Jagged rocks, sharp as teeth, yielded to rounded grottos and wind-scoured plateaus. The landscape stayed the same, though—a dreary black-and-white canvas under a leaden sky.

  Harlan’s neck itched so bad it made him angry. He kept turning, squinting into the snowy haze, and still saw nothing. His hand kept twitching toward the revolver on his belt. I’m acting paranoid, he told himself.

  Twice, a shadow seemed to slip between boulders. Both times—nothing.

  That evening, by the fire, Garret watched him for a while.

  “You’re wound up,” he said. “Here. Drink.”

  He handed over a mug of his signature brew.

  “I don’t know,” Harlan said honestly, taking the coffee and warming his fingers on it. “Feels like we’re being watched.”

  The veteran smirked as he stirred the coals.

  “In the Wildlands, you’re always being watched, kid. Rocks have eyes. Monsters smell blood from a kilometer out. And people smell money. Get used to it.”

  But Harlan’s instinct wasn’t wrong.

  That night, when the wind howled over the ravine and swallowed every small sound, something slammed into the camp out of the dark.

  A pack of gray beasts. Six-legged, with mouths packed with teeth in multiple rows. They looked like a sick cross between dogs and spiders. Just looking at them turned your stomach. They moved fast—jerky, almost silent.

  “UP!” Thorren’s roar shattered the sleep. He was on watch.

  Then Mark screamed. One of the beasts ignored the sentry and charged straight at the wounded man’s tent. The fabric held, but the impact landed like a giant’s kick. The tent flew five meters, flipping end over end, and crashed into deep snow with Mark still inside.

  Thorren moved. A Field impulse slammed the creature in the side with a cracking thud and threw it away.

  The others scrambled out. Guns rose. Fire spat into the dark.

  Harlan, shaking with tension, raised his revolver. His fingers cramped. His heart hammered up in his throat. Still, his finger found the trigger. The shot thundered in his hands. Recoil kicked his hand hard enough to hurt. But the beast—already coiled to spring at Thorren—buckled mid-motion and collapsed, coughing a stream of thick violet blood.

  Thorren turned at the sound. His pupils widened when he saw the corpse. Then he looked at the newcomer, gave a quick approving nod, and snapped back into the fight with a new target.

  “Not bad for your first one!” Garret barked, dropping another beast beside him. “Stick with me!”

  Less than five minutes later, it was over. The pack vanished as suddenly as it came, dissolving into the dark and leaving four bloody bodies behind.

  They could call it a near miss. Even Mark didn’t take serious damage from the “flight”—the snow cushioned him—but he looked awful.

  “I think they came for the smell,” Garret said grimly, walking the perimeter. “Let me see.”

  He looked at Mark. Mark knew. He clenched his jaw and unzipped his jacket. A heavy, sweet stench hit them.

  “Why didn’t you say it got worse?” Garret asked, sharp with blame as he leaned in. “The wound’s started to stink. It’s infected. Yesterday it didn’t look this bad.”

  “I don’t know. Hurts same as yesterday,” Mark said weakly, eyes sliding away.

  “Halfway point,” Thorren said dully, rubbing his temple. “No turning back.”

  “We push through,” Garret nodded. “Stay sharp. They’ll come again.”

  He turned to Mark. “We need to flush it and dress it again. Harlan—boil water. Thomas—help lay him down.”

  While Harlan fought with the pot, they dragged the sleds closer to the fire and propped Mark against them. Thomas braced his back while Garret opened the wound with a knife heated in the flame.

  “Now you endure,” Garret rasped, then shoved a spare knife toward Mark.

  Mark clamped the handle between his teeth and nodded.

  When they opened it, pus poured out.

  “So we’re walking bait now,” Thomas said, eyes narrowed as he jerked his chin toward Mark. “Garret, the risks changed. This ain’t what we talked about.”

  “And if it had been you bleeding, would the risks have changed then?” Garret snapped, wrapping fresh bandage. “You’re back on the money song again. You ever get enough?”

  “I just want what’s fair.” Thomas looked into the dark, where the dead monsters barely showed through the snow. “Me and my brother work. You and Thorren work. And the profit goes to the kid and the cripple.”

  Thovas, packing gear by the fire, gave a small, stiff nod.

  “We’ve been over this,” Garret stared him down. “The kid found Heraldite. The cripple got hurt in a fight. And you two asked for fixed pay. We’ll talk when we’re back in Snownorth. We’ll get eaten faster than we’ll settle shares out here.”

  He glanced aside.

  “Harlan. You done?”

  “Coming,” Harlan’s voice came from the side. “Right now.”

  They dealt with the wound. Thomas didn’t answer, just helped with the dressing in silence.

  ?

  The very next day they were hit again—this time under full daylight.

  Just one. Another flyer, though different from the one that tore Mark up, and smaller. Still, it was the size of a solid freight wagon. It burst out of a crack above the trail and dropped onto the caravan from above like a living rockslide. Snow exploded into a white cloud in the wind of its wings.

  They fought hard.

  Thorren poured so much force into his strike that the predator, claws already lifting for the kill, suddenly lost its balance. The Strike knocked its coordination apart. The bulk hung in the air, twitching in light convulsions.

  “Wings first! All of you—right wing!” Garret shouted over the beast’s roar.

  The volley landed as one, like a hammer blow. Four barrels spat lead into a single point.

  Harlan couldn’t even see where his bullets hit—powder smoke washed everything gray. He just fired, trying to drag Mark’s lesson back into his hands: feet shoulder-width, weight forward, exhale, squeeze…

  It worked. The wing snapped. The beast slammed onto the rocks, snarling, trying to rise.

  “Finish it!”

  Garret stepped close and drove three bullets straight into the open mouth. Thovas put a precise shot through the creature’s eye. The monster shuddered in its last spasm and went still—meat and feathers in the snow.

  “Middle of the day,” Garret breathed, bracing on his knees. Steam rolled off him like a run-down horse. “They’ve gotten bold.”

  He kicked the carcass with his boot, making sure it was dead.

  “Good work. If we didn’t move together, we’d be paste.”

  No one said much. A few grunts. A few relieved breaths.

  “Big payout, big problems,” Thorren croaked. He stood bent over, clutching his head. Blood ran from his nose again.

  ?

  A couple days later they cleared the worst pass on the route. With crystals and a wounded man, it took twice the time. Exhaustion piled up.

  Then the attacks became routine.

  They came in waves. At dawn and dusk, small creatures crawled out of the snowy fog—alone or in pairs. Two shots dropped them, but they never let anyone relax. Let one get too close and it would tear your throat out, or poison you before you could even shout.

  They slept with one eye open, flinching at every rustle.

  Worse came later.

  A larger pack followed them.

  The same six-legged predators they’d driven off before. Only now they didn’t rush in. They circled. Shadows flickered at the edge of the camp. Sometimes—even in daylight—Harlan caught narrow muzzles watching from behind rock ridges. At night the ravine filled with their shifting, mournful howl, the kind that made your blood go cold.

  “Why don’t they attack?” Harlan asked by the fire, eyes red as he stared into the dark.

  “They’re waiting. Wearing us down. Not as dumb as they look.” Garret took a pull of coffee, scanning the perimeter with a twitchy gaze. “We killed a few, so they’re scared to come straight in. They’re waiting for a mistake. Waiting for us to get weak enough we can’t lift a gun. Old-timers told stories like that.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “In my experience, packs like that back off if you drop the leaders—or if you get far enough beyond their hunting ground.”

  “If they don't strike, they’ll peel off closer to the settlement?” Harlan asked, hope slipping into his voice.

  “Probably. But in the Wildlands, ‘probably’ doesn’t mean much.” Garret tried to clap him on the shoulder, but the gesture came out heavy, tired. “Don’t be scared. We’ve crawled out of worse.”

  Even so, the watch schedule turned into punishment.

  Now they posted in pairs. One man couldn’t cover three hundred sixty degrees. Everyone pulled two shifts. And with Mark out, only five of them were still combat-capable—so somebody ended up standing watch three times.

  Day by day it got unbearable to walk. Legs dragged like lead, not just from the miles, but from chronic lack of sleep, animal fear, and the tension that rang in the air like wire.

  But nobody whined anymore. Even the brothers shut up and did the work. Everyone kept moving toward the same destination.

  Only it turned out they weren’t walking toward the same goal…

  ?

  On the twentieth day back, when they’d already passed the foothills and Snownorth was less than two or three marches away, it all fell apart.

  It happened at a halt. They pitched camp at the base of a cliff, a few hours from the pass. Garret checked the map. Thorren repaired a heater. Harlan built the fire. The brothers, as usual, stood a little apart, watching the surroundings.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Mark lay pale by the flames. The last few days he’d run a fever and barely got up. Garret kept talking at him like it mattered.

  “Hold on. Another day and we’ll hit the main trail. Then it’s nothing to Snownorth.”

  “Water…” Mark asked quietly.

  Harlan nodded and went to the skin bag. He didn’t take three steps.

  A gunshot cracked the silence.

  Thorren jerked like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer and fell face-first into the snow.

  Harlan froze for a heartbeat, not believing what he’d seen. Then he lunged for the big man, rolled him over.

  A clean hole punched through Thorren’s chest. Blood poured out dark and fast, flooding the white crust.

  “Thorren!” Harlan screamed.

  Thorren’s eyes opened. Surprise swam in them. He tried to speak, but pink foam slid from his mouth. His hand rose, shaking. The air shivered—he tried to resonate the Field. One last impulse.

  It didn’t come. The hand fell.

  “No,” Harlan whispered as cold locked around his insides. “No, no—what are you doing?!”

  Thorren’s chest went still. His eyes glassed over.

  Harlan lifted his head.

  The brothers stood ten paces off, both with revolvers up. Smoke curled from Thovas’s barrel. He grinned.

  Garret clawed for his gun, but a second shot knocked it out of his hand, scraping his fingers.

  “Freeze, old man,” Thovas said. “Next one goes in your head.”

  “Why?” Garret’s voice shook. “Are you out of your minds? We’re already out…”

  “Shut up and hand over your map and your prospecting license,” Thomas said, aiming at Harlan. “Or the next one’s him.”

  “Twenty days hauling dead weight,” Thovas spat, still smiling. “You think you were gonna play us, Garret? Find suckers to earn you a fortune for pocket change? ‘We’ll talk shares in Snownorth,’ yeah. I’ve seen greedy bastards like you. Hand over the map.”

  Harlan looked at Thorren’s body. Something hot rose in his skull. His hands trembled. A roar filled his ears until he could barely hear himself breathe.

  Then it all went simple. His body knew.

  Harlan dropped to his knees. Not to beg. He grabbed a fistful of coals out of the fire with his bare hand. Skin hissed. He didn’t feel it. He whipped the burning handful straight into Thomas’s face.

  “Aaagh!” Thomas screamed, clawing at his scorched eyes, and fired—wild, into nothing.

  Harlan tore his gun free. He didn’t think about stance. Didn’t think about breath. He just pulled the trigger, again and again, aiming at their shapes.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Tears burst from his eyes. His left palm, the one that grabbed the coals, was already blistering in ugly bubbles. He felt none of it.

  Thovas dropped, twisting.

  Thomas—blinded, choking—stopped screaming. Squinting through slit eyes, he raised his gun toward unarmed Garret.

  Harlan’s head cleared. Time slowed.

  “Move!” he shouted.

  He crossed the gap like lightning and slammed Garret into a snowdrift.

  Thomas fired by sound.

  Pain exploded in Harlan’s side—like someone drove a red-hot pry bar into him. He fell to his knees, gulping air that wouldn’t come.

  And in that same second, Garret rolled, snatched up his revolver—

  “Thovas… Thovas?” Thomas howled, realizing his brother wasn’t answering. “You pieces of shit! You die today!”

  He lifted his revolver again, but Garret didn’t give him the chance. Three clean shots. Thomas jerked and collapsed beside his brother. Blood spread under them, slow and dark, joining them in death.

  “Harlan! Thorren?” Garret didn’t look at the bodies. He ran for his own.

  He dragged Harlan closer to Mark, toward the heat.

  “Bastards… I…” Mark tried to rise to help, but his body failed him. He only managed to sit up.

  “Watch him,” Garret snapped—and ran to Thorren, still hoping for a miracle.

  There was no miracle.

  Mark tore a strip off a blanket with his teeth and, working with one good hand, started binding it tight over the wound in Harlan’s side.

  “Mark…” Harlan coughed. He tasted metal.

  “Good,” Mark whispered, pale as paper. “That’s it. You remember? Don’t miss.”

  A howl rose out of the dark.

  Mark finished the wrap, pulled Harlan closer, checked both revolvers, and topped one off with shaking fingers.

  “Hurts like hell,” Harlan hissed as he pressed his burned hand into the snow. The cold gave him one brief second of relief.

  Minutes later, drawn by the stink of fresh blood soaked into the camp, the six-legged predators came running. A triumphant howl called the pack to a feast.

  “Help me sit,” Harlan said.

  Mark hauled him upright. They sat back-to-back—two wounded men against the night. Harlan took Mark’s spare revolver.

  “Thanks,” he breathed. The world swam, but he clung to it.

  Garret crouched over Thorren’s body.

  “How… how the hell…” he whispered.

  No time to mourn. The howls were ten steps away. Garret stripped both revolvers from Thorren’s belt, checked the cylinders, and laid them on the snow in front of him. He took his own in both hands.

  The first muzzle showed in the dark. Teeth glinted. Then another. The ring tightened. The predators didn’t hurry. They knew the prey wasn’t going anywhere.

  Mark aimed. Fever shook him everywhere but his gun hand. That hand steadied like stone. A sharp shooter to the end, he picked an eye even on a moving target. He glanced at Garret.

  Garret nodded.

  Their shots cracked together. A shriek. Two monsters dropped, spilling violet sludge onto the snow.

  That was the signal.

  The pack surged.

  Everything turned to chaos—growling, muzzle flashes, shouting.

  Harlan saw it through a blur. A blurred six-legged shape rushed him. He fired. One, two, three. The beast shrieked, a leg folding under it, and flinched away. Another crept from the left. Harlan fired again—and darkness poured over him.

  He passed out.

  Garret emptied both revolvers and grabbed the spares. The monsters on his side recoiled, leaving bodies behind.

  A wet, heavy roar came from the left, near the fire.

  Garret snapped his head around.

  A big one launched in a leap straight at Mark.

  “Mark! Shoot!” Garret screamed.

  Mark waited. Controlled every motion. The monster was a meter away. Its mouth opened.

  Mark fired.

  The bullet went straight down its throat. The thing collapsed and slid to a stop at his feet.

  Mark looked at Garret and gave a small, victorious smile.

  “Stop—no!” Garret’s shout stuck in his throat. He fired, but it was too late.

  The dead one moved. It gave one last choking twitch and drove long claws into Mark’s chest. Garret’s shot finished it. Mark stayed frozen with that sad smile still on his face.

  “No!”

  Garret kept firing. Right. Left. Reload. He turned into a killing machine, pouring every piece of pain into lead.

  Then, suddenly—silence.

  The pack, having lost too many, broke and fled. For a long time, their mournful howls carried through the ravine.

  Smoke cleared. The camp looked like a slaughterhouse. Six, maybe seven monster carcasses. The traitors’ bodies, chewed and mangled. Thorren stiff in the snow.

  And Mark.

  Mark’s pistol was locked in his hand. In his glassy eyes, terror sat tangled with resolve. On his face—an impossible smile.

  Harlan lay face-down in the snow, but his back rose and fell, weakly.

  Only he and Garret were alive.

  ?

  Garret sat against the cliff, breathing hard. A strip of torn blanket bound his shoulder. Nearby, on a sled lined with a blood-soaked sack and scraps of bedding, Harlan lay wheezing—each breath broken, whistling.

  “You idiot,” Garret said to him, ragged and furious. “What the hell did you jump in front of a bullet for? For an old stump like me?”

  He forced himself up.

  He had to move. Movement meant life.

  Tears ran down his cheeks, cutting clean tracks through soot. He didn’t wipe them.

  Garret grabbed a pick and shovel. The ground was rock-hard. He hacked at it with savage force, dug several shallow pits. There wasn’t time, but the thought of scavengers stripping his friends’ bodies was unbearable.

  His hands split into bloody blisters. He finished fast anyway.

  He stood over the graves.

  Thorren joked about buying a tavern. Mark never said why, but he planned to go back to a city. Harlan wanted out of the trap of poverty.

  Now Thorren was dead. Mark was dead. Harlan was dying.

  And the crystals—those cursed blue stones—lay there, glowing with indifferent light.

  It was never worth this, Garret thought, gripping the shovel handle until his knuckles went white. Not once.

  He filled the graves.

  In a deeper hole, he dumped almost all the crystals with their rock, then threw extra gear on top and buried it under dirt and snow. Hidden.

  Only a few handfuls of mid-grade stones went into his pockets. Crumbs compared to the vein. Still enough to live rich for the rest of his days in any city.

  If living had any point left.

  “Hold on,” Garret muttered as he half-ran, dragging the sled behind him. “Just hold on.”