The Smoke Below: The Underkin Saga - Book 1

Chapter 3

The barn was barely standing. Its wooden frame sagged under years of neglect, the slats warped and cracked from weather and the rough games of teenagers who had once used it as a makeshift pitch. Dust clung to every surface, and the faint smell of mould lingered in the air. It was shelter, but only just.

Corin stepped inside and took in the surroundings. Everything felt strange—too open, too bright, too loud even in silence. The Underkin clustered together, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar space. Kesh huddled against her side, drifting in and out of sleep, his small body trembling with exhaustion. Corin wrapped her robe around him again, holding him close. The night had been long, brutal, and filled with losses. None of them had yet begun to process the sheer scale of the night's events.

The barn filled with quiet despair. Adults wept softly, their grief spilling out now that they were no longer running for their lives. Children whispered questions their parents couldn’t answer—Where were their families? Why had they been forced to leave? What would happen now? No one had the strength to respond. No one knew how.

A sound rose in the distance—loud, mechanical, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The Underkin stiffened. Heads turned. Fear rippled through the group. They had never heard anything like it.

The barn doors opened and Rowan stepped inside, shutting them quickly to block the onlookers outside.

“The paramedics are here,” he said. “They’ll be in shortly.”

Blank stares met him. The word meant nothing to them.

Rowan paused, then corrected himself. “Doctors. They’re doctors. They’re here to make sure none of you are hurt. After that, we’ve arranged temporary accommodation. There’s a hotel nearby with enough rooms for everyone.”

Kesh stirred, rubbing his eyes. “What is a hotel?” he asked, voice small and uncertain.

Rowan crouched in front of him, choosing his words carefully. “A hotel is… like a very big house. A place where many people can sleep, each in their own room. It’s safe. Warm. You’ll have a bed of your own.”

Kesh didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway, more out of politeness than understanding.

The barn doors opened again. A team of people entered carrying equipment that flashed and beeped, lights blinking in unfamiliar patterns. The Underkin recoiled, startled by the strange objects and the brisk confidence of the newcomers.

Rowan leaned closer to Corin, lowering his voice. “I told them what you told me. They know you’ve been through something terrible. They’re here to help, I promise. All this equipment—it’s just to check you over. Nothing harmful.”

Corin watched the doctors warily. She didn’t step back, but she didn’t move toward them either. Her trust in Rowan was still fragile, built only on his actions so far. He had protected them from the crowd. He had given them space. He had spoken gently to Kesh.

He had not yet given her a reason to doubt him.

She nodded once, a small gesture of acceptance—but not surrender.

“We will allow it,” she said quietly. “For now.”

The doctors approached, and the Underkin braced themselves, unsure of what came next.

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The paramedics spread out across the barn, placing their equipment on the hay‑covered floor and against the warped wooden walls. There were eight of them—more than Rowan had expected—and each carried the same mixture of urgency and disbelief. When he had explained the situation outside, several had laughed, assuming he was exaggerating or misinformed. But now, standing inside the barn and staring at the soot‑covered faces of the Underkin, their expressions shifted. Doubt gave way to uneasy acceptance. Nothing about the group resembled the world they knew.

The eldest woman—tall, silver‑haired, her posture straight despite exhaustion—wore a robe over a plain dress, tied at the waist with a simple rope. A carved stone pendant hung around her neck, its markings worn smooth with age. Her hands were scarred and blackened with soot, and her eyes held the weight of someone who had lived through far more than she would ever say aloud.

The children were dressed in tattered trousers and thin shirts, the girls in simple dresses. Every one of them was coated in ash. Some had begun coughing, their small bodies shaking with each breath.

The paramedics moved quickly, pulling stethoscopes and blood pressure cuffs from their bags. They needed to check lungs, oxygen levels, heart rates—anything that might reveal smoke damage. But the moment the equipment appeared, the Underkin recoiled. Mothers pulled their children close, shielding them from the strange objects that beeped and flashed.

Corin stepped back too, instinctively protective. But Rowan’s words echoed in her mind: They’re going to look after you, I promise.

She gently untangled Kesh from her waist and stepped toward the nearest paramedic.

“What is that for?” she asked, pointing to the cuff in his hand.

“This checks your blood pressure,” he said, holding it out. Corin stared at it, clearly unfamiliar with both the object and the concept. The paramedic hesitated, then slipped the cuff onto his own arm and activated the machine. The sudden whirring noise made several Underkin jump.

“See?” he said softly. “It doesn’t hurt. It just tells us how your body is doing on the inside.”

He lifted his stethoscope next, placing the earpieces in and pressing the diaphragm to his chest.

“This lets me listen to your heart and lungs. I need to check for smoke. It won’t hurt. I promise.”

Corin’s eyes flicked to Rowan. He gave her a small nod. She exhaled slowly.

“Very well,” she said.

The paramedic asked her to remove her robe. She handed it to a young man beside her, then allowed the cuff to be placed on her arm. As the machine tightened, she flinched—but only slightly. The paramedic murmured reassurance, and she held still.

Once the others saw Corin unharmed, they began stepping forward one by one. The barn filled with the soft hum of machines and the quiet instructions of the medical team. It took nearly an hour, but eventually every Underkin had been checked over. No immediate medical emergencies. No burns. Only exhaustion, shock, and mild smoke inhalation.

When the paramedics gave the all‑clear, Rowan guided the group outside.

“We’re going to take you to the hotel now,” he said. “There’s a bus waiting.”

“What is a bus?” Kesh asked, blinking up at him. Rowan couldn’t help smiling. The boy’s curiosity was relentless.

“A bus is something you sit inside,” Rowan explained. “It takes you where you need to go.”

Kesh nodded, though he still looked unsure.

But when the Underkin reached the vehicle, they froze. The bus towered over them, its headlights glowing in the dark. It was larger than anything they had ever seen, and the size alone made several of them step back in fear.

“You want us to go inside that?” a young woman asked, clutching her child tightly.

“I’ll be with you,” Rowan said gently. “I wouldn’t ask you to go if it wasn’t safe. I promise.”

Corin stepped forward, standing beside him. Her presence steadied the group more than Rowan’s words ever could. The bus driver opened the doors, and Rowan climbed aboard first. Corin followed, with Kesh close behind.

“You may sit wherever you like,” Rowan said.

Corin chose a seat near the front. Kesh settled beside her, eyes wide as he took in the rows of seats and the strange smell of fuel and upholstery. One by one, the Underkin boarded, each step hesitant but guided by Corin’s calm example.

The doors closed. The engine roared to life.

The Underkin jumped. One child burst into tears.

“It’s alright,” Rowan said quickly. “That’s just the engine. It helps the bus move. Try to rest. We’ll be there in about an hour.”

Slowly, the group settled. The bus rumbled down the road, carrying them away from the burning ruins on the cliff—away from the only home they had ever known—into a world none of them understood.