Swift stood at the edge of the Crescent City barracks compound, tightening the rough straps of his prototype backpack. A full week's worth of salted jerky, flatbread, dried fruit, and three canteens clinked gently inside. He’d tied a small digging pick to the side with spare cord and tightened the straps around his chest.

  “You sure about this?” one of the firearms instructors asked as Swift passed through the main gate.

  “Just a supply run,” Swift replied.

  The instructor grunted, unconvinced.

  “Might take a few days, maybe a week. I’ll be back in time to teach on First-day.” Swift almost said Monday, still adjusting.

  The instructor raised a brow, chewing a bit of dried tobacco. “You're not like the others. Don't get yourself killed doing something stupid.”

  Swift gave a short nod and headed out.

  The path north was well-traveled for a few miles, flanked by grazing fields and merchant roads. But the further he went, the more the wilderness took hold—trees gnarled into sharp arcs, stones weathered from time and acid rains. He hiked through the rolling terrain until the sun dipped low. By twilight, he found a small alcove nestled between a crooked pine and a jagged boulder.

  With the tarp stretched and anchored, Swift huddled down for the night. The incomplete pack dug into his back, but the silence was calming and fleeting.

  A low boom echoed through the forest, followed by the cracking of branches and the snarl of beasts.

  Swift snapped upright, yanking Excalibur into position.

  Two boars—huge, twisted things covered in mottled blackened flesh and missing chunks of hide—charged through the underbrush. Their eyes glowed a faint, sickly red.

  Corrosion

  Swift lined up a shot.

  He fired. The musket ball slammed into the first boar’s shoulder, staggering it but not stopping its charge. He dodged left, narrowly avoiding a tusk. The second boar lunged from behind. Swift rolled forward, pivoted, and smashed the butt of Excalibur into its snout. It squealed in pain. Swift flipped Excalibur, bayonet-first, and drove the blade deep into its neck.

  One down.

  The first boar came again, only to meet a boot to the jaw and another plunge of the bayonet.

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  Both beasts collapsed, oozing foul ichor.

  A slow clap echoed from the tree line.

  Swift turned sharply, raising his weapon again. A woman leaned casually against a moss-covered trunk, one leg crossed over the other. She was striking—long black hair tied in a ponytail, a lazy, mischievous smile tugging at her lips, and a massive grenade launcher slung over her back. Her build was hard to ignore: tall, confident posture, athletic curves and a fitted half-jacket that hugged more than it concealed.

  “Nice work, musket man,” she called, amusement dancing in her voice. “But really, a tarp and a pit? You sleeping out here like a hobo?”

  Swift narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

  She sauntered forward. “Name’s Inara. Gunfighter like you. Heard a gunshot and came to check it out.”

  “Didn’t ask for help.”

  “Didn’t give any,” she said with a grin, stopping a few feet away. “I was more interested in watching you wrestle boars in your pajamas.”

  Swift’s lips tightened. “You always follow random gunshots in the woods?”

  “Only the interesting ones.”

  He slung his weapon back over his shoulder. “Show’s over. You can go now.”

  “Relax,” she said, tilting her head. “Just curious what a new face is doing way out here. Most greenhorns don’t leave Crescent until they grow a second dot.”

  “I’ve got my reasons.”

  “I bet you do,” she said, stepping to the side as he started walking past. She fell in step beside him. “So, mystery man, what's the mission? Hunting something big? Lost puppy? Secret treasure?”

  Swift glanced over. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Not when I’m bored.”

  He sighed. “Fine. There’s a cave near the old mines to the north. I’m looking for something inside—material. Spider silk.”

  Inara raised an eyebrow. “Spider silk? You mean the one with the dog-sized lava spiders?”

  “That’s the one.”

  She stared at him. “And you’re going alone?”

  “Got a blade and a gun. I’ll manage.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  She grinned. “Well, I’ll leave you to your suicidal quest then. Try not to get cocooned.”

  “Thanks,” Swift said dryly.

  Inara stopped walking, turning slightly as he kept moving. “If you do survive, come find me. I want to see what kind of gear’s worth crawling into spider hell.”

  He didn’t respond, just raised a hand behind him and kept walking.

  The rest of the day was uneventful. He followed the old miners’ trail—mostly overgrown, but still faintly visible—until he found a secure small rock shelf. Swift rigged a better shelter this time, hidden beneath an overhang, and kept Excalibur within arm’s reach as he slept.

  By morning, the wind had shifted. It carried the scent of sulfur and something… damp.

  He reached the mining site before noon.

  It had clearly been abandoned for years—rusted carts lay scattered along the collapsed rails, and the buildings were half-rotted from exposure. He found the entrance to the shaft carved into a hill, sealed off with old timbers and iron braces. Nearby, painted signs in three languages warned of danger.

  Swift found the entrance the miners used as their main route. The path beyond had clearly been reinforced—extra timber beams and collapsed crates forming a long corridor into the rock.

  He lit a lantern he found nearby and stepped inside.

  The air was thick, humid, and carried a faint heat clinging to his skin. Drips echoed through the tunnel, and old tracks led deeper into the mountain.

  After lots of slow walking and inspecting different paths, he reached a large, hastily built stone wall. Across its surface, written in bold red letters and flaking paint, were three words:

  DO NOT DIG

  Underneath was a crude drawing of a spider—fangs bared, eyes wide.

  Swift reached up to touch the edge of the stone.

  “Well,” he sighed, “looks like I found the right place.”