His legs buckled with every step. Harlan blinked again and again, trying to focus, but the snow-covered plain still merged into a single white blur. A bitter taste lingered in his mouth—remnants of kharirr poison that refused to fade. He walked on, stubbornly keeping his heading, following the familiar stream hidden beneath ice and loose snow.

  A blizzard rolled in. Thick clumps of snow fell, and every step sank into heavy slush.

  *If this keeps up, I won’t make it in fourteen days,* Harlan thought bitterly, hunching his shoulders into his collar.

  Another hour passed—and then he heard something wrong. Something that did not belong in the snowfields.

  A sound. Jagged, sharp, dull.

  *A gunshot.* He would not mistake it.

  Then another. And another.

  Harlan stopped.

  “What the hell… who?” he muttered under his breath, listening.

  *No one usually prospects this area.* Snownorth lay far to the southwest, other settlements even farther east. People should not be here. Which meant… *Bandits? Scientists? A lost prospector expedition?*

  Thoughts spun. Harlan shifted sideways, his hand sliding to his belt on its own. *Go around. Do not interfere.* Not his business. He owed no one anything. He had one life, and too many things had hunted it these past days.

  *But if monsters finish them off, will they come for me next?*

  He tightened his grip on the revolver. Garret's words surfaced, spoken long ago: *In the Wildlands, you never leave someone to die in the snow.*

  “All right,” Harlan exhaled, feeling the icy wind claw under his clothes. “They’re still people.”

  He carefully set down the sled, where his poisonous trophy rustled quietly inside its container.

  Harlan moved toward the gunfire, keeping silent. Soon he spotted sled tracks in the snow—and many deep paw prints. They were everywhere—behind the group, to the sides, circling.

  *Ice wolves, like Re mentioned?* Harlan thought. *Looks like a pack.*

  The tracks twisted and looped. The wolves were not attacking outright. They were driving the prey—wearing it down, steering it. Classic hunting.

  Harlan drew both revolvers and checked the load.

  He glanced back at the sled, now barely visible through the relentless snowfall. He hesitated for a second—then turned and went on.

  After a few dozen meters, rounding a line of boulders taller than a man, he burst straight into a lone beast. An ice wolf—dirty snow-colored, gaunt, long-legged, its muzzle shaped like a bird of prey’s beak. It snarled and lunged.

  Two fast shots. The first to the chest, the second—guided by the Field—straight into the throat. The wolf collapsed without a sound.

  Harlan did not waste a second. He ducked behind a boulder, waiting for another attack. None came. The wolf must have lagged behind. Wounded.

  He leaned out, confirmed no one else was near, and reloaded.

  Fourteen rounds.

  *Pathetic.*

  When he approached the wolf, he noticed three bullet holes. One more than he fired.

  *So the shooters are close.*

  ?

  The people had taken cover behind tall metal crates strapped to their sleds. A barricade of cargo shielded them from direct lunges. The snow around was soaked dark with blood. One of them lay motionless, torn apart by wolves. Another sat by the sleds, desperately clamping a leg wound where blood poured out.

  The remaining four fired wildly. The wolves did not rush. They tightened the ring like true hunters—exhausting, not charging. The longer the prey struggled, the weaker it became.

  “Hold on, Ike!” a woman shouted to the wounded man. “We’ll shoot them down and then deal with you!”

  She spoke to him—but didn't believe her own words. The situation was critical.

  Then, behind the pack, two shots thundered.

  Precise. Distant.

  The group exchanged stunned looks.

  *No one should be here.*

  *Not a soul.*

  But there was no time to wonder—the wolves closed in faster.

  The woman fired a few more shots, then tossed her empty revolver onto the snow. From a sheath at her belt she drew the last thing she had left: a long military knife.

  An ice wolf, as if sensing the guns were empty, darted forward. It attacked silently—ears pinned, body coiled like a spring. She braced for the final clash.

  The leap. Its jaws closed on her arm. A sharp, piercing pain tore a scream from her.

  She tried to strike for its neck—but did not make it.

  Something invisible slammed into the beast instead. Startled, it released her and flew ten meters away, tumbling through the snow.

  The monster scrambled up at once, howled, and charged again, fangs bared. It took only a few steps before a bullet punched straight through its skull—from far away.

  The woman whipped around, unable to tell who fired or why the wolf had been thrown aside. Her comrades were in no position to help—gray shapes pressed them hard.

  She glanced back. The wolf behind her still breathed.

  She lunged and finished it, driving the knife into its neck. Then she rushed to help her companion on the right.

  She took a step—another shot cracked, and the wolf in front of her ally dropped. The man stared at her in shock. She stared past him.

  Another shot. And another. And another.

  They came from the white silence beyond the boulders, half-hidden by brush.

  The hunters became the hunted. Every bullet found its mark. Some wolves took two shots. It all happened fast.

  Within a minute, the fight was over. Eight ice wolves that had circled the people lay dead or dying, rasping in the snow.

  But the survivors did not celebrate. They stayed behind the crates, weapons ready, peering into the bushes from where the saving shots had come. Only the wounded man still lay exposed by the sleds, abandoned where he had fallen.

  “Did you see who it was?” the woman hissed quietly, reloading in a hurry.

  “No. But there were few of them. The shots weren’t simultaneous,” replied a large bearded man.

  “Few? Are you crazy? They wiped the whole pack. There have to be several.” She shot him a hard look. “Call them out. If we get a chance—drop them.”

  The man nodded. The others had heard and prepared.

  “Thank you!” shouted a stocky man with graying temples. “Show yourselves!”

  He yelled as loud as he could. Only silence answered.

  “Show yourselves! We don’t bite!” he repeated in his booming, rough voice.

  “Please, help us!” the woman called. Her voice was hoarse. “We have wounded!”

  ?

  Harlan did not rush to leave his cover. He listened to the tense voices of the people he had just saved. Now that the fight was over, he could observe more carefully.

  *Something’s off here.* He studied the metal crates and the heavily armed people. *They look like bandits… Better leave.*

  He was already about to slip away when he heard the woman again.

  “Damn it, help us! We have no meds! Our man is bleeding out! Do you really have no heart?”

  Harlan froze, shifting his weight. He had seen the wounded man—he lay in plain sight.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  *Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they’re normal people?*

  He twitched, snow cascading off a bush. All eyes snapped toward him. Retreat was no longer safe.

  “Only one of us will come out,” Harlan said, forcing his voice steady despite the strain. “Do not shoot. We are not your enemies.”

  “Thank you,” the woman answered.

  He walked toward them slowly, hand on his pistol. The moment he came closer, weapons snapped up, aimed at him.

  *This is bad. Why did I get into this… What now…*

  The answer came on its own.

  Harlan stepped forward and, without a word, focused and released an impulse. One of the dead wolves jerked as if kicked, lifted off the ground, and flew several meters before slamming into the snow.

  It was clear. And impressive.

  The group stared at him in shock.

  “I will help,” Harlan said in a flat, unnatural voice. “No tricks.”

  If Re had heard him, he would have known the boy was panicking. The strangers did not.

  “Where are the wounded?” Harlan asked.

  The stocky shooter nodded toward the man clutching his leg. Wrapped in furs, he was pale, eyes glassy, holding on by sheer will.

  Harlan shot the group one more pointed look and dropped to his knees.

  “Easy. Don’t move,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “What’s your name?”

  “Ike,” the man groaned.

  Harlan focused. He had done this only a couple of times. No guarantees.

  *If he dies, I’m dead.*

  *All or nothing. Just don’t shoot while I’m here…*

  He shut out everything but the wound.

  “Hold still,” Harlan said, hands hovering. “This may hurt.”

  Warmth spread through the wounded man’s body, turning into searing fire. Ike groaned—but the wound’s edges pulled together, flesh knitting into a dark scar. Minutes passed. The bleeding stopped.

  “You…” Ike stared at his leg in disbelief.

  “Stopped the bleeding, but you lost a lot,” Harlan said. He looked at Ike, then at the stocky man. “He needs water and rest. No walking, or it opens up again.”

  They stared at Harlan like he was a ghost.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked. She did not blink.

  Harlan took an involuntary half-step back. Dark curls spilled from under her cap. Brown eyes locked on him. She looked at him the way a hunter gauges prey—measuring distance.

  Harlan opened his mouth to give his name—and stopped.

  “Just a hunter,” he lied. “Patrick.”

  He stood. Healing had hypnotized them. They should have killed him already, but no one moved except the stocky man, who started to shift sideways. He glanced at the woman. She gave the faintest shake of her head. He stopped.

  Harlan noticed none of it.

  He stepped to the woman and quickly examined the torn wound on her arm. He also spotted a tattoo peeking from under her scarf—one someone had tried to remove.

  “And you?” he asked cautiously.

  “Rohanna. We’re…” she hesitated for a second, “…a trade caravan. Lost.”

  “You’re heading to Snownorth?” Harlan guessed.

  “Yes. Are you from there?” Her eyes never left him.

  “No. Just a hunter. My place is over the pass.” He pointed vaguely east. “Now stay still.”

  Rohanna froze. Harlan tore her sleeve open.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, stunned. “It’ll heal on its own.”

  He did not answer. His fingers touched the wound, and its edges pulled together—just like Ike’s.

  It worked again.

  *I have to tell Re. Two for two. On living people.*

  But it was too early to relax.

  He scanned the group. The silence pressed heavier than the clouded sky and encroaching dusk. Then his gaze snagged on the crates. One corner bore a faint marking: *Property of the Federation.*

  *What is that?* He did not know. But he knew one thing.

  *Time to leave.*

  “I gotta go,” Harlan said curtly. “Looks like I can’t help you more. And I… we need to move.”

  The stocky man went gray. Rohanna frowned.

  “Why not stay the night?” she said sweetly. “You helped us a lot. We’ll share our best drink.”

  “Can’t. Carcass is cooling,” Harlan said, backing away.

  Tension thickened the air.

  He moved ten steps back.

  “I’m really not your enemy,” he said sharply. “But you lot look jumpy. Don’t shoot me in the back. None of you walk away.”

  “Of course. How could we treat our savior that way?” the stocky man said through his teeth.

  Harlan backed away slowly. They waited.

  Once he felt relatively safe, he turned and ran.

  “Wait!” someone shouted behind him.

  Harlan did not stop.

  ?

  “What the hell was that?” Kyle, the stocky, graying shooter, broke the silence first. “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know, Kyle. This is very strange,” Rohanna said, staring where he had gone. “We can’t let him go—he’s seen too much. But he’s a mage. He could wipe us out if he wanted. And he’s probably not alone.”

  “So we follow him? See where he goes, how many of them there are? Hit later?” Kyle suggested.

  Rohanna nodded slightly.

  “Gale.” A skinny, red-haired freckled man flinched. “Follow him. Carefully. Do not show yourself. See where he goes, what route. We’ll head west a couple of kilometers, camp away from the bodies. Find us.”

  “Got it,” Gale said and sprinted after Harlan.

  “If he spots you, turn back immediately,” Rohanna called. “Be back before dark.”

  Gale raised a hand without slowing.

  “He bent the bullets!” the fourth fighter breathed. “You saw it? Can mages even do that?”

  “Some can, I think,” Kyle replied. “And he used telekinetic impulses. But stranger still—I didn’t see a trace of mental fatigue. He wasn’t even breathing hard.”

  “Could he be an Outer?” the fourth ventured.

  Rohanna snorted, short and vicious.

  “Outers hate magic. Call it a ‘local savage hobby.’ Trust me, I know. Those lazy asses won’t waste time on it—and they sure as hell won’t stroll the Wildlands like tourists. This is something else.”

  “Any ideas?” Kyle pressed.

  “No,” Rohanna said quietly. “I’d say academic, but they never hunt out here. We wait for Gale.”

  ?

  Gale returned just before dark, tracking them by prints not yet buried by snow.

  “Gale, alive. Good,” Kyle said. “What did you find?”

  Gale caught his breath.

  “Almost caught up. Young. Followed him east across the river till he spotted me.” He gestured. “He was alone, hauling a sled. But fast.”

  “Damn it,” Kyle swore. “Should’ve taken him there. Now try finding him.”

  Rohanna stepped closer.

  “Gale. What was on his sled? A monster?” she asked.

  “That’s the weird part. Not a monster. Some kind of bush. In a clear box.”

  “A bush?” Kyle and Rohanna exchanged looks. “What the hell…”

  Rohanna glanced up at the sky.

  “Patrick, huh? Is that even his real name?” She paused. “Either way, I have a feeling this wasn’t our last meeting.”