The pain hit me like a second explosion.
I screamed. A raw, guttural cry tore from my throat as I clutched the mangled stump where my left arm had once been. Blood poured in thick, hot rivers, soaking through my sleeve and down my side. My knees buckled. The world swayed.
"No," I hissed through clenched teeth. "Not here. Not now."
I dropped to one knee and yanked off my coat with trembling fingers. It was coarse and thick—old wool—and all I had. I wadded it up and pressed it hard against the wound, my vision speckling with white as fresh agony lanced through me.
"Come on," I whispered, staggering forward. "Move."
My boots slid across the rubble-strewn road. Firelight flickered against the crumbling buildings. Screams and sirens echoed like a funeral chorus. My breaths came shallow, wet with copper. I couldn't afford to pass out. Not yet.
I followed the flow of the crowd. Dozens of civilians ran—families, workers, soldiers in outdated uniforms—toward the same location, a squat building partially buried into the side of a hill. Reinforced metal doors yawned open, people flooding through. The faint clatter of bombs still rang in the air.
I stumbled inside just as the doors slammed shut behind me.
The interior of the bunker was dim and claustrophobic, lit by flickering oil lamps hanging from rusted chains. Concrete walls pressed close, and the air was thick with sweat, smoke, and fear. People were crammed into every corner. Children sobbed against their mothers. Elderly men clutched prayer beads, whispering desperate invocations. A teenage girl vomited in the corner while her brother rubbed her back.
Eyes turned to me as I entered, blood soaking my side, my face pale. Someone screamed.
A woman in a patched nurse's uniform pushed through the crowd. She couldn't have been older than twenty, freckles smeared with soot, hands trembling as she guided me toward a cleared spot on the floor.
"Lie down! Lie down, now!"
I collapsed, the jacket slipping free from my grip.
"We need to stop the bleeding!"
She worked quickly, pulling out a roll of gauze and a set of metal scissors. There was no anesthetic. No morphine. Only bandages, threadbare rags, and pain.
The first touch made me convulse.
"Hold still! I know it hurts, but I have to do this!"
She pressed cloth into the stump, tightening it with shaking hands. I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. Tears blurred my vision, but I forced myself to stay conscious.
I needed a distraction.
A mother rocked her child beside me, whispering lullabies in a language I only half-recognized. A young boy tugged at his father's coat. "Papa, I'm hungry... when can we eat again?"
"Soon," the man said, voice hollow.
Someone prayed. Another argued with their partner about whether the roof would hold.
"It'll be a while before help comes," a man muttered to no one in particular. He sat near the back, arms crossed, coat dusty with ash. "No journalist's made it through yet. Without a report, no one's gonna know what happened here."
This wasn't just survival.
This was the task. Just like before. Just like the ring and the shadow.
Now, I had to become a journalist.
I turned my head to the nurse. "Who do I talk to... about the bombing? Casualties. Locations. Anything."
She blinked at me, stunned. "You're still conscious? You lost an arm."
"Still breathing," I said hoarsely. "Need to help. Need to report."
She hesitated, then nodded toward the man in the corner who'd spoken. "His name's Harris. He was on shift at the water tower. Saw where the first bombs hit."
I dragged myself upright, vision swimming. My shoulder throbbed, the crude bandages already soaking through, but I grit my teeth and forced myself to walk.
"I need everything you saw."
His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because I can get word out. I can get help. But I need details."
Harris studied me, then slowly nodded. "Alright. Bombers came from the east. First wave dropped near the textile mills. Second hit the school and market square. There's nothing left of either. Third wave clipped the train station. I don't think anyone survived inside."
As I pulled out my notebook, my hand trembled. My fingers, slick with blood, smeared the edge of the page as I flipped it open. The pen felt clumsy in my grip—too light, too fragile compared to the weight pressing against my chest. I scrawled as quickly as I could, each letter jagged, uneven. The words wavered, some barely legible, but I forced myself to keep going. I couldn't afford to forget. Not a single detail.
"Hundreds. Maybe more. We've pulled twenty bodies out of the rubble near the square. Kids. Teachers. Whole families."
I swallowed hard. "Defensive emplacements? Return fire?"
"One anti-aircraft gun. Jammed on the first shot. No military presence strong enough to fight back. We're sitting ducks."
I looked around the bunker. Dozens of faces. Maybe more hidden in the corners.
He rummaged in his coat and pulled out a rough sketch on yellowed paper. I unfolded it.
The town layout emerged: the textile mills, the school, the train station. The bunker was marked with an X. Roads snaked out from the center, leading to the outer hills.
"Where would a telegram or telegraph office be?"
"Mailing headquarters. End of Ashford Street, by the old bank. If it's still standing, they'll have a telegraph. Might even reach the city."
That was all I needed.
I tucked the map into my coat, ignoring the fresh wave of dizziness that crashed over me.
As I turned to leave, the nurse grabbed my sleeve. "You're still bleeding. You won't make it far."
I gave her a tired smile. "I just need to make it far enough."
I crossed the bunker, one slow step at a time. Faces turned toward me—some in confusion, some in awe, others in fear.
The doors creaked open again, just wide enough for one man.
Ash and wind greeted me like an old enemy.
And stepped into the ruin.
I would get to that telegraph.
And this time, I wouldn't let the ink run dry.