Harlan woke to the wet sound of spit hitting snow—and a stream of choice profanity. Someone was raising hell outside.

  Thorren stood in the doorway, bent nearly double, hawking spit into the snow.

  “What the hell was that?!” he barked, wiping his mouth. “What the…damn…”

  Garret stepped outside with his arms crossed.

  “What happened?”

  "That root…" Thorren spat again. "Stinks like a dead fox. And the taste…" He grimaced. "…pure shit. What is this rot?"

  Harlan peeked out from behind the door, barely holding back a laugh.

  “You said it’d boost my connection to the Field,” Thorren breathed, staring at him.

  “That’s what the student said.” Harlan shrugged, working hard to keep his face straight. “Maybe you cooked it wrong. Maybe you should’ve let those toothy flowers swallow it before you soaked it.”

  Garret broke first. He snorted, then his shoulders started shaking, and then he laughed out loud.

  “Kid,” he said, wiping tears, “you’re cruel.”

  Thorren looked at both of them. At Harlan. Then at Garret.

  “You…you set me up?!” His eyes went red.

  Harlan backed away.

  “Thorren, listen—”

  “Stay right there.” Thorren moved toward him. “I’m gonna—”

  “Thorren, it was a joke!” Harlan bolted back into the hut.

  Thorren went after him. Garret laughed so hard he grabbed his stomach.

  “The window, Harlan—the window!” he shouted between fits.

  Less than a second later, the window flew open and a body launched out. Another followed right after it, cursing like a sailor. Both vanished around the corner of the neighboring house.

  Right in the middle of it, Mark walked up to Garret’s place. They’d agreed to meet that morning.

  “What’s going on?”

  “The rookie pranked Thorren,” Garret said, wiping tears. “Gave him Mountain Vine Root.”

  Mark whistled.

  “What’s that?”

  “Bitter, stinking weed. They say it boosts mages. I tried it myself twenty years ago—pure filth.” Garret shook his head. “Like licking socks after a month-long expedition.”

  Mark’s laugh—rare enough to be worth noting—rang out across the yard.

  “Rookie’s got guts,” he said. “Thorren might kill him.”

  “He won’t.” Garret shook his head. “You know Thorren. Touchy, but not spiteful. He’ll cool off by evening.”

  He glanced at the tracks of bare heels stamped into the snow.

  “Hope the kid doesn’t get sick,” he added with a crooked grin, and went to shut the window before the hut froze solid.

  When he was done, he came back to Mark.

  “Listen. Why I called you. You’re the best shot we’ve got. Train Harlan while we look for temporary hands. We need at least one more.”

  “Fine,” Mark said. “But you’re paying for the bullets.”

  “Of course.” Garret handed him his spare revolver in its holster and two unopened packs of ammunition.

  Thorren—red-faced and winded—burst out from around the corner.

  “That little bastard come back yet?”

  “No,” Garret said, laughing. “Didn’t think you’d fall for it.”

  “Damn both of you. I’d punch you too,” Thorren grumbled, still panting. “Though the run helped. Took the edge off.”

  “Coffee?” Garret asked Mark and Thorren.

  Both nodded.

  After they finished the morning drink, everyone split to handle their own tasks. Garret gave Mark Harlan’s boots and jacket and shot a meaningful look toward Tavern “The Last Resort.” Mark understood.

  And that was where he found Harlan—no surprise, considering he’d fled barefoot.

  “Here.” Mark tossed the boots at his feet and shoved the jacket into his hands. “Put these on. We’re going to learn.”

  “Learn what?”

  “The range. Follow me.”

  “And him?” Harlan glanced over Mark’s shoulder.

  “He left with Garret. You’ve got a couple hours—unless you shoot your own foot.”

  ?

  They left the settlement through the wooden eastern gate. It slammed shut behind them, hinges squealing.

  A sleepy guard muttered at their backs, voice sour:

  “Sick of you lot going in and out. Should start charging for entry and exit.”

  The air smelled of pine, pushing out the settlement’s pipe smoke. Harlan kept turning his head, looking back, until he finally drew a full breath and forced himself to focus on something new.

  They walked about a hundred meters along a packed trail between snow-choked shrubs and firs, and came to a shooting range.

  The practice ground was a small circular clearing behind the settlement—flat earth ringed by low boulders. Stumps littered the ground where trees once stood. At the far end, wooden targets jutted from the snow, scarred by bullets and time.

  “Who built this?” Harlan asked, genuinely curious.

  Mark scanned the clearing first, then answered.

  “Local range. Training. Checking rookies. It was here when I showed up.”

  He pulled out the revolver, loaded it deliberately slow so Harlan could watch, and handed it over.

  “Take it. Feel the weight.”

  Harlan took the weapon in both hands. Heavy. Cold. It felt wrong, making his wrists feel weak and awkward.

  “Heavier than I thought.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Mark said. “Watch.”

  He turned sideways to the target and raised his own revolver. His movements were calm, no hurry.

  “Feet shoulder-width. Left foot a little forward. Weight even. Don’t lean.”

  Harlan tried to copy him. Mark circled, adjusted his stance with brief, efficient touches.

  “Relax your shoulders. Don’t lock up.”

  “Easy to say,” Harlan muttered.

  “If you lock up, you miss. In a fight, locked up means dead.”

  Mark stepped back into position.

  “Grip. Right hand holds tight. Left supports from underneath. Index finger along the guard until you’re on target. Not on the trigger. Got it?”

  Harlan nodded and tried. His hands trembled.

  “Normal. Everyone shakes at first,” Mark said, flat as stone. “Breathe steady. In—out. You shoot on the exhale.”

  He lifted his revolver and aimed.

  “Front sight, rear sight, target. One line. No jerking. Smooth squeeze.”

  The shot cracked. The bullet punched dead center.

  Harlan flinched at the sound.

  “Now you.”

  Harlan raised the revolver and aimed. The unfamiliar weight made his arms quiver.

  “Breathe.”

  In. Out. He pulled the trigger.

  The shot thundered. Recoil almost tore the gun from his hands. The bullet went wide to the right, nowhere near the target.

  “You jerked,” Mark said. “Again. Smooth.”

  Harlan aimed again. In. Out. Another shot.

  Miss. But closer.

  “Better. Keep going.”

  Third shot. Fourth. Fifth.

  On the sixth, the bullet finally clipped the edge of the target.

  “I hit it,” Harlan breathed.

  “Edge doesn’t count,” Mark cut in. “A monster doesn’t care you grazed its tail. Center mass.”

  Harlan clenched his teeth and aimed again.

  The seventh shot landed closer to the center.

  “Not bad,” Mark said with a small nod. “For day one.”

  He took the revolver back and reloaded.

  “Another round. Focus.”

  ?

  An hour later, Harlan’s hands buzzed, his ears rang, and his shoulder ached from recoil.

  Mark studied the target in silence. Out of twenty shots, Harlan had landed eight. Three were near the center.

  “For a rookie—acceptable,” Mark said at last. “But it’s not enough.”

  He turned to Harlan.

  “Listen close. In the Wildlands, there aren’t targets. There are creatures that move faster than you. They won’t let you take your time. You miss, you die. Or the person next to you dies.”

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  Harlan nodded.

  “Understood.”

  “Good.” Mark handed the revolver back. “Garret says it’s yours now. Carry it always. Clean it every night. Watch your ammo—costs money, and what’s in the cylinder is all you’ve got.”

  Harlan took the weapon and hooked the holster to his belt.

  “Thank you.”

  Mark shrugged.

  “Not me. Garret asked.”

  He turned and headed back. Harlan followed, feeling the new weight on his hip—foreign, but real.

  “Mark,” Harlan called.

  Mark looked back.

  “Have you ever…missed? In a fight?”

  Mark thought for a moment. Then he said quietly:

  “You miss all the time. I told you—monsters aren’t extras.” His gaze stayed somewhere past Harlan’s shoulder. “Once I emptied a whole cylinder and didn’t land where I needed. Someone died.”

  He started walking again, not looking back.

  “Don’t be like me, Harlan,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t miss.”

  ?

  When they returned, Garret waited by the hut. Thorren was nowhere in sight.

  “Well?”

  “Eight out of twenty,” Mark said. “Not great. But it’ll do.”

  Garret looked at Harlan.

  “You hear that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ve got a chance you won’t die right away,” the veteran said with a thin grin. “You’ll train again tomorrow. Day after tomorrow, we head out.”

  Harlan nodded. Something tightened in his chest.

  Day after tomorrow. Back into the Wildlands. A revolver on his belt, and the hope that eight hits out of twenty would be enough to stay alive.

  “Find anyone?” Harlan asked.

  “Yeah.” Garret sounded thoughtful. “Two brothers—Thomas and Thovas. They don’t show up in the settlement much, but I’ve seen them before. Skills are fine. As people—hell if I know.”

  “I know the type,” Mark said. “Heard they can shoot.”

  “One problem,” Garret said. “They won’t go for a share. They want a fixed payment.”

  “What?” Harlan asked. “You can do that?”

  Garret sighed.

  “We don’t do it in our crew. We work together, we earn together. But sometimes you hire men for a set price.” He shook his head. “These two dug in—‘Garret, everyone knows your reputation,’ and all that.”

  “How much?” Mark asked.

  “Five hundred talers for the two of them. Two-fifty guaranteed, and another two-fifty if we find anything at all.” Garret snorted. “If we fail completely, I’m spending most of what I’ve saved. But I’ll risk it.”

  Mark whistled. He didn’t comment, but his eyes slid to Harlan and stayed there.

  “What?” Harlan said, embarrassed. “I’ll work for a share like everyone else. I’m not changing my words.”

  “That’s our way, kid.” Garret patted his shoulder.

  Harlan lowered his eyes, then asked:

  “And Thorren?”

  “Spent half the day spitting into the snow,” Garret said, amused despite himself. “But he promised he won’t kill you.”

  ?

  Half of the next day went into packing. After lunch they met in the tavern for a mug of ale before a long expedition. It was a kind of tradition—drink before and after a run.

  This time everyone showed up, including the new men.

  Garret said loudly, “Two mugs each—on me. Today I’m buying. Meet Thovas and Thomas. They join us tomorrow.”

  “Hey,” Thomas said.

  Thovas only nodded, friendly enough.

  “Welcome aboard,” Thorren boomed, smiling. “We’re always happy to see rookies.”

  He put weight on the last word and shot Harlan a look. Harlan sank into his chair and kept his eyes down.

  The brothers were twins: pale gray eyes, sharp cheekbones, short light-brown hair, a hint of gray at the temples. For all their similarity, they were easy to tell apart. They dressed differently, for one. And Thomas was built a little thicker—rounder cheeks, the dimple in his chin less pronounced. The clearest tell was the eyebrows: Thomas’s slanted downward, Thovas’s tilted up.

  *Might just be the grief,* Harlan told himself. *They lost half their crew a couple days ago. No one’s cheerful after that.*

  After a couple mugs, tongues loosened.

  Thorren—who’d started the evening glaring at Harlan like a sulking bear—was now booming out the story of how “the kid got him good.” He added so many details—half of them invented—that everyone laughed, even the people at neighboring tables. He finished with the claim that he’d chased Harlan up a pole, and the kid had sat there like a lookout for monsters attacking the settlement.

  Thomas leaned toward Harlan.

  “So you’re new around here?”

  Harlan nodded.

  “Stick with us. Nobody’s gonna mess with you,” Thomas said, winking.

  Garret turned to the brothers.

  “You sure you’re not changing your minds?” he asked. “Still want a fixed deal? I’ve got a feeling the haul will be bigger this time.”

  Thomas set his mug down and belched loudly.

  "A share?" He spat onto the dirty floor. "No offense, Garret, but you've come back empty eleven times. Maybe your claim's tapped out. Ten percent of nothing is still nothing. We're not a charity."

  “It’s insurance against your bad luck,” Thovas added. “Either that, or we don’t go. You didn’t buy us drinks hoping we’d change our minds, did you?”

  Garret lifted an eyebrow.

  “What? No. Not my style. Fine. We had a deal—I’m just checking.”

  “Good.”

  Thovas clinked his mug against his brother’s empty one sitting on the table, finished his ale, and stood. Thomas followed at once.

  “Alright, partners. Time to pack. See you in the morning.”

  “Yeah. See you,” the table answered.

  When the brothers left, Garret frowned.

  “What do you think?” Thorren asked.

  “A special breed,” Garret said. “Not everyone’s the same. We’re only with them for one expedition. We’ll manage.”

  They had one more drink. Harlan grew warm and loud, talking nonstop about his mine foreman, words starting to tangle.

  “Guy was this big—hic!” He held up a fist. “Never paid on time, though.”

  Thorren roared.

  “Sounds like you’ve had enough, kid.”

  “Everyone should get some sleep,” Garret said. “We head out tomorrow.”

  Mark drained his mug, stood, and said nothing. The evening was done.

  They were already filing out of The Last Resort when Harlan spoke to Garret, his tongue thick.

  “I’ve got one small thing to do. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Alright,” Garret said, brows knitting, but he didn’t pry.

  Harlan went to the bartender, who also owned the place. He gathered himself, trying to look as sober as possible.

  “Excuse me.”

  “What do you want?” the man said, indifferent.

  “Can I leave a letter with you?”

  “A letter? Letters go with trade caravans. Or you send a bird. What’s that got to do with me?”

  “No—hic—you misunderstand.” Harlan steadied himself. “I want to leave a letter for someone who might come back from an expedition while I’m gone.”

  “Kid, we don’t do that here.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  His hands wouldn’t cooperate, so he simply turned out his pockets onto the counter. One whole taler and a couple dozen ents.

  From the side, it looked like a child emptying a coin jar to buy a favorite toy. The bartender softened.

  “Fine. Who’s it for?”

  “A girl from the scientific expedition. Her name’s Elis. Blonde…” Harlan described her carefully.

  “Got it. Hand over the coins.”

  “Thank you,” Harlan said, and even dipped his head a little.

  When he walked out, the bartender only smirked.

  “Youth.”

  At dawn, Garret’s voice almost woke Harlan.