Just before the body registers the pain, there’s a moment where the mind suspends itself between impact and oblivion. A breath held in the lungs, the flicker of recognition—you are falling—and then the sensation rips through your body like a thousand iron-tipped arrows.


    The world spins as a storm of dust and jagged rock blur past. You feel the air leave your chest in a sudden rush when your ribs slam against a craggy outcrop. A rock catches your shoulder, spinning you midair. Your hands scrape against stone while trying desperately to grab ahold of something.


    Then, impact.


    To no one’s surprise, the ground does not welcome you. The sharp bite of stone carves into your back, into your hip, into the side of your skull where it cracks against the dry, baked terrain. The taste of dust and dirt fills your mouth, iron-tinged from where your teeth have caught the inside of your cheek.


    For a moment, all you can do is exist in the wreckage of yourself. The pain arrives in stages—first, a dull roar in your ribs, then a bright and searing throb where your left arm caught the worst of it. Your lungs struggle against the impact, causing your breath to come shallow… when it comes at all.


    The wind moans through the cliffs above, dry and laced with the scent of the brittle and sun-bleached iron-rich stone. Above, the sky is a heavy slate of colorless light. The edges of the jagged cliffs bite against it like the broken teeth of some decrepit beast.


    Slowly, your mind claws toward coherence. Where?


    The last thing you remember flashes in your memory—the fight, the scrambling escape, the ground crumbling beneath you. Iker. Landera. The others.


    Your shifting movement is slow and agonizing. Grit and gravel grind against your skin as you heave yourself onto your side, fingers digging into the dirt for something—anything—solid. You can’t feel the weight of your body correctly. The ground tilts. Or maybe your limbs aren’t where you left them.


    There’s ringing in your ears—or maybe it’s whispering. A high, keening noise that doesn’t come from the wind. Something slick slides down the side of your face. You touch it with trembling fingers. Blood. Probably.


    There’s movement in the corner of your eye. A rustle. A hush. Something more felt than heard. You blink toward the sound, but the world responds in delay, like a poorly drawn map turning too slowly to match your compass.


    It’s not the wind. Not the sound of loose debris tumbling down from the cliffs.


    What is that?


    A shadow lingers beyond the rocks, half-caught in the hollow of something long dead—a structure? A wall? The memory of architecture. It folds in on itself like fabric, slumped into the terrain like it’s trying to hide.


    Something pale flickers near it, and then nothing. You blink again. Maybe it was just the blood in your eyes. Maybe it was light, or your mind fraying at the edges.


    And near the ruin, like the ribs of something picked clean long ago, you see the remains of a passage. A trail, half-swallowed by stone.


    Your eyes move slowly across the wreckage, tracking the fragments. The burnt-out skeleton of a campfire. Blackened ends of torches strewn like fallen teeth. A discarded satchel with the straps torn off. Footprints pressed sharp and certain into the dirt. Fresh. Too fresh.


    Someone has been here.


    Someone might still be.


    The light bends wrong. The shadows stretch too long, then snap back like taut cords. You blink again. Or maybe the blink happened before the thought. You can’t tell anymore.


    A voice. It’s low, at first, distant, like it’s coming from underwater, bubbling up through miles of stone. It slips through the ringing in your ears, wrapping around you like mist.


    Iker.


    “—I saw you go down, but I don’t see… oh my.” A pause. A shift in the wind as dust rolls down the cliffs above. Then, closer now, “Hold on, I’m coming down!”


    You barely manage a breath before the loose shale above gives way under Iker’s weight. He skids down the rock face in a reckless free fall, arms pinwheeling, boots kicking up dust and debris.


    Just a short distance away, he lands hard with a grunt of effort. His knee smacks against the rock, and for a moment, he stays where he is, catching his breath. Then, after wiping the grit from his lashes, he turns his head toward you.


    Iker pushes himself up, grunting while rolling his shoulders as if trying to convince himself he meant to fall that way. He takes a second look at you, frowning. “How bad?”


    You breathe through your teeth, testing each movement before answering. “Well, I’ve been worse, I suppose.”


    He grins, but his gaze lingers on your arm and the way you’re favoring it. He doesn’t press, though. Instead, he glances around, finally taking in the remnants of the abandoned outpost.


    And just like you, he notices. The footprints. The campfire. The deliberate stacking of stones over a passageway, as if someone planned to return, but wanted it sealed, just in case.


    Iker exhales. “Someone else is here, aren’t they?”


    You shrug, then nod. You’re not certain, but deep down, you somehow know. Given how everything has gone thus far, you know how miserable your fortunes are.


    The two of you exchange a look, the same thought forming between you. Whoever left this place did so in a hurry, not expecting to be found.


    You and Iker move in silence, skirting the edges of the crumbling outpost. The dry wind hums through the broken structures, slipping through jagged gaps in the fragmented stone walls and splintered beams.


    You step over a rusted chain half-buried in the dirt. Your best guess is that it’s the remnants of some long-collapsed pulley system. Mining equipment, perhaps—old, ruined, left to rot. The crafters of this place dug their hands into the belly of these mountains and pulled wealth from their bones. And when it ran dry, or when it became too dangerous, they left it behind.


    You exhale slowly. That’s the story of everything, isn’t it? Strip it bare, take what you can, leave the ruin for someone else to haunt.


    Crouched ahead of you, Iker lifts a hand in warning. He tilts his head toward an opening in the largest structure, appearing like some sort of storage chamber.


    The two of you exchange a glance. Move closer. Listening.


    A creak. A shift of boots on dirt. Voices. Low. Tense. Wary.


    Iker nods once, and you step forward into the open doorway. Inside, the air musky and foul, like stagnant water. Then, piercing your nostrils, the acrid scent of sweat and unwashed bodies. The top of this place has partially collapsed, spilling jagged slats of sunlight across the floor. The walls are lined with makeshift bedding, scattered supplies, piles of gear that suggest a group ready to move at a moment’s notice.


    You come around the bend and nearly stumble into the jaws of a trap. Eight of them. Maybe nine. Silent, still, and suddenly aware of you. Weapons aren’t raised, but they might as well be—hands hang at belts, shoulders stiffen. None of them look happy to see you.


    The man at the center is the largest—scarred forearms, a jaw like old stone, and the kind of quiet that doesn’t come from wisdom but from watching too many people bleed. He takes a single step forward, eyes locked on yours. Not welcoming. Not hostile. Just… measuring.


    Before you can say anything, someone moves at the far end of the hall. A thin, frail figure emerging from a shadowed alcove.


    Landera.


    Her face is drawn and pale, her braid frayed and hanging loose in parts, like rope cut at odd angles. Dried blood flecks her sleeve. Her voice is flat when she says, “You’re late.”


    Your throat sticks. You mean to run to her. To hold her, or at least check her—make sure she isn’t just another dream stitched from exhaustion. But your legs stay locked. She doesn’t come to you either. Her eyes flit between you and Iker. It’s like she’s looking at strangers.


    “Iker,” she says with a nod. “Still breathing?”


    “I do what I can,” he replies, glancing past her at the others. “Though it looks like your new friends were thinking of stopping that.”


    Landera tilts her head toward the broad-shouldered man standing just behind her. “They helped me escape.”


    The man says nothing. One of the others—thinner, with sunburnt skin and a lazy hand resting on a sword hilt—gives a grunt. It might’ve been a laugh. Or indigestion. Hard to tell.


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    “Right,” Iker says. “They look like real heroes.”


    Landera shoots him a warning look, but it doesn’t land. Her voice drops a half-octave. “They’re the resistance. They’ve been hiding out here for months, biding their time, waiting for the right moment to push back. To do what no one else here seems willing to do.”


    She looks to you, then to Iker, seemingly gauging your reactions to this new development. Her words are quickened now, almost carried away by the current of her own convictions. “I thought I was dead when Criato’s men dragged me out back in Aitzabal. But these men—they saw me. Saw what I could offer. And I saw what they were doing, what they were trying to do. Not just fight Criato. But fix things. All of this.”


    She turns back toward the burley, scarred man, gesturing toward the others. “They’ve lost comrades. Supplies. They’ve risked themselves to stand up against what Criato represents. Not just because he’s cruel, but because he’s wrong. Because someone has to say no to that.”


    She breathes, finally. There’s a faint shine in her eyes—pride, maybe. But the scarred man only lifts a solitary, humorless brow.


    One of the others—sunburned, rail-thin, with a twisted scarf hiding a poorly shaved chin—leans against the wall and spits onto the cracked stone floor. You notice how the sound echoes, it’s so startlingly silent.


    “We came to make sure Criato didn’t keep everything for himself,” he says. “Let’s not start pretending this was about principles.”


    Landera blinks. “What?” she says, almost breathlessly. “That’s not how you described it,” she adds, stepping forward a pace.


    The scarred man gives a shrug that might as well be a guillotine falling. “That’s because you were bleeding and half-starved and babbling about justice and balance and other poetic nonsense. Thought it was easier to let you dream a little. Figured you’d wash out or die trying.”


    Another of the men chuckles. “Turns out you didn’t. Not bad for a sea whelp.”


    Landera freezes. Her mouth opens, closes. Opens again. “But… I saw your notes, your maps. The supplies you raided—”


    “Which we sold,” the man cuts in. “Or kept. Or traded for influence. Depends what you’re talking about.”


    Landera goes rigid. “You weren’t fighting for the Legido workers? Or to protect the natives of this land?”


    The man’s eyes narrow. “I don’t fight for ghosts.”


    She looks at the others now, the fighters she thought were her people. these strangers she’d somehow convinced herself were comrades. Their shoulders are slouched, their eyes darting, avoiding hers. A few chuckle under their breath. One adjusts a belt, one scratches at a scab on his neck, but none of them meet her gaze. Not even the scarred one.


    And something in her buckles. It doesn’t happen all at once. There’s no collapse, no outburst. Just a slow retreat. As though her spine has softened. As though her voice has curled up inside her throat and gone quiet.


    She takes a step back, but not from fear. It’s more like she’s shrinking into herself, trying to occupy less space in the world she no longer understands.


    She shakes her head. “You let me believe—”


    “You wanted to believe,” the thin one says, grinning. “You practically painted it for us. ‘Rebels fighting tyranny in the hills.’ Nine hells, I almost started believing it myself, the way you went on.”


    The scarred man doesn’t laugh like the others around him. He’s just watching her, like you might watch a fire burning itself out.


    “You weren’t supposed to last this long,” he grunt. “Yet here you are.”


    And that’s when you see it fully—see her falter in the way her shoulders slope forward, the way her hands curl inward at her sides, fists not of fury, but of someone trying to hold the pieces of herself together. Her chin just barely dips, the way a ship lists just before it capsizes.


    That bright defiance she always carried—it dims now. Like a candle run out of air.


    Something inside you coils in grief. Because you know Landera. You know how much she wanted this to be true. How much she needed to believe there were still people who fought for the right reasons. That maybe there was a version of the world worth defending. And you see now how fragile that belief really was.


    You want to say something to pull her back. But nothing fits the shape of this moment. Nothing would make it hurt less.


    So you just stand there, your own throat thick with shame—for them, for her, for everything that led to this. And she just keeps staring, like she’s staring at the sinking shape of her own conviction, dissolving into the dirt.


    “We took you in because you looked like someone who’d cause trouble for Criato,” the scarred man says flatly. “That made you useful. But don’t start selling fables to your friends. We’re not here to save anything. We’re here to make sure we get paid.”


    “But…” Landera sputters, “you saw what Xiatli did.”


    “Sure,” the man says. “We all did. That’s why we’re not looking to play hero anymore. Let the zealots bow and scream. Let Criato pretend he’s a chosen vessel. We’re just going to make sure when this place gets carved up, we’re not left with the scraps.”


    You can see Landera’s certainty unraveling, thread by thread. She came here, to these men, expecting a battle plan. A fight worth fighting. But there was never a noble cause. Just another pack of men fighting over scraps.


    “Where’s the rest of you?” you ask. Your hand splays at the plethora of empty bedrolls scattered about these ruins. “Seems like there should be more to this ‘resistance’.” You can’t help but spit the last word in disdain.


    The broad-shouldered man exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Gone,” he says simply.


    Landera snaps toward him, as surprised as you are at the monosyllabic response. “What do you mean, gone?”


    If he was going to answer, the broad-shouldered man is interrupted by sharp and sudden sounds—whistles slicing the air, a scatter of boots on gravel, the dry pop of matchlock fire echoing down the valley. Shouts erupt. The dull thud of bodies hitting dirt. The scent of burning powder rolls in like an oncoming storm.


    More shouting, closer now. You whirl, and they’re already moving.


    Criato’s men.


    No charge. No storm of fury or sound and blood. Just pure intention. A surgical purge descending through the canyon ruins.


    There’s no war cry, no signal. Just a man’s throat cut clean across as he turns, still half-drunk on his morning ration. Just a blade sliding beneath another’s ribs while he fumbles with his belt.


    And then it breaks—panic. Not from you. Not from Iker. Not even from Landera. But from them. The “resistance.”


    They scatter like kicked-up rats. No cohesion. No ranks. No resolve. Half of them don’t even draw steel—they just run.


    Someone screams, “They found us!” in disbelief. One man bolts past you so fast he stumbles into a crumbling column and clips his shoulder. Another throws down his weapon entirely, choosing flight with empty hands over the clumsy heft of iron. You swear he’s crying.


    Another voice—a rasping accusation—“You told them! You bastard, you told—!”


    Then steel on bone. Silence.


    Landera stumbles, almost gets knocked over by a fleeing man. She spins after him, grabs the back of his collar and yanks hard. He topples into the dirt with a choked cry.


    “You—how did they find us?” she hisses.


    He’s young, maybe younger than her. Pimples still raw along his cheek. Doesn’t even wear armor, just a belt with a sheathed blade no longer than your arm.


    “I didn’t tell anyone!” he yelps, voice cracking halfway through the sentence. “I swear, I was just on guard!”


    Landera holds him there for a breath. Maybe two. Her arm draws back, fist clenched, but doesn’t strike. She lets him drop, stumbling back a step like she can’t trust herself not to cave his skull in.


    You duck low, grabbing a weapon—some battered, short blade, iron-stained and off-balance, more tool than sword. Doesn’t matter. Your fingers close around it all the same.


    Iker’s already in motion, in a surprising ball of fury. He charges one of Criato’s soldiers in the open, low and clumsy and angry. You’ve never seen him in such a fit of rage, and it’s clear by his movements, neither is he. His swing is wide, but somehow lands. A scream follows. He moves on.


    Landera draws her weapon, but it’s not with purpose. It’s instinct, muscle memory. She steps into the fray, but the rhythm’s gone. The old nimbleness that made her so elusive on deck, so quick with a blade, isn’t there now.


    She parries once. Stumbles on the second clash. Whatever carried her this far, it isn’t lighting her feet now.


    Criato’s men close in, pressing inward. Not in a wave, but a spiral. Herding. Encircling. Cutting the exits.


    You lose track of how many fall. Most of them are the so-called rebels. Not even fighters, really—just angry men with too much trust in their feeble abilities and too little training.


    The same thin man who mocked Landera earlier tries to rally a stand. Tries to shout something about flanking left. He gets an axe buried in his chest before the sentence finishes.


    You look to Landera. She’s breathing hard, bent slightly at the waist, blade shaking in her grip. That snap from earlier—the shame when she realized the truth about the men she followed—it’s still inside her. Still unwinding. You see it in the way her gaze flits from body to body, friend and foe alike. Like she’s no longer sure which way she’s meant to point her sword.


    You catch a movement from the corner of your eye—


    A rifle barrel swinging toward her.


    You don’t think. You just move.


    A gunshot rips past you, close enough that you feel the heat of it graze your shoulder. You slam into the enforcer, knocking him off balance, your blade driving forward.


    Landera stares at you, breathing hard. She nods, once in silent thanks. Then, she grabs a rifle and keeps moving. This was what she needed, something to snap her out of the dazed stupor she found herself in. She’s back to reality, back to this moment, back to trying to survive.


    Without needing any further instruction, the three of you run. Gunfire kicks up the dust at your heels, the hot sting of powder-cut air raking your exposed skin and burning your eyes. You move between the structures, or what’s left of them, ducking under collapsed beams, vaulting over cracked stone.


    Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. There’s nowhere to go but up, toward the high ridge where the rest of the men vanished.


    Criato’s men follow. They’re not in a rush. That’s what’s terrifying. They know they have you. They know there’s nowhere left to run.


    Feet pounding the cracked ground, the wind like a blade against your skin. The mining outpost is already a ruin behind you, consumed by dust and gunfire, the echoes of Criato’s enforcers chasing you up the ridge line.


    Iker reaches the first outcrop and vaults over it, sliding down a loose patch of shale before turning, scanning for the next route up. You follow, the climb stealing what little breath you have left. Landera stumbles, but keeps going, fingers clawing against stone, dragging herself upward.


    The sounds of pursuit grow louder—Criato’s men aren’t stopping. You don’t have time.


    “What do we do now?” asks a panicked Iker. It’s a fair question, as you stare down the sharp cliff that drops suddenly, nowhere to turn or run or climb. What do you do now?


    Then—a thunderclap from the horizon. Not thunder, though it sounds close to it. But something else.


    A distant and deep report rolls across the mountains like the growl of a waking god. It’s not near, but not far either. It reverberates through the stone beneath your boots, echoes through the ridges, unsettles the sky.


    There, another boom—more measured this time. Then, somewhere just beyond the next ridge, or the next ridge after that, a horn answers. Sharp. Staggered.


    Then silence.


    You hear Criato’s men behind you, slowing. Muttering. One of them curses. Another calls out—asking if anyone else heard it. They’re overwhelmed by the confusion of that sound, that boom. Just like that, the footsteps behind you stop.


    Landera tilts her head slightly. Her hand rests near the pommel of her blade, but she doesn’t draw. Her face is turned toward the sound, drawn tight with confusion.


    “A signal cannon,” he says quietly. “A ship’s announcing arrival.”


    “How?” you ask. “This region’s landlocked.”


    “It’s not far from the coastal shelf,” Landera murmurs, blinking rapidly as realization hits. “Maybe a day’s ride or two through the shale basin, I’d wager.”


    “And these mountains seem to carry sound much further than I’d expect,” Iker adds. “I wonder where it’s really coming from?”


    Criato’s men are shouting now, more confused than combative. One of them demands answers. Another yells to pull back. You hear steel sheathing. Boots scraping stone, retreating.


    You feel it in your chest now—not relief exactly, but reprieve. Like the edge of the noose loosening, just enough to suck in air again. You lean forward, hands on your knees, trying to steady your breath.


    The canyon is still quiet, but the threat has shifted. Retreated. Paused.


    Landera swallows hard, quickly looking from side to side. “This is our chance,” she says, voice quiet. “We should move.”