The Beggar’s Throne

Chapter Eighty

The sun was low over South Ridge, casting long shadows through the rail yard’s fractured skeleton. The summit hadn’t ended so much as dissolved. People left in slow, thoughtful groups, carrying not mandates or manifestos, but fragments of shared stories, arguments, new questions. No one declared victory. No one raised a flag.

Jake stayed behind.

He walked alone along the edge of the yard, boots crunching on shattered glass and loose gravel. A bent cargo door clanged softly in the breeze. The silence after so many words, so many watching eyes, was heavy—but not hollow. It was like the air after fire: still, but laced with something alive.

Reeva found him there, sitting on a rusted ledge.

“They’re asking if there’s going to be another summit,” she said.

“There won’t be,” Jake replied. “Not like that.”

“They need structure, Jake. They’re starting to map their own zones. Define communication paths. Talk about defense protocols.”

Jake looked at her, expression unreadable.

“That’s good. But