My lungs burned. My legs ached. But the pain was grounding.
As I rode, signs of civilisation began to appear.
Mailboxes. A fence line.
A distant glow on the horizon that wasn’t starlight.
Telluride.
Relief flickered — brief and fragile — chased immediately by fear. Cities meant people.
People meant eyes.
And eyes, lately, meant the Council.
I hunched lower over the handlebars, instincts screaming at me to stay small. To move fast. To not draw attention.
The wind tugged at my hair, like it was pulling me forward.
I pulled the hood up as I reached what looked like the edge of town. My legs ached. My heart pounded. Sweat trickled down the back of the coat, sticky and cold against my skin.
When the streets grew busier, I dismounted and walked the bike beside me, head down, keeping my pace unremarkable. When the crowds thickened too much, I leaned it against a wall and slipped my hands into my pockets.
Around me, the city was a sea of white and pale fabric. Light colours everywhere. Families drifted along the footpaths past open restaurants, laughter floating through the mild evening air.
A blonde couple passed me — pristine, glowing — a cherubic toddler in each hand, both children skipping toward the lights of the city like nothing in the world could touch them.
There was very little darkness left in Telluride.
I could see the evidence of the raids like an omnipresent scar carved into the streets. Buildings aligned with the Light stood clean and untouched. Dark dwellings told a different story — bandaged windows, splintered doors, scorch marks still visible on the stone.
Giant white sun marks had been painted across their fronts. Declarations of claim.
And Soldiers of Light were everywhere.
I kept my head down and drifted toward a food stall, my stomach growling loudly. I hadn’t eaten properly in days. I’d gone without food before — plenty of times — but since having access to three meals a day, my body had adjusted a little too well. It noticed the absence now.
The smell of cooked sausage and onion curled through the air from a market cluster farther down the street. My mouth watered before I could stop it.
The vendor was a grumpy, dour-faced woman with deep lines carved into her cheeks, her hair pulled back tight under a net.
“How many?” she asked.
“One, please.”
I handed over the money. She took it without a word, her eyes flicking over my dark clothes before turning back to the grill.
She shoved the sausage into my hand.
“You want water?”
“What?” I asked, startled. I’d been watching the crowd too closely, every muscle wound tight.
She filled a paper cup and pushed it toward me.
“Take some. On the house.”
I blinked. “Um… thanks.”
