Andy moved with the current of people through the bazaar, letting the flow of bodies carry him along the narrow stone streets.

  The market was alive.

  Vendors shouted over one another, their voices echoing between hanging cloth canopies and rusted metal awnings. Stalls overflowed with scavenged goods—old-world tools, dried meats, coils of wiring, chipped armor plates, jars of preserved fungus, stacks of patched clothing. People crowded around the tables, hands moving quickly, trading coins, bartering, arguing.

  The city was spending.

  Bastion’s supplies had already begun to ripple through Aurelia, and the effect was immediate. Crates stamped with Vanguard seals were being opened in full view of the public. Guards stood nearby, not just for security—but for visibility. For reassurance.

  Trade was blooming.

  But beneath it all, Andy felt the tension.

  People were buying more than usual. Stocking up. Talking in tight clusters. Glancing at the walls, the sky, the Vanguard patrols passing through the square.

  Victory or not, the world outside the ring still pressed in.

  The weather was mild, the air cooler than usual, but Andy kept his jacket on. It gave him a sense of distance, of anonymity. Without it, he felt exposed.

  He thought back to the briefing Lance had given earlier.

  Right now, command wants to keep Bastion as the victory.

  There are still too many things to prepare.

  So we have a bit of time.

  The words echoed in his mind as he passed a stall selling old batteries and cracked datapads.

  With the supplies brought back, the mayor will use this to show the city is doing better.

  But the streets are still unstable.

  Splinter factions from the Talon’s crew, Vin’s people—still causing trouble.

  Racketeering. Blackmail. Smuggling. Murder.

  Andy watched a pair of city guards move through the crowd. Their white combat armor gleamed even in the dusty light, helmets sealed, rifles slung across their chests. People made space for them automatically.

  Authority. Order. Or at least the appearance of it.

  Patrols keep finding new tunnel breaches, Lance had said. They patch one hole, two more open somewhere else. Happens every week.

  Andy passed a narrow alley and instinctively glanced down it. Dark. Quiet. Empty for now.

  There’s probably a leak inside the Vanguard, Lance had continued. Too many things going wrong in the right places.

  That thought still sat uneasily in Andy’s chest.

  A leak.

  Inside the Vanguard.

  He shook it off and kept walking.

  Lance’s voice echoed in his memory again, clearer this time, like the man was standing beside him.

  Use this time to rest and refit. Hale, Thread, Iris, and you—figure out more about your ability. See what it does. See what it doesn’t.

  The rest of the team’s got their own work.

  Andy passed a food stall. Steam rose from a pot of spiced broth. The smell hit him all at once—warm, savory, comforting. His stomach tightened, suddenly aware of how long it had been since he’d eaten something that wasn’t rationed field paste.

  He almost stopped.

  But Lance’s voice cut in again, this time not a memory—his earpiece crackled to life.

  “Give us a general location and a time you expect to be back. If you miss that window, we start looking for you.”

  Andy smiled faintly. That sounded about right.

  A group of kids ran past him, laughing, one of them carrying a scrap-metal toy shaped like a Vanguard soldier.

  Andy stepped aside to let them pass.

  “And one more thing,” Lance continued. “The mayor and the commander are both trying to suppress what happened out there. At least for now.”

  Andy’s chest tightened slightly.

  “Even the Temple of Light agreed,” Lance said, “on the condition that they get to announce it themselves. When that’ll be, I don’t know. But expect it.”

  Andy imagined it—the priests, the crowds, the whispers spreading like wildfire.

  The boy who stopped the storm.

  The chosen one.

  The miracle.

  He pulled his jacket tighter around himself.

  “Everyone stay safe out there,” Lance finished. “And let’s get ready for the next one.”

  The channel went quiet.

  Andy exhaled slowly and continued through the bazaar.

  He passed a stall selling salvaged weapon parts. Another selling dried fruit from the hydroponic district. A group of merchants haggled loudly over a crate of old-world tools.

  Life went on.

  He caught a few glances as he moved through the crowd. Nothing obvious. Just people looking a second too long. As if trying to place him.

  Did they know?

  Or was that just in his head now?

  He kept walking, deeper into the market, the noise and motion of the city folding around him like a living thing.

  Andy didn’t realize he was smiling until someone clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Thought that was you.”

  He turned.

  Tobin stood there, a half-eaten skewer in one hand and the same crooked grin he’d worn since their first day in the scrubs. His jacket was slung over one shoulder, grease stains still marking the sleeves. Jorin stood just behind him, taller, quieter, eyes already scanning Andy from head to toe like he was checking for hidden damage.

  “Gods,” Tobin said. “You look like you wrestled a storm and lost.”

  Andy huffed a small laugh. “Feels about right.”

  Jorin’s expression softened. “You’re alive. That’s enough.”

  For a moment, the noise of the bazaar seemed to fade. The tension in Andy’s shoulders eased without him realizing it.

  “Come on,” Tobin said, grabbing his sleeve. “You look like you haven’t eaten anything that didn’t come out of a tube.”

  They pulled him deeper into the market, weaving between stalls and clusters of shoppers. The air was thick with smells—fried dough, charred meat, spiced broth, and the metallic tang of freshly cut scrap.

  A vendor shouted prices over the hiss of a cooking pan. Another slammed a crate shut, sealing away a shipment of preserved mushrooms.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Tobin stopped at a stall where skewers of roasted meat hung over a small, glowing grill. The vendor—a broad woman with soot-darkened hands—nodded at them.

  “Three,” Tobin said, tossing a few coins onto the counter.

  She handed over the skewers without a word.

  Steam curled upward as Andy accepted his. The smell hit him all at once—rich, smoky, real. His stomach tightened.

  “Go on,” Tobin said. “Before it cools.”

  Andy took a bite.

  The meat was tender, salty, and just a little too hot. Grease ran down the side of the skewer onto his fingers.

  He didn’t care.

  For the first time since the storm, he tasted something that wasn’t ration paste or field nutrients. Something cooked by hand, not printed by a machine.

  “Gods,” he murmured.

  Tobin grinned. “See? City still has its perks.”

  They moved toward the edge of the square where a low stone wall bordered a small, half-dry fountain. The water inside it trickled weakly, more decorative than functional, but it gave people a place to sit.

  They took a spot along the edge, shoulders almost touching.

  For a while, no one spoke. They just ate.

  The market noise drifted around them—vendors shouting, coins clinking, boots scuffing against stone. Somewhere, a musician played a slow tune on a battered string instrument.

  Normal sounds.

  Human sounds.

  Tobin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So,” he said. “What’s it like being a Ranger now?”

  Andy snorted softly. “Still figuring that part out.”

  Jorin leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “We heard things. About Bastion.”

  Andy glanced at him. “What kind of things?”

  Jorin shrugged. “Storms. Mutants. You doing something no one’s ever seen before.”

  Tobin lowered his voice. “People say the storm stopped when you showed up. Like it recognized you.”

  Andy stared down at the stone between his boots.

  “People say a lot of things,” he said.

  Jorin didn’t press. He just nodded once, like he understood that some stories were heavier than others.

  “So,” Tobin said, trying to lighten the mood, “Rangers. Big guns? Secret missions? Cool armor?”

  Andy allowed himself a small smile. “Armor’s heavier than it looks. And the missions… yeah. They’re different.”

  “Different good or different terrifying?” Tobin asked.

  Andy thought about the Ascendant. The storm. The battlefield full of silent bodies.

  “Both,” he admitted.

  Tobin whistled softly. “Figures. You always did aim higher than the rest of us.”

  Andy shook his head. “I didn’t aim for any of this.”

  Jorin looked at him, studying his face. “Are you feeling okay?”

  Andy hesitated.

  He flexed his hand. Still numb.

  “I think so,” he said quietly.

  Tobin nudged his shoulder. “You better be. Otherwise who’s gonna fix my drone when I break it again?”

  Andy laughed—an actual laugh this time. It surprised him.

  Jorin watched the exchange, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

  “You look tired,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sleep?”

  “Not much.”

  Jorin nodded. “You should. Storms can wait a day or two.”

  Andy looked out across the bazaar. People haggling. Kids running between stalls. Guards patrolling in slow, steady loops.

  Life moving on.

  “How’ve things been here?” he asked.

  Tobin shrugged. “Busy. Bastion supplies hit the markets this morning. People are acting like it’s a festival and a funeral at the same time.”

  “Half the city’s buying tools and armor,” Jorin added. “Other half’s buying extra food.”

  “Just in case,” Tobin said.

  Andy understood that feeling.

  They sat there a while longer, finishing their food, talking about smaller things—repair jobs, training mishaps, rumors about new patrol routes.

  Just friends catching up in the middle of a noisy market.

  And for a little while, Andy felt less like a miracle… and more like himself again.

  Tobin tossed the empty skewer stick into a nearby scrap bin and stretched his arms over his head.

  “So,” he said casually, “Jorin’s been busy while you were out there fighting storms.”

  Jorin shot him a warning look. “Don’t start.”

  Andy glanced between them. “Start what?”

  Tobin grinned. “He’s been giving long-range shooting lessons along the wall. Real quiet-like. Early mornings, late evenings. Just him, the rifles, and a couple eager students.”

  Andy raised an eyebrow. “Students?”

  Tobin ticked one off on his fingers. “Evie.”

  He looked at Jorin with a wide, shameless grin.

  “…Rodrick’s daughter.”

  Andy’s other eyebrow joined the first.

  Jorin shifted slightly, suddenly more interested in the stone at his feet than in either of them.

  “She’s just… curious,” he muttered. “About marksmanship.”

  Tobin snorted. “Curious. That’s what we’re calling it now.”

  Jorin gave him a flat look. “She likes the discipline of it. The focus. It’s not a bad thing to know how to handle a rifle.”

  Andy leaned back against the low wall, studying him. “Rodrick’s wife’s okay with that?”

  Jorin’s mouth tightened.

  “She is not,” he admitted. “Neither of them are, really. But you know how it is. Kids in this city grow up fast. She sees the walls. The patrols. The armor. It’s hard not to get curious.”

  He paused, then added quietly, “Her mother says two people in the family who’ve served is plenty.”

  Tobin nudged him. “Hard to argue with that.”

  Jorin exhaled slowly. “She doesn’t want her daughter on the walls. Or in the wasteland.”

  “But you’re still teaching her,” Andy said.

  Jorin shrugged. “If she’s going to learn, I’d rather she learn from me. At least then I know she’s doing it right.”

  Andy nodded. He understood that logic. In a city like Aurelia, ignorance wasn’t protection—it was a liability.

  “What about you?” Jorin asked, turning the conversation back toward Andy. “You get a chance to see Terra or Lana since you got back?”

  Andy shook his head. “Not really. Things have been… busy.”

  “That bad?” Tobin asked.

  Andy thought about the debrief. The priests. The word key hanging in the air like a sentence.

  “Different,” he said instead.

  Jorin studied him quietly. “They both asked about you.”

  Andy looked up. “Yeah?”

  Tobin nodded. “Lana swung by the shop yesterday. Pretended she needed something fixed, but she kept asking if we’d heard from you.”

  A small, warm pressure settled in Andy’s chest.

  “And Terra?” he asked.

  Jorin smirked faintly. “She didn’t ask. She just told us you were fine and walked off before we could answer.”

  That sounded exactly like her.

  Tobin chuckled. “Said something like, ‘If he’s not dead, he’s probably causing problems somewhere important.’”

  Andy couldn’t help it—he laughed.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds like Terra.”

  The noise of the bazaar drifted around them again. A cart rolled past. Someone argued loudly over the price of spare filters. A vendor rang a small bell to draw customers in.

  Normal life.

  Tobin nudged Andy lightly with his elbow. “You should go find them.”

  Andy looked out across the square, thinking about Terra on the rooftops, Lana on the battlefield, the way both of them had looked at him before Bastion.

  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I probably should.”

  Andy finished the last bite of his food, more out of habit than hunger. The warmth in his chest from the conversation lingered, mixing with the noise and motion of the bazaar around them.

  For a while, the three of them just stood there, leaning against the low wall, watching the crowds drift by.

  Tobin finally broke the quiet. “You look less like you’re about to fall over now.”

  “High praise,” Andy said.

  Andy pushed off the wall. “I should get moving.”

  Tobin frowned. “Already?”

  “Yeah. Got a few things to sort out. And I still haven’t actually found my room without getting lost.”

  Jorin smirked. “You? Lost? The storm-killer?”

  Andy winced. “Don’t call me that.”

  Tobin raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I didn’t start it. That’s what people are saying.”

  Andy glanced around the bazaar. A few people were looking at him. Not openly. Just quick glances. Curious. Measuring.

  Somewhere in the crowd, a woman caught his eye. She quickly pressed her fingers to her forehead, then to her chest—the sign of the Seven—before turning away.

  Andy swallowed.

  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s kind of the problem.”

  Jorin’s expression softened. “They’ll settle down. People just need something to believe in.”

  Andy wasn’t sure if that was comforting or not.

  He straightened his jacket. “Thanks for the food.”

  Tobin waved it off. “You bought half of it.”

  “Still,” Andy said. “It was good to see you two.”

  Jorin reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. “You too. Don’t disappear on us again without a word.”

  “I’ll try not to fight any storms for at least a few days,” Andy said.

  Tobin grinned. “That’d be nice.”

  Andy turned and started back into the flow of the bazaar. After a few steps, he glanced over his shoulder. Tobin and Jorin were already deep in conversation again, arguing about something small and pointless.

  It felt good to leave them like that.

  Alive. Laughing. Normal.

  He let the crowds carry him deeper into the city.

  The bazaar stretched along the inner ring, a long, winding artery of trade and voices. Fabric awnings in faded reds and blues fluttered overhead. Lanterns hung from wires strung between buildings. The smell of cooked meat, oil, dust, blended into something uniquely Aurelia.

  Merchants shouted prices. Kids darted between legs. City guard patrols moved in pairs through the crowd, white armor catching the light. Every few minutes, a drone buzzed overhead, scanning rooftops and alleys.

  Andy passed a stall selling old circuit boards, another stacked with polished shell casings turned into jewelry. A man with mechanical fingers adjusted the gears inside a wind-up toy for a small boy. Nearby, two priests in pale white robes moved slowly through the crowd, murmuring blessings.

  Life. Fragile, stubborn life.

  He walked without a real destination, letting his feet choose the path.

  The streets grew wider as he left the bazaar behind. The noise softened, replaced by the distant rumble of generators and the occasional barked order from a patrol unit. Here, the buildings were taller, older. Their surfaces patched with layers of metal, stone, and salvaged composites from different eras.

  Everywhere he looked, there were signs of repair. Reinforced doors. Fresh weld lines. New piping snaking along ancient walls.

  The city was always fixing itself.

  Always trying to stay alive.

  Andy turned a corner and stopped.

  The Temple of Light rose in the distance, its white stone catching the glow of the mirrors on its outside. Tall spires curved upward like fingers reaching for a sky that no longer existed. Soft golden light spilled warm and steady as if the building was a candle in the dark.

  Even from this far away, he could hear faint chanting.

  People were moving toward it—families, soldiers, workers still in grease-stained clothes. Some walked with purpose. Others just drifted, like they needed to be near it.

  Andy stood there, watching.

  He remembered the priests in the debrief. The way they had looked at him. Not with suspicion.

  With reverence.

  He glanced down at his hands.

  They looked the same. Scarred knuckles. Faint grease stains that never quite washed out. The hands of a mechanic. A scrub. A kid who used to dig through scrap piles.

  He flexed his fingers.

  The memory of the storm stirred at the edge of his thoughts—yellow lightning, screaming winds, the feeling of being something vast and endless.

  He shoved it away.

  Across the street, another passerby noticed him. The man slowed, eyes widening slightly. Then, quietly, he made the sign of the Seven before continuing on.

  Andy looked back at the temple.

  Its lights were steady. Calm. Certain.

  He wasn’t sure he felt any of those things anymore.

  Still, he turned in that direction and started walking again, letting the glow of the Temple of Light guide his steps through the city.