Morning came slow and golden.
It spilled across the library floor like honey—thick and slow, warming everything it touched. Dust hovered in the light like drifting snow. The silence was so deep that even the groan of old floorboards felt like a prayer.
Luma stood in the main hall, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes locked on the door she'd passed through a thousand times but never with this much weight behind it. Today, stepping outside wasn't just survival—it was mission. It was legacy.
Aziel stood beside her in the flickering candlelight, his hands clasped behind his back like a soldier watching the last of his troops leave the trench.
"You've got food, water tablets, paper maps," he said, ticking off a mental list. "The medallion will get you past some checkpoints. Some. Not all."
Luma adjusted her coat. "I know."
He didn't stop. "Avoid high-traffic zones. Use alleys, rooftops when you can. If you hear drones, freeze. Don't run. And if someone talks to you—"
"Grandfather," she cut in gently, "I know."
Aziel hesitated. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something final, some wise farewell that would echo forever in her heart. But he didn't. He just stepped forward, wrapped her in his arms, and held her there. Quiet. Steady.
"I waited too long to leave," he whispered. "But you… you're right on time."
She didn't cry. She wanted to. But crying felt like something that belonged to yesterday.
Today was movement.
She pulled back, took one last look at the only home she'd ever known, then opened the heavy wooden door. The hinges shrieked like they were warning her, but she stepped through anyway.
And just like that, she was outside.
The city was louder than she remembered. Not because of sound—but because of pressure.
Every billboard, every storefront, every passing pedestrian carried some kind of digital hum. Giant holograms loomed above the skyline, looping news feeds and shopping ads over and over like a broken chorus. Surveillance orbs buzzed quietly overhead like lazy wasps, scanning faces, logging data, always watching.
Luma kept her head down.
She moved through back streets and narrow alleys, careful not to draw attention. Her outfit was plain—gray tones, soft fabrics. The kind of clothing that let you blend in without looking like you were trying to blend in.
She passed a child holding a tablet larger than their head, eyes glazed over. An elderly man with plugs in his ears muttered stock prices to himself. A couple on a bench took photos of themselves kissing, then immediately separated—more interested in the image than the moment.
It was like watching ghosts perform a play they didn't know they were in.
Luma slipped through it all like a shadow.
At midday, she stopped beneath an abandoned train station overpass and pulled out the cloth from her pack. The embroidered coordinates shimmered slightly in the light.
She took out a compass, adjusted it the way Aziel had shown her, and matched the direction.
Solmere was west.
And far.
She started walking again.
That night, she camped in a half-collapsed diner on the outskirts of Zone 9, just past the wall where the data grid started to weaken. Here, the advertisements were broken—half-lit, glitching. It felt like being near the edge of something.
She built a small fire behind the counter, wrapped herself in her coat, and opened the letter again.
"Come to Solmere. Bring no screens. Bring no fear. Bring yourself."
Her fingers brushed the medallion hanging around her neck. The Quiet Flame sigil—two hands holding a spark—felt heavy tonight.
She didn't know who M was yet. She didn't know if Solmere was still alive. She didn't know if she'd even make it that far.
But she knew one thing:
She'd already taken the first step.
And it had felt like freedom.