The morning was colorless. It brought neither sunlight nor freshness—only a leaden haze saturated with the smell of scorched stone and ozone. Ash continued to fall, slowly settling over the ruins of Dornheim in a gray, loose layer.
Walter stood at the edge of the crater, staring down. The bottom of the pit was coated in a crust of black glass that still emitted a barely perceptible white vapor.
The captain looked down at his palms: his skin was covered in tiny burns, his nails were torn raw, and his fingers trembled. He took a drag from the remnant of his cigarette but couldn't taste the tobacco—only the bitterness of the dust settling on his lips.
"Walter," a raspy voice called out from behind.
The captain turned around. Albert was walking toward him, his feet moving heavily across the broken brickwork.
"How many?" Walter asked curtly, tossing the cigarette butt into the crater.
Albert coughed, covering his mouth with his hand.
"According to the roll call—forty-three people among those who can stand. About thirty more are critical. The rest..." he waved his hand vaguely toward the rubble. "The rest we haven't counted yet. Under the south wing, it's likely nothing but corpses. If anyone survived the blast there, they suffocated under the dust overnight."
Walter nodded. "Water?" he asked.
"Bad," Albert winced at the pain in his shoulder. "The main line evaporated along with the reactor. The well near the eastern wall is buried, and the one in the square reeks of smoke and chemicals. It's undrinkable. I sent two guys to the river, but that's an hour and a half each way through the ruins. If we don't find a source closer, delirium from dehydration will set in by evening."
On the northern outskirts, where the city blocks collided with the dense wall of the coniferous forest, Noah sat on a fallen log, breathing heavily. His right arm—mangled and covered in jagged scars from shoulder to hand—rested on his knee. The skin on it was a bruised blue-black, split open in places from internal pressure, but the limb was still there. His left shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the impact during his fall and the recoil of the shot, flared with sharp pain at every micro-movement.
Elyria lay a short distance away in the shade of an old pine tree. Even unconscious, she seemed like a part of this forest; the grass around her makeshift bed was more vibrant and thick, despite the layer of ash.
"Noah, drop it," Albert said, approaching them from the direction of the city. He had seen Noah attempting to drive in a tent peg with his left hand. "I'll send people over. You need to sit down and stay still."
Noah raised a heavy gaze to him. His pupils were constricted to pinpoints, his eyes bloodshot.
"The tarp needs to be up before it rains. If the ash gets wet and turns to sludge over their wounds, they won't make it to evening."
Albert sighed and, ignoring the ache in his own shoulder, pried the hammer from Noah's hand.
"I said, sit. You've already done enough." He turned to a group of onlookers. "Alright, you two—set up the awning here. Carefully. And find some clean cloth. We need to filter water and bandage the wounded. The rest of you, go to Walter. We're starting to clear out Warehouse No. 4. If the canned goods survived in there, we'll eat today."
The men nodded and slowly set to work. By noon, the dust had settled a little.
Walter made his way over to the "Green Zone." That was what the militia had taken to calling the patch of forest that Elyria had unwittingly kept alive even after the explosion. He crouched down beside Count Wayland's bed. The count lay motionless, his hair matted with dried blood, but his pulse was surprisingly steady.
"How are they?" the captain asked without turning around.
Albert, who was sitting on a tool chest trying to compile a list of necessary medications, didn't look up.
"Wayland is stable. Elyria... is sleeping. Her energy is depleted. But Iron..." Albert trailed off, looking over at Iron. "He has deep thermal and magical burnout. Plus neurological damage from that damned prosthesis. Even if he does wake up, Walter, I'm not sure he'll ever walk again. The surge ripped straight through his spine."
Walter stared at Iron in silence.
Albert extended a flask to Noah. "Drink. You need to replenish your blood."
Noah took it. His fingers were smeared with dark earth and soot.
By evening, the temperature plummeted sharply, and the ash began to freeze over, forming a brittle crust on the stones. The militia built campfires, using fragments of furniture and parquet flooring salvaged from the destroyed houses. The air filled with the scent of ordinary woodsmoke.
Three figures sat by the fire in the "Green Zone": Walter, Albert, and Noah. Darwin, completely spent, slept right on the bare ground, curled into a tight ball.
"Tomorrow we start an inventory of the tools," Albert said quietly, staring into the flames. "We need to find lime."
"I'll organize perimeter patrols," Walter added.
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