Dawn broke with sluggish reluctance, the sky bruised with purple and deep reds as if it, too, bore scars of old battles. Lucian crouched low among the dense scrub, his breath steady, silent. The wilds beyond the settlement weren't kind to the careless. And Lucian wasn't careless.
He'd been lying there for hours. The trap was simple but brutal: a snare fashioned from frayed copper wire, scavenged from broken electronics, set with a trigger so fine that even the wind might have tripped it if the tension wasn't just right.
He didn't rely on traps alone. No, Lucian was patient. Motionless. More ghost than boy. Blind though he might be, he listened. Listened to the breathing of the woods, the rustle of leaves, the faint tremor of padded paws brushing against wet soil.
A soft snap echoed.
Got you.
The snare's wire had caught a plump rabbit by the hind leg. The animal thrashed and squealed, struggling in vain against the tightening cord.
Lucian moved with slow precision, standing fluidly despite the stiffness in his knees. Every motion deliberate. Every sound catalogued in his mind like an invisible map.
He grabbed it's neck and forcefully twisted it. The kill was quick, merciful. He murmured a quiet apology to the prey before slipping it into his worn leather skin bag. It was his third kill today. He would sell the fur for a substantial and the meat they would keep.
It wasn't much, but it would keep the children from gnawing on empty bellies for another day or two.
As he made his way back, the real danger began to creep in. The familiar scent of rot and blood on the wind. The signature of the wild dog packs that prowled these ruins.
Locals had a name for them: Ashfangs. Large, mutated from generations of surviving off rot, refuse, and sometimes worse. They hunted in terrifying silence, their gray-black hides almost blending with the ruins, mouths full of jagged teeth stained by old kills.
Even now, as Lucian tread carefully, he heard distant howls. Testing cries, not full hunts yet.
They're hungry too, Lucian thought grimly.
He returned to town with his now buldging skin bag but something else made his skin itch. The unnatural quiet near his home.
Two figures stood by his door.
The first was squat, with arms too thick for his frame, like someone had stuffed a bear into human skin and called it done. His face was flat, cheeks cratered with pox scars, and one cloudy eye twitched slightly whenever he blinked. A wicked-looking blade spun lazily between his fingers.
The other was taller, leaner, with sharp cheekbones and teeth that seemed just a bit too pointed when he smiled. He wore a tattered leather vest over a dark synthetic shirt, open at the collar, revealing tattooed symbols Lucian didn't recognize. Not that he could see it in the first place.
They were speaking in low voices until Lucian's footstep met cracked concrete.
"Morning," the lean one drawled, baring those too-sharp teeth. "Funny, we didn't think you'd be this punctual."
"Didn't know I was invited," Lucian replied, adjusting the strap on his bag casually. "Didn't bring a gift."
The pock-scarred man smirked but didn't speak. His cloudy eye locked on Lucian like a lazy wolf sizing up its next meal.
"Boss wants a word," the lean one said. "Important business. Very polite of you to oblige."
Lucian tilted his head toward the door behind them. "Family's sleeping. I don't like uninvited guests."
"Oh, we're the best guests," the lean one whispered. "Quiet. Clean. Smell faintly of regret."
Lucian shifted his weight slightly, thumb brushing the hilt of his metal rod. He could take one. Probably not both. And like always, violence now only bought violence later. He already knew why they had come for him. It seemed that Kaela Voss wasn't the type to take no for an answer.
"Fine," Lucian muttered. "But tell your boss next time to send smarter dogs." He said this to spite them.
The lean man's grin widened, sharp and hungry. "You're lucky we ain't the ones biting. Yet."
Lucian walked past them, his shoulder brushing slightly against the pockmarked man's thick forearm. It was like walking past a slab of warm stone. Dangerous. Heavy. Waiting.
"The Rusted Gear" looked like it had been cobbled together from five different buildings that had decided to fall over at slightly different angles. The sign above creaked as always, hanging by only one hinge now, the other broken sometime last winter during one of the colder storms.
Inside, it smelled of rust, smoke, and old herbs.
Old Bob didn't look up when Lucian entered, but his grizzled voice greeted him anyway. "Let me guess, trouble's following you like a hungry stray."
"Worse," Lucian replied. "Trouble's sending invitations. And it was a certain old man that gave them my details." He couldn't see but Old Bob could feel the murderous glare thrown his way.
Bob appeared, hunched and thick across the shoulders like a man who'd spent too long carrying things that never wanted to be carried. His gray beard was wild, his eyebrows forming permanent scowls over eyes that had once been sharp but now mostly reflected exhaustion.
He wiped his hands on his ever-present filthy apron. "Don't be bothered about it. This is for your own good. I promise you won't regret this decision."
Lucian dropped his hunting bag on the counter, the dead rabbits making a soft thump on impact. "Watch them for me."
Bob finally stopped moving, his expression hardening. "You know I don't do babysitting."
"You already did once." Lucian's voice was flat, but it carried weight.
Bob flinched slightly, and for a second, the old man's bravado faltered. Both of them remembered it—the long fever weeks, the shaking, the boy who shouldn't have survived with his eyes burned out and almost dead. Lucian had survived. Barely. Because of Bob's quiet, stubborn intervention. He had given him the drugs and good that helped him tide over that disaster. He had also once treated Lucian when he had a on his chest. A wound deep enough to show his ribs.
"Damn you," Bob growled softly, throat tight. "I should've let you bleed out like a butchered hog."
"Probably," Lucian replied dryly. "But you didn't. So here we are."
Bob ran a hand through his wild beard, scowling deeply. "Fine. But if they start wrecking the place, I'm not chasing after them."
"Wouldn't expect you to," Lucian said, reaching forward to gently pat the man's shoulder. "Thanks, Bob."
The meeting point was as predictable as the rest of Garrick Thorne's operations—half-shadowed, always somewhere that smelled faintly of wet brick and blood.
Garrick himself stood at the center of the gathering. Built like a bear but with the eyes of a snake, his thick beard streaked with iron-gray, his skin tanned and scarred in equal measure. The scar cutting through his left brow lent him a permanent look of mild disdain, but his eyes held something sharper, calculation.
"Boys brought you in one piece," he said by way of greeting.
Lucian nodded. "Hard to break what's already cracked."
Behind Garrick stood her, Kaela Voss. Dressed in faded traveler's gear, boots caked with old mud, black hair cropped short against her sharp features. Her green eyes tracked Lucian like a hawk sizing up unfamiliar prey.
She didn't smile. Didn't frown. Just watched.
Further off, leaning against a rusted pipe with careless arrogance, was Tavian Rhys. Youthful, polished, soft-handed despite the fitted leather armor he wore. His cloak was too fine for this place, embroidered in subtle patterns hinting at wealth. His gloves were pristine.
Next to Tavian, like a shadow given muscle, stood Joran Kestel. Broad-shouldered, armored in reinforced mesh under his travel cloak, eyes cold and professional. His scarred knuckles flexed faintly with tension, betraying the otherwise statuesque calm of his posture.
One of Garrick's mercs, a bald, thickset brute with rings punched through his eyebrows spat on the ground. "This him? This is the blind fool we're takin' with us?"
"Didn't know I was going sightseeing," Lucian said. "Relax, I'll describe the flowers to you when we're lost and starving."
A few of the mercs chuckled. Kaela didn't, but the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement.
Tavian strode forward. "You've got nerve, beggar."
Lucian tilted his head toward the heir's voice. "You've got perfume. Little strong for monster hunting, don't you think?"
Garrick lifted a hand, silencing the tension. "Enough. Kaela vouched for him. And if there's anyone here who knows how to dodge death by wilderness, it's this one."
Kaela finally spoke, voice crisp and level. "We need him. The mountains are riddled with old hunting trails. Traps. Poisonous growths. He knows what's edible, what isn't. Tavian, you wanted to learn the wilds firsthand—he's your best chance."
Joran Kestel gave the barest nod. Approval, or maybe simple acknowledgment of competence.
"Wild dogs are the real threat," Lucian added softly. "Ashfangs. Packs've been restless lately. Smarter. More coordinated. I've seen them watch traps, learn from mistakes."
"Dogs," spat one of the mercs dismissively. "We've got rifles. Guns solve everything."
"Tell that to the bones we found last month," Kaela murmured. "Picked clean. And not by rats."
Garrick, to his credit, didn't argue. His lips pressed thin, eyes narrowing. "We're going. Loaded for bear, prepared for worse."
Tavian smirked faintly, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. "I want to see these beasts up close. I'll take my scars like a man."
Lucian exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a bitter smile curling his lips. "If you live through it, you'll have great stories."
The expedition began its slow march, boots crunching over broken roads, heading toward the distant line of jagged mountains. The ghost-bane mountains, where hunger, ghosts with teeth, and bad decisions waited like old friends with knives.