Chapter Two:

“No Place for Heroes”

The amber glow of the evening sun stretched over the broken streets of Millbrook, painting them in fading gold. What had once been a charming English town, a place of cobblestone roads and warm-lit storefronts, was now a husk of itself, hollowed out by ration shortages and quiet despair. The old high street stood in eerie stillness, the Georgian shopfronts covered in dust and half-torn notices, ghosts of a past that no one could afford to remember.

Emily Mortimore passed silently through it, her hands deep in her coat pockets. She had long since grown used to walking alone. The moment her father disappeared, so did the illusion of civility. Their true colors had been waiting beneath the surface, and now, they didn’t bother hiding them.

She understood why. She lived in the house on the hill, one of the last standing remnants of privilege in a place that had burned through every scrap of its dignity just to survive. While others stood in ration lines for water and processed food, her home’s climate control hummed away, filtering out the world’s collapse.

She hated that they weren’t wrong about her.

A commotion near the rationing station snapped her attention to the crowd. A surge of people crushed forward, voices rising in a frenzy. Too many people, not enough supplies. The same scene that played out every week, everywhere.

Then she saw the child.

A girl, no older than six, had been knocked down in the scramble, her thin frame swallowed by the moving tide of bodies. Emily didn’t think. She just moved.

A sharp exhale, a push forward, and she was there, slipping into the narrow space where the girl had fallen. Small limbs pressed against the filth of the pavement, fingers scrabbling for purchase. She was going to be trampled.

Emily dropped to one knee, shielding her with her body. “Hold on baby, I got you.”

The child’s frightened eyes locked onto hers. Panic. Then… calm.

Momentum. Instinct. She had always been taught that power wasn’t just about strength, it was about knowing when to move, when to strike. And right now, it was about knowing when to pull.

Emily tucked her tight against her chest, spun on her heel, and pushed through the wall of bodies. When they broke free of the press, the girl let out a gasping sob.

She was safe.

Emily crouched, brushing damp strands of hair from the girl’s forehead. “Are you hurt?”

The child shook her head. Thin. Underfed. Just like everyone else.

A figure stepped forward from the thinning crowd, a man, ragged and sunken cheeks. The kind of person this town had been showing by the dozen. He stared at Emily, then past her, as if seeing something only he understood.

He spat.

The wet impact struck her cheek, warm and humiliating.

Emily didn’t move. Didn’t react. But every inch of her burned. It would have been easier if they were wrong about her. But they weren’t.

The man’s lip curled. “Go back to your glass house, Mortimore. You don’t get to play hero.”

No one else spoke. No one else stopped him. Because no one disagreed.

She met his gaze for a long, hard second before turning. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

She felt the eyes on her back as she started toward the community center. But before she could reach the entrance, a woman rushed forward, arms outstretched. “I’ll take her.” The attendant scooped the child into her embrace without hesitation, barely sparing Emily a glance. Others around them watched, silent and unreadable.

Emily stepped back, flexing her empty hands. She wasn’t needed here. She never had been.

But she still tried.

She stepped forward. “Let me help. I can pass out food, clean up, take care of the sick, anything.”

A tired-looking attendant barely spared her a glance. “We've got it covered.”

Emily hesitated. “Are you sure? I just want to help.”

“Go home, Mortimore,” someone muttered from the line of waiting people. A few others nodded in agreement, their gazes flat and unwelcoming.

She swallowed hard. There was nothing left for her here.

Emily turned away, her stomach twisting. She had done everything that she could. She lingered for a moment longer, letting the weight of rejection settle before stepping outside into the cold air and going home.

The target stood against the reinforced wall, riddled with arrows.

Emily steadied her breath, drew back the bowstring, and released. Thwack. Another clean hit.

She had been holding a bow since before she could walk. Her father had made sure of that. She remembered the first time, her tiny hands struggling to grip the smooth wood, his larger hands guiding her, steadying her aim.

“You don’t need to be strong,” he had told her. “You just need to breathe.”

She could still hear his voice from years ago, calm, firm, certain. “Focus is freedom. In a world of chaos, we make our own stillness.”

Another arrow loosed. The steady rhythm of training settled her mind, grounding her in the familiarity of repetition. Each shot, a heartbeat. Each impact, an answer she was still trying to find.

This wasn’t just practice. This was survival.

Home felt more like a mausoleum than ever.

Her father’s study was untouched.

He had left everything behind.

His notes, his files, his carefully logged research, all of it sat there, waiting.

Emily’s fingers trailed over the desk’s surface. He could have taken it all with him. Could have burned it. Could have hidden it. But he hadn’t.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Her gaze dropped to the medallion in her hand.

It had been warm when he gave it to her. His voice steady. Not afraid.

“Emily, I have to go.”

“Where?”

He had smiled then. Not a sad smile. Not a broken one.

A knowing one.

“You’ll see me again.”

“When?”

His fingers curled over hers, pressing the medallion into her palm. “In The Dive.”

Her breath shuddered as she traced the edges of the medallion. He had set the path, knowing she would walk it. But had he known where it would lead?

She glanced down at the medallion, its mysterious engravings waiting like an open door, a key to a door she had yet to find.

Her father had left her something.

She just didn’t know what it was yet.

But she would.