The final few hundred yards to the gates of the Well were the longest of my life. Each step was a force with my body bargaining for one more pace before collapse. Paralysis crept steadily up my leg, turning movement into deliberate and painful effort. Around us, the sounds and smells of life filled the air, be the sand, cooking fires, distant voices. They felt close enough to touch yet remained out of reach.
The air itself had changed. It was thick with moisture and heavy against my lungs, a stark contrast to the dry purity of the open desert. It carried the scent of a world I could not remember
Jacob, ever the pragmatist, offered no words of encouragement. He kept a firm hand on my arm, steadying me when I faltered.
He understood, as I did, that sentiment was a luxury, and arrival was the only thing that mattered.
The gate was huge and it is a construction of scrap metal, heavy timbers, and reinforced stone, flanked by a high palisade of sharpened stakes. A watchtower loomed above it, and as we approached, a sharp cry echoed down.
"Stop! Identify yourselves."
The voice was young but steady. Two figures appeared on the walkway above the gate, silhouetted against the warm light spilling from within the settlement. Crossbows were trained on us without hesitation.
"It is Jacob," the old historian called out, his voice rough with fatigue. "I am coming in."
There was a pause, followed by a muttered exchange above. "Jacob. You have been gone for months. We thought the monsterd had finally claimed you."
"The monsters have been trying to claim me for years," Jacob replied. "They have not succeeded yet, now open the gate. I have a wounded man with me."
The guards' attention shifted to me. In the dim light, I must have looked barely human. Bloodstained, dust covered, barely upright, leaning on a makeshift crutch.
"Who is he?" the guard demanded. "We do not take strangers. You know the rules."
"The rules can bend for a man dying of scorpion poison," Jacob said, his patience thinning. "He is no raider, and he is lost. Decide whether you want to explain to Lyra why you let a man die at her door."
The name altered the tension immediately.
After another brief exchange, a reluctant voice called down. "Fine. Zarok will want to see you. Both of you. Immediately."
With a groan of metal and wood, a smaller door set into the main gate was unbarred and pulled open. Warm, humid air flowed out and wrapped around us.
We stepped inside. The gate closed behind us, the heavy beam sliding into place with a final, echoing sound. We were in.
The interior of the Well was chaotic but alive. Buildings of adobe and scavenged parts clustered around a central spring. A dark, still pool reflected the stars overhead.
Narrow paths wound between structures, lit by shielded lanterns, and the air hummed with quiet, constant movement.
People paused to watch us pass. Jacob was familiar, a figure who came and went, but I was something else.
Unknown, unmeasured, and possibly dangerous.
Instead of an infirmary, we were led to a larger, sturdier building near the heart of the settlement. Inside, the room functioned as a command center. Maps covered a wide table, and shelves were stacked with salvaged equipment and supplies.
A man stood with his back to us, studying one of the maps.
He was tall and broad shouldered, his presence filling the room before he turned.
When he did, his face told the story of a brutal life. Scars crossed his features, the most prominent running from temple to jaw, pulling one side of his mouth into a permanent grim line. His dark eyes were sharp and alert.
Zarok. Leader of the Well.
"Jacob," he said, his low voice stripped of warmth. "You return, and you bring trouble with you."
His gaze settled on me. Cold. Measuring.
"He was attacked by blight crawlers," Jacob said. "He is poisoned. He needs Lyra."
Zarok moved around me slowly, examining damage rather than person. "Every raider has a something, be poison, hunger, or regret. Why is this one different."
"Because he has no past," Jacob said quietly. "No memory, and he carried this."
He placed the pendant on the table.
The milky stone pulsed with a soft, steady light, illuminating the scarred wood beneath it. Zarok stared at it in silence. Something in the room shifted.
The door opened.
A young woman entered carrying a basket of herbs. She was slight, with calm eyes and a gentleness that felt rare in this place.
"Zarok, the night watch reported" She stopped when she saw me.
"He is hurt," she said.
" Scorpion poison," Zarok replied. "Jacob brought him in."
The woman knelt beside me without hesitation. Her hand rested against my forehead, cool and steady.
"He has a fever. The poison is deep."
She examined my leg with her focus absolute, and for a brief moment, a faint silvery shimmer moved around her fingers.
She looked up at Zarok. "I can help him. I need to take him to the infirmary now."
Zarok hesitated. His attention moved between me, Jacob, and the glowing pendant. Finally, he nodded.
"Take him. He is your responsibility, Lyra. He does not wander. He does not speak freely. He is a ghost until I decide otherwise."
His gaze fixed on me.
"Do you understand."
I nodded weakly.
Lyra helped me to my feet, her strength surprising. As she guided me from the room, the world blurred, then darkness crept in from the edges of my vision.
The last thing I saw before losing consciousness was Zarok lifting the pendant, its ancient light reflecting across the scars in his face.