Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee-Chapter 78: The Red Tide

The memory surfaces like a coin falling through murky water.

A small, creased photograph. Wallet-sized.

My father used to pull it out every time he came 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 time I heard the name, it scratched at something behind my memory 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 me in a city that shouldn’t exist, looking at me 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 me at arm’s length, examining my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. "You’re the spitting image of your mother!"

I don’t react to the comment. I can’t afford to right now. But somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach, the mention 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 name. 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 me! Come, kid. We have a lot to talk about."

He turns and walks toward a long table cluttered with remnants of a meal—half-carved meat, clay pitchers of something 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 someone 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 me, the girls are whispering to each other. Low enough to dissolve into the ambient noise of the hall—voices, footsteps, the distant clang of metal somewhere 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 me around someone who isn’t trying to kill me.

We sit.

Rhayne’s gaze locks onto the food with the raw, unguarded hunger of someone 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 volume and generosity in equal measure.

I’m starting to piece together the hierarchy. Boris arrived during the second expansion—the same one Lex came 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 comes 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 meat 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 meat, sniffs it, turns it over, sniffs it again, and takes a single, measured bite. Chews exactly twelve times. 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, gamey 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 me off with a raised palm the size of a dinner plate. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

"Eat first," he says, his voice dropping from thunder to something lower. Almost gentle. "You all look like you haven’t had a proper meal in days. We’ll have time 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, maritime 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 me to look.

I lean in, adjusting my eye to the crude optics. A night-vision filter built into the lens catches me 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 same 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 me five minutes ago is gone. In his place stands a commander who has seen this before.

He looks at me, and for the first time, I see the weight behind his eyes. Not fear. Something 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 time.

"It’s the Great Red Tide."