a ghost, organizing the scattered survivors, setting up rough camps, rationing what supplies they had left. Every building still standing was turned into a shelter, a hospital, or a meetin

of the little girl with the torn scarf. Of the former enemies lifting broken beams together. Of the fragile hope in the eyes of people who had been betrayed too many times already. She had never wanted to be a leader. She was still certain she'd be terrible at it. But abandoning them now would break something she couldn't repair. "We keep going," she said, more to herself than to him. Lawrence smiled faintly. "That's my girl." She elbowed him lightly, a ghost of their old teasing still lingering beneath the weariness. "I'm not yours." "You sure about that?" he murmured. Heat flared in her chest - anger, affection, fear - a tangled, unmanageable mess she couldn't afford to untangle just yet. A distant shout interrupted them. Both tensed instantly, instincts honed by years of fighting snapping into place. A young scout - barely older than a boy - came sprinting toward them, his face pale, eyes wide. "Trouble," he gasped, skidding to a halt. "On the east perimeter. Armed group. Maybe twenty. Flying old Regime colors."