Chapter 7 Northern Corridor
Rhea POV
The Haven wake up siren screamed at six sharp, like a dying banshee choking on static.
I groaned, rolled over, and threw a boot at it. The speaker above my bunk crackled but didn’t stop blaring. “All active units report for morning brief. Six-hundred hours. Repeat...”
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered. “Bite me.”
Kessa stirred below me, muffled under her blanket. “Already did,” she mumbled.
“Kid’s learning sarcasm,” I said, shoving my hair out of my face. “My work here’s done.”
The barracks were alive with motion, boots stomping, voices echoing, and water hissing through the ancient pipes.The air smelled of sweat, oil, and coffee that could melt steel. I swung down from the top bunk, stretched, and cursed softly as my shoulder throbbed. The bite burned faintly, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat, or maybe its own.
By the time I tugged on my leathers and strapped the last blade to my thigh, Maris was waiting near the corridor, her hair pulled back, sharp as ever.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said.
“Don’t start.”
We joined the flow of bodies toward the mess hall, a wide chamber filled with benches, steam, and arguments. Cooks ladled porridge into tin bowls. Someone had found a crate of pre-war jam last week, and it was being rationed like gold. I grabbed a bowl, poured bitter coffee into a dented cup, and sat with Maris at the far end of the table.
The Cinders occupied the next bench, six of them in their mismatched coats, whispering like shadows plotting a joke. I leaned over. “Observation run north sector. I need one of you fireflies to tag along.”
They exchanged glances. None jumped at the offer. Finally, a young man lifted his gaze.
Yurik. Dark hair cropped short, sharp blue eyes, maybe twenty at most. The kind who looked harmless until he opened his mouth.
“I’ll go,” he said, his voice calm.
Maris raised a brow. “You sure, kid? It’s cold out there, and the dragons don’t send fan mail.”
Yurik smirked. “If I die, I’ll haunt you for making fun of me.”
“Bold,” I said, sliding my empty cup away. “I like him.”
He grinned. “You won’t later.”
We ate in silence after that, half-listening to the chatter around us. Rumors of dragon scouts near the ridges. A vampire patrol gone missing. Someone swore they’d seen an Alpha wolf north of the ruins. Haven gossip was always equal parts truth and bullshit.
After breakfast, we headed for the stables near the old maintenance tunnels. The air turned colder there, and was heavy with the smell of straw and iron. Horses snorted and shifted in their stalls, restless from too many days underground. I saddled mine, a dark mare named Scorch, and checked her reins.
Maris hummed as she tightened her gear. “You’re unusually quiet.”
“I’m conserving energy for sarcasm later.”
“That’s new.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I was about to mount when a hand caught my arm and pulled me into the shadows between two support pillars. My knife was half drawn before I saw who it was.
Eron.
“Ever heard of saying good morning like a normal person?” I snapped.
He smirked, all effortless sin. “Normal’s overrated.”
The shadows wrapped around us, the lantern light glinting off his pale eyes. He looked the same as always, too composed, too clean, and too unbothered by rebellion or ruin. But there was something tight around his mouth.
“What do you want?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Just studied me for a heartbeat, then stepped closer. “You leaving already?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am,” he said softly. “Didn’t think Solen would risk his favorite weapon.”
I rolled my eyes. “You sound jealous.”
He smiled, barely. “Maybe I am.”
“Don’t be. He actually pays attention when I talk.”
That earned me a low laugh. “Still sharp-tongued.”
“Still avoiding the point,” I said. “Why are you...”
He kissed me.
No warning, no permission, just heat and pressure and memory colliding. For a moment, instinct took over. We’d done this before, too many times, in too many corners of this bunker. Usually, it was distraction, escape, and mutual stupidity. Usually, it felt good.
This one didn’t.
Something about it was off, cold, hollow, tasting faintly metallic, like a coin pressed against my tongue. When he pulled back, I stared at him, unsettled.
“What the hell was that?”
“Goodbye,” he said simply.
“Goodbye?” I repeated. “You planning to move out while I’m gone?”
He didn’t smile this time. “Just... be careful out there.”
“Eron.” I frowned. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He touched my cheek, gentle, and almost apologetic. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Before I could demand more, he was gone, slipping back into the crowd like smoke through cracks.
I stood there, my pulse pounding in my neck and shoulder, that strange double rhythm mocking me. The air felt thicker and heavier, almost sour.
“Ghost!” Maris called from the tunnel. “You coming, or are you waiting for an invitation?”
“On my way!” I called back.
I swung onto Scorch’s back, tightening the reins. Yurik mounted his gray gelding beside us, still chewing on something that might’ve been bread or regret. Maris adjusted her scarf and gave me that look, the one that said she knew I was lying when I said I’m fine.
“Ready?” she asked.
“As I’ll ever be.”
We urged the horses forward through the tunnel, the stone echoing beneath their hooves until the light widened and the chill of dawn hit us. Snow dusted the ruins above, turning broken glass into glitter.
The Northern Corridors stretched ahead, abandoned suburbs, rail lines, skeletal towers, and the open plains where dragons sometimes hunted. It was technically rebellion territory, but everyone knew the lines were written in blood, not ink.
We rode in silence for a while, our breath misting, the wind biting through layers. Somewhere overhead, a hawk cried. The world felt too still, like something holding its breath.
Maris broke the quiet first. “You okay back there?”
“Fine,” I said automatically.
“Sure about that?”
“Nope.”
She chuckled. “There’s the Rhea I know.”
Yurik glanced back at us. “What’s the plan, Ghost?”
“North perimeter,” I said. “We check the ridges near the old mines, look for dragon tracks or smoke trails. In and out before dark.”
“And if we see anything?”
“Then we ride like hell.”
The path narrowed as we climbed out of the city’s skeleton and into the frost-bitten hills. Steam curled from cracks in the ground, remnants of the geothermal vents the dragons loved to claim. My senses prickled sharper than usual; I could smell the iron tang of snow, the musk of horse sweat, even Maris’s soap. It was too much. The air felt alive.
“Something’s off,” I muttered.
Maris frowned. “Off how?”
“Everything’s louder.”
“Could be adrenaline.”
“Could be something else.”
The wind shifted then, carrying the faintest trace of smoke from somewhere distant. I turned my head toward it without thinking. My shoulder flared hot, pulsing in time with that unseen heartbeat.
“Ghost?” Yurik called.
I blinked and shook it off. “Nothing. Keep moving.”
But as we rode north, the horizon darkened, not with storm clouds, but with wings.