The deeper we walked into the Northern Wastes’ stronghold, the more the cold outside felt like a mercy.
Inside, the air was thick with heat, sweat, old smoke, and older distrust.
Makeshift lights hummed overhead, flickering with inconsistent power.
People moved through the corridors wrapped in patched coats and armored scraps, each face carved from suspicion.
Conversations stopped when they saw us.
Every glance felt like a blade on skin.
Kira murmured under her breath,
“Feels cozy. Like walking into a room where everyone agreed they hate you.”
“Just stay close.”
“Wasn’t planning on wandering off into the friendship circle.”
We turned into a wider hall—converted from an old underground rail station.
Rusty tracks cut through the floor.
Barricades made from welded scrap metal stoo
