Page 106 of Fallacies

There isn’t a single step of our plan that I’m not worried about. All of it will require my absolute best effort, and the margin for error is essentially zero. I feel the weight on my shoulders—it would be impossible not to.

Callan raises a brow expectantly. “And tonight?”

“Tonight,” I continue, “I’ll signal when I’ve found somewhere safe.”

He nods, his exhaled breath a puff of white air in front of his face. “We’ll camp out here, waiting for your signal, and when you’re ready to take down the ward⁠—”

“Boom!” Phoenix mimes an explosion with his hands, grinning like a psychopath at the way we all flinched at his interruption.

Pax smacks the back of his head, but Nix’s smile only widens.

Recentering his patience, Callan carries on, “Two of us will distract, drawing out the Rogues to the northern border while two of us lead the captured Sol through the southern side of the city. Will all meet back back here to escort the rescues back to the Banyan.” Callan looks at me, silver eyes sharp. “We won’t leave without you.”

I nod, imagining the plan in motion. Imagining a line of Sol that look like Iris did—skin and bones—sneaking through the city and enduring the trek back to the Banyan.

“Cin,” Hunter pulls attention. “You have everything you need?”

I nod again, feeling the weight of my bag on my shoulders. Most of its contents are ward-related, but there’s also a list of the translations Callan and I came up with, a change of clothes, and a couple mender pills just in case. Anything more would be too hard to hide beneath my illusion of Alesi.

“Alright.” Callan unfolds his arms and straightens. My stomach sinks. “Let’s go.”

I force my feet to shift, falling into step between Callan and Pax. Devon, Hunter, and Phoenix lead, staying far enough ahead to warn us of any threat, and Easton keeps a few steps behind.

We walk in silence, cresting the small hill in front of us, and I nearly choke when the silhouette of Streatham comes into view.

It was built in a radial layout, the Estate at the center and a wide city around it. Though I’ve never seen it in all its glory, I can tell it’s been ruined.

From here, every building looks grey, with large holes in the sides of most, and there’s no evidence of life, or color, or joy of any kind—how I’d always imagined The City of Light to feel.

I glance at Callan, whose jaw is clenched so tight I wonder how he breathes under all that tension.

This isn’t the first time he’s seen Streatham, or the dark sky above it, but he doesn’t look desensitized to it at all. Neither does Pax, who is doing everything he can to avoid looking at the broken city before us while still monitoring our surroundings.

I force down a deep breath. All of a sudden, it feels like I’ve been shoved under a microscope. Dropped into a tank to be observed by whoever is on the other side of the glass.

I turn to look over my shoulder, the hair on the back of my neck rising, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary around us. Just the sparse woods we came from and miles and miles of barren plains beyond it.

Still, something doesn’t seem right.

“What is it?” Callan asks, tracing my stare.

I search for a little bit longer, then I shake my head, returning my gaze forward. “Nothing,” I reply.

He doesn’t buy it at first, both he and Pax doing a thorough sweep of the empty space behind us, and when they don’t find anything, they return their attention ahead.

Callan slides his hand through mine.

It slows the rapid beating of my heart.

As soon as we enter the city, a sharp wind cuts across our path, blowing through the rubble of the nearby buildings. Hinges squeak to our right. The barely attached front door of what looks to have been a shop of some kind swings slowly back and forth.

Nix and Hunter split, slipping through the shadows of nearby buildings, one to the left and the other to the right. Devon continues forward, head on a swivel.

Callan moves to walk behind me, and Pax slides in front, keeping me sandwiched in the middle. Every step towards the Estate gates feels like walking over a frozen lake. Too much pressure in the wrong spot, and it will crack, and the break would be a scream through this dead quiet.

I take in the destruction around us. The singe marks on the brick buildings and the craters in the stone-paved roads.

Ivy’s Nana used to say that land holds memories as people do. Energy imprinted into the ground like fossils—something you can’t see but you can feel. And this land feels heavy.