Chapter Sixteen: Lines Between

Sasha Barnett’s footsteps were light on the wet cobblestones of Kavessra’s Lower Ring, but her mind carried a weight that no distance could shed. The city, with its clanging aetherlines and sprawling decay, pulsed beneath her like a living thing—vicious, indifferent, relentless. For most runners, the streets were battlegrounds or profit veins. For Sasha, they were arteries connecting her to the Hollowgrove.

She adjusted the worn leather strap of her satchel, the soft bulk inside shifting slightly with each step. Inside were not just parcels or credits, but lifelines—carefully selected goods for her tribe, sent along the trade caravans that occasionally threaded their way through the city's chaotic web out to the wilds. Her deliveries weren’t just for rent or food here in Kavessra. They were offerings, promises, survival.

The evenings here thinned the crowds, leaving the streets like bruised veins glowing under flickering holo-ads. Sasha’s path took her past shuttered market stalls and steaming vents, the smells of burnt oil and sharp spice mingling in the chill air. Her boots echoed faintly, but in a district where silence was rare, even that sounded loud.

She passed a group of runners huddled around a flickering aetherglass screen, their faces tight with focus. A few eyes flicked to her as she crossed. The murmurs were low, but the tone was clear—somewhere between disbelief and irritation.

“Sasha’s out making it look easy again,” one muttered.

“Does she even take it seriously?” another scoffed.

Sasha smirked under her hood. She’d heard this chorus before. Running was life for some of them—a sacred grind, a test of grit and guts. But for her, the thrill was different. The race wasn’t about beating records or proving herself. It was about the people waiting beyond the city’s choking walls.

She thought of her tribe—the nomadic beastmen of the Hollowgrove. Fierce, proud, tied to the wilds in ways Kavessra’s metal and stone could never understand. Their lives were carved from the forest’s breath, the shifting seasons, and the dangers lurking beyond the treeline. But those same wilds couldn’t offer everything.

Sasha’s runs funded more than her life here. Every credit she earned was carefully measured and parceled out to purchase supplies the Hollowgrove couldn’t produce. She sent back durable boots—reinforced with weatherproof leathers and sturdy soles, designed to grip slippery bark and rocky ground. Her people needed them for long hunts and relentless travel.

She shipped fine metal tools, too—knives forged sharp and true, axes balanced for chopping firewood, and delicate carving knives for crafting ceremonial masks and charms. Tools that held their edge in the wild were treasures, and Sasha made sure her tribe had the best.

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Dried foods and spices followed—smoked meats, preserved berries, and grains that could last through the harshest winters. The forest provided game and roots, but the stable staples and flavors from the city were comforts they cherished. Every bag of spice she sent was a taste of a world beyond the Hollowgrove.

Medicinal herbs and simple tech arrived in her shipments as well—basic aether-infused bandages and salves, lanterns that glowed with a soft blue light for long nights, and sometimes even old communication glyphs salvaged from traders, fragile but vital links to the wider world.

She thought of her mother, wrapped in a threadbare cloak by the hearth, stitching a new tent with coarse but strong fabric. Thread and cloth were luxuries, but Sasha sent those too—materials that would protect her family from rain and cold, gifts from the city’s broken edge.

A voice crackled in her ear—the familiar static of Patch, a fellow runner and occasional rival.

“You’re taking the long way again,” he teased, the grin clear even through the comm.

“Just making sure the goods get delivered safe,” Sasha replied, voice calm but sharp.

“Since when do you care about running safe? You always cut corners.”

She smiled, more to herself than him. “This isn’t just for me.”

Patch laughed, low and amused. “Yeah, yeah. The noble savage, right? Running for the tribe.”

Sasha ignored the jab. It was true. For her, the run was a ritual threaded with responsibility.

Her route curved toward the trade district, where caravans loaded and unloaded goods headed out past the city’s gates. The air was thick with the scent of oiled leather and burnt glyphs, the buzz of negotiation mingling with the clatter of crates.

A caravan leader recognized her and waved—a burly woman with a braided beard and quick eyes. Sasha approached, and after a brief exchange of nods and a few phrases in the tribal tongue, she handed over her satchel.

“On schedule, as always,” the leader said with a smirk.

Sasha nodded, watching as the goods were unloaded and carefully packed into crates bound for the forest trails.

“Anything special this time?” the leader asked, glancing at the contents.

Sasha listed the items: reinforced boots for the hunters, sharpened tools for the craftsmen, spices for the winter stores, and a bundle of medicinal herbs from a recent market find.

The leader whistled softly. “Your people are lucky to have you.”

“I just run,” Sasha said. But her eyes carried the weight of years spent between worlds.

As the caravan prepared to leave, Sasha lingered. The Lower Ring’s grime and neon flickers called her back, but her heart was still halfway in the wild.

She knew the tribe counted on her—not just to bring supplies, but to be a bridge between the unforgiving city and the untamed forest.

Back in the narrow corridors, Sasha’s footsteps quickened. The murmurs followed her—some admiring, some scornful—but she paid them no mind.

Running wasn’t a race for her ego. It was a lifeline. A promise. A thread tying her to everything she fought to protect.

And tonight, as the city hummed its endless song, Sasha Barnett ran not just for survival—but for home.