Chapter 10 Echoes in the Dust

The days after the fall of the Regime blurred into one another, stitched together by exhaustion, determination, and an endless, gnawing uncertainty. Celia moved through the ruined city like 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 meeting hall. The old world had shattered - and from its pieces, something stubborn and messy was beginning to grow. But it wasn't easy. It was never easy. The first cracks appeared within a week.

Arguments flared over food, over weapons, over whose version of the future should rise from the ashes. Old grudges, buried for the sake of survival, clawed their way back to the surface. Celia stood in the center of it all, the black star pinned to her jacket like a target. She hated it. She needed it. "You can't keep playing peacekeeper," Lawrence muttered one evening as they walked the perimeter of the main camp. His voice was low, barely carrying over the whistle of the cold wind. "You're going to burn out." Celia kicked a chunk of broken concrete out of her path. "What choice do I have?" "You have us," Lawrence said firmly. "You're not alone in this." The firelight from the camp flickered against his face, carving sharp shadows across his cheekbones, catching the worn lines of exhaustion around his mouth. He looked like he'd aged ten years in ten days. Probably, she did too. For a heartbeat, Celia wanted to stop. Just stop - let someone else take the burden, disappear into the dust. But she couldn't. She thought 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." Lawrence's hand was already on his weapon. "Of course. It's never easy." Celia's mind raced. The Regime was supposed to be broken - their leaders dead or fled. But loyalists? Fanatics? They would fight until there was nothing left to burn. "Get the council together," Celia ordered the scout. "Now." The boy nodded and sprinted back toward the camp. Celia and Lawrence exchanged a grim look. "Think they're here to negotiate?" he asked dryly. Celia's mouth twisted into a humorless smile. "No. They're here to remind us the war isn't over." Lawrence's fingers brushed against hers - quick, almost accidental - a silent reminder that she wasn't facing this alone. She squared her shoulders, feeling the heavy weight of the star pinned to her jacket. Symbols were dangerous. Symbols could start wars. Symbols could build futures. She would have to become both the sword and the shield - whether she liked it or not. "Let's go," Celia said. And side by side, they walked into the darkness, toward whatever fight waited for them next.