They were returning to Coren's old home. She had offered to try gating them there using the method she learnt from the Watcher's training, but her training reactor didn't provide enough energy for such a task. Instead, they had to rely on the tried-and-true method of travel.
The FusionRider hummed softly as it slowed to a stop on the outskirts of the tribe's territory. The armoured vehicle had served them well on their days-long journey, cutting through rough terrain and ensuring their survival against the unpredictable wildlife of Earth's ruins. But Lyra insisted they leave it behind before approaching the camp.
"We don't want to make them think we're here to intimidate them," Lyra had said, her voice firm as they disembarked.
Coren nodded, though unease twisted in her stomach as she adjusted the strap of her satchel. "If they even let us in," she muttered, her eyes scanning the horizon ahead.
They walked the remaining distance on foot, the air heavy with tension. The landscape around them shifted—cracked roads overgrown with vegetation gave way to makeshift paths marked by weathered totems and scavenged tech. Coren's heart pounded in her chest as they neared the camp, her mind flooded with memories of her childhood. The harsh voices, the sharp glances, the constant fight for survival—it all came rushing back.
Before they could get any closer, a sharp voice rang out. "Stop right there!"
Coren and Lyra stopped as a figure emerged from the brush, gun in hand and eyes narrowed in suspicion. They had both known he was there thanks to the use of their search song. The man was tall and lean, his sun-darkened skin marked by years of exposure to the harsh environment. His clothes were patched together from scavenged materials, but it was the birthmark on his temple—a jagged streak like a lightning bolt—that caught Coren's attention.
Her breath hitched. "Seb?"
The man's eyes widened briefly, and his grip on the spear faltered for just a moment. "Coren?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief.
A cautious smile crept onto Coren's face. "I can't believe it's you. I remember when we used to climb that broken wind turbine near the old bridge. You always said you could reach the top first, but you'd chicken out halfway."
Seb's lips twitched as if he were suppressing a smile, but the warmth in his expression disappeared just as quickly as it had come. His grip on the gun tightened, and his stance grew rigid. "You shouldn't have come back," he said coldly. "You don't belong here anymore."
Coreen recoiled, stunned by the words. "Seb… what are you talking about?"
"You abandoned us," Seb spat, his voice filled with bitterness. "You left the camp. Left us. While we were struggling to survive, you were off living in comfort with the other worlder."
"It wasn't like that," Coren said firmly, her eyes narrowing as she stepped closer to Seb. "Any kid would have taken that offer, and you know it. There was more out there than scavenging scraps and barely surviving, and I don't regret leaving. We were all meant for more than this" she said while gesturing to the general area.
Seb's expression darkened. "Then tell that to Todd," he snapped, his voice low and sharp.
Coren flinched but didn't back down. Her fingers brushed the faint scar on her cheek, a bitter reminder of a past she'd tried to leave behind. "That was an accident, and you know it," she said, her voice quieter but no less resolute. "I've lived with it every day since. You don't get to pin all of that on me."
Seb's jaw tightened, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was heavy, charged with years of pain and anger left unresolved.
Before the tension could escalate further, a voice cut through the air. "Enough, Seb."
An older woman emerged from one of the nearby huts, her back slightly hunched but her movements deliberate. Her silver-streaked hair was tied back, and her eyes, sharp and discerning, flicked between Coren and Lyra before settling on Seb.
"Lower your weapon," the elder said firmly.
Seb hesitated but eventually obeyed, stepping back with a scowl.
The elder turned her attention to Coren, her gaze softening slightly. "You've grown," she said simply.
Coren nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "Elder Nara…"
Nara studied her for a moment, then gestured toward the largest hut in the camp. "Come. We have much to discuss."
Lyra glanced at Coren, who nodded hesitantly. Together, they followed the elder, leaving Seb behind to brood in silence. As they walked through the camp, Coren couldn't help but feel the stares from the other tribespeople. Whispers followed them, some curious, others hostile.
Once inside the hut, the elder motioned for them to sit around a low table. The space was cluttered but orderly, filled with relics and tools that spoke of the tribe's resourcefulness. A small fire crackled in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
"Why are you here, child?" Nara asked, her tone neither warm nor accusatory, but measured.
Coren hesitated, glancing at Lyra before answering. "We're looking for answers," she said carefully. "Something is happening—something bigger than all of us. We need help."
Nara's expression remained unreadable. "Help with what?"
Coren took a deep breath, steadying herself. "We're here to uncover the truth about Earth—and about humanity. The Association doesn't tell the whole story, and we believe there's something here that's been forgotten. Something your tribes might remember, or still carry in your traditions."
Nara's eyes narrowed, her gaze sharp and sceptical. "And you think we're just holding onto the answers you're too blind to see?"
"Not answers," Lyra said, her voice steady and measured. "But pieces. Fragments of knowledge we've lost. What you know could help us understand the bigger picture—what happened here and why it was left behind."
Nara leaned back, crossing her arms as she studied them. "The Association only comes here to take. They don't help, and they certainly don't listen. Why should we believe you're any different? You still wear their uniform. You still work for them."
Coren met Nara's piercing gaze, her chest tightening at the accusation. She hesitated, glancing at Lyra, who gave her a small nod. Taking a breath, Coren stepped forward.
"Because I'm not just with the Association," she said firmly, her tone rich with conviction. "I'm from here. This is my home. I've lived in these ruins, scavenged from them, survived them. I know what Earth is—and what it could still be. I may wear this uniform, but my loyalty isn't to the Association. It's to the truth, to this planet, and to the people who still live here. I'm one of you, no matter how far I've gone."
Nara's eyes softened, but her voice remained guarded. "Big words. How do we know they're not just that—words?"
"They're not," Coren replied, her voice unwavering. "I'm standing here, aren't I? Not because they sent me, but because I chose to come back. I came back for answers, for understanding—for something that connects all of us. If you can't trust that yet, fine. But at least give us the chance to prove we're not like them."
The elder regarded Coren in silence, her expression unreadable as she weighed the sincerity in her words. Finally, she shifted her focus to Lyra.
"And you?" Nara asked, her tone still sharp. "You're not from here. What's your stake in all this?"
Lyra met Nara's gaze without hesitation. "Resourcefulness, determination, and the will to see through the Association's lies," she said plainly. "I'm here because I believe in what Coren is trying to do. And if you give us a chance, maybe we can bring something back to the tribe—something that makes all of this worth it."
Nara studied them both for another long moment before speaking. "We'll see," she said cryptically. Nara let out a sigh before rising to her feet. "Rest for the night. We'll speak again in the morning."
As Coren and Lyra left the hut, the tension lingered between them like a storm cloud. Coren's gaze drifted toward the camp's edge, where Seb stood, his posture rigid, his face a blend of anger and something harder to place—betrayal, perhaps, or disappointment.
"I told you they wouldn't trust me," Coren muttered, her voice low as they made their way back to their temporary shelter.
"They don't have to trust you," Lyra said softly, her tone carrying a steady reassurance. "They just need to believe in what we're trying to do."
Coren sighed, her shoulders slumping as her gaze fell to the dirt path beneath her boots. "I hope that's enough."
The sun hung low on the horizon, its golden rays spilling across the camp in warm, diffused light. The gentle hum of life filled the air—children's laughter drifted faintly on the breeze, the rhythmic clink of tools being repaired mixed with the quiet murmur of conversations. Despite the day's weight, the camp felt alive, a heartbeat pulsing through the resilience of its people.
"I want to see the Wall of Memories," Coren said abruptly. Her voice was quiet, but there was a resolute edge to it that caught Lyra off guard.
Lyra turned to her, brows lifting slightly. She opened her mouth to question the sudden request, but stopped when she met Coren's eyes. They were dark with an emotion Lyra couldn't quite name—grief, perhaps, or determination—but it was heavy, and it left no room for argument.
"All right," Lyra said after a moment, her tone gentle. "Let's go."
They walked in silence through the camp, weaving between the makeshift homes patched together from scavenged metal and cloth, their edges softened by time and necessity. Every object, every wall, bore the fingerprints of survival—pieces of ancient technology repurposed into tools, weapons, and defences. The path was familiar to Coren, but it felt distant, like stepping through the fog of a half-forgotten dream.
The Wall of Memories came into view at the camp's edge, its weathered surface catching the last light of the setting sun. It was a long, rusted slab of metal, salvaged from some long-dismantled structure. Names had been painstakingly etched into its surface, rows upon rows of them, each paired with a date of birth and, for many, a date of death.
Coren approached slowly, her steps growing hesitant as her eyes traced the uneven lines of carved letters. She felt the weight of the wall—not just its physical presence, but the lives it represented. Each name was a story, a loss, a person who had fought and lived and, ultimately, been claimed by a harsh world.
Lyra stood quietly beside her, allowing the moment to stretch in silence. This was a place that demanded reverence, where words felt inadequate against the enormity of what the wall carried.
Coren hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest as she took a step closer. Her fingers brushed the cool surface of the wall, tracing over the names as she walked slowly along its length.
Lyra hung back, giving her space. She leaned against a nearby post, her arms crossed as she watched Coren with quiet understanding.
Coren stopped abruptly, her hand resting over two names etched side by side: Mira Wrell and Joran Drax. Her parents.
Her breath caught as she read the dates. She had seen them before—years ago, when she was still a child—but the sight of them now felt different. The pain was no longer sharp, no longer fresh, but it was there, an ache that had never fully healed.
"They always said they'd make it," Coren murmured, her voice trembling slightly. "That they'd protect me, no matter what." She ran her fingers over their names, her lips pressing into a thin line.
She didn't linger long. There were more names to find, ones she had come here for.
Further down the wall, she stopped again, her hand shaking slightly as it came to rest over another name: Todd Hyren.
Memories of him washed over her. She could still see his grin, that reckless confidence that always got them into trouble. And she could still see his face the last time she'd seen him—twisted in pain, his body broken lying on top of her after the accident.
Her fingers traced over his death date, a lump forming in her throat. "I didn't mean for it to happen, I didn't know the structure was that unstable," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You know that, right?"
The silence offered no response, but she stayed there for a moment longer, her forehead leaning gently against the wall.
She traced her fingers over a few more names—children who hadn't survived, claimed by the unforgiving harshness of the ruins.
Finally, she moved on. Her footsteps slowed as she approached the far end of the wall, where her own name was etched: Coren Drax.
Her birth date was there, but her death date had been replaced with a single, harsh line drawn through her name.
She stared at it, her heart sinking. It felt final, like a declaration that she no longer belonged here.
"They crossed me out," she said quietly, her voice hollow.
Lyra approached her cautiously, standing just behind her. "Coren…"
"It's fine," Coren said quickly, though the quiver in her voice betrayed her. "I left. I can't blame them for treating me like I'm dead."
She traced the line over her name, her brow furrowed as memories flooded her mind—memories of a younger version of herself, desperate to leave the camp, to escape the struggle and pain that defined her childhood. Back then, she couldn't wait to leave, to see what the world beyond the camp had to offer.
But now…
"Maybe I could've done more," she said softly, almost to herself. "Maybe I should've stayed in touch. Maybe if I'd tried harder…"
Lyra placed a hand on her shoulder. "You were a child, Coren. You did what any child would've done. You took the chance to survive."
Coren shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "Survive, sure. But I could've written. I could've sent messages. I could've come back. I didn't have to disappear completely."
Lyra didn't argue. Instead, she gave Coren's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
"You're here now," Lyra said after a moment. "That's what matters. You can't change the past, Coren, I also share some of the blame, I could have guided you better."
Coren let out a long breath, stepping back from the wall. "I don't know if they'll ever forgive me," she admitted.
Lyra offered her a small smile. "Maybe not. But forgiveness isn't the same as moving forward. You don't need their forgiveness to figure out where you stand."
Coren nodded slowly, her gaze lingering on her name one last time. The crossed-out letters stared back at her, a stark reminder of how much had changed—and how much hadn't.
As they turned to leave, Coren couldn't help but feel like the wall was watching her, its names whispering stories she would never fully understand.
For better or worse, she was a part of this place—and it was a part of her.