Harlan finished patching his leg and snapped his head around. The spot where the mage had tumbled down the slope was empty. Only trampled snow and a dark stain remained—shadow or blood.

  “Maybe he rolled farther down. Or behind a rock.” Harlan tried to stand, but his leg answered with a dull, aching pain. The healed muscle hadn't learned to carry weight again. “If he took a hit like I did… he won’t get far.”

  “So it wasn’t a bullet?” Garret asked, skeptical. “I missed that part.”

  “Not sure myself. Think it’s because we were both pushing the same boulder with the Field.” Harlan swallowed. “Don't know what it did to him, but the backlash was brutal. I can barely speak. And my vision—everything’s still black and white.”

  “Simpler being normal,” the old prospector grimaced. “But we need to find him. If that thing wakes up and hits us in the back while we’re licking our wounds…”

  Harlan forced himself upright.

  “Let’s go. We need to check.”

  They moved slowly, leaning on each other. Every step hurt. The adrenaline had drained away, leaving a leaden weight and a cold that bit to the bone.

  At the base of the hill, they found the impact site. The snow was churned up, as if a large monster had thrashed there. Dozens of boot prints from the mercenaries turned the crust into a filthy mess. Tracking one person wouldn't be easy.

  “There.” Garret pointed with his good hand. “Look. Not footsteps.”

  A wide groove cut through the chaotic prints, leading toward a cluster of boulders away from the fight.

  “Looks like someone dragged a sack of potatoes,” Harlan noted.

  “Or someone crawled because they couldn't stand. Keep your gun ready.”

  They followed the trail. The groove wandered, vanishing over bare rock, then reappearing in the drifts. Fifty meters on, behind a large outcrop, they found him.

  Davis hadn’t made it far. He lay on his stomach, clawing the frozen ground. His legs dragged uselessly behind him, dead weight, though Harlan saw no wounds.

  “Hey!” Garret shouted, leveling his gun.

  The man in the coat froze. Slowly—with eerie, unnatural smoothness—he turned his head.

  Harlan recoiled.

  It wasn’t a man. It was an empty shell. The mage’s eyes had rolled back until only the whites showed, webbed with burst capillaries. His mouth hung open. A string of saliva froze on his chin. He wasn’t looking at them. He wasn’t looking anywhere.

  A soft, meaningless moan escaped Davis’s throat. He scraped at the stone again, tearing a fingernail down to the meat, and didn't even flinch.

  “Yargs take me…” Garret whispered, lowering the revolver. His voice held no fear, only deep, visceral disgust. “Harlan… what did you do to him?”

  A tremor went through Harlan. He stared at the crawling body and couldn’t look away. His hands shook so badly the revolver clinked against his belt buckle.

  “I—I didn’t know,” he said dully. “I told you… we fought for the boulder. He pushed with the Field, I pushed back. We created a resonance…”

  Davis turned and crawled toward them. Harlan stepped back in horror.

  “Re told me this could happen. I thought he was joking. Or exaggerating.”

  “Brains,” Garret finished for him. “You fried his brains.”

  “I got lucky,” Harlan whispered. “Could’ve been me.”

  Davis moaned again and kept crawling, arms moving mechanically. He didn't know who he was, where he was, or why he moved. A body driven by biology, stripped of the spark of reason.

  Garret sighed heavily and shook his head.

  “That ain't living, kid. A vegetable in the Wildlands… if we leave him, they’ll start eating him while he's still warm.”

  Harlan looked away.

  “I can’t, Garret. I just… the others… but this… he’s helpless.”

  The old man looked at him with sad gentleness.

  “Of course, kid. And you shouldn’t. You’ve already done more today than most do in a lifetime. Go. Walk the perimeter, check the others. Make sure no one’s playing dead. I’ll… see what can be done here.”

  Harlan nodded without looking up. He turned and trudged back toward the center of the basin.

  Thirty meters away, a dry crack sounded behind him.

  The moaning stopped.

  Something hot rolled down his cheek.

  ?

  “Don’t fall apart,” Garret ordered when he caught up with Harlan. The old man was holstering his revolver. “Sun’s going down. We’ve got a couple hours of light, and half a day of work.”

  “Maybe just leave?” Harlan asked. He wanted nothing more.

  “No,” Garret cut him off. “There’s a sea of blood here. The smell’s carrying for kilometers. Local beasts don’t come often, but this kind of invitation will draw every predator within a day’s travel.”

  He walked to the sleds, which sat miraculously intact behind the boulder.

  “If we leave the bodies, the beasts will eat them—but traces will stay. Clothes. Papers. And we’re wounded, slow, and smell just as good. We clean everything.”

  He stopped by the body of the man in the hat. “Speaking of papers.”

  Garret pulled the document with his signature from the pockets, along with an ID, some talers, and ammunition. He tore the paper to shreds and tossed them into the crystal pit.

  “Benedict Smith. From South Pekin,” he read aloud. “How did you end up here, Mr. Smith? With ten men. And a mage.”

  “They reminded me of police in Carmille. Even uniforms, almost. All gray,” Harlan noted.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. The settlement elder’s cooking something up. Building an army, maybe.”

  Harlan just shrugged.

  “To work,” Garret said. “Bodies. Crystals. Blood. In that order.”

  The tone reminded Harlan of expedition days. This was the real Garret again—the leader who always knew what to do. Harlan hadn't seen him like this since he came back.

  The next three hours became a nightmare marathon.

  Garret knew of a deep crevasse a kilometer north—a natural rift with no visible bottom. They headed there.

  Loading stiff bodies onto the sleds was brutal. Harlan tried not to look at faces, but details caught his eye anyway: the sniper’s glassy stare, Red John’s crushed skull, the twisted neck of the man he’d smashed against the rock.

  They made three trips. Harnessed together like draft yargs, they dragged the loads over creaking snow. Pain flared in Harlan’s leg with every step, but he endured. Garret—shot shoulder, missing finger—shouldn’t have lifted anything. Yet he worked with grim stubbornness, grinding his teeth.

  After dumping the last body into the black void, they returned to the crystal pit.

  “The valuable part,” Garret said, leaning heavily on his shovel. “Pack it. Fast. No time for jewelry work.”

  They didn't waste time carefully extracting the gems—a luxury they'd had during the first dig. Using picks, they smashed the frozen earth and rock, breaking off chunks of ore that held the blue fire. It was messy work—barbaric, even—but speed was life.

  They pulled straw from their packs—stuffing meant to make them look loaded when leaving the settlement. The straw went into the pit. Crystals took its place.

  Harlan handled the stones with gloved hands. Cold, heavy, impossibly beautiful. The blue glow pulsing inside felt like a mockery after the filth and death paid for it.

  “Only what fits without looking suspicious,” Garret warned. “If patrols or other prospectors stop us, we need to look like losers coming back empty-handed, not pack mules.”

  “And the rest?” Harlan nodded at the scatter still in the ground. A fortune.

  “We leave it,” Garret said firmly. “Cover it up. Let it wait. Life’s worth more than money, Harlan. What we’re taking is enough to buy houses in the capital and live out our days.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “I plan to live two hundred years,” Harlan blurted.

  “And I’ll do five hundred. Beat that?” Garret smiled.

  “I’m serious. Re’s a hundred thirty-five and still sharp. Says it’s from working with the Field.”

  “Huh. So that’s how.” Garret handed him another fistful of large, clean stones. “Here. Add some more then—just don’t catch a bullet first.”

  “I didn’t mean that.” Harlan didn’t take them. “Just sharing information.”

  “Take them. Plenty here,” Garret said matter-of-factly and pressed the stones into his hands.

  They filled the pit. On top they shoveled the bloodstained snow scraped from the battlefield. The dirtiest part—mixing white with red, burying it under gray earth.

  “Done,” Garret breathed as the sun touched the horizon, painting the sky crimson—uncomfortably similar to the ground they’d left. “We go.”

  “Where?”

  “Away from the smell. Wind’s from the north, so we head south, off the trail. At least a couple kilometers.”

  They walked into dusk, barely lifting their feet. Every step hurt. Garret was relentless, leading them along paths only he knew, covering their tracks until full dark.

  “Here,” he ordered, pointing to a shallow niche beneath an overhang. “Wind won’t reach us. Back’s covered.”

  They set camp on autopilot. Harlan strung a perimeter of thin line with empty cans and a couple of bells—simple, reliable. They had no crystal sensors.

  No fire. Cold rations, icy water. No energy to talk.

  “I’ll take first watch,” Garret said.

  “Maybe trust the alarm?”

  “Can't cut corners on safety. Sleep. I’ll wake you in two hours.”

  Harlan dropped into sleep the moment his head hit the pack. He dreamed of gray coats and empty eyes.

  A sound woke him.

  CLINK—CLINK—CLINK!

  The bells shattered the night like a shot.

  Harlan jerked up, heart pounding in his throat. His hand found the revolver automatically. He burst from the tent. Garret was aiming into the dark.

  “Which side?” he whispered.

  “Left. By the brush.”

  They froze, peering into blackness. Images flashed through Harlan's mind—a six-legged pack? A surviving mercenary?

  Silence. Just two men breathing.

  Then—a quiet, offended snort. Branches cracked.

  Out of the dark, into a strip of moonlight, waddled a thin, mangy Ghentuvian scroot. It stared at them dumbly with tiny eyes, sniffed, decided there was nothing to eat, turned, and trotted off awkwardly, snagging the line again.

  CLINK!

  Garret lowered the revolver. His shoulders shook.

  “A scroot…” he choked. “Damn pig…”

  Harlan started laughing. Nervous, near-hysterical laughter bled off the day's tension. They laughed in the dark—two filthy, bloodstained men sitting in snow in the middle of nowhere, laughing at nearly shooting bushes over a harmless beast.

  “Thought the six-legs came for dinner,” Garret wiped his eyes. “Sleep, hero. Still my watch.”

  The next day they walked toward Snownorth. In silence—but an easy one. The weight of crystal-filled packs pressed pleasantly on their shoulders—the weight of freedom. At rest stops they changed some clothes, scrubbed others with meltwater, soap, and pine branches.

  By evening, one leg short of the settlement, they stopped for the last night.

  “Well.” Garret pulled out that same bottle of wine. “Now there’s definitely a reason.”

  “We were supposed to travel light,” Harlan said, sheepish. “And you hauled a whole bottle the entire way? Still—glad you did.”

  The fire crackled bright. They sat on logs, passing a mug of harsh drink. Cheap, sour, strong wine—but to Harlan it tasted like nectar.

  “I’ll go back to Snownorth,” Garret said, staring into the flames. “Sell the stones through old channels. Quietly. In parts. Send money to Mark’s and Thorren’s families, like I promised.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll live,” the old man shrugged. “Buy a better house. Maybe get a dog. Sit in the warmth and heat old bones. Let everyone think old Garret finally settled down, living out his days on scraps.”

  “You could come with me,” Harlan offered again. “To the city. With your experience, your money… You could start over. Doctors there could fit you with a real prosthetic.”

  Garret looked at his ruined hand, freshly wrapped.

  “No, kid. My home’s here.” He nodded toward the darkness where the Wildlands lay. “A couple days’ walk that way—my son’s buried there. Can't leave him alone. While I’m here, I’m… watching over him.”

  Harlan nodded. He knew the story. “I understand.”

  “And you?” Garret handed him the mug. “Academy for sure?”

  “Yes. Re gave me a recommendation. Said with my… talents, they’ll take me in a heartbeat.”

  “They will,” Garret smirked. “What you did with that bullet. And that mage. Never seen anything like it. You’re dangerous, Harlan. In a good way. Don’t lose that among city snobs.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “One more thing.” Garret dug into his pack and pulled out a revolver. “Take it. I kept it in reserve for a long time. Thought about switching, but the barrel on my old one was indestructible.”

  Harlan looked at the weapon. “Garret, is that an eight-shot? But your revolver got wrecked.”

  “I’ve got another. Take it. You won't find one like this—they only made about a thousand. It's temperamental, but who knows—maybe an extra round saves your life someday.” He looked at him meaningfully. “I don’t need much. Take it. Don't argue. Just clean it. Call it payment for pulling my ass out of that pit.”

  Harlan closed his fingers around the grip. “Thank you. For everything. You taught me how to survive.”

  “You taught yourself. I just showed you where not to step.”

  They finished the wine by the dying embers.

  ?

  Morning was cold and clear. Sunlight glared off the crusted snow.

  They stood at a fork. The left led to the gates of Snownorth. The right—a trail to the trade road, where caravans ran toward big cities and the Central Academy.

  Garret adjusted his pack straps. He looked smaller—bent under years and pain—but calm filled his eyes.

  “Well,” he said. “So long, Harlan.”

  Harlan looked at him. A lump rose in his throat.

  “Garret…” He faltered. “You sure? The offer still stands. We could—”

  “Go,” Garret interrupted gently. “You’ve got your road. I’ve got mine. Don’t look back.”

  The veteran offered his good hand. Harlan shook it hard, then pulled Garret into a brief, rough hug—short, masculine, slapping his back.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Take care,” Garret grunted, stepping back. “And write when you’re a great mage. I’ll tell everyone in the tavern I taught you how to wipe your ass with moss.”

  Harlan laughed, swallowing tears. “I will.”

  They parted. Harlan took the right-hand path, hearing the crunch of his friend’s boots fading left.

  After a hundred steps, he couldn’t help it. He turned.

  Garret was already far off—a lone black figure against endless white silence. Walking toward the settlement, toward a life in shadow, toward the memory of his son.

  Harlan stood a moment, fixing the image in his mind. Then he pulled up his hood, turned away, and walked on—toward the horizon where the Academy, magic, and an entirely new life awaited.

  The wind pushed at his back, urging him forward.