"Really?" Kaela's voice cuts through the dense forest air, equal parts skeptical and excited. Her tail swishes behind her as she navigates around a moss-covered log. "You're telling me you could talk to anyone, anywhere in your world, instantly?"
"Yeah, it's called the internet." I duck under a low-hanging branch, cursing my past self for agreeing to this impromptu lecture on Earth technology. The forest smells like damp earth and pine needles, with an underlying sweetness I can't quite identify. Probably some magical plant. "It's like... a giant invisible web that connects everyone."
"But how does the web work?" Lyra asks from my right, her footsteps barely making a sound on the forest floor. She moves like someone who's spent their entire life in the woods, while I'm over here snapping every twig in a five-mile radius.
I step over a gnarled root, feeling the uneven ground shift beneath my boots. "I'm not sure exactly how it works. Magic, I guess?"
Lyra stops walking and turns to stare at me. "That's not an answer."
"Do you know how each and every rune works?" I counter, gesturing vaguely at the trees around us.
"That's what we have rune class for," Mira interjects from behind us. "Don't they have internet classes on Earth?"
"We have computer class," I say, pushing aside a curtain of hanging moss. The stuff is everywhere, draping from branches like nature's own decorations. "But it's not the same. Most people just use the internet without understanding how it actually works."
"That seems irresponsible," Lyra mutters.
"That's Earth," I say with a grin. "We're very good at doing things we don't understand."
The path ahead narrows slightly, forcing us into a more single-file formation. I find myself between Kaela and Lyra, with Mira bringing up the rear. The forest floor is a tapestry of fallen leaves and exposed roots, and I have to watch my footing more carefully as the terrain becomes uneven.
"What about food? You said you had something called 'pizza'?" Kaela says.
"Oh god, pizza." I nearly trip over a root at the thought. "Yes, pizza is amazing. It's like... bread with tomato sauce and cheese and whatever toppings you want, all baked together."
"Tomato sauce?" Mira asks. "What's a tomato?"
"What's cheese?" Lyra adds.
"A fruit. Vegetable? I don't know, people argue about it. It's savory and slightly acidic and, you know what, I don't think you have tomatoes here?"
"And the cheese?" Lyra asks. "What's that?"
"Cheese is made from milk that's been aged and fermented," I explain, watching my footing as the path becomes rockier. "There are hundreds of different kinds, depending on how you make it."
"That sounds disgusting," Lyra says flatly.
"It's delicious," I protest. "You have no idea what you're missing."
"I think I'm okay with that," Kaela says, wrinkling her nose.
I step over a fallen log and I'm just starting to think maybe I've gotten the hang of this hiking thing when I hear a rustling in the undergrowth ahead.
It's faint at first, easy to dismiss as wind. But it continues, growing louder, more deliberate. Something moving through the brush, disturbing leaves and snapping small twigs.
Then it emerges from behind a tree, and I feel my brain short-circuit trying to process what I'm seeing.
What the hell is that?
The creature stands on its hind legs, I can see four legs total, the back ones planted firmly on the ground while the front ones hang in the air. The body is compact and rounded, almost egg-shaped. Small head, proportionally tiny compared to the body. Dark eyes, perfectly circular, staring directly at me.
Something nags at the back of my mind. The proportions, the way it's standing...
Small rodents, someone once told me. They climb trees and gather nuts.
My eyes track to the prominent front teeth protruding from its mouth, yellowed, sharp, oversized for the small head. Then to the way it's holding its front legs, tucked close to its chest in an oddly delicate pose.
Bushy tails, another voice echoes in my memory. Soft and fluffy. They use them for balance.
I look at the tail.
A Squirrel?
But it can't be. Squirrels are small. Someone told me they were small, that their tails were soft and fluffy, that you could hold them in your hand. This thing is massive, easily reaching my thigh when it stands up like that. Its head comes up to my waist. This is not something that would fit in anyone's palm unless they were a giant.
And the color. Nobody ever mentioned squirrels being blue.
We stare at each other.
Its eyes are black and beady and filled with what I can only describe as malicious intent. Like it's calculating exactly how much lunch money I have and whether it's worth the effort to beat me up for it.
"Is that a squirrel?" I say faintly.
"That's a forest scurrier," Mira corrects. "They're harmless."
"That thing looks like it wants to murder me."
"They're herbivores," Mira says, not even bothering to draw her weapon. "It's probably just curious."
The giant blue squirrel, sorry, forest scurrier, takes a step toward me. Its movements are jerky and aggressive, like a boxer sizing up an opponent.
"It's coming closer," I say, my voice climbing an octave.
"Just ignore it," Kaela says cheerfully.
The scurrier takes another step. Then another.
"I don't think it's losing interest," I say.
"Don't make eye contact," Mira advises.
"Too late. We're having a moment."
The scurrier lunges.
I yelp and stumble backward, nearly tripping over my own feet. The creature stops about two feet away, standing on its hind legs again, and makes this chittering sound that's somehow both adorable and threatening.
Then it turns around and scampers back into the undergrowth, its ridiculous tail disappearing last.
"See?" Kaela says brightly. "Harmless."
"It looked me in the eyes and chose violence."
"You probably aggravated it with your face," Mira says. "You do look rather strange. The poor creature was likely just confused."
"Rude," I say.
The forest path has been climbing steadily, and the trees have grown denser around us. I glance up at what little I can see through the trees, frowning. "Is it getting dark? It looks like evening."
"Sorry, you probably don't know about this yet. It's a mana blackout." Lyra says.
"A what?"
"Ignis isn't distributed equally everywhere," Lyra explains. "Sometimes you walk into an area where the concentration drops, and it gets harder to see. This one doesn't look too bad, though."
I watch as the forest continues to dim around us, the mana fading like someone's slowly turning down a dimmer switch. "How much harder are we talking?"
"Depends on the blackout," Mira says. "Some make it impossible to see at all. Others just make things darker, like this one."
"So it just... changes randomly?" I ask, fascinated despite the growing dimness.
"Ignis cycles through the world," Lyra says. "It can be bright one moment and darker the next. There's no real pattern to it."
"It's been worse lately," Mira adds. "But we've managed to deal with it."
"Is there any way to predict when it'll happen?" I ask.
"None," Mira says. "That's what makes blackouts so inconvenient." She reaches into her pack and pulls out a small lantern.
There's a soft metallic clink, and then a rune flares to life in her hand. Warm golden illumination pushes back the dimness, emanating from the lantern. The rune carved into its surface glows with soft amber radiance, creating a sphere of brightness about ten feet across.
"This is a Mana spreader," Mira explains, holding it up. "Collects ignis over time, stores it, and slowly releases it. It will create a sphere of ignis around itself for a short time."
"So if it changes like this, how do you mark days or night?"
"Days or night?" Kaela tilts her head. "What do you mean?"
"You know, like... How do you tell time if ignis isn't consistent?"
"We mark time by bells," Lyra says, as if this is obvious.
Bells. I think back to earlier when Mira kept telling me the time in bells. "Wait, which bells? How does that work?"
"The church rings bells at regular intervals," Lyra explains. "Everyone, or most of us, marks time by counting the bells."
"Okay, but..." I frown, trying to work through the logic. "How do they know when to ring the bells?"
Mira shrugs. "It's someone's job, I guess. Like a bellkeeper or something. They keep track and ring them at the right times."
"You know what, never mind," I say, and I'm surprised to find I'm smiling. "Bells. Got it."
Because despite the circular logic and the impossible questions and the complete lack of satisfying answers, there's something endearing about them. They want to understand where I came from. They want to help me make sense of their world. And honestly, after everything that's happened, being portal-napped, gaining sight for the first time, discovering a world of magic, having friends who want to understand feels pretty good.
Even if giant blue squirrels want to steal my lunch money.
I wish I could tell Eve I'm okay, that I'm alive and seeing. She'd probably laugh at the giant blue squirrel story, and I'd give anything to hear that laugh right now. But these three, standing here with me in the dimming forest light, asking their endless questions and genuinely caring about the answers, they're becoming my people too.
We continue walking, and I notice the forest is changing around us. The trees are spaced farther apart now, the undergrowth thinning out. The path beneath our feet transitions from packed earth and roots to something more deliberate.
I squint through the gaps in the trees.
Buildings. Lots of buildings. My eyes jump from roof to roof, trying to count, but there's smoke everywhere, gray wisps curling up from stone chimneys, and the haze makes everything blur together. The structures are packed close, rising two and three stories high, their walls a patchwork of stone and timber. Some lean slightly, as if they've settled unevenly over time. Others stand straight and proud, their windows glowing.
"Oh," I say, very intelligently.
"We made it!" Kaela says, grinning at my expression.
I realize my hands are doing this weird fluttery thing at my sides, like they can't decide whether to point at everything or cover my eyes. I force them to stillness and immediately start bouncing on my toes instead. "There's just a lot of... everything. It's very... tall? And smoky. Is it supposed to be this smoky?"
Kaela laughs. "That's just cooking fires and hearths. You should see it during festival season, the whole town looks like it's on fire."
"Ready?" Mira asks, adjusting the strap of her pack with her free hand. Her tone is carefully neutral, but the gesture feels almost protective.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
"That's not reassuring," I say, but I'm smiling despite myself.
I look down at my hands, now trapped mid-fidget, and let out a breath that's half laugh, half nervous exhale. "I mean, probably not? But I'm going in anyway, so that's basically the same thing, right?"
Kaela grins and bounces on her toes, her tail doing that excited swish thing. "That's the spirit! This is going to be amazing. You're going to love it."
"I like your optimism," I say, feeling my own excitement build. "Though I'll try not to trip over anything and embarrass us all."
"Fair point," Mira says. She pulls a bundle of dark fabric from her pack and holds it out to me. "Here. This should keep you from attracting too much attention."
I unfold the fabric to reveal a hooded cloak in deep charcoal gray. The material is thick and well-made, with a lining that feels like wool but has an odd, almost silky texture.
"Another cloak?" I ask.
"A spare," Mira explains. "It'll help you blend in. Pull the hood up, keep your head down, and no one will look twice. Just stay close, don't make eye contact with anyone who looks official, and let us do the talking."
"What if someone asks me a direct question?"
"Then you're a student from a small village up north," Lyra says, her voice taking on an instructional tone. "You're visiting for the first time, and you're overwhelmed. It's close enough to the truth that you won't have to lie."
"Except for the part where I'm actually from a completely different dimension," I say with a slight grin.
"Minor detail," Kaela says cheerfully.
I pull the cloak around my shoulders and fasten the clasp at my throat. The fabric settles heavily, the hood casting my face in shadow. It's surprisingly comfortable, and I feel a little less exposed.
"How do I look?" I ask.
"Mysterious," Kaela says.
"Suspicious," Lyra counters.
"Normal enough," Mira says, which I'm choosing to take as a compliment.
We start walking, and the transition from forest to town is more gradual than I expected. The first few buildings we pass are set back from the road, separated by small gardens or yards. A woman is hanging laundry on a line strung between two posts, white sheets billowing in a breeze I can barely feel. She glances up as we pass, her eyes lingering on us for a moment before returning to her work.
The buildings grow closer together as we continue, the spaces between them narrowing until they're practically touching. The cobblestone road widens, and suddenly there are people everywhere. A man pushes a cart loaded with vegetables, the wheels clattering over the uneven stones. Two children dart past us, laughing and chasing each other around a corner. An elderly woman sits on a bench outside a shop, knitting something that might be a scarf or might be a very long sock.
"Stay close," Mira murmurs, and I realize I've been drifting toward the edge of the group, my attention pulled in a dozen directions at once.
I force myself to focus on walking, on keeping pace with the others, but it's hard when there's so much to see. The buildings were a chaotic mix of stone and timber, roofs pitched at every angle as if the town had been built by a dozen people who never compared notes.
"Why are they all so different?" I ask.
"Different builders, different purposes," Lyra says. "That stone one is probably a storehouse. The timber one looks like a residence."
"And that one?" I point to a building with a second story that juts out over the first, supported by thick wooden beams.
"Probably a shop on the ground floor, living quarters above," Mira says. "It's common in towns like this. Space is limited, so people build up instead of out."
We pass a tavern, and the sound of voices and laughter spills out into the street. Through the open door, I can see people crowded around tables, mugs in hand, talking and gesturing animatedly. The smell of alcohol and roasted meat wafts out, and my stomach growls again.
"Definitely later," Mira says, a hint of amusement in her voice.
"You're a cruel woman," I tell her.
"I've been called worse."
We're walking past a shop displaying bolts of fabric when Kaela suddenly stops. "Oh! Fey, look at that."
I follow her gaze to a shop across the street. The sign above the door reads "Curiosities and Wonders," and the small window is crammed with an eclectic assortment of items. Crystal orbs, old looking books, what looks like a stuffed lizard with two heads, and. . .
"Is that a watch?" I say, pressing closer to the window.
I may have been blind for my entire life, but I still knew what a watch was supposed to look like. Eve had one, I remember it beeping every so often when she reminded me to take my medicine.
It was odd, and completely out of place, but here it was. . . a digital watch. Sure it's scratched and broken in half, but it is unmistakably from Earth.
"That's the place," Mira says quietly. "Finch's shop."
"We're going there," I say, still staring at the watch. "But first. . ."
I turn and nearly walk straight into. . . something.
I take a step back, my heart suddenly pounding, and look up at the figure collapsed against the wall of a bookstore.
It's a wooden figure, roughly humanoid, with two legs, two arms, a torso, and something approximating a head. But calling it humanoid feels wrong, because while it has the right number of limbs in roughly the right places, everything about it is off.
The proportions are wrong. The legs are too long, the arms too short. The torso is barrel-shaped, wider at the bottom than the top. The head is a smooth oval with no features except for a rectangular slot where a mouth should be.
And it's collapsed. Slumped against the wall at an awkward angle, one arm bent beneath it, the other stretched out across the cobblestones as if reaching for something.
"What is that?" I say.
"A golem," Lyra says, barely glancing at it. "Broken one, by the look of it."
The wood is weathered and gray, cracking in places like old driftwood. I can see the grain running through it, dark lines that follow the curve of the limbs. The joints are visible, circular sections where the wood has been carved away and fitted together, held in place by metal pins that have rusted to a dull orange-brown.
"A golem," I repeat, the word unfamiliar on my tongue. "Like... a magical construct?"
"Exactly." Lyra adjusts her pack strap. "They're rare, though. You don't see them often outside of the army."
I take a step closer, unable to help myself. The golem's head is tilted at an angle, that featureless oval pointed slightly downward. The slot where its mouth should be is dark, a rectangular opening about the size of my hand. I can't see anything inside.
"How do they work?" I ask.
"A runesmith creates a doll like that one," Lyra explains, her tone taking on that instructional quality. "Then they create tablets, flat pieces of stone or metal with instruction sets carved into them. You feed the tablets into the golem's mouth, and it follows whatever instructions are on them."
"So it's like... programming?" I say, thinking of computers.
"I don't know what that means," Lyra says. "But if you mean giving it commands to follow, then yes."
"Can they think?" I ask. "Like, are they aware?"
"They follow instructions," Lyra says. "That's all."
"But how do you know?" I press, leaning closer. "How do you know they're not... I don't know, conscious in some way?"
"Because they're wood and metal," Lyra says, her tone suggesting she thinks this is a very stupid question. "They don't have minds."
I reach out, my fingers hovering just above the golem's arm. The wood looks rough, splintered in places. There's a crack running down the length of the forearm, deep enough that I can see the darker wood beneath.
"Don't touch it," Mira hisses.
I pull my hand back. "Why not?"
"Because you don't know what instructions it was given," Mira says. "It might be dormant, or it might be waiting for a specific trigger. Either way, it's not safe to interact with a golem you don't control."
"But it's broken," I say, gesturing at the collapsed figure. "It's not moving."
"Probably," Mira says. "But 'probably' isn't the same as 'definitely.' The only way to know for sure is to check it's core, but you would need to cut it in half for that."
I stand up slowly, my eyes still fixed on the golem. There's something deeply unsettling about it. The way it's slumped there, lifeless but not quite inanimate. Like it's sleeping, or waiting.
"They're incredibly expensive to make," Lyra continues, apparently deciding to indulge my curiosity. "You have to carve each piece precisely, fit the joints together perfectly, inscribe the runes in exactly the right places. And then you need a special type of mana to power them. Hard to find, apparently."
"What type of mana?" I ask, still staring at the golem.
Lyra shrugs. "Don't know what it's called. I just know it's what makes them move. The army has their own golems, maybe if we see a knight you could ask them?"
I take one last look at the golem, at its weathered wood and rusted joints and that dark, empty mouth. For a moment I thought I could hear something inside it shift.
"Okay," I say. "Let's go."
We walk across the street and Mira pushes open the door to Finch's shop. A bell chimes somewhere in the depths of the interior, and I cough as I step through a cloud of dust. The sound is bright and cheerful, completely at odds with the cluttered chaos that greets us.
The shop is narrow, shelves climb toward the ceiling, crammed with a variety of items. Books are stacked in precarious towers, their spines cracked and faded. There are weapons, daggers and swords and things I don't have names for, displayed on the walls. Jewelry glitters in glass cases.
The air smells of old paper, incense, and something else I can't quite identify. Something sharp and metallic that makes my nose itch.
"Hello?" Kaela calls out. "Anyone here?"
A gruff voice barks from the back of the shop. "I'm closed! Can't you read the damn sign?"
"The sign says you're open," Mira calls back, her tone patient.
"Well, I'm changing it," the voice growls. Heavy footsteps approach, and a moment later, an old man emerges from behind a curtain.
He's weathered and lean, with a face like cracked leather and a shock of white hair that sticks up at odd angles. One of his horns is missing, cut off halfway only leaving a flat stump, and he moves with the stiff gait of someone whose joints have seen better days.
"What do you want?" he demands, crossing his arms.
"We're looking for information," Mira says, stepping forward. "About some items you sold recently."
"I sell lots of items. That's what shops do." The old man, presumably Finch, glares at us. "You going to buy something, or are you just here to waste my time?"
I wander down one of the aisles while Mira handles the interrogation, my eyes scanning the shelves. Crystal orbs catch my eye, their surfaces etched with intricate runes that spiral inward. A necklace with a pendant, more runes carved along its edge. A set of wooden bowls.
I trail my fingers along a shelf, careful not to touch anything directly. More crystals. A leather-bound book with a lock. A dagger with runes running down the blade. Standard magical shop fare, I assume.
Then something catches my eye.
The color is what draws me first, bright and vibrant in the midst of muted browns and grays. It's small, metal, with a shape I recognize from descriptions I heard a dozen times.
"The Eiffel Tower," Eve had said, pressing a keychain into my palm. "It's this huge iron tower in Paris, all latticed metalwork, pointing up at the sky like a needle. This little one is just a souvenir, but someday we should go see the real thing."
She kept the keychain from a trip she went on when she was little. It was one of the things she always had with her.
And now I'm holding an identical keychain, tarnished and flaking, and I can see it. The latticed metalwork, the pointed top, exactly as it was described to me.
"Holy shit," I whisper.
"Careful with that," Finch snaps from across the shop. "Everything in here is treasure, worth more than you could afford. You break it, you buy it."
"Sure, treasure," I whispered to myself sarcastically. . . seeing a stack of empty instant ramen containers for sale.
I wait until Finch looks away before sliding the keychain into my pocket. It was from earth, and since I was from earth it rightfully belonged to me more than Finch.
"We're looking for information about a specific item," Lyra says. "It's a small rectangular device. . . you sold it to a student."
Finch's eyes narrow. "And what business is that of yours?"
"We're investigating the origin of certain artifacts," Mira says, her voice taking on an authoritative tone. "Specifically, items that appear to come from distant lands."
"I don't discuss my sources," Finch says flatly. "Bad for business. Now if you're not buying anything. . ."
"We're not here to get you in trouble," Lyra says. "We simply need to know where you acquired the device. It's important."
"Everything's important to somebody," Finch says, turning away. "Doesn't mean it's my problem."
Mira moves, positioning herself between Finch and the curtain to the back room. Her hand rests on the pommel of her sword. "Let me rephrase the question. Where did you get the device?"
Finch looks at her, then at her hand on her sword, and snorts. "What are you going to do, girl? Run me through in my own shop? That'll get you answers." He shakes his head in disgust. "I'm too old for this intimidation nonsense. You want information, you can pay for it like everyone else, or you can get the hell out."
"How much?" I ask.
My hand dips into my pocket, fingers closing around the smooth metal rectangle. I pull out the iPod and hold it up, the scratched surface catching the ignis emitting from Finch's lanterns.
"This," I say. "For the information."
Finch's gaze flicks from the iPod to my hand, his eyes narrowing slightly. For a brief moment, he stares at my skin, darker than the pale, almost white complexion of everyone in this world. I pull the hood of my cloak down further over my head, clearing my throat. "Do you want it or not?"
Then his attention snaps back to the iPod, and his weathered face cracks into a grin. He starts laughing, a rough, wheezing sound that shakes his shoulders. "Well, I'll be damned." He reaches out and plucks the iPod from my hand, turning it over with something like affection. "Everything always finds its way back to Finch, doesn't it? Sold this very thing, and here it is again, right back in my shop."
His entire demeanor shifts. The hostile edge melts away, replaced by something almost jovial. He sets the iPod on the counter with care, then leans against the wood with a satisfied grunt. "All right, girl. You've got yourself a deal. What do you want to know?"
"Where did you get it?" Mira asks.
"Got it from a salvager," Finch says, his tone now conversational. "Man who picks through battlefields after the fighting's done. Perfectly legal," he adds, though without the earlier defensiveness. "Salvage rights are well-established. The dead don't need their possessions."
"So it is them," I say, my heart pounding. "The items are coming from the Yellowmen."
"That's what the soldiers call them," Finch confirms. "My salvager brings me whatever he finds on their bodies. Strange stuff, most of it. Don't know what half of it does, but people buy it anyway. Novelty value, I suppose."
"What do you know about them?" I ask. "The Yellowmen?"
Finch shrugs. "Not much. Don't care much, either, long as the salvage keeps coming. They're tall, armor covers them head to toe. Shiny, like polished gold," he pauses, scratching his chin. "And they fight with weapons that shoot metal faster than arrows. Punch right through armor like it's parchment. Strange thing, though. The salvager mentioned they don't have horns or tails. None of them. Not a single one he's seen."
Finch's sharp eyes fix on me, narrowing with sudden interest. He leans forward, his gaze tracking to the shadow of my hood. "Come to think of it..." He reaches out, his gnarled hand moving toward the edge of my cloak.
Mira's hand shoots out, catching his wrist mid-reach. Her grip is firm but not aggressive. "That's enough."
Finch pulls back, raising both hands in mock surrender, though his eyes remain curious. "All right, all right. Just making an observation." He settles back against the counter, rubbing his wrist absently.
Finch studies us for a moment, then seems to come to some decision. "I've got something else that might interest you. Just got it in yesterday. Rare to get the armor of a Yellowman intact. Most of it comes back in pieces, too damaged to be worth anything. But this one..." He grins, showing yellowed teeth. "This one's special."
He gestures for us to follow and shuffles toward the back of the shop. "Come on, then. It's back here."
We follow him through the narrow aisles, past shelves crammed with oddities. Finch pushes aside the heavy curtain that separates the shop from the back room, and we step through into a space that's somehow even more cluttered than the front.
Wooden crates are stacked against the walls, some open to reveal packing straw and mysterious contents. The air is thicker here, dusty and close, with that same metallic smell but stronger. A single lantern hangs from a ceiling beam, casting long shadows across the cramped space.
And there, in the center of the room on a crude wooden mannequin, is something that makes me pause.
The material is bright yellow, almost luminous in the dim back room. It covers the mannequin completely, head to toe, the fabric thick and synthetic with a slightly waxy sheen. The hood extends up and over where a head would be, and attached to the front is a clear visor, scratched and clouded but still transparent enough to see through.
The seams are sealed with some kind of tape or bonding, creating an airtight barrier. There are tears in the plastic-like material, one across the chest, another along the left arm, dark stains around the edges that I don't want to think about too closely.
"Bright yellow," Eve had said once, describing the news footage she'd been watching. "Like safety vests, but full-body suits. They wear them for chemical spills, disease outbreaks, anything dangerous. The whole thing seals up, head to toe, with a clear face shield so they can see out. I would never want to wear a hazmat suit,"
I'd asked what they looked like, and she'd laughed. "Like aliens, honestly. Or people in sleeping bags with windows. The material is thick and crinkly, and they move all stiff because the suits are so bulky."
My eyes track over the mannequin again. The thick synthetic material. The sealed seams. The clear visor. The way it covers every inch of the body, leaving nothing exposed.
Eve had told me humans wore those suits to survive.
"Just got it in yesterday," Finch says proudly, moving to stand beside the mannequin. "Salvager said he pulled it off a dead Yellowman after a skirmish near the border. Usually the armor's too damaged to salvage, but this one was mostly intact. I was just about to put it out in the shop when you arrived."
My hands have gone cold.
The iPod in Finch's shop. The Eiffel Tower keychain. The weapons that shoot metal faster than arrows. The figures in yellow armor that cover them head to toe.
"Fey?" Kaela says. "What's wrong?"
I take a step back, my legs suddenly unsteady. The Yellowmen aren't just some mysterious invaders with Earth technology.
They're humans.