Chapter 1: The Letter

The letter trembled in Hannah’s hands; its edges worn soft from countless readings. Predawn light crept through the single window of their hovel, too weak yet to illuminate the words she’d memorized, but strong enough to cast Thomas’s sleeping form in gentle shadows. His breathing came in shallow whispers, each one carrying the damp weight of Coghaven’s perpetual fog.

She didn’t need light to read James’s final words. They had carved themselves into her heart, each line etched deeper with every passing day since the merchant had appeared at their door. He’d refused payment for the delivery – a kindness that had nearly broken her more than the news itself.

My dearest Hannah and Thomas,

The water ran out two days ago. My tongue feels like old leather, my throat like rusted gears. Never knew thirst could hurt this much. Got turned around in the waste-fog chasing that cache the merchant told us about – the one that fell from the Faireborne airship. The maps were wrong out here. Or maybe the fog just changed everything. Doesn’t matter now.

A soft whimper from Thomas’s corner drew her eyes. He’d kicked his thin blanket aside in his sleep, one arm thrown across his chest as if to ease the constant ache there. Eight years old, and already intimate with pain no child should know. The damp air that crept beneath their door, that seeped through the dirt floor and gathered in the corners like pooled shadows, was slowly stealing his breath, day by day.

Hannah, my love – you were right about scavenging. The Dread Wastes takes everyone eventually, just like you warned. Should’ve listened. But when that merchant in the market mentioned the lost power crystals, all I could think about was Thomas’s cough getting worse, about the medicine we couldn’t afford. One good score, that’s all we needed. Just one.

She pressed the paper to her lips, catching the ghost of desert dust that still clung to its surface. Had he thought of them at the end? Had he seen Thomas’s face in the waste-fog, heard the echo of their son’s laughter in the wind?

The cruel thing? I found them. The power crystals are right here beside me. Enough to buy us a more than decent home. Enough for Thomas’ medicine, enough for a better life. But I won’t make it back.

Somewhere in the distance, a factory whistle pierced the fog, marking the hour when Coghaven’s machinery stirred to life. Soon the streets would fill with workers, their shoulders bent under the weight of survival. But for now, in this gray space between night and dawn, Hannah could pretend time had stopped, that she wasn’t about to upend what little security they had left.

I’ve marked the location on the map I’ve enclosed. I’ve hidden them well, in the Iron Mountains where the trading routes don’t reach. I know what I’m asking is dangerous – I never wanted you to risk the Wastes. But you’re stronger than I ever was, Hannah. Smarter too. There’s a power crystal enclosed with this letter. Enough to buy a sand skiff and supplies. You’ll need to reach Steelwatch in one day, then make for the mountains. Don’t get caught in the Wastes after dark. The grays… they’re hunting then.

Her fingers found the crystal in her pocket, its edges sharp against her skin. One small light to guide them toward salvation or doom. James had always said hope was the most dangerous thing in their world – more dangerous than baldagaars or raiders or the toxic fogs that rolled in from Ashen Falls. Hope could make you risk everything.

Tell Thomas I’m sorry I’ll miss watching him grow up. Tell him the stories I used to tell, about the world before the Shift. Keep him drawing those airships he loves so much. Maybe someday…

The writing grew unsteady here, trailing off into a shaking line. Hannah folded the letter carefully, reverently, and tucked it into her shirt pocket, close to her heart. Through the window, the first true light of dawn was beginning to pierce the fog. Thomas would wake soon, asking for breakfast she couldn’t provide, trying to hide his coughs so she wouldn’t worry.

She rose quietly, moving to kneel beside her son’s mattress. In sleep, his face still held the innocence the world hadn’t managed to steal – the same gentle spirit that made him save crumbs for the starving mice that sometimes skittered through their walls.

Her fingers brushed his forehead, feeling the slight fever that never quite broke. James was right – hope was dangerous. But watching her son’s labored breathing, feeling the poverty press around them like a tightening noose, Hannah knew danger wasn’t always the worst choice.

Sometimes it was the only one left.