The kitchen was small, but warm.

  Ironford’s refugee homes had all been built the same way—square rooms, bare metal walls reinforced with wood panels, a single window facing the street. It wasn’t much, but it held heat well, and tonight the air was thick with the smell of simmering stew and toasted grain.

  Amélia moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, barefoot on the cold floor, a loose robe tied at the waist and an apron pulled over it, already stained with broth. Her red hair was tied back in a messy knot, a few strands escaping to brush her cheeks as she leaned over the pot, stirring slowly. Every now and then she winced, just slightly, when her side pulled too hard—but she ignored it, like she always did.

  Rhys stood beside her, sleeves absent as usual, his sleeveless shirt exposing the faint yellow bruising still clinging to his shoulder. He worked with one arm more than the other, chopping dried roots on the counter with exaggerated focus, trousers dusted with wood shavings he never quite managed to brush off after work.

  “You’re cutting them way too big,” Amélia said without looking.

  “They’ll cook down,” Rhys replied. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  She glanced over, unimpressed. “You’re a woodworker now. That doesn’t make you a chef.”

  “It means I understand structure,” he said, dropping the roots into the pot. “Everything needs room to breathe.”

  Amélia snorted. “You’re putting philosophy into stew again.”

  Rhys grinned and leaned back against the counter. “Hey, a month ago we didn’t even know where we’d sleep. Now look at us.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “A real kitchen. Walls. A roof that doesn’t collapse.”

  “And a job that smells like trees,” she added.

  “Hey, woodworking is respectable,” Rhys said. “People need doors. Tables. Beams that don’t snap in half.”

  She smiled softly, stirring the pot. “I know. I’m glad you found something you like.”

  “And you?” he asked. “How’s life in the dirt?”

  Amélia rolled her eyes. “I plant. I water. I get yelled at by old farmers who think I’ll ruin the soil. Then I do it anyway.”

  “Sounds like you,” Rhys said.

  She bumped him lightly with her elbow. “At least I don’t come home covered in splinters.”

  “Jealous,” he shot back.

  The flat cakes sizzled quietly on the metal plate between them. Amélia flipped one with a practiced flick, while Rhys reached over to steal it immediately.

  “Hey!” she snapped, swatting his hand. “Not done.”

  He recoiled dramatically. “Violence in my own home.”

  “Our home,” she corrected, softer this time.

  The word lingered.

  Rhys glanced at her, then away, pretending to be very interested in the stew. “Elias would’ve burned the kitchen down by now.”

  “He’s too busy pretending he understands fuel cells,” Amélia said with a laugh. “Assistant engineer. Can you believe it?”

  Rhys smiled. “I can. He always was smarter than us.”

  They fell into an easy silence, broken only by the bubbling pot and the crackle of heat. Outside, Ironford’s night hummed faintly—distant generators, patrol lights sweeping the streets.

  “This place feels… different,” Amélia said quietly. “Like maybe we could stay.”

  Rhys nodded. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  Neither of them said the thought that followed—that places like this never stayed safe for long.

  For now, though, the stew was almost ready, the kitchen was warm, and laughter came easier than it had in a long time.

  Amélia leaned in to taste the stew.

  Too close.

  She realized it the moment her shoulder brushed Rhys’ arm. Heat rushed to her face instantly, her heart skipping so hard it felt loud in her ears. She froze, spoon hovering midair.

  Rhys didn’t notice.

  He was focused on the grain cakes, squinting at them like they had personally offended him.

  “…Do you think they’re burning?” he asked.

  Amélia swallowed. “N-No. They’re fine.”

  Her voice cracked.

  Rhys turned his head slightly. “You sure? You sound weird.”

  She straightened up way too fast, knocking her elbow into the counter. “I’M FINE.”

  Rhys jumped. “Whoa—what was that?”

  “Nothing!” she said, face completely red now. “Just—hot. The kitchen’s hot.”

  He glanced around. “It’s freezing in here.”

  She grabbed the spoon and stirred aggressively. “Well I’m hot.”

  Rhys frowned, then leaned closer, placing the back of his hand near her cheek like he always used to when they were kids.

  Instant regret.

  “Whoa,” he said. “You’re burning up.”

  Her brain short-circuited.

  “D-DON’T DO THAT,” she yelped, smacking his hand away.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Rhys blinked. “Do what?”

  “That!” She gestured wildly. “That thing you do where you suddenly touch people like it’s normal!”

  “It is normal,” he said. “You’ve had a fever before.”

  “I AM NOT SICK.”

  He crossed his arms. “You’re red, yelling, and threatening kitchen utensils.”

  Amélia covered her face with both hands. “Just—just stop looking at me.”

  Rhys tilted his head. “Did I do something?”

  “…No,” she muttered. “You exist. That’s the problem.”

  “…What?”

  She dropped her hands, eyes darting anywhere but his face. “Nothing. Forget it. Stir the stew before it burns.”

  Rhys stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay. But if you faint, I’m calling Elias.”

  She groaned. “I would rather die.”

  He laughed, completely oblivious, and went back to the pot.

  Amélia stayed exactly where she was, heart racing, face hot, thinking that if living together meant moments like this…

  The knock came sharp and sudden.

  Amélia flinched, nearly dropping the knife in her hand.

  Rhys looked up from the pot, amused. “You expecting someone?”

  “No,” she said, a little too fast. “I’ll get it.”

  She wiped her hands on her apron, smoothed the front of her robe as if that would somehow prepare her, and opened the door.

  A UF soldier stood outside.

  He was young—maybe a few years older than Rhys—with long blond hair falling loosely around his face and striking blue eyes. His white uniform was crisp, immaculate… and completely forgotten the moment his gaze landed on her.

  He froze.

  Just—stared.

  “…Hello?” Amélia said carefully.

  Callen blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth opened, then closed again.

  “Oh.”

  That was it. Just oh.

  He straightened abruptly, snapping into something that vaguely resembled military posture. “S-Sorry. UF soldier Callen. I—uh—good evening.”

  Amélia tilted her head. “Is something wrong?”

  Callen swallowed and shook his head far too quickly. “No. No, nothing wrong. Just—routine visit. House check.”

  He paused, eyes flicking over her apron, the loose robe, the faint warmth of lamplight behind her. Domestic. Normal. Alive.

  There is absolutely no way, he thought, this girl is guilty of anything.

  Amélia waited.

  Callen coughed. “I mean— I was told to… confirm occupants.”

  At that moment, Rhys stepped into view behind her, spoon still in hand. “What’s going on?”

  Callen’s eyes moved to Rhys, then back to Amélia. His shoulders visibly relaxed.

  “Oh,” he said, relieved. “Good. You’re not alone.”

  Amélia blinked. “Why would that matter?”

  Callen waved a hand vaguely. “Just—protocol.”

  He cleared his throat, then smiled apologetically. “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. Didn’t mean to interrupt dinner. Or—uh—your wife.”

  Silence.

  Amélia’s face went bright red instantly.

  “My—” she squeaked.

  Rhys stared. “What?”

  Callen frowned, confused by their reaction. “Your wife?”

  “I’m sixteen,” Rhys said flatly.

  Callen went pale.

  “…You’re what.”

  “Sixteen.”

  Amélia covered her face with both hands. “We’re not married.”

  Callen looked between them, then at the kitchen behind them, then back at Amélia, whose embarrassment was rapidly approaching catastrophic levels.

  “I— I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, bowing his head. “That was—unprofessional. I just assumed. Cooking together, same house, very… married.”

  “That’s not helping,” Rhys said.

  “I know,” Callen said miserably. “I’m making it worse.”

  He straightened again, visibly trying to regain composure. “Official business. Captain Guren requests the presence of all three residents at the Ironford UF base.”

  Amélia lowered her hands slowly. “All three?”

  “Yes. Routine questioning.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “Nothing serious.”

  Rhys narrowed his eyes. “You don’t sound very convincing.”

  Callen hesitated, then glanced at Amélia again, almost instinctively.

  “I just—” he stopped himself, exhaled. “Look. I’ve seen dangerous people. You don’t look like one.”

  Amélia blinked. “That’s… not very reassuring.”

  Callen flushed. “I mean— sorry. That came out wrong.”

  Rhys snorted.

  “So,” Rhys said, setting the spoon down. “When?”

  “Now,” Callen said. Then, after a pause, “After you turn the stove off. Captain Guren would be upset if I made refugees burn their house down.”

  Amélia managed a small, nervous smile. “Thank you.”

  Callen nodded quickly, then added, “And—uh— for what it’s worth… dinner smells great.”

  Rhys smirked. “Too bad. We’re not married.”

  Callen groaned softly.

  The door closed softly behind them.

  Night had settled over Ironford in a quiet, uneasy way—lanterns glowing low along dirt paths, the hum of distant generators pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the town. The air smelled of damp soil and cut wood, a reminder that this place was built by hands, not history.

  Rhys walked at the front, shoulders squared despite the faint stiffness that still lingered in his wounded arm. Callen walked beside him, boots crunching lightly against the dirt, his posture noticeably less rigid now that he was away from uniforms and doorways. A few steps behind, Amélia followed in silence.

  Very red silence.

  She kept her eyes down, fingers gripping the edges of her robe, every step carefully measured. The word wife still echoed in her head like a struck bell.

  Callen cleared his throat.

  “So—uh—if Elias isn’t home,” he said, scratching the back of his head, “he’ll be questioned later. Standard procedure. No one’s in trouble. Probably.”

  Rhys glanced at him. “Probably?”

  Callen winced. “That was poorly chosen.”

  They passed a row of modest houses—refugee housing, Rhys recognized. Some had lights on, silhouettes moving behind thin curtains. Others were dark, silent, already asleep or pretending to be.

  Callen tried again. “So. Life in Ironford. How is it?”

  Rhys raised an eyebrow. “You’re making conversation now?”

  “I’m defusing,” Callen said earnestly. “It’s a skill. Not one I’m great at, but I try.”

  Amélia made a small sound behind them, something between a cough and a squeak.

  Callen glanced back. “You okay back there?”

  She nodded far too quickly. “Yes.”

  Rhys smirked. “She’s fine.”

  Callen nodded, relieved, then continued, “Ironford’s… quieter than most places. Some people don’t like the refugees. Some pretend they don’t exist. But—” he shrugged “—it grows on you.”

  Rhys looked ahead. In the distance, the UF military base loomed—low, angular structures lit by floodlights, the silhouettes of Wardens standing motionless like iron sentinels.

  “Callen,” Rhys said, breaking the moment. “What is this interrogation actually about?”

  Callen slowed his pace slightly.

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I was just told to bring you in. No details. No warnings. No scary voice, if that helps.”

  “That doesn’t help,” Rhys said.

  “Yeah,” Callen admitted. “I figured.”

  They walked on.

  Behind them, Amélia hugged her arms tighter, heart still racing—not just from embarrassment now, but from the word interrogation settling heavy in her chest.

  The base gates were getting closer.

  Rhys and Amélia followed Callen through the massive steel gates of the Ironford UF base. The ground rumbled beneath their feet as Wardens shifted aside, their multi-jointed legs moving with a low, mechanical groan. Sparks danced from maintenance bots welding a damaged panel, and overhead, the faint red web of the town’s shield cast an eerie glow across the hangar.

  They stepped carefully, dodging a Bulwark as it pivoted, its massive blade scraping the floor in a low hum, echoing like distant thunder. The soldiers moving between the mechs barely noticed them, focused entirely on their tasks or shouting terse orders to one another.

  Inside the hangar, the scene became chaotic. Young soldiers—barely older than Rhys—were drilling, running, and practicing melee with training weapons, some clumsily colliding with each other. One kid, no more than sixteen, charged at another with a sparring sword, both laughing mid-combat before a sergeant barked at them to stop. It was a strange mix of terror and normality, a glimpse of lives in training for something deadly.

  Rhys’ eyes darted around, taking in the tools, cables, and power cells stacked high, the scent of hot metal and ozone in the air. Amélia stayed close behind him, still bright red from the walk outside, gripping the strap of her satchel as she watched the soldiers spar and the mechs shift like living beasts.

  Callen led them through a narrow corridor where a Warden’s armored leg swung perilously close, and the trio ducked instinctively. One of the young soldiers stumbled over a crate, cursed, and straightened, revealing a face almost exactly Rhys’ age. The sight made him pause—these were kids, thrown into a war they barely understood, just like him.

  Somewhere ahead, the distant clang of a training blade against armor rang out, and a young girl shouted as she narrowly avoided a toppled crate. Amélia whispered under her breath, “They’re all our age…,” and Rhys nodded, a mix of awe and unease in his eyes.

  The hangar opened into a larger building, offices and briefing rooms lining the sides. Callen gestured for them to follow, and the three friends stepped inside, passing a group of soldiers arguing heatedly about strategy, slamming fists on tables.