THE LAST SECRET OF ROSHAM

The Silence before the Storm

The Middle East lay in ruins, a wasteland of dust and silence where once life had thrived. Once a cradle of civilization and modern marvels, it had become the most devastated region in the contemporary world. Cities that had pulsed with energy and ambition were now nothing more than skeletal remains. The vast number of people who had dwelled there were swept away mercilessly, slaughtered by Bradford’s army in a campaign that left no trace of humanity behind. The air itself seemed to mourn, heavy with the scent of ash and decay.

Bradford’s soldiers had moved through the region like a storm of fire and steel. Their movements were relentless, their discipline unshaken even under the scorching heat that mirrored the infernal deserts of Rosham. The tallest skyscrapers that had once defined the skylines of cities like Dubai and Abu Dhabi—symbols of progress and wealth—were reduced to heaps of twisted metal and shattered glass. The Burj Khalifa, once piercing the heavens, now lay broken, its fragments scattered across the sands like the bones of a fallen titan. No landmark remained recognizable; the land itself seemed to have forgotten what it once was.

The main army, stationed across the vast expanse of China, continued its preparations with grim determination. Soldiers trained tirelessly, their bodies hardened by exhaustion and fear, their minds fixed on the inevitable resumption of war. They knew that in five days, when Mark’s stay in Rosham ended, the attacks would resume. The calm that had settled over the world was deceptive—a fragile stillness before the storm’s return.

For now, the world seemed eerily quiet. The soldiers of Bradford’s army, who had once roamed freely across continents, had vanished. No one could explain their disappearance. Some whispered that they had returned to Rosham during the temporary ceasefire, while others believed they had gone into hiding, waiting for the signal to strike again. Rumors spread like wildfire that a member of Menas had arrived in Rosham, and that the pause in attacks was meant to ensure his safety. The immortal army, bound by strange and ancient laws, had mirrored this stillness across the contemporary world. Yet everyone knew this peace was an illusion—one that would soon shatter.

In the absence of battle, the minor armies took on a grim duty. They moved through the ruined cities, clearing the streets of the countless bodies that lay unburied. The stench of death had become unbearable, seeping into every corner of the surviving world. With no time to bury the dead properly, the armies devised a desperate solution: the Middle East would serve as the universal deposit for the fallen. Convoys of trucks and aircraft carried the corpses from every continent, depositing them in the endless deserts that had once been home to millions. The region became a graveyard without markers, a sea of death stretching from horizon to horizon. The sands, once golden, were now darkened by the weight of humanity’s end.

Meanwhile, in China—the heart of the remaining resistance—the main army stood as the last organized force of the living. Its camps stretched across vast plains and mountain ranges, filled with the hum of machinery, the clang of weapons, and the rhythmic chants of soldiers in training. China had been chosen not only for its power and resources but also for its proximity to Rosham, the epicenter of the immortal conflict. The nation’s cities had been transformed into fortresses, its factories into war engines. Every soldier knew that their fight was not for victory, but for defiance—for the preservation of what little humanity remained.

Even though the immortals could not die, the army trained to fight them regardless. Every maneuver, every drill, every weapon test was an act of defiance against inevitability. They knew they could not win, but they refused to vanish quietly. The soldiers fought not for conquest, but for meaning—for the right to stand and resist, even in the face of extinction.

As the fifth day approached, the air grew heavier. The calm that had settled over the world began to tremble, as if the earth itself anticipated the return of chaos. In the distance, the horizon shimmered with heat and dread. The soldiers of China tightened their grips on their weapons, their eyes fixed on the unseen enemy beyond the veil of silence. The world held its breath, waiting for Bradford’s army to rise again—and for the war to resume its merciless course.

Canada was now a sealed sanctuary—its borders closed to the world, its skies patrolled by silent drones that shimmered like silver insects against the pale northern light. Only its native inhabitants and the privileged families of Menas remained within. The rest of the world burned in chaos, nations collapsing under the weight of famine, war, and disease. Menas had decreed that Canada, like Chile, would become a fortress—no entry, no exit. These were the last bastions of order, the final havens untouched by the ruin that had swallowed continents whole. The decision had been ruthless but necessary. Without it, the flood of desperate refugees would have overwhelmed the fragile peace that still lingered in these lands. Menas called it “population control.” Others whispered it was a gilded cage.

Dawn Thurber’s family belonged to the privileged few. Fourteen years earlier, her father, Richard Thurber, had forced her into politics, shaping her into a tool for his ambitions. Two years later, when Menas was founded, he maneuvered her into its ranks. Rita Thurber, his wife, had been working as a private assistant to James Baldwin at the time—Baldwin, the visionary who would soon announce the creation of Menas, an organization destined to dominate the world’s political landscape. Richard saw his chance. Through Rita, he secured a place for their daughter in the new order, ensuring the Thurber name would remain among the powerful.

But now, lying in the dim light of their bedroom, Richard regretted everything. The weight of his choices pressed on him like a stone. He had sent his daughter into danger, into a world of secrets and blood. He wished he had let her follow her own dreams—to become a film director, to tell stories instead of living one written by others. The thought haunted him.

Rita stirred beside him. The room was heavy with silence, the faint hum of the air filtration system the only sound. She turned toward him, her face half-lit by the soft glow of the digital clock on the nightstand. Her voice trembled when she spoke.

“Do you think Dawn will ever make it out of Rosham?” she asked. “The situation doesn’t seem to be getting any better—at least not soon enough to guarantee her safety.”

Her words hung in the air, unanswered. Richard lay still, staring at the ceiling, his expression unreadable. She waited, her heart tightening with each passing second. Just as she began to believe he would ignore her, he shifted, turning onto his back. His head sank into the pillow, his hands folded neatly over his chest like a man preparing for burial.

“Menas is still with her,” he said finally, his voice low but firm. “They’ll protect her. You should be grateful I sent her there years ago. Otherwise…” He paused, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Who knows? Even this conversation might not be happening. I hope you understand what I mean.”

The words were cold, almost cruel, but he meant them as comfort. He knew Rita would hate him for saying them, yet he also knew they would linger in her mind, offering a fragile thread of reassurance. Menas was powerful—perhaps powerful enough to keep their daughter alive.

Rita studied him in the half-darkness. For a moment, she saw not the weary man beside her but the Richard she had known years ago—the man who had used his influence to destroy her happiness. He had forced her to marry him, threatening her lover, Rob, until the man fled Berlin under a false name, vanishing into the shadows of another city. Only Richard, his assistant, and Rob himself knew the full truth of what had happened.

She had stayed with Richard out of duty, out of fear, out of love for her children. But the years had turned that love into something brittle and cold. She hated him for what he had done to her, for what he had done to Dawn. Yet she endured, because leaving would have meant tearing her children from their father—and in this world, family was the only safety left.

Outside, the wind howled softly against the reinforced glass. The northern lights shimmered faintly above the horizon, painting the sky in ghostly ribbons of green and violet. Somewhere beyond those lights, in the quarantined city of Rosham, their daughter was fighting to survive. And in the quiet of that sealed Canadian night, both parents lay awake—bound by regret, by fear, and by the fragile hope that Menas would keep its promise.