Playing the damsel in distress worked in my favor… briefly. The cost of it nearly got me killed, though.
I spend the remainder of the journey leading him toward my home, planning in silence. Calculating my odds. Accounting for every way this could unravel and turn against me. Grand Minister Judiah’s last words to me repeat like a mantra in my head. “Only from great sacrifice can great aims be achieved.”
When the horses arrive, I mount the stallion and adjust the reins, then tug up my cloak and touch my arm briefly. My gaze falls on the symbol etched along the inside of my forearm.
I’ve never tested it.
It might not work.
Attempting to do so would essentially be a trial by fire, and one I may not be ready for, but it is another power I have at my disposal. One that could lend me an advantage. In a way, I would be remiss not to use it.
We are both road-worn and weary by the time we reach the homestead.
Orán says nothing. He simply takes it in as Nexus slows—his stern expression transforming to one of quiet curiosity. His gaze travels first to the small horse stable, then the roughly constructed barn beside it, and finally to the single-level house that somehow endured the catastrophes that destroyed all others nearby.
I mended the roof where a tree had fallen through and patched the exterior as best I could. I also replaced the broken windows where needed. Then I spent weeks traveling back and forth, relocating my belongings here—collections I couldn’t bear to part with—while the rest remained safely tucked away for the future.
Not luxury, but more than sufficient for my needs. There are no settlements within a day's ride, no roads leading travelers directly to it. So there is little chance of someone stumbling across it by chance.
The garden lies behind the house, fenced and carefully concealed. Tall pines cluster close, their branches casting deep shade and breaking the roofline from above.
The deadfall surrounding it is the only drawback—dangerous during storms, but useful all the same. The crunch of brittle leaves and the snap of underbrush carry, turning the forest floor into a natural warning system.
The house itself is modest. Three small bedrooms. A bathroom. The large kitchen I rebuilt piece by piece—the cabinetry salvaged from homes no longer occupied, painted and repainted over the years to suit my moods.
The storerooms are stocked with what was left behind when the original owners fled—and what I’ve added since: scavenged tools, preserved food, weapons, and other relics salvaged from ruined cities.
The fallout shelter and underground cellar serve a great many purposes. Not just a reinforced isolated space, but a place I can go to shut out the world and work uninterrupted. A refuge where I research, study, and prepare for whatever acts of God might come next. Because, should there come a day when I have to spend years in the dark again, this is at least one of my own choosing.
The Horseman might view it all differently, especially once he steps inside and sees the multicolored furniture and scattered knickknacks filling the space. Maybe in his eyes it’ll be a wealth of clutter, merely meaningless objects overrunning the space. But to me, each piece is a reminder of the places I’ve been and the people lost to devastation and time.
Everything here holds a history, and the legacy of those past lives persists in small ways, in this place, and through me.
So his perception shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t negate the fact that it took years to make this place livable.
Longer still to make it mine.
As I stand here now, letting Orán see it—letting him see me in this way—I feel the weight of this decision. It sits like a jagged stone twisting in the pit of my stomach.
Because safety can be an illusion. And comfort… can be a weapon.
Whether he knows it or not, he’s looking at something I hold sacred.
I take the lead, guiding Enoch toward the stable before swinging down from the saddle. My boots hit the packed earth with a familiar thud, and I keep a steady hand on the reins as I walk him into the barn, which smells of horse, hay, and old wood.
I hear Orán dismount with practiced ease, and he follows me inside a moment later.
“Take your pick of the stalls. As you can see, there are plenty available.”
He guides Nexus to the stall next to Enoch’s, ignoring the two other stalls across the small aisle.
I tie Enoch off. Murmuring to him, I loosen the girth and lift the saddle free. His coat is damp with sweat beneath my palms, muscles twitching. I rub him down with a cloth, slow and thorough, brushing away the grime before checking his legs and hooves for cracks or stones.
Only then do I offer Orán a quiet nod toward my supplies.
“Help yourself,” I say, gesturing to the shelf along the wall. Brushes, cloths, a small tin of salve—well used, yet carefully kept.
“Thank you.” His gaze darts around, and his mouth kicks up in a half grin. “This is a nice place. Quiet. Peaceful.”
