The mining station had a name now.
Yalira called it Brask's Tomb, dry-faced and deadpan. Tessa called it Home Base. Jorik just called it the station. Owen rotated between all three depending on his mood.
Whatever they called it, the place worked. Stone walls, two levels, defensible approaches. Yalira had set up early-warning markers on all four compass points—small piles of stones balanced just precariously enough that anything bigger than a desert rodent would knock them over and tell her something was coming. Jorik had reinforced the lower-level entrance with stones from the wreckage, narrowing the doorway so only one person could enter at a time. Tessa had organized supplies, food stores, water reserves. Within four days, the station felt less like an occupied territory and more like a base.
