Echoes of the Archive

The bar was dim and oppressive, lit only by the flickering light of an oil lamp hanging crookedly from a ceiling beam. Smoke curled in lazy tendrils, mingling with the sour tang of spilled liquor and unwashed bodies. The patrons huddled around low tables, their conversations little more than murmurs and muttered threats. Snow stood in the doorway for a moment, her hand resting on the hilt of her knife, before stepping inside.

Bricks was easy to spot, seated at the far end of the room with his broad back to the wall, his scarred face cast in harsh shadow by the flickering lamp. Across from him sat a wiry man with sunken cheeks and sharp, darting eyes. He wore the dusty robes of a trader from the Eastern Alliance, his sash embroidered with the insignias of half a dozen clans. A map lay between them, its edges curling like the peeling bark of an ancient tree.

"Snow," Bricks grunted without looking up. "Get over here."

She crossed the room, her boots crunching on a layer of sand and broken glass. The trader, who Bricks had called Flint, glanced up at her approach, his expression flickering between curiosity and suspicion.

"Is this the guide you mentioned?" Flint asked, his voice low and rasping, as though it had been scoured by years of shouting into the desert wind.

"She's my second," Bricks replied, gesturing for Snow to sit. "Knows these parts better than anyone."

Snow remained standing, her arms crossed. "What's this about?"

Bricks jabbed a thick finger at the map, which was marked with bold ink lines tracing trade routes and faint, uncertain sketches of distant, dangerous territories. His finger came to rest on a jagged canyon, its name scrawled in tiny, nervous letters: Brownstone Canyons.

"Flint here's offering us a contract," Bricks said. "Escort his wagons through the canyon. He's carrying rare goods, things he doesn't want falling into the wrong hands."

Snow's eyes narrowed as she studied the map. "The wrong hands? Or the wrong mouths?"

Flint stiffened. "I'm paying for protection," he said defensively. "Not for insults."

"It's not an insult," Snow shot back. "It's a warning. The Brownstone Canyons are Feral territory."

Flint blinked, confusion flickering across his face. "Ferals?"

"Cannibals," Snow said bluntly. "The ones who've gone mad from years of isolation. They don't care who you are or what you're carrying. If they catch you, they'll kill you. And then they'll eat you, if lucky, or it can be the reverse."

The trader paled, his hand twitching toward the map as though to pull it away from her. Bricks gave a short, humorless laugh.

"That's why you're hiring the Niners, Flint," he said. "To deal with things like that."

"And you're sure you can handle them?" Flint asked, his voice shaky.

Snow tilted her head, considering him. "How many wagons? How many men?"

"Three wagons," Flint said, licking his lips nervously. "Four drivers, six guards."

Snow's lips pressed into a thin line. "That's not enough. Not for the canyons."

Bricks leaned forward, his voice low and steady. "It doesn't matter if it's enough. It's the job. And we don't walk away from paying work."

Snow looked at him, her brow furrowing. "You're taking the contract?"

Bricks nodded. "Flint's offering enough supplies to keep us going for months. Food, water, ammunition. We need this."

"And if the Ferals attack?"

"Then we fight," Bricks said simply.

Flint shifted uncomfortably, his hands fidgeting with the edge of the map. "If it's that dangerous..."

"You'll be fine," Bricks interrupted. "You're paying for the best, and the Niners don't fail."

The trader hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. "All right. But if we lose even one wagon—"

"You won't," Bricks said firmly. He folded the map and handed it back to Flint. "We'll move out at first light. Now, if you'll excuse us, I've got a crew to prepare."

Flint rose, tucking the map into his robes. "I'll hold you to your word, Bricks."

As the trader left, Bricks turned to Snow. "Go find Rain. She'll want to hear about this."

Snow nodded and left the bar, stepping into the cooler night air. The station was quieter now, the raucous din of the market replaced by the soft murmur of distant conversations and the occasional clatter of metal as traders packed up their stalls. She walked quickly, her boots crunching on the dusty ground, heading for the spot where Rain had promised to wait.

The market paths stretched wide, yet they felt increasingly narrow to Snow as the buzz of voices filled the air like gnats swarming around her head. Traders peddled their wares from sagging stalls, and the scents of spice, sweat, and damp earth mingled unpleasantly. Snow weaved through the crowd, her rifle slung casually across her back, though her sharp eyes scanned every shadow, every sudden movement.

She hadn't gone far before the murmur of conversation caught her ear. Snow slowed her steps, angling closer to a group of men huddled near a cart laden with half-rotten cabbages. One of them, a burly trader with a face as craggy as a mountainside, was speaking in a low, urgent voice.

"...Crimson Legion," he muttered, his tone grim. "Dominus himself leads them now. They're sweeping eastward, like a fire in dry grass. Burned down three villages before the week was out."

The other men around him shifted uneasily. "What do they want?" one asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The burly man shrugged. "Knowers, mostly. That's the word. Hunting them down like animals. Can't say what for, but I heard they've got no mercy for anyone who gets in their way."

A nervous silence followed, broken only by the creak of the cabbage cart as its owner adjusted his wares. Snow felt her jaw tighten, though she kept her expression neutral.

She moved past them, her boots crunching against the gravel. Another voice, louder this time, reached her from further down the path.

"Trouble, that's what they are! Every last one of 'em!"

Snow turned her head toward the sound. A trader, reeking of alcohol, was slumped against a stack of crates. His face was red and blotchy, his words slurring together as he gestured wildly at a disinterested crowd.

"Knowers think they're better than the rest of us," he spat. "Always poking their noses where they don't belong. Digging up the Old Ones' trash and acting like it makes 'em gods. You mark my words—this world would be better off if they all just vanished!"

A few heads nodded in reluctant agreement, though most simply avoided his gaze. Snow's hands curled into fists at her sides, but she didn't stop walking.

She understood the resentment. Some Knowers had used their knowledge of Old One tech to amass power, exploiting those who lacked such understanding. Others were scavengers and opportunists, willing to sell deadly relics to the highest bidder. But not all of them were like that.

Not Rain.

Snow thought of Rain's quiet determination, the way her face lit up when she explained the incomprehensible workings of some long-dead machine. Rain didn't care about power or profit. She cared about helping people, even when they didn't deserve it. Even when it put her in danger.

"Better off if they vanished," Snow muttered under her breath, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Idiots."

She quickened her pace, her boots striking the ground harder than before. The spot where Rain had promised to wait was just ahead—a small clearing near the edge of the market, bordered by a crumbling stone wall. It was quiet here, away from the chaos of the main thoroughfare.

But as Snow approached, a strange unease crept over her. The clearing was empty.

"Rain?" Snow called, her voice sharp against the stillness.

No answer.

She stepped closer, her eyes scanning the area. The dirt showed no signs of a struggle—no scuffed footprints, no overturned stones. But Rain wasn't here.

Snow's mind raced, fragments of conversations she'd overheard weaving together into a sinister tapestry. The Crimson Legion hunting Knowers. The drunken trader's venomous words. The Collector's warning about the value of the green metal thing.

"No," Snow whispered, shaking her head as if to dispel the thoughts. "She's fine. She's just... late."

But the knot of fear in her chest tightened.

Her gaze darted around the clearing, searching for any clue as to where Rain might have gone. A stray footprint, a dropped scarf—anything. But there was nothing.

"Rain!" she called again, louder this time. Her voice echoed off the stone wall, but the silence that followed was deafening.

Snow's mind churned with worst-case scenarios. What if someone beat her up for being a Knower? What if the Crimson Legion was closer than anyone realized? What if—

She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to focus. Panic wouldn't help Rain. Action would.

Snow turned on her heel and started back toward the market, her strides long and purposeful. She'd search every stall, every alley, if she had to.

But as she walked, the drunken trader's voice replayed in her mind, haunting and hateful.

Better off if they vanished.

Snow's hands tightened into fists once more.

"Not her," she muttered fiercely. "Not Rain."

Her pace quickened into a near-jog as she retraced her steps through the market. The stalls and traders blurred together, their faces and voices blending into an indistinct haze.

"Rain!" she called again, her voice cutting through the noise.

Still no answer.

Snow's chest ached, both from the exertion and the growing dread that threatened to consume her.

"She's fine," she told herself, her voice shaking slightly. "She's fine."

But the knot in her chest didn't loosen. And deep down, Snow knew that she couldn't bear to lose Rain. Not to the Legion, not to those hateful, not to anyone.

She couldn't lose her.

Snow pushed forward, her heart pounding in time with her footsteps as the marketplace swirled around her in a chaotic blur.