The trek to town was wrapped in an uneasy silence. Our newfound companions made few attempts at conversation, perhaps sensing our reluctance to engage. Occasional whispers passed between them, but they seemed content to let the awkward quiet reign as we made our way toward Dawns Cross.
I'd heard of Dawns Cross before – a medium-sized town that, under normal circumstances, might have been a welcome sight. But its proximity to Rublesville sent a chill down my spine. We were still too close to where it all began, too close to the order. Every instinct screamed that we needed to keep moving, to put as much distance as possible between us and our pursuers.
The town's outskirts came into view, buildings silhouetted against the night sky. Our group came to a stop at the edge of town, and the man who seemed to be their leader turned to face us. His weathered face bore an expression of genuine concern as he asked, "Do you kids live around here?"
"No, w-we're just passing through," I replied, maintaining my facade of timidity.
His brow furrowed, confusion and worry etching deeper lines into his face. "Just passing through? You mean to tell me you kids are traveling alone? And with little to no gear?" His voice rose with each question, anger seeping in – not at us, I realized, but at the situation. "What the hell are you kids thinking?"
I kept my expression carefully blank, projecting an air of naive ignorance. Inside, my mind raced through possible explanations, each one seeming more implausible than the last. How could I explain our situation without revealing too much? How could I make our presence here make sense to these adults who saw only three unprepared kids?
The man must have read the hesitation in my face because he let out a heavy sigh and softened his approach. "Alright, I won't press for you kids to tell me nothing, but at least let us treat you to a meal and see what we can do to assist you on your travels."
I stood frozen, warring with myself. In both my lives – this one and the one before – acts of kindness had often concealed darker motives. Experience had taught me that true altruism was rare, if it existed at all. Trust had become a luxury I couldn't afford, no matter how sincere someone appeared.
"Thank you, but we'll be—" My polite refusal was cut short by an embarrassingly loud growl from Maya's stomach. She flushed red, ducking her head as the sound seemed to echo in the quiet night air.
The interruption forced me to reassess our situation. Hunger gnawed at my own stomach, and we had no money, no resources, and – I had to admit – no real idea how to obtain either. For all our training, for all the power we'd developed under Ms. Vera's guidance, we were still sheltered children in many ways. Our education had focused on control, on power, on survival against supernatural threats. But no one had taught us how to navigate the mundane world, how to blend in, how to simply... live.
I glanced at my companions, seeing the same exhaustion and hunger in their eyes that I felt in my bones. Perhaps, I reasoned, we could use this opportunity. Even if we couldn't trust these people completely, we could gather information. Learn about the area, about recent events, about any rumors of unusual activity that might help us stay ahead of our pursuers.
And a warm meal... well, that might help us think more clearly about our next move.
"Actually," I said, softening my voice and letting some genuine gratitude seep through, "we would really appreciate that. Thank you."
As we followed them deeper into town, I kept my guard up, watching for any sign of deception or threat. But I couldn't help wondering: in a world that had already proven far more dangerous than we'd imagined, could we afford to reject every offered hand?