Chapter 12:
The Weight of Ordinary
Glory of Ash
---
The morning Scrape came late, but no one seemed to mind.
Luke stood on the catwalk, hands resting on the cold railing, watching the village wake under a fog that had thinned just enough to feel suspicious.
A woman hung laundry between two Slope-Back roofs. Children kicked a stone near the Hearth Hall, their laughter thin but real. For a moment, it almost looked normal.
Luke coughed.
It didn’t pass quickly this time. He pressed his fist to his chest until the burn settled back down where it always lived now.
“Hey. You. Roof boy.”
He looked down.
A woman stood below the catwalk, hands on her hips, like she’d been waiting there a while.
“You gonna stand there all day or come down and help?”
“Help with what?”
She pointed to a cart stacked with crates. “Upper Tier supplies. Keepers want them moved before evening.”
Luke hesitated only a moment longer than he should have.
Then he climbed down.
---
The crate was heavier than it looked.
He adjusted it on his shoulder as he followed her.
“My name’s Silla,” she said. “You’re Luke.”
“I know.”
She glanced at him. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
He didn’t respond. Not because he was being difficult—because talking felt like spending something he didn’t have much of.
Behind them, two old women argued near the cistern.
“Lift’s been broken since before the last thaw—”
“It breaks every week because no one fixes it properly—”
“Because no one ever fixes anything properly.”
Luke walked past without looking up.
Silla snorted. “That’s basically the village motto.”
“It feels like it.”
That was more than he usually said. He noticed it.
So did she.
---
The stairs were crowded.
Children ran through the flow of people like they belonged to a different world. One nearly collided with Luke.
“Watch it!” she snapped.
“Watch yourself,” Luke said automatically.
She stuck out her tongue and vanished into the crowd.
Silla laughed. “She’ll end up running the place one day.”
“Or breaking it faster.”
“That’s also a job.”
---
At the distribution point, the line was already long.
Luke set down his crate and found himself standing in it without remembering choosing to.
He almost stepped out.
But didn’t.
A grey-haired woman glanced back at him. “You’re not in line.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t stand like you are.”
He should have moved. He didn’t.
The line crept forward.
A man ahead argued over rationing.
“My wife is sick. She needs more—”
“Everyone is sick,” the Keeper said flatly. “Next.”
The man stood there too long before taking his bundle.
Luke watched him walk away like something had been removed from him that wasn’t visible.
Then Luke stepped out of the line.
As if waking up.
---
He found the market near the old well.
It wasn’t lively. Nothing was. But it moved—slow exchanges, quiet bargaining, survival disguised as routine.
A woman grabbed his sleeve.
“You.”
He turned.
She pressed a wrapped bundle into his hands.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he said.
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because you look like you forget to eat.”
He almost denied it.
Didn’t.
The bread was warm through the cloth.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t thank me,” she replied. “Eat it before you lose it.”
He walked away holding it tighter than necessary.
---
The house was colder than the morning outside.
Luke stood in the doorway longer than usual.
Liara was already there.
“You’re late.”
“I was working.”
“You’re always working.”
He didn’t argue.
The bread sat on the table while Liara moved through the hearth, lighting it with tired precision.
“You should rest,” he said.
“I will. After you eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She looked at him.
“Liar.”
That word landed heavier than it should have.
He sat.
Silence stretched.
Then—
“I hate her,” Liara said suddenly.
Luke looked up.
“For leaving you like this,” she continued, voice tight. “For leaving everything on you. And pretending that’s normal.”
Luke’s fingers tightened slightly.
“That’s not her fault,” he said.
“Whose fault is it then?”
He didn’t answer.
Because there wasn’t a clean answer.
Liara stood, pulled out a small vial from the cupboard, and placed it on the table.
Pale yellow.
Luke didn’t touch it yet.
“I took it,” she said. “From the Ward supplies. No one notices small amounts.”
“You stole it.”
“I borrowed it from people who won’t die faster because of one vial.”
Luke exhaled slowly.
“You’re crossing lines.”
“I’m crossing survival.”
That shut him up more effectively than anger.
---
He left with the vial anyway.
Not because he agreed.
Because he didn’t have the energy to refuse something that might help him breathe.
---
The distribution hall was louder than expected.
Luke took grain without looking at anyone.
A group of young men near the steps noticed him.
“You’re going into the forest, right?” one called.
Luke didn’t stop.
“That’s what I heard,” the man continued, amused. “Seal-checker thinks he’s a hunter now.”
Luke kept walking.
But he felt it—how quickly people turned plans into stories.
And stories into expectations.
---
He didn’t mean to end up at the Harkin household.
But he did.
He stopped outside the door.
Inside: noise, warmth, life pretending it wasn’t temporary.
He should have left.
He didn’t.
---
Inside, Jabu was laughing too loudly at something that didn’t matter.
Harkin was relaxed. Too relaxed. Like someone borrowing peace.
Their father watched from the end of the table like he was counting losses no one else could see yet.
Jabu turned.
“Luke!”
The word hit the room awkwardly. Luke stepped slightly back into shadow.
Harkin noticed anyway.
Their eyes met briefly.
Neither acknowledged it.
---
Later, the laughter thinned.
The father followed Harkin into the kitchen.
Luke stayed just long enough to hear the tone shift.
“You’re not a hero,” the old man said.
Harkin didn’t look at him.
“I never said I was.”
“But you act like it.”
That line lingered.
Luke understood it differently than the father intended.
---
Luke left before it resolved.
Because he already knew what unresolved things felt like.
---
The tunnels were quieter now.
He walked alone, grain in one arm, medicine in the other pocket, lungs tight, thoughts uneven.
The village noise faded behind him.
Then Leon appeared at the Archives door.
“You’re late.”
Luke gave a small shrug.
Leon didn’t question it.
He rarely did.
The key turned.
The door opened.
Darkness waited like it had been there longer than stone.
Luke stepped forward.
And this time—
he felt it.
Not fear.
Not hesitation.
Just the awareness that ordinary was already ending.
The door closed behind him
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