The Smoke Below: The Underkin Saga - Book 1

Chapter 2

Chief Rowan fought the fire with everything he had, but the house was already beyond saving. The structure had collapsed ten minutes earlier, yet the flames still roared as if fed by something unseen. Every few seconds, another deep, muffled boom echoed from somewhere inside the inferno, making the ground tremble beneath his boots.

This isn’t normal, he thought, tightening his grip on the hose. Something else is burning in there.

A shout rose from the crowd behind him. “Hey—look!”

Rowan glanced sideways. The onlookers were turning away from the fire, phones raised, filming something behind him. Confused, he followed their gaze—and froze.

A group of people stood at the edge of the smoke. Thirty or so, men, women, children, all coated in soot and ash. Their clothes were ragged, their faces streaked with dirt, their expressions hollow. He’d seen shock before, but this was different. They looked… displaced. Untouched by flame, yet undeniably emerging from the burning ruins.

How did no one see them until now? he wondered. They must have been inside, but there had been no sign of survivors.

He approached slowly, hands raised to show he meant no harm. The group watched him with wide, unblinking eyes, as though he were some strange creature they’d never encountered.

“Are you hurt?” he asked gently, directing the question to a woman near the front. She stood straighter than the others, her expression wary rather than terrified. “What’s your name? Do you need help?”

She hesitated before stepping forward. “I am Corin,” she said, her voice rough from smoke. “We… we come from below.”

Rowan blinked. “Below? Below what?”

Corin pointed to the burning wreckage. “Below this.”

Her tone was matter‑of‑fact, but Rowan couldn’t make sense of it. “Under the house? There’s nothing under there. No basement, no crawl space.”

“You would not know of it,” Corin replied. Her eyes flicked toward the flames, then back to him. She didn’t look frightened—she looked defensive, as if guarding a secret she wasn’t sure he deserved to hear.

“How many were down there?” Rowan asked.

Corin’s jaw tightened. “Around eight hundred.” A single tear cut a pale line through the soot on her cheek. “We are all that remain.”

Rowan swallowed hard. “Alright… are any of you injured?”

“I do not believe so,” she said, but her tone carried no trust. She watched him as though waiting for him to prove himself.

He moved among the group, checking for burns or smoke inhalation. The children clung to their mothers, trembling. One boy stood alone, staring at the ground. Rowan approached him carefully and knelt.

“Hey there,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t even flinch—just stared at Rowan with a mixture of fear and suspicion.

“Are you hurt?” Rowan tried again.

Still nothing.

Corin stepped over, placing a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Kesh,” she said quietly, “this man wishes to help. Can you tell him if you are hurt?”

Kesh looked up at Rowan, then shook his head. “I’m… okay.” His voice was barely audible.

Rowan didn’t ask where the boy’s parents were. He already feared the answer.

He stood and looked toward the fire. Smoke was now pouring from cracks in the ground where the group had emerged. Flames licked upward, searching for air.

“We need to move,” Rowan said. “Now. It’s not safe here.”

Corin’s eyes narrowed. “Move where?”

“There’s an old barn down the hill. It’s empty. It’ll keep you out of the smoke.”

Corin studied him for a long moment. She didn’t step back, but she didn’t step forward either. Her people watched her, waiting.

“My name is Rowan,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “I’m here to help you. Nothing more.”

Corin’s gaze flicked to the fire, then to her people, then back to Rowan. She still didn’t fully trust him—he could see that clearly—but something in his tone seemed to soften her stance. Not acceptance, but consideration.

She spoke to the group in a language Rowan had never heard. The people murmured among themselves, uncertain. A few took hesitant steps forward, then stopped again, looking to Corin for reassurance.

Corin finally nodded once. “We will go,” she said, though her voice carried a warning. “But we follow only until we understand your intentions.”

“That’s fine,” Rowan replied. “Just stay close.”

He led them through the crowd, shielding them from the gawking onlookers, and guided them down the hill toward the abandoned barn. It wasn’t much, but it was shelter—and for now, that was enough.

Corin walked beside him, never more than an arm’s length from her people, her eyes constantly scanning for danger. She didn’t trust him yet. Not even close.

But she was willing to walk with him.

For now.

-------------------

Corin turned to her people, lifting her voice just enough for the group to hear without drawing more attention from the onlookers outside.

“This man, Rowan… he says he can help us,” she announced. Her tone was steady, but not warm. “We will go with him for now. Stay close. Stay alert.”

The Underkin exchanged uncertain glances. No one nodded immediately. They trusted Corin, but they could see she wasn’t fully convinced herself. Only after a few breaths—after Corin’s eyes swept over them, silently urging calm—did they begin to move.

Corin took Kesh’s hand, feeling how cold his fingers had become now that the heat of the fire was fading behind them. She wrapped her Elder’s robe around him and pulled him close. At sixty‑three, she had long been the Underkin’s grandmother in spirit as well as one of their Elders. Her presence steadied them, even now, when the world above felt impossibly loud and bright.

They followed Rowan through the crowd. The onlookers reacted in every way imaginable—some stared openly, others recoiled as if the Underkin carried disease. Corin caught sight of their phones raised like weapons, recording every step.

We must look a fright, she thought, tightening her hold on Kesh. And they look at us as though we are creatures, not people.

Rowan slowed as they neared the barn at the bottom of the hill. He turned to Corin, keeping a respectful distance.

“You can stay here for now,” he said. “I’ll get the medical staff to come check everyone over. They’re trained—they’ll take care of you.”

Corin studied him. His voice was calm, but she could see tension in his shoulders, the strain of responsibility. She didn’t know him well enough to trust him, not truly, but she could see he meant what he said.

She inclined her head slightly—a gesture of acknowledgment, not acceptance.

“Your efforts are noted, Rowan,” she said quietly. “We will remain here.”

Rowan nodded and opened the barn door. The Underkin filed inside, moving with the slow, exhausted shuffle of people who had lost far more than anyone outside could understand. There were no chairs, only hay bales scattered around the space, but they settled quickly, grateful for shelter and distance from the fire.

Outside, the crowd pressed closer, phones raised again. Rowan stepped into the doorway, blocking their view.

“Back up,” he ordered, pushing the onlookers away with firm but controlled movements. “They’ve been through enough. Give them space.”

Corin listened to the muffled voices beyond the barn walls. The onlookers groaned in disappointment, complaining about being shut out of the spectacle. Rowan didn’t budge.

“I’ll speak to them later,” he said. “But not now.”

The barn door thudded shut. The sudden quiet felt like a blessing.

Corin exhaled slowly. Her people sank into the hay, some holding their children, others staring blankly at the wooden walls. No one spoke. No one cried. They simply existed in the silence, grateful for it.

For the first time since emerging from the earth, Corin allowed herself to sit. She kept Kesh close, her arm wrapped around him, her eyes fixed on the door.

Rowan had helped them. That much was true.

But trust—real trust—would take far more than a barn and a closed door.

For now, they rested. For now, they waited.