Tonight is our last in the Village.

It has been resolved by the council that we must leave the city and start evacuating at the break of dawn.

To where specifically? Nobody knows.

It's not safe to stay here any longer, not when a fraction of the cluster—most of them women and children—has just been butchered by the Ante beasts who raided us like how wolves would on a herd of unassuming lambs. The fact that a few of these attackers were able to get away doesn't help, either.

What happened here wasn't a battle; it was a slaughter.

It was maybe eight of them, unarmed, versus more than thirty of us who were carrying swords, spears, daggers, pickaxes and a handful of arrows. Some with even two or three weapons at the same time.

The odds should've favored us; except, they hadn't.

On count, we lost sixteen children, nine women including mothers and daughters, five recruits and two of our best rangers.

All of them dead.

With a puncture through the heart.

We were only able to kill five of them, the rest escaping, despite how much training and motivation we all have.

There is no doubt that those escapees are on their way to wherever this Centrum is located to alert their troops about our existence and whereabouts. Hence, hanging around here for longer is like inviting them to completely annihilate us.

Never mind the familiarity these people already have with the place. After all, it has been a good seven months since they started calling this their home.

But we haven't got much of a choice; we have to move on and learn to adjust.

If we could start moving right at this second, we would; except, we have to pay our respects to the friends and families we lost and, at least, give them some proper burial. The rest of us who managed to escape also have these wounds to tend to, both physical and emotional. So, going headfirst with the exodus to who-knows-how-far after dark—especially on foot—doesn't seem like the wisest idea.

"I can't believe Alice, Vincent and Jane are gone," Peyton shares, as she patches up the gashes around my arms. "It's hard enough seeing them bleed to death. What more with the sight of their very dead bodies being slowly reduced to ashes at the pyre."

"I'm so sorry," I tell her, in between my intermittent wheezes of pain. "I may not have known them as much, since I barely have any real moments with them, but they surely don't deserve to be there. None of them do."

"They are—were—my closest friends, you know," she adds, the desire to cry starting to manifest in her tone. "I had known them since we were like two or three, when our parents were only going through the early phases of their collaboration in establishing our company, and the four of us had never been separated since. We even spent our summers together—at our beach house in the Hamptons, during our trip to South Korea, basically every summer."

Sitting here in front of her, I remain quiet, allowing her to vent out all her frustrations to me, without interruption.

She needs this. She has to grieve.

"You know, I wasn't a really friendly person growing up," she continues as she ties up the thread closing one of these wounds, the one I earned from being scratched by one of those damn Ante claws. "They had been my only companions when no one else would dare make friends with the freaky science girl—a time before all the unwanted privileges and attention for being known as the heiress to a global empire had tempted them fakers to flock the Peyton's friendship application lane."

She applies some sort of ointment on the sutures, its cold touch not bothering me as I stare at her—still not speaking—seeing as her eyes well up with tears.

She really cared for those people. Upon losing her father—her only family following her mother's death from cancer—when their return back to earth from the Vessel had gone awry, those two had served as her foster family.

Just like Wendy's relationship with hers.

Truly, the more I get to know Peyton, the more she reminds me of Wendy.

"But I'm lucky I still have Cora and Ace, right?" she asks me with simulated enthusiasm, desperate for something to confirm that everything will be okay. "Right, Ross?

I nod, despite how clueless I am about who this Ace person could be.

"I'm glad I have met both of them, despite the circumstances surrounding it being less than ideal, and I have since begun to see them as real, genuine friends," she explains as she wipes the tears threatening to fall off her eyes. "Cora may have been a little spoiled, not used to not always getting what she wants, and Alexander may come off as a douche, but I'd like to focus on the good in them, you know."

Wait, Alexander, a friend of Peyton's?

What in the world!

My jaw drops at the revelation. Closing my mouth in an effort to hide the disbelief in my facial expression, I try to convince myself with the notion that the dynamic between people can sometimes surprise us.

How two people whose personalities couldn't have been more different—Sasha and Wendy, for instance—end up being really close friends is one of the most fascinating wonders of the world.

But to think that there's something good in Alexander or Ace or what's-his-name?

It might take me a lot more than self-control to hide this doubt.

"I'm really sorry for not knowing what to say or do to make you feel better," I tell her, focusing on the part of the conversation that doesn't give me much cynicism, "except to tell you that they're in a better place now."

"Can you at least join me for a prayer?"

"Sure," I answer, even though I have no idea how to properly do it.

She kneels on the carpet that stretches to floor my tent, and I follow, mimicking her as she makes the sign of the cross, clasps her palms together, bows her head and closes her eyes.

During these times of grief and despair, it's really a big help to have some higher being one can rely on. Something or someone that can make you hold on to the belief that everything will be better in the end, even if that's not always the case with endings and even if there's no assurance that there's another being at the other end of the conversation listening.

Call me a skeptic, an atheist, an agnostic or a Marxist, but what guarantee do we have about religions and gods not being a mere scheme of the wise, opportunistic ruling classes to manipulate people into behaving a certain way? In order to put a restraint on our inherent liberties, a hindrance to our individual progress and development?

The Opium of the People, as the philosopher would call it.

I can't really trace back when this difficulty in trusting anything or anyone started to eat up within me, when convincing me about anything became a hard nut to crack, when doubting formed a defining part of my instinct, but I remember what has triggered it.

When my father disappeared from me and my mom before Lola was even born, I learned the hard way at five that even the people closest to you can fail you and prove to be something they're not.

It took a couple more mistakes—with Ashley, my best friends, the guidance counsellor at my high school—before I learned how to close up, build these walls and not let them win my trust only to fail me in the end.

But all of that is changing now.

These people who bothered to save me—and twice, at that—are turning out to be pretty decent individuals deserving not only of my trust and respect, but also of my service.

I'm just glad that the universe seemed to have plotted an elaborate turn of events in order to bring me back in the company of this people after I attempted to get away.

Right now, there's no place I'd rather be.

"Okay, I can finally sleep now," Peyton says, standing up. "Thank you for tonight. And for saving us. We won't forget it."

"No, thank you," I reply, getting up as well. "Thank you for nursing me, like you've always been doing even before you met me."

"It's no biggie," she says, giving me a tight hug around my waist, her head leaning onto my bare chest. "I'm just doing my job: helping people."

Despite my initial discomfort in the intimacy of the gesture, I return the hug, my arms still sore from both the cuts and the stitching.

Looking at her face, I can feel the warmth that's emanating from this person, and it convinces me even more that I'm making the right decision by choosing to stay with them.

"Okay, I should probably get back to my tent," she voices, breaking it off.

"Are you sure you will be alright sleeping alone tonight?"

"Oh, I won't be," she replies, pacing to the exit. "Cora is joining me."

The corners of my lips rise into a smile. "Good to know."

She smiles back.

"Alright. Good night now, Ross," she expresses as she pulls open the tapestry behind her. "Sleep well. But not that well that it takes you another three years before awaking."

"I will—no, I won't," I reply as I see her off, both of us sharing a giggle out of my confused response. "Good night, Peyton!"

She smiles again as she strolls away.

As I wave her goodbye, someone else calls out, "There's our hero!"

I look the other way and see President Moore walking towards me, with Commander Horton, Johann and a few other Villagers in tow.

"President Moore!" I bow before him. "Pleasant evening!"

"Pleasant evening to you too." He takes my hand and shakes it. "I just want to thank you personally for what you did to the Village. I speak for everybody when I say that we are truly indebted in your bravery and heroism. I know you've only been with us for a short time, but you've already done so much good for the community."

"That's right!" a few individuals from the back exclaim.

Commander Horton takes my hand next. "I'm so proud of you, son. You've managed to take out three of those beasts, despite your lack of training, whereas I have been in the service for most of my adult life, yet I have killed how many? None."

"Beginner's luck, I suppose," I reply, before we all burst out laughing.

"By the way, we're also here to tell you about one more thing: you are hereby drafted to full-fledged rangership." Commander Horton's cold, rough hands remain clenched to mine. "We'll be getting on with the formal rites first thing before we leave in the morning."

My eyes widen, my mouth unable to speak a word, as the commander proceeds to go over the details of my anointment tomorrow.

This comes as a shock to me, considering how it takes months for recruits to be officially called a ranger. Brad has in fact told me that some don't even make it and are relegated to guard or blacksmith duties.

"Anyway, we have to go to bed now." President Moore taps the commander by the shoulder. "We all need to get up early tomorrow for your induction, after all."

"Yes, of course." Commander Horton finally removes his hands away, mine already moist with sweat.

"Good night, Ross," President Moore says, as do all of them in attendance.

"Good night, everyone."

Before I could get back to my tent, I spot Alexander with Gabriel and Clifford outside of theirs—the biggest, most luxurious of the bunch—glowering at me, before rushing inside as soon as they see me looking at them.

Will these three ever tire of meddling in my business?

I walk into the tent, shaking them off my consciousness and concentrating on my little moment with Peyton.

I'm really starting to become enamored by her.

And I feel guilty for simply thinking this, even if reuniting with Wendy now feels like shooting for the farthest star.

I shake my head one more time, rejecting these thoughts.

Reaching for the lamp to put out the fire, I manage to get a good look of Peyton's sutures on my right forearm.

It's actually kind of cool—total badass.

I check the entirety of both arms; they don't look as cool, seeming like a pair of limbs that would have belonged appropriately to Frankenstein's monster, with all these stitches decorating them like 3D tattoos.

But like I said, I couldn't care less.

I blow off the flame from the lamp and lie in bed.

I close my eyes, and the sight of those innocent people dropping to the ground with their chests and mouths oozing with blood enters my mind.

Fuck.

I may not be able to get some sleep again tonight.

If only my three years' worth of sleep can make up for my lack of recently, so that I can still be as sharp as I normally am tomorrow.

We especially will never know what kind of danger awaits us on the road.

I shift my lying position to face away from the door.

Happy thoughts, please, I try to goad my brain into imagining.

Think about Peyton. Think about her.

Alright.

Now, I see her beautiful, angelic face, her toothy smile, her raven hair, her expressive eyes, the way they close up when she laughs.

But then she's looking down, weeping.

I adjust my imagination to focus on what she is weeping about.

And I see Alice coughing up blood.

Shit.

Now, think of Wendy, I command my brain again. Think of your happy moments together. The dance, the kiss, the coronation...

Nice.

This is working.

I still can't get over how her gown made her look like true royalty.

But then it gets to the part when we're both soaked in blood.

Then comes the chaos.

Shit. Again.

Should I pray?

Probably not.

Shifting myself back to face the door, I hear faint footsteps creeping closer inside my tent like a literal thief in the night.

As I open my eyes to check who that could be, I am greeted by a punch in the face, my vision slowly blacking out.

But before it totally does, I manage to make out something.

The silhouette of three men.

I'm not sure if they really are men, though.

They certainly look like it, but I could be wrong, like I was before.

Is it possible they could somehow be those three Ante monsters we thought have escaped but were actually just hiding in plain sight by shifting into their human disguise and blending among us?

Oh, God, help me.