The city stretched beneath us, a neon-lit sprawl of life and movement, but as we soared beyond its limits, the world shifted. The glow of civilization faded, swallowed by dense forests and towering mountains. Roads thinned into dirt trails, winding like veins through the wild.

  "Down there. At the foot of that mountain," the man instructed.

  Zara and I exchanged glances but complied, descending toward the clearing he pointed to. As our feet hit the ground, a chill settled in the air. The scent of damp earth and pine filled my lungs. The usual hum of the city was gone—replaced by silence.

  Too quiet. Too still.

  Zara rolled her shoulders, fire flickering at her fingertips. "Alright. We're here. Why?" Her eyes scanned the trees, body tense.

  The man smirked, lifting his bound hands. “First off, how about you let me go? Kinda hard to open the entrance when I’m all tied up. Plus…” He tilted his head. “Wouldn’t my comrades be a bit more welcoming if I wasn’t looking like a damn hostage?”

  I felt Zara’s glare without even looking.

  "You do anything stupid, and you’re ash." She didn’t wait for a response. With a flick of my knife, she cut the bindings loose.

  The man stretched dramatically, rubbing his wrists like he’d been held captive for years instead of, what, an hour? Then, with a lazy stride, he approached a massive boulder nestled between the roots of an ancient tree.

  Zara crossed her arms. “So? You bringing us here to admire rocks, or—”

  “Just watch.”

  He pressed his hand flat against the stone and muttered something—too soft for me to hear.

  And then—

  The ground moved.

  A deep, guttural vibration, like the mountain itself was breathing. The boulder groaned, stone scraping against stone. Dust scattered as the rock shifted, revealing a dark, descending passage carved into the earth.

  A gust of stale air rushed out.

  I swallowed hard.

  Oh.

  This wasn’t just some hideout.

  The mountain split open.

  A deep, resonating groan of shifting stone rumbled beneath my feet as the earth peeled apart, revealing something that shouldn’t exist.

  A city.

  Nestled inside the mountain’s hollowed core, a thriving metropolis sprawled before me. Towering buildings loomed like silent guardians, their surfaces adorned with glowing symbols. The streets pulsed with life—people moving, talking, living—as if they had never known the world beyond these hidden walls. It was alive. It was real. A secret stronghold hidden from the outside world.

  But then—I looked up.

  There should have been a ceiling. We were underground. The weight of the mountain should have pressed down from above. But it wasn’t there.

  My breath hitched. Holy shit.

  The sky was still there.

  Clouds drifted lazily overhead, painted silver by the piercing glow of the moon. Stars twinkled in the distance, undisturbed, as if nothing had changed. Shadows stretched across the bustling streets, shifting and breathing as if this was just any other open-air city.

  But how?

  I swallowed hard, my mind scrambling for an explanation. We’re inside a mountain. The top should be rock, dirt, something solid. Not this.

  Was the mountain’s peak an illusion? A fabricated sky to fool those inside? Or was the outside world seeing something entirely different?

  My head spun, a pit forming in my stomach. I don’t get it.

  What the hell was this place?

  The man smirked. “Welcome to Haven’s Reach. The main base of the Resistance.”

  Zara let out a low whistle, taking in the sight before her. “Haven’s Reach, huh? Heard that name before. Never thought it was real.”

  Then, her grin sharpened. “You know…” she mused, turning her gaze toward the man. “There’s a 10-million bounty for finding this place and capturing its citizens.”

  She stretched her arms over her head, flashing a devilish grin. “I could be filthy rich.”

  The air changed.

  The moment the words left her mouth, the crowd froze.

  Eyes locked onto her. Hands moved instinctively. Rifles were shouldered. Pistols drawn. A wave of tension crackled through the hidden city like wildfire.

  The man at Zara’s side let out a dry chuckle. “Then I suppose we’ll have to make sure you don’t leave with that in mind.”

  The threat was lighthearted—barely.

  Zara raised her hands in mock surrender, smirk still in place. “Damn, y’all really don’t know how to take a joke, huh? Chill. I ain’t reporting nothing.”

  No one laughed.

  The crowd didn’t move. Their weapons stayed locked on her.

  A voice cut through the silence. “How do we know that? Your face ain’t familiar around here.”

  More whispers. Hushed suspicions slithered through the air like an unseen force. The weight of mistrust pressed against us.

  Then—

  “Drop your weapons, my people. They are our guests.”

  The voice was smooth. Commanding.

  A man stepped forward from the crowd, draped in extravagant robes, his presence radiating authority. The others hesitated—then obeyed. The weapons lowered. The tension eased.

  His grin was welcoming, but his eyes were sharp. Assessing. Calculating.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” he beamed, his voice echoing through the cavernous expanse. “City folk never visit our humble sanctuary. Perhaps that is why my people were cautious.” He gestured grandly. “But you are guests! And as fate would have it—tonight, we celebrate!

  Join us! Eat, drink, and let Haven’s Reach show you its finest hospitality!”

  The mood shifted.

  Cheers erupted, voices lifting in jubilation. The city roared to life, the people embracing the celebration with fervor. The tension, once suffocating, melted into an air of excitement.

  We were still strangers.

  But for now, we were invited into the heart of Haven’s Reach.

  Led by the man, we ventured deeper into the heart of Haven’s Reach.

  Music and laughter spilled from open doorways, voices intermingling in a lively hum. The streets were lined with sturdy stone houses, their rough, weathered walls a stark contrast to the sleek, polished metal of the city we had left behind. Everything here felt old, solid—like it had stood the test of time.

  And yet—

  Something nagged at me.

  As I walked, I tried to compare this place to the city we had escaped from. But the more I thought about it, the more a strange, unsettling realization began to settle in my chest—

  I didn’t know its name.

  The city, its towering skyscrapers, its neon-lit streets, the pulse of electricity in the air—I could picture it so vividly. I had lived there, worked there, survived there.

  But the name?

  Gone.

  I slowed my pace, my mind racing, searching for something—anything—that would fill in the gap. But no matter how hard I tried, it was just…missing.

  I swallowed hard, a creeping unease slithering up my spine.

  I tugged at Zara’s jacket. “Uhm… Zara… What was the city we came from called again?”

  She stopped in her tracks. Turned to me with a furrowed brow. “What?”

  I hesitated, suddenly feeling stupid. “I… I don’t know. I never really thought about it before.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Zara’s expression twisted into something half-amused, half-baffled. “Are you serious? You worked there. Twice. How do you not know what it’s called?”

  My stomach twisted. “I don’t know. I just… don’t.”

  Zara exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of her neck before locking eyes with me. “Ventura.”

  The moment she said it, my chest tightened.

  Ventura.

  I let the name sink in, rolling it over in my mind. It felt foreign. Like something I had never heard before. But that didn’t make sense.

  Why did it feel like I was hearing it for the first time?

  Zara shot me a look. “Remember that.”

  I nodded. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”

  I turned my gaze back to the path ahead, my thoughts still spiraling when—

  I saw it.

  A severed finger.

  Nestled among the grass.

  Bloodless. Pale. Discarded.

  I froze.

  A chill crawled down my spine, my heart hammering against my ribs. My breath hitched, a cold, suffocating weight settling in my chest.

  How long had it been there?

  How had I not noticed it before?

  The voices, the laughter, the music—it all faded.

  I couldn’t move.

  The air, once warm with celebration, felt cold.

  A grotesque anomaly in this peaceful city, a whisper of something hidden beneath the surface.

  I swallowed hard.

  Haven’s Reach had felt safe.

  But now, staring down at something that shouldn’t be here—

  It felt like a trap.

  "Psst... kid..." Zara’s voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the noise like a blade.

  I turned to her. She didn't need to say more—her eyes held a warning.

  "Shhhh..." She pressed a finger to her lips. A silent command. Stay quiet.

  I nodded. My stomach churned, a hundred unspoken questions piling up in my throat.

  "Please, take a seat here."

  The man’s tone was warm, too warm. He stepped aside, bowing slightly, revealing two massive golden thrones positioned before an enormous statue.

  My breath caught.

  The figure towered over us, wings spread wide, an ethereal presence carved into stone. A woman. A saint. An angel.

  But something was wrong.

  Blood.

  Crimson streaks dripped from her eyes, dark stains running down her cheeks—like she had been weeping for centuries.

  In her right hand, a sword, raised high, gleaming despite its stone form.

  But in her left—hidden behind her back—was a noose.

  Zara, unfazed, strode forward and flopped into one of the thrones, stretching her legs like she owned the place. "Damn, this is comfy," she mused.

  I hesitated. Something felt wrong.

  The air was too thick. The silence too expectant.

  But with everyone watching, I swallowed hard and sat beside her.

  The crowd erupted into cheers.

  Loud. Enthusiastic. Wrong.

  The man—Angelus Horshire III, as he introduced himself—rose to his feet, lifting a golden goblet.

  “I, Angelus Horshire III, welcome you, visitors, to Haven’s Reach. May you find solace in the mercy of Angelus!”

  "SANGUINE LAVARI!"

  The crowd echoed his cry, voices booming in unison.

  And then—

  The axes came down.

  Zara shoved me. Hard.

  The blade missed my head by inches.

  "Huh." Zara dusted herself off, unfazed. "So that's why no one ever finds this place."

  Silence.

  The joyous crowd froze. Their celebration twisted into a mix of shock and disbelief.

  Angelus’s smile faltered. "How did you know?"

  Zara shrugged. "Just a hunch."

  Before anyone could react, she lunged.

  Gun against his forehead.

  The crowd snapped. Rifles and pistols drawn in an instant. All aimed at Zara.

  The air shifted. A second ago, they had been ready to celebrate. Now—they were ready to kill.

  But Zara?

  She was grinning.

  Angelus, despite the barrel pressed against his skull, remained eerily calm. "What do you hope to gain from this?"

  Zara twirled a bullet between her fingers. “Answers.”

  "Ain’t leaving here until you tell me about the prophecy. And don’t play dumb. I know about your little Elders. And Aclima."

  Angelus studied her, then chuckled.

  The chuckle turned into a laugh. A full-bodied, genuine laugh.

  The kind of laugh that made my stomach sink.

  "I admire your spirit," he finally said, straightening. "Perhaps our collaboration will prove beneficial."

  He lifted a hand. "Lower your weapons, my people. Let us welcome our guests properly."

  The crowd hesitated—then obeyed.

  Zara gave him a mocking smile as she lowered her pistol. "Smart choice."

  Angelus turned, raising his goblet once more. "Let the celebration continue!"

  And just like that, the music resumed.

  Laughter. Cheers.

  Like nothing had happened.

  Like they hadn't just tried to kill us.

  Angelus gestured for us to follow, leading us into an extravagant tent. Inside, a group of Elders sat in a circle, the flickering candlelight casting shadows over their aged, unreadable faces.

  A single empty seat waited for Angelus.

  One of the Elders, his voice smooth but heavy with years of wisdom, turned his gaze to us. “My liege, why have you brought outsiders here? Has the sacrifice to Angelus not already been made?”

  Angelus settled into his seat. “Indeed, that is correct.” His eyes flickered toward Zara. "But this woman saw through our plans. I believe she may be able to change the prophecy."

  The Elders murmured, their whispers thick with skepticism.

  Finally, one spoke.

  "Can an outsider truly defy the fate that has been ordained for centuries?"

  Zara let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “You bunch of dramatic old shits, huh? Always talking in riddles like you’re in some prophecy-obsessed cult.” She tilted her head, eyes dark with irritation. “Listen, I don’t give a rat’s ass about fate. I just need you to tell me exactly what this prophecy says so I know what kinda bullshit I’m up against. Because I swear to every god you people believe in—no one is touching this kid.”

  Silence.

  The tension in the room thickened, pressing against my skin like a vice.

  The Elders stiffened at Zara’s words, their murmurs turning into hushed gasps.

  “That’s Aclima!” One of them hissed, clutching the pendant hanging from his neck like it would protect him. “We must eliminate her immediately.”

  “Her demise will serve the greater good.”

  “We cannot let her live!”

  I flinched. The words cut deep, sharper than any blade.

  Zara didn’t flinch.

  Angelus raised a hand. “Enough.”

  His voice boomed through the tent, silencing the rising storm of fear. The Elders froze, their wrinkled faces creased with both rage and uncertainty.

  Angelus sighed, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied me—not with fear, not with hatred, but something else.

  Acceptance?

  Resignation?

  “Yes. This is Aclima.”

  The Elders tensed.

  Angelus continued, his voice even. “And our attempts to end this child’s life have proven…futile.”

  His words chilled me.

  Attempts?

  More than one?

  I swallowed hard. How many times have they tried?

  How many times have I almost died—without even knowing?

  Angelus straightened, eyes sweeping over the Elders with a calm, yet unyielding authority. “Perhaps there’s another way.”

  One of the Elders—an older man with sunken eyes and a face lined with time—slammed his fist against the armrest of his chair. “There is no other way! She is the harbinger of destruction! The prophecy—”

  “The prophecy says what we interpret it to say.”

  Angelus’s words cut through the air, slicing through the Elder’s protest like a blade. “And I refuse to stain our people’s hands with the blood of a child.”

  The Elders exchanged uneasy glances. Some seemed to consider his words, others looked ready to argue until their last breath.

  Finally, one of them—an Elder with silver hair braided tightly over his shoulder—spoke. “But she is the harbinger. The one who will bring forth the Tyrant.”

  Angelus met his gaze, unwavering. “Then let us change the course of that prophecy.”

  The tent fell into a deep, contemplative silence.

  I sat frozen in my chair, my mind whirling.

  Harbinger? Leader?

  They talked about me like I was some walking omen of disaster.

  Angelus leaned forward, a glimmer of something in his eyes—hope? Desperation? Determination?

  “We must unite our knowledge and strengths to forge a different path.” He clasped his hands together. “Let us work together to defy destiny.”