The Citadel appeared slowly—not all at once, but piece by piece, rising out of the ash like something that had been waiting to be seen. Fredrik noticed it long before the others said a word; it was a distortion on the horizon, too sharp to be natural and too still to be safe.
They kept walking in a silence so heavy he could almost hear the Reach breathing down his neck. Fredrik's gaze drifted habitually to the side, cataloging the terrain. To the south lay open ash plains with no cover and no elevation. To the north were broken ridges—jagged, climbable, but slow.
His HUD flickered faintly: [NEURAL SYNC: 59% — DEGRADED].
It wasn't good. He slowed by half a step, and though no one commented, he saw the reaction immediately. Kaelen's posture shifted into a subtle watchfulness, and while Valerius didn't turn, the rhythmic tap of his sapphire staff slowed. They were tracking him without looking like they were tracking him.
Fredrik exhaled quietly, measuring his options. If he ran now, the distance to the ridgeline was too far and his condition was too compromised. With no supplies and a high probability of pursuit, he could already see the outcome: a day or two of dehydration and exposure before something smaller and faster than a Drake found him. He'd be dead.
He shifted his gaze back to the Citadel. It was too structured to ignore—an unknown, but a stable one. It offered information and shelter, provided he could stomach the risk.
"Yeah," he muttered under his breath, clicking his tongue softly. "Great choices."
"Something wrong?" Elara asked, glancing at him.
"Just thinking," he said.
She held his gaze a moment longer than usual, neither pushing nor trusting him. Fredrik looked past her to the walls now cutting into the skyline. He reasoned that if they wanted him dead, they could have tried already—in the pass, on the ridge, or during the night. The fact that they hadn't meant he was more valuable alive, at least for now.
Fredrik adjusted his cloak, his hand brushing against the solid, familiar weight of the .45. He had one magazine and no margin for error. It wasn't enough for a fight, but it was enough for a decision. He stepped forward, not out of trust or a sense of safety, but because walking into the lion's den with his eyes open beat dying blind in the wilderness.
The Citadel loomed ahead, and this time, Fredrik walked toward it like a man who knew he might have to fight his way back out.