HAVEN ✓

Ten

Sol insists that we leave when the sun has risen fully above the horizon, which means I'm spending my first night in the Outlands.

Sol has given me her bed, the one I first woke up in. I comb my fingers through my sweat-matted hair and wince, wishing for my hairbrush from home.

As I settle onto the pallet, I briefly question my safety at being lost to slumber in a stranger's home. The thought is quickly brushed aside by Sol's warm eyes as she enters the room. She is offering me refuge, nourishment, and a soft place to sleep. It may be otherwise foolish to be so naive in this situation, but I feel like Sol truly understands what I'm trying to do. Not only that, but she has decided to guide me toward Markee. I can't help but wonder where her generosity comes from.

"Can I ask you something?" I ask Sol as she sits beside me on the cot. She grins, knowing my questions have no end. I don't know how to phrase what I want to say without seeming rude, so I just come out with it.

"Why are you helping me?"

Sol's gaze intensifies, and it feels as if she is looking right through me. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle in uncomfortable awareness. She puts a calming hand on my arm and speaks in a voice so soft, I have to focus to hear.

"There's something about you, Sophie. Something special."

I blink, confused. That was not what I expected to hear. In fact, in all of my existence, those words have never been spoken of me. I'm an average girl of Herald, with average grades, and less-than average experience.

I am not special.

No, that would be Markee; me, her shadow.

For an Outlander who has known me less than half a day to say that about me, I am immediately disbelieving. Sol sees the denial in my eyes, and I shake my head to tell her so, but she continues.

"How many girls from your city have ventured past that wall?" She asks me.

I rack my brain, but have no idea how to answer her. There is no knowledge of anyone in Herald who has gone past the wall willingly, much less who has made it back to tell the tale. I didn't think anyone was that stupid, but look at where I am.

"Seeing your people out here isn't exactly common, but we still get quite a few visitors," Sol grins. "Though, none as young and brave as you." The surprise is evident on my face and her gaze softens.

"You, and all of the people in this village here... you're not hateful, or—or violent at all, are you?" It's not a question, but a realization. One I can finally admit aloud.

Something in Sol's eyes wilt. "We are all trying to survive, just like you."

She squeezes my hand and leaves to make her pallet, leaving me to my thoughts.

As I lay there, my gaze unfocused on the rough-cut beams above me, my mind drifts through the forest, over the wall, and into Herald. I know exactly how my parents would take the news of my disappearance—I saw it first-hand with Rhett. It starts with the shock. I pity the civil militia whose job it is to deliver the blow. After the initial shock, there will be screaming—loud, distraught, unwilling to believe this has happened again. Lastly, the tears. The anguish at losing the last of their children. This time, the healing may never happen.

I'm sorry, Mom and Dad. My eyes blur with unshed tears. I have to do this, and I have to succeed.

When Sol puts out the last oil-burning lamp and I'm plunged into darkness, the day finally catches up with me. The darkness doesn't last long, because I dream of golden sunlight, warmth of feeling special, and eyes as green as the trees.

It's not the first ray of sunrise that wakes me up from sleep, but the noise. A low, keening sound carries through the cottage, instantly raising goosebumps along my arms. I pull Sol's handwoven blanket tighter around me as the sound, and whatever animal made it, retreats with the night.

Sol is already awake, gathering items into a worn leather-bound pack slung across her shoulder. I sit up, the last vestiges of sleep leaving me, and along with it, the remnants of color-filled dreams.

"Praise dawn, child," Sol greets me. I stand and mumble a good morning, folding Sol's blanket neatly. Sol sets a leather satchel similar to hers on my now-made bed. It doesn't have years of use worn into it like hers; no scuffs nor smooth patina that tell stories of adventure. Her pouch could illustrate a passage of time and travel, well-used and beloved. Mine is tanned and untouched, stiff in some places. It even smells new.

I look up from the gift to find Sol studying me. It's only then that I realize I'm smiling like a fool. Sol had given me something of my very own in a place where I have nothing.

"Thank you. So much." I wish there was a way to show my gratitude in full. It's the most frustrating thing, to not know the words to express the depth of my feelings. With Markee, I'm accustomed to not having to say much to get my point across. Miles, too. My best friends have known me for most of my life, they know my struggle with words.

"This is the best gift I've ever received," I say, at a loss, but Sol seems to understand. She grins at me in a way that shows not everything needs to be said in order to be understood. When she squeezes my hand, I know she's telling me not to worry so much.

In my satchel, I find a canteen full of water, several rations of dried meat, nuts, and a flat bread. At the bottom of the bag is an object bundled in cloth. It's almost the length of my forearm.

"Hazel has breakfast in the kitchen," Sol says, walking out of the room. "It will be a long journey, so eat your fill. We will depart soon after."

I pull my hair into a ponytail as best I can with the tangles, and follow her into the humble kitchen.

After we finish eating, Hazel climbs on Sol's lap, her tiny arms circling the older woman's neck.

"Do you have to go?" Hazel whispers to her mother. Self-consciousness washes over me, witnessing a private moment between mother and daughter. I feel like an intruder once again, but in a very different way.

I occupy myself by re-examining my satchel with greater care. The intact albeit slightly uneven stitching tells me it was sewn with Sol's slow, steady hands. The machines in Herald would have guaranteed a flawless seam, a bag perfect in every way, but something about the time spent to create a material thing makes me appreciate its existence so much more. Not only is it a tool for survival; it's art. It's the result of hours of labor to create something beautiful.

My eyes linger on the bottom corner of the pack where a design is embossed into the leather. It is a sun with rays of light fanned out in radiance. Inside the sun is what looks like a compass, its cardinal points stretching almost as far as the sun's tendrils. The whole design is about as big as my palm.

I've only seen a compass once in my lifetime. My grandfather had one. I'm transported back in time as a young girl, riding out one of the worst storms Herald has ever seen bunkered in Grandpa and Grandma's house. The electricity was the first thing to go, so we all sat in flickering candlelight, praying that the wind didn't rip the roof off. I sat on Grandpa's lap, cuddling up to the old bear as any terrified six-year old would. When he pulled the compass out of his pocket, I was rapt, my fear of the raging storm forgotten. We watched the needle spin as his weathered hands turned it this way and that.

"With a faithful compass, nothing is as true as North. No matter where you are, it holds steadfast." His words wrap around me in memory, warm as the afternoon sun. "You are free to wander, little lamb, but when you are lost, find North. It will orient you, and show you the way home."

I run my fingers over the leather, smooth only where the design is imprinted. The pattern is a reminder of home. Of a life before Rhett was taken, when my family wasn't so broken.

We say goodbye to Hazel, check our packs once more, and leave the cottage as the sun is just above the horizon.