The morning air in Bastion is sharp and cold, a stark contrast to the relentless heat of the sun that dominates the day. I've learned to move early, to avoid the oppressive glare and the crowded streets. Today, though, my steps carry more purpose.
I'm leaving Bastion.
The decision wasn't easy, but the signs are clear. The watchers are coming, and Bastion's walls won't hold forever. It's not safe here. Maybe it never was. I need to be ready when the time comes, and that means gathering supplies and preparing to survive beyond these walls.
The thought of the wilds sends a shiver down my spine. It's no secret what lies beyond Bastion. Ruins of cities swallowed by nature, scorched plains where nothing grows, and shadows that stretch farther than they should. Yet, even with all its dangers, the wild feels safer than this crumbling fortress.
I spend the morning moving through Bastion's market, keeping to the edges where the less reputable merchants sell their goods. My coin pouch is light, but I've learned to barter. A few scraps of metal I scavenged yesterday get me a sturdy knife. A threadbare backpack costs me the last of my credits. It's not much, but it'll have to do.
"You planning a trip?" the merchant asks as he hands me the bag, his gaze lingering on me longer than I like.
"Something like that," I reply, avoiding his eyes.
He chuckles, a sound that grates on my nerves. "Good luck out there. You'll need it."
I don't respond. I sling the backpack over my shoulder and slip back into the crowd, the merchant's laughter echoing in my ears.
---
By midday, I've gathered the essentials: a water canteen, a few packets of dried food, and a small firestarter. It's not enough for long-term survival, but it's a start. As I make my way toward the city's edge, where the walls loom high and imposing, I feel the weight of my decision settling on me. Leaving Bastion means leaving behind whatever fragile safety it offers. It means stepping into the unknown.
I'm lost in thought when I hear her voice again.
"You're making the right choice."
I spin around, my hand instinctively dropping to the knife at my side. She's there, leaning against the shadowed corner of a crumbling building, her hood pulled low over her face. It's the woman from the alley.
"You're following me now?" I ask, my tone sharper than I intended.
She doesn't seem bothered. Instead, she steps closer, her movements deliberate and calm. "You're not the only one leaving."
Her words catch me off guard. "What do you mean?"
"There are others," she says, her voice low but steady. "People like us. Survivors, exiles We've seen the watchers. We know what's coming."
I narrow my eyes at her. "And what exactly are we supposed to do about it?"
"Leave," she says simply. "Together. There's strength in numbers. You'll never survive out there alone."
Her words sting, not because they're cruel, but because they're true. I've seen what's out there, and it's far worse than anything I've faced within Bastion's walls. Still, something about her unnerves me.
"Why should I trust you?" I ask.
She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp, calculating eyes. "Because you don't have a choice."
The silence stretches between us, heavy and unyielding. Finally, she steps back into the shadows, her figure blending seamlessly with the dim light. "We're leaving at dawn. If you're smart, you'll join us."
And just like that, she's gone.
---
I stand there for a long moment, her words replaying in my mind. Others like me. Survivors. The idea is both comforting and terrifying. I've spent so long running, trusting no one, that the thought of relying on strangers feels foreign. But she's right. I won't survive out there alone.
As the sun dips lower in the sky, I make my way back to the small room I've been renting. It's little more than a cot and a cracked window, but it's enough for one night. I sit on the edge of the cot, staring at the scars on my arm. "RUN." The word feels more like a command than a warning now.
Outside, the city begins to quiet, the hum of activity giving way to an uneasy stillness. I lie back, staring at the ceiling as the weight of the day presses down on me. Tomorrow, I'll have to decide. Stay and hope Bastion can withstand what's coming, or leave and face the unknown with people I don't trust.
The faint sound of wind rattles the window, and for a moment, I imagine it carrying whispers from the wilds. Whispers of a world long lost, of cities turned to ash, of an earth that will never heal. This is what's left. A broken world. A dying sun.
And shadows that will never stop chasing us.