.
But here, there was no sun. No real sense of the passing hours.
Just the moons. Just the cold. Just the unrelenting emptiness.
Hope tightened his grip on the rusted dagger he had scavenged earlier. The blade was dull, chipped in places, and nowhere near reliable. But it was still something.
As long as he had something in his hands, he wouldn't feel entirely defenseless.
His eyes flickered back to the landscape outside.
Ruins stretched out in all directions—jagged structures, broken pillars, remnants of what must have once been buildings. Some of them stood at odd angles, half-buried in the ashen soil, while others had completely crumbled, leaving only skeletal remains of their former forms.
A little further out, Hope could see the twisted remains of something that resembled a tree. Its branches—if they could even be called that—were brittle, blackened, and lifeless, as though they had been burned down to their very essence.
Nothing moved.
But that didn't mean nothing was there.
Stay alert.
If there was one thing he had learned from surviving in the outskirts, it was that danger never announced itself. It struck when you were least prepared—when you let your guard down, when you thought you were safe.