Brink (The Ruin Saga Book 2) by Harry Manners

had no fewer defenceless folk than here. Now that he had heard just how many towns had been hit, it was a wonder that New Canterbury remained almost unscathed. They’d had break-ins and raids—Norman’s broken ribs could attest to that, not to mention Ray Hubble’s corpse—but no more. One death, one injury; it was nothing compared to the hundreds of bodies that lay in the enemy’s wake.
    Again, it was almost as though they were being spared. New Canterbury had been revered as the home of the great Alexander Cain for so long that its name was synonymous with their cause. Now it looked as though its name was the only thing saving it. But that was all the more chilling, because if it were true then it could only mean one thing: they were being saved for last .
    All that was left to them was the summit. There was still power among them. The enemy might be playing cat and mouse, but that couldn’t be justified. They were rabble, after all; a mass of farmers and traders brought together by a tenuous common goal. And they didn’t have Alexander.
    Norman walked across the lobby and tried to keep his head held high. The looks aimed at him were the same, demanding and fawning, but he ignored them. Let them have their hopes. That was the least he could try to do for them. He would do anything to avoid the future Alexander had in mind for him, but that didn’t matter now; they all believed in him, even if his great destiny was all smoke, and that was all that mattered.
    Not far from the stairwell, he spotted Allie. She was crouched down over a frail young girl in what had once been a pretty summer dress. It was Oppenheimer’s daughter. She was awake now, but lay very still as Allie whispered a constant stream of sweet babble. The little girl had just lost her siblings and her mother, but still the faintest of smiles was on her lips. Allie had a gift with words.
    Norman tried to ignore the flutter in his chest, but it now came whenever he looked her way, and he could no longer ignore it. Allison Rutherford had been a spurious gossip not long ago, a newcomer in New Canterbury who could be relied on to incite rumour wherever she went.
    War had changed her. Her eyes had hardened, her hearsay had shifted to fierce mummery, and even her soft rounded face seemed to have become older, more angular. In a few short months, she had blossomed into a true woman. And during that transition, Norman’s eyes had begun to linger.
    It had been she who had stayed by his bedside after he had been attacked.
    She caught his eye, and before he knew it, he was walking toward her and the little girl.
    “Someone wants to meet you,” Allie said.
    He knelt with difficulty beside them both, facing away from the prying eyes of the crowd, and tried to smile for the little girl. She returned the favour, though timidly, and her eyes flicked to Allie for comfort.
    “It’s okay.” Allie gripped her forearm. “He’s not a grump, really. Most of the time.”
    “Unless I skip breakfast. Then I grow gruffalo horns.”
    The girl’s face remained pale and taut, but her brow relaxed a tad. Allie gave him an encouraging look, and together they leaned over her and did their best to entertain her while the worst of the wounded were stabilised in the lobby and hauled upstairs, where their old infirmary had overspilled across two whole storeys. Complimenting her on her dress, asking her about home and her favourite books; it all brought back memories of the martial arts class Norman led back home.
    He had always considered teaching one of the more taxing chores on New Canterbury’s duty rota, but he missed the kids. He had never appreciated how easy their lives had been until now—just what Alexander’s vision had meant for their quality of life. How many years had he moped and brooded over the destiny foisted upon him, meanwhile enjoying all the comforts of electricity and baked bread and fried eggs, curated libraries, and a comfy bed? And all that time,