The wilderness beyond the shattered outskirts of town was another world entirely. The cracked roads gave way to overgrown trails lined with brittle weeds, the remains of ancient machines half-swallowed by creeping vines. Great hunks of rusted metal jutted out like the bones of long-dead beasts, monuments to a forgotten age that no longer belonged to man. The trees here were tall and gray-barked, their leaves thick and waxy like old plastic, filtering the weak sunlight into dull pools of green and gold.
Lucian moved at the front of the group, senses stretched thin. His fingers brushed against his metal rod now and then, a small grounding habit, a tether between thought and motion. The faint clicks of boots behind him were easy to separate now—Garrick's heavy, deliberate tread, the lighter, careful steps of Kaela, and the uneven rhythm of mercenaries who didn't know how to keep quiet in dangerous places. Even their breaths were different. The mercs breathed with careless effort, pulling in too much air, wasting it.
The convoy snaked its way northeast, skirting the old ring roads that circled the heart of the region, angling toward the looming, jagged silhouette of the Ghost-Bane Mountains—a grim range said to swallow expeditions whole. Myths tangled with fact around those peaks. Ghost stories mixed with real disappearances, too many over too many years. Nobody sane went there unless they were desperate, stupid, or forced. Lucian wasn't sure which category they belonged to yet.
But the most dangerous thing about the Ghost-Bane Mountains wasn't spirits. It was hunger. Hunger with claws. Hunger with too many teeth.
Lucian reached out briefly, brushing his fingers across the brittle remains of an old metal post. The edges were chewed, gnawed down to jagged points. Not rust. Not time. Teeth. Ashfangs, marking territory. And if they were marking this close to civilization, things were worse than anyone was saying aloud.
"Do you always hunt like that?" Tavian asked from behind him, voice low but edged with curiosity. "Lying still for hours?"
Lucian didn't turn his head. "Helps when you don't have an entourage with loud boots and loud mouths."
There was no spite in it. Just fact. Tavian surprised him by chuckling softly. "You're not wrong. I should've trained more before coming here. My father kept saying it would 'build character.'"
"Didn't know character was built with perfume and lace gloves," Lucian said, the edge of a grin forming despite himself.
Kaela coughed to hide a laugh. It was the first real expression of humor Lucian had seen from her since they'd met.
Tavian didn't rise to the bait. "Fair enough. I deserve that one. My family deals mostly in logistics. Trade routes, secured caravans, things like that. This expedition... it's for show. They think if I see blood, I'll stop acting like a spoiled noble."
Lucian raised an eyebrow. "Is it working?"
Tavian smiled faintly. "Jury's still out. But... I'm not as soft as I look. I know what happens to soft things out here."
Lucian didn't reply. But for the first time, his expression shifted slightly—less guarded, more curious.
The name House Vale-Rhys carried weight in the region. Trade routes, mining contracts, guards for hire. Their emblem was stamped on the finer pieces of gear in this expedition—the reinforced straps on Tavian's cloak, the polished fittings of his travel satchel. The insignia: Burning Clouds on a Black Field—symbolic of wealth forged through conflict, rising from ruin.
This wasn't a random outing. This was political. A power play disguised as wilderness experience. And it would probably get people killed.
Kaela's sharp eyes flicked toward Lucian now and then as they moved. There was something off about the way the boy moved—not hesitation, but calculation. Like a knife that didn't gleam, but cut all the same.
They traveled in mostly uncomfortable silence for a time, with only occasional mutters from the mercenaries behind them.
"Never seen ruins this thick this close to home," one of them muttered.
"That's because most people are smart enough not to come this way," another replied.
"Enough," Joran cut in. The head of the guards barely needed to raise his voice for the others to fall quiet. His discipline was efficient, cold. That alone was enough to make Lucian uneasy. Professionals didn't react like that unless they expected things to get worse.
The sun began its slow descent behind the skeletal trees, casting long shadows across the cracked and broken path they followed. Patches of wild grass, sharp and brittle, curled up through ancient asphalt like nature slowly reclaiming the world one stubborn inch at a time.
Kaela moved up to Lucian's side again. "You know, I didn't think you were the cautious type."
"Most corpses I've seen thought caution was boring," Lucian muttered.
"That's fair," she said quietly.
They passed an overturned transport half-swallowed by vines, one of its windows cracked, the faded lettering of some long-forgotten company barely visible on the hull. Lucian kept walking, but his hand touched the hilt of his rod briefly, just for reassurance.
"Nice of the ancestors to leave us landmarks," Lucian said dryly. "So we know exactly where things went wrong."
Kaela almost smiled at that. Almost.
Farther behind, Tavian spoke softly to one of his guards. "I still don't understand why it's so empty. Where are the birds, the animals?"
The guard didn't respond immediately.
Lucian murmured without turning, "When the small predators vanish, it's not because they took a vacation."
As if to punctuate his words, a faint howl echoed far off in the trees. It wasn't close—not yet—but the tone of it sent prickles up the back of everyone's necks.
Kaela's expression tightened.
"Ashfangs," she said.
Lucian nodded. "Scouts. Maybe more. Hungry."
They reached a clearing surrounded by the skeletal remains of buildings long since collapsed. Here, graffiti in flaking paints decorated the cracked walls, strange symbols mixed with ancient warnings that only old historians could decipher anymore. The grass here grew thicker, more untamed. A faint scent of decay clung to the air, mixing with the sharp tang of distant oil.
Lucian crouched and ran his fingers along the ground.
"Tracks," he said again. "Four, maybe five. Fresh."
Kaela crouched next to him, reading the signs with practiced ease. "Too fresh."
"They're watching us."
A faint shuffling noise behind them made several mercenaries startle, turning rifles toward harmless bushes.
"Relax," Joran said sharply, stepping forward. "Twitchy fingers get people killed."
Then came the sound that froze everyone in place: the low, resonant growl of predators who had tasted human blood before and knew the taste was worth fighting for.
"Positions," Joran ordered.
From the shadows between ruined walls, six shapes appeared—sleek bodies covered in matted, dark fur, too lean for healthy wild beasts. Their flanks heaved slightly, showing bone beneath flesh. But their eyes… their eyes glowed faintly, dim coals in the dusk.
"Ashfangs," Lucian whispered.
The mercenaries aimed rifles, hands shaking. Kaela and Tavian both drew blades, standing shoulder to shoulder.
Joran moved like a falling star.
In three steps, he was ahead of the others, drawing his curved blade in a smooth, practiced motion. The first Ashfang lunged, jaws wide, aiming for Joran's throat.
Steel flashed.
The creature's body thudded to the ground, head still airborne, momentum carrying it forward.
Suppressor-laced gunfire followed—sharp, muffled bursts from the elite guards under Joran's command. Ashfangs yelped and screamed, blood spraying into the weeds. Two fell before they could even turn.
But not all of them ran.
One broke left, leaping toward a young mercenary. Tavian moved before anyone else could, slamming his shoulder into the mercenary's side, sending them both sprawling as the beast sailed past, snapping its jaws in empty air.
Kaela was already there, blade flashing, striking at the creature's exposed flank. It yelped, staggering, before two more rifle rounds ended its movement for good.
By the time the last echo of gunfire faded, only four bodies remained on the ground. Three wolves. One mercenary bleeding from a gash on his arm, but alive.
Lucian stood still, listening.
The world had gone too quiet again. No insects. No birds. Just the metallic tang of blood and the faint breeze pushing through the ruined structures.
"They shouldn't be here," Kaela whispered.
Lucian nodded. "Something worse is pushing them closer to the settlements."
They didn't say what that might be.
That night, they made camp under the rusting skeleton of a collapsed transport station. The ancient metal arches overhead creaked in the wind. Their campfire cast nervous flickers of light against old concrete, illuminating graffiti like ancient battle scars.
The Rusted Gear, Old Bob's shop, flashed briefly in Lucian's mind. Smelled of boiled sage and soldering iron—medicine and machines, the two things Old Bob trusted more than people.
Tavian sat across from Lucian, cleaning the edge of his blade, glancing up now and then.
"You don't trust people easily," he said quietly.
"Neither should you," Lucian murmured, his voice calm but carrying a hidden edge.
Kaela stared into the flames. "At least you two are talking. That's more than I expected."
Tavian smiled faintly. "You'll learn I'm full of surprises."
Lucian tilted his head thoughtfully. "Just don't be full of holes next time something jumps at you."
Kaela laughed softly for real that time, shaking her head.
Lucian didn't sleep easily that night. He rarely did.
And as the others settled into uneasy rest, Lucian's hand drifted to his metal rod again, fingers curling loosely around its worn grip.
Something out there was watching them.
Something that made even the Ashfangs flee.
And it was getting closer.