Crumbling

These past couple of days have been one big blur.

Wait — couple? Hasn't it only been two or three days? It feels like weeks.

She keeps telling me not to worry about it... but I still feel awful.

We had a plan. We had a rhythm. And I broke it.

She was forced to run errands alone, chased through half the city, all because I couldn't even set foot outside without feeling like my skin was on fire.

Now Io wants me to go out again — to get used to the crowds.

I get it. Really, I do.

We need me in a functional state again if we want to survive here. But understanding doesn’t make the idea any less terrifying.

Last time I ventured out, I ended up vomiting into a gutter like some kind of drunkard.

At least, Io will be with me.

She always is.

Keeping me alive.

Keeping me sane.

Deep breath.

"Ready to go?" Io asks, tilting her head slightly.

Her veil is already in place, tucked carefully over her hair. She looks calm, practical — like this is just another trip to the market.

I glance at the door like it’s a firing squad.

"Sure..." I say, voice not nearly as convincing as I want it to be.

She just nods. No teasing. No judgment.

Just us, together. Like always.

We make our way downstairs.

The inn is... livelier than it’s been in days.

Actual people. Moving around. Talking. Hauling bags and bundles down the creaky staircase.

For a brief, stupid second, I feel reassured.

Then I notice something strange:

They’re all leaving.

Not checking in. Not lingering for breakfast.

Leaving.

I slow down near the bottom step, scanning the common room.

At the counter, the innkeeper watching the exodus like a man seeing his last crops wither.

"You’re the only people left," he says flatly as we approach.

I can't tell if he’s sad about it, or relieved.

Io steps forward, voice steady. "Is something wrong? Can we stay longer if we need to?"

Good question. Because if the rats are fleeing the ship...

"I’m not throwing you out," the innkeeper says, wiping his hands on a rag. "You paid ahead. You’re fine."

Then he jerks his chin toward the door.

"They're leaving the city."

Leaving.

The word hangs in the air, heavier than it should be.

Io and I exchange a glance.

"Any particular reason?" I ask carefully.

The innkeeper shrugs like it’s obvious.

"Rumors. Bread's bad. People are getting sick. Fights in the squares…"

She turns back to the innkeeper.

"We’ll stay for now."

It’s not like we really have an option to leave now. We haven’t done anything to help the village.

He nods, not arguing.

We step out into the street.

The city feels... off.

Like it's holding its breath.

First real walk outside since the incident. First real attempt at facing the noise, the people, the storm of Presence.

I can do this.

I have to do this.

"Let’s go," Io says quietly beside me.

And we step into the city together.

###

So far, so good.

The street is familiar — I sat by the window yesterday, watching people pass like fish through a stream.

Their Presence hum was background noise. Manageable. Predictable.

But now we’re out in it.

Walking. Moving closer. No glass, no walls between us and them.

What happens if we get closer?

The feeling prickles at the edge of my senses, like radio static under the skin.

Not comfortable — but not violent, either.

Annoying. Bearable.

This is progress.

"So we know I can survive a side street," I say, puffing up a little, letting the pride creep into my voice.

Io glances over, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"Should I make a commemorative painting?" she teases.

I can't help it — I laugh. A real one, deep and unforced.

"I didn’t know you could paint," I shoot back, nudging her lightly with my shoulder.

"My house is still waiting for its finish, you know," Io says, keeping the playful tone. "Plenty of empty walls."

We turn slightly toward each other without stopping — just enough for our laughter to bubble up and mix between us.

For a moment, it feels like we’re just two normal people, not two exiles trying to survive a city teetering on the edge of chaos.

"You must be waiting for someone really special to show off for," I add, nudging her again.

"You should be the first to know," Io says, tilting her head dramatically, "that I have standards."

We both chuckle, the sound bouncing lightly off the stone walls of the narrow street.

For the first time in days, I feel alive.

Not just surviving — living.

And judging by the easy warmth on her face, she does too.

We reach the end of the street and prepare to merge into a bigger artery of the city.

The crowd noise thickens — voices, steps, carts, smells — but I’m ready.

Or at least, I think I am.

We turn the corner.

"Look at me go!" I announce, half-joking but honestly a little proud—

—and immediately get body-slammed by a fresh surge of Presence.

"Ha!" I yelp, almost hopping in place.

Nice going, genius. Announce your victory. Invite karma.

But... wait.

The flood doesn't drown me.

It hits, and then — softens.

What changed?

I glance sideways, and there she is.

Io, calm as a rock in the current.

Her hand, slipped naturally into mine.

Warm, steady.

I feel it now — not just the crowd’s chaotic buzz, but her Presence tethering me. Shielding me.

She did it again.

"I got too full of myself, didn’t I?" I mutter sheepishly.

Io gives me a look that somehow manages to say both 'obviously' and 'I'm still proud of you' at the same time.

"At least you're aware of that," she says, squeezing my hand lightly.

"You’re hopeless," she adds a second later.

"I’m hopeless," I echo at the exact same time, without missing a beat.

We both pause, then crack up — not loud enough to draw attention, just quiet shared laughter, blooming naturally between us like sunlight through mist.

We walk on.

I don’t let go of her hand.

Not for anything.

We weave deeper into the city — larger streets, heavier crowds — but with Io there, anchoring me, it's manageable.

The world hums, but it doesn’t roar.

"You know," I say after a while, feeling a little reckless, a little giddy, "I think we look like we’re on a date."

"Ohh?" Io raises an eyebrow. "And do married couples go on dates?"

She matches my playful tone perfectly — maybe even cranks it up.

Did we ever get this far in our teasing before?

It feels new. Alive. Addictive.

"Why wouldn’t they?" I counter. "And even if others don’t, it could be our thing. You know — to spice things up."

"Ohhh," she purrs, voice thick with mock scandal. "You need spicing up, do you?"

Before I can respond, she mischievously slips her hand from mine.

Instantly, it feels like stepping off a cliff.

A raw wave of chaotic Presence crashes into me.

Not overwhelming — not anymore — but enough to make my skin prickle and my heart jump.

Before I can stumble, Io catches my hand again, steadying me.

I blink at her, stunned.

She’s smirking like the cat that stole the cream.

"How’s that for spicing things up?" she says innocently.

I laugh, breathless.

"I deserved that," I admit.

"You sure did," she says, squeezing my hand one more time.

And just like that, the day feels less like a test and more like an adventure.

Like we’re not surviving the city —

We’re exploring it.

Together.

###

"Why exactly did you bring me here?" I ask as we step into the open stretch of the market square.

The wind cuts differently here — cooler somehow, more hollow.

It feels... wrong.

There’s no wool to sell. No errands to run. Are we shopping? Gathering information?

Or did she just want me to practice being around more people?

"A lot of people, a lot of things for you to feel," Io answers without looking back at me.

"But it seems quite..." she starts, brow furrowing slightly.

"Empty," I finish for her.

And it is.

There are still people milling about — a few merchants packing their carts, a few shoppers hurrying past — but compared to what we saw days ago?

It’s like the heart’s been ripped out of the city.

The colors seem dimmer.

The noise is thinner.

The spaces between people feel vast and unnatural.

"It's like we’re in a different part of town," Io mutters, scanning the thinning crowd.

Something is wrong.

Very wrong.

"What’s going on?" I say aloud, voice low. "First people from the inn leave, now this square is drying up."

"But why are the streets still crowded?" Io adds, her voice thoughtful, sharp.

She’s right. The side streets were bustling — workers, travelers, kids darting through crowds — but here?

The center of trade?

The city's beating heart?

Dead.

We make our way through the square, where not so long ago we jostled through thick crowds trying to sell our sacks of wool.

Back then, the market felt alive — overwhelming, yes, but alive.

Now?

The merchants are folding up their stalls like closing flowers at night.

Carts creak under heavy loads.

Voices are hushed, transactions hurried.

Eyes are wary, constantly scanning — not for customers, but for threats.

They aren’t just closing up for the day.

They’re running.

Running from what?

We cross the square without bumping into a single soul.

Io squeezes my hand slightly — a silent reassurance, or maybe a check to see if I’m still doing alright.

I squeeze back.

"Let’s ask him," Io says suddenly, nodding toward a figure struggling to strap down barrels onto a cart.

She angles our still-joined hands toward him.

It’s the merchant she sold the wool to, I realize.

The old man with the sharp eyes and kind smile.

Even he is leaving.

"Excuse me," Io says, steady but polite. "Are you leaving?"

The man glances up — recognition flickers across his face.

"Ohh, it’s you," he says, setting down the leather strap in his hands.

He wipes his forehead with a sleeve.

"Merchant’s intuition," he adds with a half-hearted chuckle.

"I think it's best to leave the city for now."

Merchant’s intuition. Not soldier’s orders. Not panic from rumors.

Instinct. Experience.

That’s… worse.

"How about you?" he asks, studying us carefully.

"We can't leave just yet," Io says calmly, even as a tightness edges into her voice.

The man nods — not surprised, but... sad, maybe.

"Where will you stay?" I find myself blurting. He’s a stranger, sure. But right now, he’s the only piece of kindness we’ve met in a city turning its back on itself.

"I have family in a village not far from here," he says, climbing up onto the driver’s bench of his cart.

"I’m sure I’ll figure something out."

He flicks the reins sharply. The cart jolts forward.

"Good luck," he calls back over his shoulder.

And just like that — he's gone.

We stand there for a moment.

The breeze tugs at Io’s veil.

A scrap of parchment dances along the stones.

The city creaks around us, like a ship in storm waters.

"Should we go to the church square?" I suggest finally, the words thick in my mouth.

If anything’s happening, if there are answers, it might be there.

Maybe — if we’re lucky — the church still holds some semblance of order.

Io just nods once, sharply.

Her serious face is fully in place now — the face she wears when there’s no more time for jokes.

She tugs my hand gently, guiding us forward.

We leave the hollow market behind, walking toward the heavy stone towers looming above the city.

I wonder what we’ll find waiting for us there.

###

Just when I thought I might have a normal day with Nate — a day to breathe, to walk without worrying — something had to happen.

Of course.

Something always happens.

And somehow, somehow... it keeps bringing me back here.

To the church.

Of all places.

Why can’t it ever be something slightly normal?

As we weave through the side streets toward the square, my thoughts start to drift — drawn by a quiet pull I can’t quite shake.

Should I check on her?

The kid.

The little girl from the orphanage.

Will she be alright?

If the orphanage is run by the church, it should be safe. Safer than most places, at least.

But if things in the city are unraveling, who knows how long even that safety will last?

I tell myself there’s no point worrying.

It would only be dangerous.

Getting involved would only make things worse.

We don’t know what’s coming. We don’t know who’s watching.

So why can’t I stop thinking about her?

What’s even her name? Did she ever have one?

Or did someone just… forget to give her one…

I scowl at the thought, brushing it away like a fly — but it clings.

Why her?

Why now?

After a while, the answer clicks into place, simple and obvious:

She’s the second stranger in this whole miserable world who treated me like a person.

No fear.

No suspicion.

No sideways glances.

Just a small hand.

A laugh.

A smile.

The first was Nate, of course.

Not that he really counts. Nate never counted — from the moment he appeared, he was always something... different.

Is this the type I’m destined to meet from now on?

Strays. Outsiders. People who don't quite fit.

I don’t have anything against it.

It’s just... surprising that it happened twice.

In a world that taught me to expect nothing but coldness, somehow — somehow — they found me anyway.

Did the girl see something in me?

Some buried familiarity?

Or was it just what kids do — trust first and question later?

Am I some kind of magnet for people who don’t belong?

Maybe I am.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all.

Nate’s hand squeezes mine lightly, grounding me back in the moment.

Ahead, the tower of the church looms larger against the sky.

The square opens before us, busy with movement, but somehow... off.

One thing at a time, I tell myself.

Whatever happens... I hope she's alright.

###

Io’s hand tightens slightly in mine.

She has that faraway look again — the one she gets when she’s thinking too hard or when something smells wrong.

Not surprising, given what this day has turned into.

We cross into the church square, and immediately I can tell:

Something’s off.

There are people here — plenty of them — but the energy is wrong.

It's heavy.

Like a storm about to break.

"You get that feeling?" I murmur under my breath.

Io’s gaze sharpens.

"Something bad is going to happen," she replies, voice low and certain.

We move closer, weaving carefully along the edges of the gathering crowd.

I scan the area.

The food distribution building is still there — the one where the church handed out food days ago.

But there’s no line.

No order.

Just a cluster of people near the doors, bodies packed tight, voices sharp, movements twitchy.

"There’s no food line," Io notes, her tone tight.

"But why are there still people?" I ask.

We linger for a second longer — just enough to catch the edge of something ugly in the air.

The tension isn't just worry.

It's hunger. Desperation. Rage.

The kind of cocktail that makes cities burn.

"I don't think we should get any closer," Io says, pulling slightly on my hand.

I feel it too — the shift in her Presence.

Not panic, but fear.

Sharp and cold, just under the surface.

I don’t argue. I’m also scared.

We cross the square, moving to the opposite side where another crowd has formed — smaller, tighter, angrier.

As we get closer, I realize they’ve circled two men.

The men are stumbling, swaying — one laughing, the other clawing at the air, eyes wide and unfocused.

"What are they saying?" Io asks, craning to catch the shouts.

I focus, trying to parse the words out of the chaotic hum.

"They're possessed!"

"Burn them!"

"It’s the devil’s work!"

I tighten my grip on her hand again.

"I don’t know," I admit grimly.

"But it’s not good."

Io stiffens beside me.

"Is that... one of mine?" she asks, voice a tight whisper.

She doesn’t have to finish the thought.

I know what she means.

If the crowd thinks these men are 'other,' if they blame outsiders for this sickness...

It doesn’t matter if they're wrong.

We need to get out of here.

Suddenly —

A loud crack — like wood splitting, or a door smashing in — rings out across the square.

"What was that?" I blurt.

"Look!" Io points sharply.

Across the way, the crowd near the food building has exploded into action.

Men with clubs are bashing at the doors, shoving, shouting.

They’re trying to break in.

"We need to go," I say, urgency flooding me.

Io nods once — all business — and we start to move.

But before we can get far—

"Stop!"

A shout cuts through the noise.

"Is that for us?" I hiss.

I glance over my shoulder.

A group of men in armor — red and metal — are shoving their way through the crowd.

Soldiers.

Not city guards — they look rougher, meaner.

Some have swords.

Others carry cudgels or hooks.

I don't know much about weapons, but I know enough to recognize trouble.

"I’ve seen them in the city," Io says grimly.

Her eyes narrow.

Not friendly.

"What will they do to them?" I ask — though part of me already knows I don't want the answer.

We exchange a look — the kind that says now is not the time to find out.

We run.

As we bolt for the street, I risk one last glance over my shoulder.

The soldiers are drawing weapons as they move.

The mob by the food hall is smashing in the doors.

And in the circle where the two men stumble?

Someone has brought a torch.

The flames snap viciously in the breeze.

More people are pouring into the square now —

Some shouting.

Some shoving.

Some simply standing there, eyes wide, caught between fear and hunger.

A match has been struck.

And there’s too much dry wood around.

Io tugs harder on my hand.

We run.

Away from the crowds.

Away from the fire.

###

"Lead the way! I’ll get lost!" I shout to Io over the roar of the crowd.

She barely glances back, pulling ahead, dragging me behind her.

We can’t get separated.

Not now.

The sounds of the street are getting worse —

The crash of broken wood, the panicked screams of fleeing people, the heavy thud-thud-thud of boots pounding against cobblestones.

Armor clinks somewhere too close for comfort.

“There!" Io yells, jerking us into a narrow side street.

Other people are already here, darting between buildings, clutching children, bags, whatever they could grab.

The city is coming apart at the seams.

Will we even make it back to the inn in time?

Will it even still be safe when we do?

We weave through the crowd, trying not to trip, not to fall.

The constant pulse of Presence — the emotions of the mob — crashes around me, nearly drowning me.

But underneath it —

Something else.

Something sharper.

More focused.

"Io!" I shout, yanking slightly on her hand. "Something’s wrong!"

"Not now!" she snaps back. "You have to get through it!"

"No — not me. Someone’s here!" I shout again.

She pulls up short, eyes scanning me.

And then — slowly — she nods.

"I feel it too."

We turn, eyes darting between alleyways and crumbling walls.

It’s not the crowd.

It’s not Io.

It’s something... someone.

Close.

We stumble forward, searching —

Time slipping between our fingers.

If we stay here too long, we’ll get caught between mobs, soldiers... worse.

And then — faint — a sob.

I freeze.

There, pressed tight against a crumbling wall — half-hidden behind a barrel — a small, blonde girl curls into herself, tears streaming down her dusty face.

"Here!" I shout, tugging Io toward her.

My heart hammers painfully.

Is that—?

"The kid! From the orphanage!" Io gasps.

Even through the chaos, I can see it —

Recognition flashing across Io’s face.

She crouches low, trying to make herself small, non-threatening.

She pulls a strand of her blonde hair loose from beneath the veil and holds it out like a flag of truce.

"Hey, hey... remember me?" Io says gently, her voice barely audible over the rising roar.

The little girl looks up — wide blue eyes full of terror.

A tiny, broken sound escapes her lips — almost a yelp — but she doesn't pull away.

Io flashes me a look.

A nod.

That’s it.

No words needed.

We’re taking her.

"In the name of Lord Rhenault — stop!"

A bellow cuts through the chaos.

I spin around —

Down at the mouth of the street, soldiers in red and steel are forcing their way through the panicked crowd.

Swords drawn.

No mercy.

The screams are louder now, desperate and wild.

No more time.

I crouch next to the girl.

"Hey... we’re going to help you," I say as gently as I can, holding out my arms.

"I’m going to pick you up now, alright?"

She stares at me for a heartbeat.

Then — a tiny, trembling nod.

I scoop her up carefully, cradling her with one arm — the other still clutching Io’s hand like a lifeline.

"Hold on tight," I whisper to her, trying not to sound panicked.

Her small hands clutch desperately at my jacket.

"Let’s go!" I bark at Io.

She’s already moving — pulling me through the twisting alleys, taking every sharp turn she can find to throw off any pursuit.

We run.

We run from the soldiers.

From the mobs.

From the collapse of everything we thought we understood about this city.

"Hold on — just a little longer," I murmur to the sobbing girl, as much for myself as for her.

"Almost there!" Io shouts.

I recognize the street — the crooked shutters, the worn stones.

The inn.

Safety. Maybe.

"Hey! Hey!"

The innkeeper leans out of the door, waving us over wildly.

We don’t slow down.

We burst through the door, nearly bowling him over.

"Help me!" the innkeeper shouts, already pushing furniture toward the entrance.

I shove the girl into Io’s arms.

"Take her upstairs!" I bark.

Io doesn’t hesitate — she clutches the girl against her chest and bolts up the stairs toward our room.

I spin back.

The innkeeper is pointing frantically at a heavy wooden table.

Without a word, I rush over and grab one end.

Together, we slam it against the door, shoving anything else we can find into a rough barricade.

"Go to your room," the innkeeper grunts, adjusting the table.

"I’ll stay down here. Don’t worry — it’s not the first time I’ve seen something like this."

I don’t know if it’s meant to be comforting.

It really isn’t.

I sprint up the stairs, heart hammering against my ribs.

Into our room.

Slam the door.

Drag a chest across it.

Anything to buy us time.

Finally — finally — I let my legs give out.

I slide down against the wall, gasping for breath.

Across the room, Io is sitting on the bed, clutching the little girl tightly in her arms.

The girl sobs quietly, face buried in Io’s chest.

Io rocks her gently, whispering something I can't quite hear.

We’re bruised.

Exhausted.

Half-shattered.

But we’re here.

We’re alive.

And somehow —

Somehow —

We’re not alone anymore.