Afterglow. The Justification of Chaos

Диана Ва-Шаль

Afterglow. The Justification of Chaos

Illustrator: Diana Va-Schal

Translator: Daria Zubkovskaia

From the Translator

The translation of this book has been one of the most challenging, captivating, and enjoyable adventures of my life. Conveying the energy and spirit of each character is no easy task, but I did my best to preserve the unique essence of each one exactly as envisioned by the author.

The Afterglow, its occurrences, and especially its characters, have repeatedly saved me during the most challenging moments of my life – when I had no strength, when everything was falling apart, Robert, Steph, Chris, Norman, Sarah always came to my rescue. And each of them, every time, reminded me of something very important.

Stephanie reminded me of how important it is to notice the beauty around us and to be able to rebuild ourselves. Over and over again, step by step. After all, so much depends on our attitude and determination.

Robert reminded me of the importance of staying calm and unwavering in any situation, because decisions made in haste and panic never lead to anything good. Moreover, your resilience can save someone's life.

Norman reminded me of the importance of a positive attitude: a bit of humor and a small drink from the flask can make even the worst day a little bit better. And Sara – of the importance of treating everyone with understanding and respect. After all, you can never truly know what someone has been through.

And the most important advice I receive every time I come across this book is from Chris: never despair. Even when the world is falling apart, even when you can't see a way out, even when it feels like there is no strength left – never despair. Because as soon as you start to despair and give up, you'll break forever.

I sincerely thank the magnificent author of this book for her boundless talent, for the vivid characters, and for the vibrant narrative style that makes you immerse yourself in every moment of the plot without hesitation. And most importantly, for creating a story that gave me a completely new and infinitely beloved world, to which I continue to return again and again.

My dear reader, I sincerely wish for you to fall as deeply in love with this story and to find something truly special in it – something that, if it doesn't save you in a difficult moment of life, will certainly make you smile, remind you of what matters most, or inspire you.

Let The Gorgon be your guiding star in the fight against the most difficult and seemingly invincible obstacles. May Stephanie's strength of spirit and Lewis's unwavering determination instill in you an unshakable belief in your abilities. And may the magical chemistry between them bring warmth to your soul and remind you that somewhere in this world, your person is always waiting for you.

With infinite gratitude and boundless love for each of you.

Once and until the end.

Afterglow: The Justification of Chaos

Dedicated to my guiding light and the brightest person.

Mom.

You will always live in my heart.

Part 1. Stephanie Shayer

1

An endless snow-covered field. A white sky. A hazy horizon line fading into a pale mist. All around, an infinite silver expanse without a single hint of color – no sound, no breath of wind, not even a sense of cold. My steps are silent, weightless; it takes me a moment to realize that I’m walking. From nowhere. To nowhere. The silence is so overwhelming that the flow of blood through my veins feels like a deafening roar, the beating of my heart like a mythical battering ram, threatening to shatter my chest. A vague sense of foreboding coils through my body, wrapping around and choking me, but I lift my eyes to the pearly, dusty-gray sky. Snow is falling in large flakes. Slowly. Silently. Spiraling down, settling on my hair, shoulders, arms.

My arms.

I lower my gaze to them. Instead of long gloves reaching to my elbows – bright crimson blood. Hot. Sticky. And only at this moment do I realize the snow-covered field is gone: a dark forest surrounds me, black trees tangled together like a cage. Above, the sharp sliver of a crescent moon. I’m standing knee-deep in a motionless river, but its waters are scarlet, concealing silent bodies, their right arms twisted behind their backs.

I try to get out, to climb free, but I only sink deeper into the mire pulling me down, further and further, and the dead begin to whisper to me. I can hear their voices and feel as though I know each one. I squeeze my eyes shut, sensing their cold, lifeless hands on my shoulders, dragging me with them. When I open my eyes again, I see a wasteland. Everything is burning. The earth burns. The sky burns. There is nothing to see but erupting darkness and the infernal blaze of hellfire. I am drenched in blood; it drips down my face, flows along my arms, and runs over the sword I grip with lifeless force. Everything around me is steeped in blood, pouring in rivers, blazing with scarlet flames.

The taste of ash on my lips. A hissing in my head. A black sun.

I fall to my knees, and then collapse into the snow.

The hot coffee burned my throat, and the warmth of the bitter drink spread through my body. I exhaled heavily, driving away the intrusive images of the night’s torment, and lifted my gaze to the sky, veiled with stormy gray-brown clouds. A chilly, pre-dawn gloom cloaked the world, and the gusty cold wind – so unusual for what I understood to be midsummer – offered little pleasure in being outside. In the Central Lands, summer is gentle and welcoming (though this year, the weather has been surprising with uncharacteristic fluctuations since spring); and in the Isthmus Region, where I was now, winds, it seemed, were a common thing.

I still couldn't fully realize that we had actually crossed the customs borders of the lands and passed through twenty-three checkpoints. My emotions urged me to look around, soak in the landscapes, and try to catch glimpses of the local culture. When else would I have a chance to escape the confines of restricted movement? But my rational mind stubbornly refused to view these new places through the lens of idle curiosity.

Firstly, the job wasn’t done yet. Secondly, while there was no doubt about the validity of the documents presented to customs officials and no questions were raised at any checkpoint, there was no guarantee that on the return trip the political investigators – the Reapers – wouldn’t take an interest in the name that had endorsed our papers. This wasn’t just playing with fire – it was an attempt to walk on a thread over the abyss.

The brewed coffee bean exuded a spicy aroma, and I suddenly thought that over the past few months, during which sleepless nights were consumed by black coffee and endless work, my body seemed to have absorbed too much of this bitter, smoky liquid, flowing through my veins instead of blood.

I tossed the empty paper cup into the trash, wanting to get back to the warm car as soon as possible, and, lifting the sleeve of my leather jacket, I glanced at my watch. Not even six yet.

Suddenly, in the distance above the houses, a flock of birds rose into the air, their sharp cries echoing through the surroundings. The silence of the early morning in the sparsely populated suburb only amplified their plaintive and anxious clamor, which resonated in a chorus of echoes among the houses and sent a gust of wind scattering leaves across the road.

A pang tugged at my heart, and for some reason, a spasm tightened my throat: it was as if all the doubts of the past days had collapsed onto my shoulders like an unbearable weight.

Such a long journey made, such a grave risk looming overhead like the tip of a sword; a misstep feels all too easy, unbearably dangerous. More dangerous than ever before.

Shivering slightly, I made my way toward the small white trailer.

“Let’s go,” I said to Andrew; he nodded, adjusted the collar of his bright orange shirt, and started the engine, “and take off those damn sunglasses! Where do you see any signs of the sun?”

“In the same place, where the meaning and practicality of this whole trip lie,” the man retorted, glancing at the rearview mirror, while I clicked my tongue and gave Andrew a condescending look. “You know, I won't stop repeating that this is a very risky undertaking. Fine, I won’t mention the documents for the customs officers that you dug up somewhere, thank the Mother Goddess, it all went smoothly. I won’t mention the seals on the papers and the signatures of, well, you know who… I won’t even say that after our last publications, we should really avoid showing our faces anywhere! We’ve always turned a blind eye to such trifles as keeping our lives safe, right?” he snorted, not hiding his sarcasm, “but do you really think we're going to find any meaningful or useful information here? In this ordinary, sparsely populated town in the Isthmus Region? The entire State is under a curfew, there’s a state of emergency in the East; and I’m not even talking about the completely closed roads, nor do I mention the widespread checks and extra social restrictions. And I won’t even bring up the tightening of control and surveillance, Steph! I won’t even utter a word about the completely closed Northern lands!” we were jolted slightly as the trailer hit the main road, “The place where we could actually get something useful from, they won’t let us through, not even if the very Heavens themselves decide to act as our protectors. And this is just one of the many border towns. Moreover, it's in the damn northern part of the Isthmus Region! Right next to the borders!”

“You’re the driver, right? So just drive the car,” I responded more harshly than I intended, but Andrew didn’t seem to notice the sharpness in my voice. I tried to exhale more calmly, as if that could silence the doubts and fears, and continued in a conciliatory tone. “Listen, I don’t want us to go all this way for nothing either. But I’m sure we’ll gather something useful here. It may be a small town, but it's one of the few open ones on the main connecting highways. Local newspapers are full of news about the chaos in hospitals and quarantined neighborhoods, and that's a good sign – the government’s censorship hasn’t tightened the noose yet. Besides, as you rightly pointed out, it’s one of many border towns to the North. I don’t think the eyes and ears of the political police here are sharp enough to notice any leaks of information.”

“The main thing is that the great mother-censorship lets it through,” Andrew said after a moment. “But the material you want to gather will be difficult to publish, even with our boss's connections. With all the connections, Steph. You’ll need one hell of a trump card up your sleeve. So far, almost all the information on this topic has been successfully cleaned up.”

“Let’s emphasize the word ‘almost’,” I smiled slyly. “Is Sam asleep?” Andrew nodded, and after giving him a pat on the shoulder, I headed inside the trailer.

The car swayed slightly.

Pulling off my jacket, I sank heavily onto the small couch. On the fold-out table in front of me were a battered notebook, headphones, Sam's badge-holder, with "Samwise Dort" written in round, handwritten letters, and a large folder filled with papers, notes, crude sketches, and newspaper clippings – "The Three's speech postponed again – monarchs preparing to make several important announcements?", "Power outages in the capital!", "Eastbound highways closed", "Main underground tunnel through the 'Halls' to the West is closed until autumn" – none of which I wanted to go through.

My head felt heavy, my eyes were closing. The sleepless nights of anxiety during the border crossings were catching up with me. But I knew, if I lay down on the bed now, I wouldn't be able to sleep. I was completely unaccustomed to sleeping in a moving car.

I shifted my gaze to the monotonous landscape sliding past the window: white two-story houses with dark roofs flashed in a repetitive rhythm, and rare arrow-shaped trees pierced the gloomy sky. We passed an expressive bridge with wrought-iron railings; the water in the river appeared dirty, graphite-brown, and its turbulent streams seemed out of place next to the neat, private homes.

In the background of my thoughts, the fleeting realization hit me that the river was rushing toward the Bloody Bay, and I almost regretted that we wouldn't see its fjords. I'd heard they were insanely beautiful.

But the very sight of the stormy waters amidst the trembling calm of the dormant town seemed, for a moment, eerie and terrifying. However, lately, my tendency toward suspicion, emotionality – sometimes crossing all boundaries – feelings of dread and awe, arising out of nothing, had become particularly sharp: they made me spin, twitch, and never gave me peace for a moment—something was approaching, and one didn’t need to be a seer to understand that. The only question was, in which area of our lives would it first strike.

I attributed my own moral exhaustion to general fatigue and the tense atmosphere. Although, without a doubt (and I couldn’t lie to myself), the reason ran much deeper – it was too obvious and too painful. There was no escaping or hiding from the past. You couldn’t drown it out with work, drown it out with risky decisions, or dull it; it always came back in sudden memories during moments of silence, nightmarish dreams, creeping tears, and the lump in my throat… Starting over was hard. Sometimes it seemed like it was only possible if I set fire to the previous chapters of my life, but to do that, I’d have to be either incredibly brave or desperately foolish – and so I sought healing elsewhere. Having completely lost myself, with an absolute emptiness within my ribs, I gave myself over to work. Completely. Without fear or doubt. Maybe that’s why, looking at the houses passing by the window, at the travel papers arranged before me, I didn’t question how I had the courage to do all of this.

I had gotten myself into an adventure, the details of which were frightening to even think about.

Sam was snoring loudly in his sleep, curled up on the small, worn-out couch; he had spent the entire night editing a video and then fixing the antenna – for some reason, it had been acting up with terrible interruptions lately – so it was no surprise that he fell asleep as soon as he sat down. I smiled, recalling how many years of friendship we shared with Dort – playing in the same courtyard as kids, going to school together, and then to college. I never thought life would turn out this way – I never imagined everything would spin, change, twist, and break apart like this – and that we would end up working side by side.

Over four years of working in publishing behind us. So fast, yet unbearably long; what we’ve achieved now is written in blood, tears, and the cold of political investigation cells… There was no easy start, and we didn't fall into rhythm right away – for a long time, our trio wasn’t recognized, so we weren’t involved in any of the shortcuts, gossip, or work for the regime. Courage is tasted in small doses. You don’t read people right away. You find allies only through mistakes. The constant drive to be at the center of events, to dig into topics that shouldn’t be dug into: this led us to the current editor-in-chief of Crimson Skies, a man who was partly reckless, impulsive, but very principled and brave, who managed to find a loophole in censorship and powerful patrons even in our State.

The closer to the center of the city, the more people there are, the taller the buildings, and the darker the sky.

It was an incredible risk to head to the Isthmus Region, but a trusted source assured us that there would be information on our topic of interest, and certain strings had been pulled to set up the meeting.

However, we were nearly a day late for the agreed meeting time: no matter how well-made the entry documents were or whose name was on the signature, movement between territorial units of the State had been, to put it mildly, highly restricted for many decades, and in the past month, customs officials had become downright feral. The tightening of already strict restrictions was, of course, due to the epidemic in the Northern lands, which could no longer be concealed by rumors, speculation, or the machinations of “oppositionists and amateurs.” An unknown disease was rapidly and mercilessly sweeping through the cities, and the impending nightmare, the “wrath of the Heavens,” was only whispered by the lazy.

Yes, Andrew didn’t have to mention the closed North. I was sure that in a couple of weeks, it would fall under the same strict ban as the civil war in the southwestern territories and the organization Ancerb, which had vanished about a year and a half ago. So, no matter how risky our trip was, we couldn’t afford to miss even the smallest chance to understand what was happening.

I sighed heavily, glancing furtively at the fresh newspaper next to Sam. The headlines were full of news about yet another official behind bars; about how the civil war (and any military actions) in the distant southwest had ended last year, and any contradiction to that was lies, sabotage, and attempts to undermine the authority of the ruling monarchs. However, such formulations were no longer surprising; government scribes churned out the same articles on repeat, desperately trying to convince the loyal subjects of the State of the Three of its legitimacy, the control over the situation in the closed North, where rumors spoke of an almost apocalyptic event, and in the southwest, where the peninsula and the stronghold of resistance, The Cold Calm, had been waging a civil war for thirteen years for their right to secede.

The official on the front page of the newspaper – Ivanko Horst – was one of the few who had started speaking out openly for the right of the Cold Calm to secede; he had also sought to shed light on events and the situation in the North. Now, after being removed from his position and stripped of his title as Marquess of the Northern Lands, he was behind bars on charges of treason, allegedly committed a decade ago.

The trailer suddenly braked sharply, and I lurched forward, barely managing to keep my balance and hold onto the folder of documents. Sam swayed, instinctively grabbing the couch as he woke up, eyes wide. The vehicle started moving again.

“What’s happening? Where are we, Steph?” Sam rasped, peering out the window, “oh, right… I fell asleep. I hope we’ll be done quickly today.”

“If there’s no material, we’ll get some sleep,” I replied, then nodded toward his bright green hoodie with the strange orange monster on it. “We’ll be there soon, change your top.”

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes, while I, turning back to the window, leaned against the back of the seat.

We passed a few boulevards and turned onto the bypass road where the hospital we needed was located.

The town of °22-1-20-21-14, located in the northern part of the Isthmus Region. Small, provincial. One would think, what could possibly happen in such a quiet place? But I had been assured that this was exactly where I needed to go. I just had to trust. What did I have to lose? Time? I didn’t think the political police of the Three and the main enforcers of the totalitarian regime – the Reapers – were currently pursuing minor defectors and journalists with particular diligence; there were enough problems without publications that fancied freedom of speech, buried under the weight of years, had returned.

One thing I knew for sure: I simply couldn’t miss the meeting with the chief physician of the local hospital, a doctor of medical sciences who had left the North just over a year ago.

When the hospital appeared outside the window, I noted with surprise that it was quite a large building, towering over the surrounding structures; the new addition to the medical facility stood out, making its size even more disproportionate for such a small town. Around it was an incredible number of cars; Sam stared out the window in confusion, looking at the crowded parking lot. Andrew didn’t find a spot to park right away.

The trailer’s engine rumbled hoarsely before falling silent.

“We've arrived!” Andrew turned to us. “You can get out.”

Birds hovered close to the ground, and the stifling heat outside seemed saturated with sweet, smoky smells, as if the wind had vanished altogether. The air carried the scent of an approaching storm.

Beyond the hospital building, where tall fences loomed, soldiers and a police convoy stood guard. A black helicopter flew overhead with a loud roar; the emblem of the Three had been covered by a design of coiling serpents, but I didn't get a chance to fully make out the symbol.

“Are you coming with us?” I asked Andrew, standing by the trailer door as I watched the helicopter pass by. “Or will you be waiting?”

“Go ahead, I’ll catch up in a bit,” Andrew said. “I want to stretch my legs and get a look around. We haven’t been this far before…”

I nodded in agreement, concealing the slight nervousness I felt. Sam, hurriedly grabbing the equipment bag and throwing on a more or less decent windbreaker over his favorite hoodie, darted out of the stifling trailer and slammed the door behind him. I shot a quick glance at Dort, then, taking a deep breath, looked around.

We needed material. And we would get it. Or create it.

I nudged Sam in the side and hurried toward the hospital doors, still surveying the scene behind the building. Everything looked unsettling and serious, which, in some way, was reassuring – it increased the chances of finding something valuable, a big story that could truly tarnish the godlike image of the Three. Perhaps confirmation of the epidemic in the North could not only open people’s eyes but spur them to action.

And, thank the heavens, there were no Reaper vehicles in sight.

Sam caught up with me on the stairs, muttering something under his breath as he opened the door for me and motioned me through.

The hospital smelled of various medications, and an almost tangible sense of sadness and despair hung in the air. I flinched, pausing for a moment and trying to steady the tremor in my body. My legs felt like stone, and my palms grew clammy; there are things that leave a mark on our lives forever – things you can learn to live with, but never truly erase. I forced myself to push away those intrusive thoughts and remind myself why we were here and what we hoped to accomplish. I stepped forward, casting a quick glance around the room: yes, it was just another hospital, like hundreds of others. Flustered medical staff in sterile uniforms hurried past, each with their own bag of tools, each lost in thoughts about patients, difficult cases, hopes, and fears. Patients either lay in beds or stood by the windows, gazing enviously at the people outside those cursed walls. Someone was always crying; someone was always celebrating and leaving the hospital, determined never to come back. In the corners were large white pots with tall plants, their green leaves meant to be calming. And all this silence, broken only by soft voices, moans, cries, and the hum of machines, was slowly starting to drive me mad…

Horizontal ultraviolet lamps, casting a bluish light, hung from the ceilings. Some were burned out, plunging sections of the long corridors into an unsettling, eerie half-darkness.

Sam continued to yawn, lazily holding his dark bag under his arm, completely indifferent to his surroundings; he was so tired that he either didn’t notice my fleeting pause or chose not to comment on it. But I was sure that if I offered him to sleep right there, on the cold hospital floor, Dort would agree without hesitation.

“All right,” I waved my hand at Sam, “Go take some footage. I need to hurry to the meeting – we’re already way behind schedule; we’ll have to push hard to make up for the day’s delay. I’m afraid it might come back to haunt us; it was too difficult to arrange this conversation…”

“Did you really find an informant here?” Sam squinted, and I theatrically rolled my eyes and spun around to move forward. “What’s there to film?” Came his voice from behind.