Thirstfall - Memory Chapter 78: The Red Tide

Chapter 78: The Red Tide

The mory surfaces like a coin falling through murky water.

A small, creased photograph. Wallet-sized.

My father used to pull it out every ti he ca back from a dive—two photos, side by side in the leather fold. One of the family. One of a man built like a fortress, grinning with the kind of reckless confidence that only people who have cheated death together can share.

How could I forget? Every ti I heard the na, it scratched at sothing behind my mory like a nail on glass.

Boris. My father’s best friend. The man in the second photograph, side-hugging him.

And now he’s standing in front of

in a city that shouldn’t exist, looking at

like I’m a ghost he’s been praying to see.

"There’s so much I need to tell you!" Boris says, his voice like thunder rolling through the stone hall—deep, rough, the kind of bass that vibrates in your chest before it reaches your ears.

He grabs my shoulders and holds

at arm’s length, examining my face with an intensity that makes

want to look away. "You’re the spitting image of your mother!"

I don’t react to the comnt. I can’t afford to right now. But sowhere deep in the pit of my stomach, the ntion of my mother’s face landing on a stranger’s lips in a place like this hits harder than it should.

Ignore it. Move forward.

"Boris Warwick," I say. Just the na. Flat. A signal of recognition, not affection. "The Grizzly of Azurea. That’s what my father called you."

Boris lets out a booming laugh that rattles the oil lamps on the wall. "So old Alden had the decency to tell you about ! Co, kid. We have a lot to talk about."

He turns and walks toward a long table cluttered with remnants of a al—half-carved at, clay pitchers of sothing amber, a basket of dense bread. The casual wreckage of people who eat between crises.

This is one of those situations I try to avoid.

Sitting down. Relaxing the guard. Letting soone else set the tempo of the conversation. But information here is survival, and Boris is sitting in a position of power to give it.

Behind , the girls are whispering to each other. Low enough to dissolve into the ambient noise of the hall—voices, footsteps, the distant clang of tal sowhere deeper in the building.

My eyes catch Rhayne’s for a second. Just a second. But it’s enough for surprise to cross her face, followed by a small, instinctive smile.

I think they’re not used to seeing

around soone who isn’t trying to kill .

We sit.

Rhayne’s gaze locks onto the food with the raw, unguarded hunger of soone who hasn’t eaten properly in days. Which, thinking about it, she hasn’t.

Boris reads the table instantly. He raises his right hand, snaps his fingers, and bellows toward the back of the hall.

"Bring more food for my guests!"

The command is loud enough to crack plaster, but the tone is warm. The voice of a man who leads by volu and generosity in equal asure.

I’m starting to piece together the hierarchy. Boris arrived during the second expansion—the sa one Lex ca in on. He isn’t one of the oldest residents, but he’s clearly an authority. The monks defer. The hall is his. The food cos when he calls.

Charisma and competence. The two currencies that build kings in lawless places.

Rhayne eats like a starving animal. She shoves bread and at into her mouth with both hands, cheeks puffed, barely chewing.

I genuinely wonder how she survived this long. A body that needs this much food, and a life that gave her none of it.

Lola, on the other hand, examines each piece of food with the precision of a chess player evaluating a board. She picks up a strip of at, sniffs it, turns it over, sniffs it again, and takes a single, asured bite. Chews exactly twelve tis. Swallows. Reaches for the next piece and begins the process again.

I grab a leg of whatever beast they butchered. The flavor is surprisingly decent. Tastes like Earth chicken with a smoky, gay undertone.

Between bites, I try to ask Boris what I need to know. How he ended up here. What he knows about my father. What happened during the second expansion.

So many questions...

Boris cuts

off with a raised palm the size of a dinner plate.

"Eat first," he says, his voice dropping from thunder to sothing lower. Almost gentle. "You all look like you haven’t had a proper al in days. We’ll have ti to talk."

He’s not wrong.

Even though food isn’t strictly necessary for survival in Thirstfall, hunger accelerates OXI drain significantly. A full stomach is a tactical advantage disguised as comfort. Satiety is a luxury with a function.

I shut up and eat.

The silence that follows is the first comfortable one I’ve experienced since we boarded the procedural train. Just the sound of chewing, the clink of clay cups, and the crackle of oil lamps.

It lasts exactly five minutes.

A siren tears through the hall.

It’s not sharp or electric. It’s deep, a low, mariti bellow, like a cargo ship’s horn amplified through stone. The frequency is so low it bypasses the ears entirely and vibrates directly in the ribcage.

I feel my chest humming.

Boris freezes mid-bite. A piece of bread drops from his hand.

"Shit," he mutters.

He’s on his feet before the echo dies, striding toward a wide stone balcony at the far end of the hall. Heavy brass telescopes are mounted on the railing—fixed positions, bolted to the stone.

This isn’t a viewing deck. It’s an observation post.

I follow him. Stop at his shoulder. Look out over the railing.

The city hall sits on elevated ground, and from this height, the desert beyond the walls stretches into the perpetual darkness of Lost Ark’s starlit horizon.

At first glance, there’s nothing—just the flat, dead expanse of sand and thorn brush.

Then I see it. A thin line of dust rising along the far edge of the visible terrain. Barely perceptible against the dark sky. It looks like a sandstorm forming at the horizon.

"Sandstorm?" I ask.

Boris steps back from the telescope he was using and gestures for

to look.

I lean in, adjusting my eye to the crude optics. A night-vision filter built into the lens catches

off guard—the desert snaps into sharp, green-tinted focus.

My spine turns to ice.

It’s not a sandstorm.

They’re monsters. Hundreds. Thousands. Tens of thousands...

A living carpet of bodies stretching across the desert floor, kicking up the dust cloud with the collective impact of their charge. They’re running. All of them. Moving in the sa direction with the unified, terrifying purpose of a migration that has teeth.

I pull back from the telescope. Scan the vegetation outside the city walls using the natural landmarks to estimate distance and speed.

"Three hours," I say. "Maybe four, at most."

Boris nods.

His face has shed every trace of warmth. The jovial bear who hugged

five minutes ago is gone. In his place stands a commander who has seen this before.

He looks at , and for the first ti, I see the weight behind his eyes. Not fear. Sothing heavier. The exhaustion of a man who keeps surviving things he shouldn’t have to.

"We eat and drink now," Boris says, his voice cold and absolute. "Because in a few hours, this place is going to turn into hell."

He pauses. Looks out at the dust cloud one more ti.

"It’s the Great Red Tide."