Doc kept pace with the wagon, Fish at his side. Snow Tusk's hooves struck the frozen ground in steady rhythm, the wagon bouncing only slightly despite Marron pushing for speed. Behind them, the ridge where the Ursar had fallen disappeared into the white haze.

  Lux tracked the contacts. Still there. Still clustered around the carcass.

  After another twenty minutes of hard travel, Mazoga finally raised a hand.

  "Slow it down," she called.

  Marron eased the reins. Snow Tusk snorted, steam rising from his breath, but his gait dropped into something more sustainable. Calen exhaled from the wagon bed. Tanna shifted, one hand still gripping the rail.

  Mazoga glanced back at Doc. "Anything nearby?"

  Doc activated the overlay. Thermal signatures bloomed across his vision, Snow Tusk's heat, the group's clustered warmth, the wagon's residual glow from the battery heater. Beyond that, the terrain ran cold.

  "Lux?"

  Contacts have ceased pursuit. All signatures remain stationary at the previous encounter site.

  Doc relayed it. "They stopped at the body."

  Mazoga nodded once. Her expression didn't change, but something in her shoulders eased. "Feeding, probably."

  Rurrak moved closer from his position at the wagon's flank, his amber eyes still scanning the horizon. "The route from Threeburrow to Glasshold usually isn't this dangerous." His voice carried a thread of uncertainty. "First time I've seen anything from the Waste cross this far."

  Doc studied the gnoll. Rurrak's stance hadn't fully relaxed. His hand stayed near the haft of his spear.

  "It's usually not this bad?" Mazoga asked.

  "No." Rurrak's ears flicked back briefly. "The Waste keeps to itself. Beasts don't cross the boundary unless something's pushing them."

  Mazoga was quiet for a moment. Her gaze shifted north, toward the storm-line that marked the edge of the frozen tundra. Snow still fell in thin drifts, carried on wind that hadn't let up since they'd broken camp.

  She shook her head. "One more thing to report, then."

  Mazoga pulled her radio from her belt, the bronze casing catching the pale light. She keyed it once, waiting for the static to clear.

  "Threeburrow, this is Mazoga. Respond."

  A few seconds passed. Then Kraggir's voice crackled through.

  "Mazoga. Go ahead."

  "We're clear of the Waste boundary. Encountered a Frostmaw Ursar. Brought it down, but there were others. Something's stirring out there."

  Silence on the other end. Then: "Understood. I'll inform Ygrana and Rurran. Be careful."

  "Will do. Out."

  Mazoga switched channels. "Settlement, this is Mazoga."

  Edda's voice came through almost immediately. "Mazoga. Status?"

  "We're fine. But the Waste is active. Encountered an apex predator well outside its normal range. More contacts followed but didn't pursue. Recommend increased vigilance."

  "Noted. Will let Kesh know to keep and eye out. Stay safe out there."

  "Out."

  Mazoga clipped the radio back to her belt and turned toward the Rurrak.

  "Rurrak," Mazoga said. "Anywhere we can camp before we hit Glasshold?"

  Rurrak studied the terrain ahead, his gaze tracing the ridge-line. He was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "We're close enough to the main road now. Once we reach it, there's better ground. Less exposure."

  Marron adjusted his grip on the reins. "How far?"

  "Two hours. Maybe less if the wind holds."

  Marron nodded. "We keep moving, then."

  The wagon rolled forward. Doc fell back into position beside Fish, his hand resting near the plasma gun. Lux maintained passive scans. The storm at their backs faded slowly, but the cold remained.

  The ridge fell away, and the ground leveled out.

  Doc spotted the road first, a wide, packed surface cutting northeast through the snow. Wagon ruts carved deep grooves into the frozen earth, layered over each other in patterns that spoke of steady use. Stone markers stood at intervals along the edge, worn smooth but still visible.

  Actual infrastructure, Doc thought.

  Lux confirmed it. Surface composition indicates regular maintenance. Compaction consistent with sustained traffic over multiple seasons.

  Fish trotted ahead, sniffing at the road's edge before glancing back at Doc. Her posture shifted, less tense, more curious.

  Rurrak moved up beside the wagon, gesturing toward the road. "This is it. Main route to Glasshold."

  Marron guided Snow Tusk onto the surface. The wagon's wheels settled into the ruts with a subtle shift, the ride smoothing out immediately. Marron exhaled, his shoulders dropping just slightly.

  "About time," Mazoga muttered.

  Doc scanned the horizon. The storm had faded entirely now, leaving only scattered clouds and pale sunlight filtering through the cold air. To the northeast, the road stretched toward distant ridges. To the southwest, it curved back toward terrain they'd already crossed.

  Movement caught his eye. A shape crested the far ridge, another wagon, smaller than theirs, pulled by something four-legged and low to the ground. Two figures sat at the front. They didn't wave, but they adjusted their heading slightly, keeping their distance.

  Lux flagged it. First confirmed non-hostile contact since departing Threeburrow.

  Doc relayed it to Mazoga.

  She nodded. "Good. Means we're close."

  Rurrak pointed ahead. "There's a village not far from here. Has inns. Last stop before Glasshold."

  Marron glanced at Mazoga, who tilted her head. "How far?"

  "Two hours, maybe three if the road's crowded."

  Mazoga looked at the sky. The sun sat low, its angle shifting as afternoon slid toward evening. "No point stopping here."

  The wagon rolled forward.

  The village appeared as the light began to fade.

  Wooden walls rose ahead, twelve feet tall and reinforced with iron bands at the corners. A gatehouse stood at the center, flanked by watchtowers with narrow archer's slits. Smoke drifted from chimneys beyond the walls, and the faint sound of voices carried on the wind.

  Two guards stood at the gate. Both wore layered furs and carried spears. One raised a hand as the wagon approached.

  Marron slowed Snow Tusk to a stop.

  The guard stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the wagon, then the group. His eyes lingered on Mazoga's warhammer, Doc's armor, and Fish for a long moment before returning to Marron.

  "State your business."

  Marron straightened. "Merchants. Traveling to Glasshold. Looking for a place to rest for the night."

  The guard's expression didn't change. He'd heard this a dozen times. "You got coin?"

  "Enough."

  The guard nodded slowly. "We've got a few inns. Problem is, they're full."

  Marron frowned. "All of them?"

  "Most of them." The guard jerked his head toward the gate. "Academy's getting new students this time of year. Lots of folks passing through—families, guards, merchants. You might find a bed, but I wouldn't count on it."

  Marron glanced at Mazoga.

  She studied the village walls for a moment, then shook her head. "What's the alternative?"

  The guard pointed southwest, toward a clearing just beyond the tree line. "There's good ground about half a mile that way. Flat, sheltered. Plenty of folks camp there when the inns are packed."

  Marron turned toward Mazoga. She met his gaze, then nodded once.

  "We'll camp."

  The guard stepped aside. "Fire's allowed, but keep it controlled. And if you're headed to Glasshold, stick to the main road. Ice fields to the north'll kill you if you're not careful."

  "Noted," Marron said.

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  The wagon rolled past the gate. Doc caught a glimpse of the village interior, narrow streets, stone buildings pressed close together, lanterns already lit against the encroaching dark. People moved between structures, their voices low and tired.

  Mazoga guided them through without stopping. They followed the road past the village, then turned toward the clearing the guard had indicated.

  Snow drifted in thin sheets across open ground. The trees at the edge provided a natural windbreak. Doc scanned the area—their was no immediate threats.

  Lux confirmed it. Terrain suitable for camp establishment. No hostile signatures detected within scanning range.

  Marron brought the wagon to a halt near the center of the clearing. Mazoga dismounted, already scanning the perimeter.

  "Set up here," she said. "Standard watch rotation."

  Doc nodded. Fish moved to the tree line, her gaze sweeping the shadows.

  Camp construction began.

  Doc helped Bran pull the portable oven from the wagon bed, Calen steadying it from the other side. The bronze casing gleamed faintly in the dying light as they set it down near the center of camp.

  Bran worked without wasted motion. He unpacked hearthgrain, dried meat, and ashroot from the storage crates, his hands moving with the kind of rhythm that came from repetition. Within minutes, the oven hummed to life, its core battery glowing softly beneath the grate.

  The smell hit moments later—rich, warm and grounding.

  Doc glanced around. Tanna had finished checking Snow Tusk's harness and was settling Moss-ear near the wagon. Rurrak stood at the perimeter, his spear planted in the snow, his gaze sweeping the tree line. Mazoga sat on a supply crate, her warhammer propped beside her.

  Fish padded over to Doc, her attention fixed on the oven.

  Calen crouched beside Bran, helping arrange the bowls. "Feels good to have something hot again."

  Bran nodded. "Cold meals keep you alive. Hot meals remind you why."

  Doc handed Calen a stack of bowls, then moved to distribute them. Marron took his without a word, already pulling out his journal. Tanna accepted hers with a quiet thanks. Rurrak hesitated before leaving his post, but Mazoga waved him over.

  "Eat," she said. "I've got the perimeter."

  Rurrak settled near the fire, his ears flicking toward the trees every few seconds.

  Bran ladled thick stew into each bowl—chunks of meat floating in gravy thickened with hearthgrain and ashroot. Steam rose in steady curls.

  Doc ate slowly, letting the warmth settle into his chest. Beside him, Fish watched intently, her amber eyes tracking every spoonful. He pulled a strip of meat from his bowl and set it on the ground. She took it without ceremony.

  Across the fire, Mazoga pulled her radio from her belt and keyed it twice.

  "Threeburrow, this is Mazoga."

  Static crackled. Then Kraggir's voice came through. "Mazoga. Go ahead."

  "Camp established near a village. No issues. We'll reach Glasshold tomorrow."

  "Good to hear. Stay safe."

  Mazoga switched channels. "Settlement, this is Mazoga."

  Edda's response was immediate. "Mazoga. Status?"

  "Safe camp near a village. Glasshold tomorrow."

  "Understood. Keep us updated."

  "Will do. Out."

  Mazoga clipped the radio back to her belt and returned to her stew.

  The fire crackled. Marron scribbled notes in his journal. Tanna sat beside Moss-ear, the rabbit curled against her leg. Calen finished his bowl and leaned back against the wagon wheel.

  Mazoga set her empty bowl aside and looked at Rurrak. "What should we expect in Glasshold?"

  Rurrak's ears shifted forward. He set his bowl down, his expression thoughtful. "I've been there a few times. Guarding trade runs for Threeburrow."

  "And?"

  "It's big. Bigger than anything around here. Built into the cliffs, carved out of the mountain itself. Crystal veins run through the stone, gives the whole place a kind of glow."

  Doc listened, filing the details away.

  Rurrak continued. "There's an Imperial district. Academy's there. That's where most of the outsiders go. But the locals keep to the lower levels—old clan territory. That's where we'll want to be."

  Marron looked up from his journal. "Do we have a contact?"

  Rurrak nodded. "Garrik. Runs an inn on the outer edge. He's goblin. Married to a human woman. They've been there long enough that people know them." He paused. "Ygrana gave me a letter. Should help us get settled."

  Mazoga studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good. We go straight there."

  "Agreed."

  Mazoga stood, stretching her shoulders. "Get some sleep. I want to reach Glasshold early."

  The group dispersed. Tents went up in silence. Calen and Bran cleaned the bowls while Marron secured the wagon. Rurrak returned to his post at the perimeter.

  Doc settled near Fish, his back against the wagon wheel. The fire burned low. Stars appeared overhead, sharp and cold against the black.

  Lux ran diagnostics in the background. Everything nominal.

  Tomorrow, Glasshold.

  Doc woke to rustling outside his tent. The sky was still gray with pre-dawn light. He pulled on his boots and stepped into the cold.

  Mazoga stood near the wagon, already securing straps and redistributing weight. Her breath misted in the air as she worked.

  Across the clearing, Calen emerged from his tent, rubbing his eyes.

  Doc moved to help. He lifted one of the supply crates back onto the wagon bed while Mazoga cinched the canvas down. Fish appeared beside him, her coat slick with morning frost.

  "Early start," Doc said.

  Mazoga grunted. "Want to reach Glasshold before midday."

  Bran emerged next, followed by Tanna and Marron. Rurrak was already at the perimeter, his spear in hand. The camp came alive with motion, the tents folded, gear stowed, the oven packed away.

  Doc was securing the last corner of the canvas when movement caught his eye at the clearing's edge.

  He turned.

  Four figures approached from the tree line—two humans, a dwarf, and a beastkin with gray fur and sharp ears. They wore travel gear and heavy cloaks, and carried weapons that had clearly seen use. Behind them, at the clearing's far edge, two other groups waited. A merchant couple stood beside a modest wagon loaded with bundled goods, their horse shifting its weight in the cold.

  A few paces apart from them, a young man and woman held a child between them, the boy maybe seven years old, wedged between his parents and watching Snow Tusk with undisguised amazement.

  Their cart was small, piled with cloth rolls and what looked like tools of the trade wrapped in oilcloth.

  The human in front of the four raised a hand as he approached. His posture was measured—the kind that came from years of reading situations before walking into them.

  "Morning," he said. "Name's Torven. We were camped across the clearing last night."

  Mazoga stepped forward, her hand resting easy on her warhammer. "Mazoga. What do you need?"

  Torven didn't waste time. "We're heading to Glasshold. All of us." He glanced briefly toward the waiting groups, then back to her. "Road's been rough lately. Three caravans hit in the past two weeks—brigands, working the main route. Military's stretched thin dealing with something out west, so patrols are light." He met her gaze directly. "We were hoping to travel together. Under your banner, so to speak."

  Mazoga's eyes moved past him to the waiting groups, the merchants, the young family, the child still staring at Snow Tusk. She looked back at Torven.

  "How many total?"

  "My four. The merchants are two. The family, three." Torven's tone stayed level. "Nine, not counting yourselves. We can keep pace and we won't ask questions. We just want to reach the city in one piece."

  Doc watched Mazoga process it. She didn't deliberate long.

  "Fine," she said. "We move in an hour. Keep your people ready."

  Torven nodded once. "Appreciated."

  He turned back toward the waiting groups. The gray-furred beastkin at his side caught Doc's eye briefly before following, her gaze had already done a quiet sweep of the entire camp, unhurried, taking stock. Doc recognized the habit.

  Across the clearing, the young crafter family began moving their cart forward. The child—a boy with wide eyes and his father's dark hair—twisted to watch Fish as she padded past. Fish ignored him entirely, which seemed to make him stare harder.

  Tanna was at Snow Tusk's side adjusting the harness when the boy slipped free of his mother's hand and wandered three steps closer. He stopped just outside arm's reach, staring up at the Colossagoat's massive antlers with his mouth slightly open.

  "He won't bite," Tanna said, without looking up from the buckle she was working.

  The boy froze.

  Moss-ear chose that moment to shift on Tanna's shoulder, the small phasehorn's violet-marked ears swiveling toward the child. The boy's attention snapped to the rabbit instantly, his expression shifting from awe to complete fascination.

  "What is that?" he whispered.

  "Moss-ear," Tanna said. "His a phasehorn rabbit."

  The boy looked like he had seventeen follow-up questions but his mother had already appeared at his shoulder, one firm hand steering him back toward their cart. She gave Tanna an apologetic look. Tanna returned a small nod.

  Torven's dwarf—stocky, beard braided against the cold—had stopped near Snow Tusk's flank and was examining the animal with the unsentimental eye of someone who knew working beasts. "Big one," he said. "What breed?"

  "Colossagoat," Tanna said. "His name's Snow Tusk."

  The dwarf grunted. Whether it was approval or simply acknowledgment was hard to say. He moved back toward Torven's group without further comment.

  The merchant couple had their wagon in order quickly. The woman checked the tie-downs on their goods with quick hands while the man managed the horse.

  Within the hour, camp was broken. Marron climbed onto the wagon bench beside Tanna, reins in hand. Calen settled into the wagon bed beside the secured cargo. Mazoga took point on foot, Rurrak moving to the right flank with his spear across his shoulders.

  Doc fell in on the left, Fish at his side.

  Torven's group positioned themselves at the wagon's rear without being told—they'd clearly already decided where they'd be most useful. The merchant wagon and the crafter's cart slotted in between, the family's horse plodding steadily. The boy had managed to climb up onto the cart seat beside his father, and Doc caught him twisting to watch Fish every few seconds, unable to help himself.

  The road widened as they moved northeast. The snow thinned slightly, revealing patches of frozen earth and wind-scarred stone. The sun rose higher, casting pale light across the landscape.

  Doc monitored the perimeter. Lux ran passive scans, tracking ambient energy and movement patterns. Nothing unusual registered.

  Beside him, Fish moved with easy confidence, her attention shifting between the road ahead and the tree line.

  They stopped once at midmorning. Bran passed out dried meat and hearthgrain biscuits. Torven's group accepted the food with quiet gratitude. The dwarf introduced himself as Borin, the beastkin as Lyss, and the second human as Kael.

  Lyss glanced at Doc's plasma gun with interest but said nothing.

  They continued after ten minutes.

  The terrain shifted again, fewer trees, more stone. The air grew colder. Ice clung to the rocks in crystalline sheets.

  Marron called back from the wagon. "How much further, Rurrak?"

  Rurrak lifted his head, scanning the ridgeline ahead. "Another hour. Maybe less."

  Mazoga kept her pace steady, her warhammer bouncing slightly against her back with each step.

  Doc glanced at Fish, She hadn't alerted to anything since they'd left camp. Good.

  Torven's group stayed behind the wagon, their conversation low and infrequent. Borin asked Calen about the bronze oven — how it worked, what it burned. Calen gave a vague answer about hearthstone cores and left it at that.

  The road curved around a low hill. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of ice and stone.

  Ahead, the land began to rise.

  The road crested the ridge.

  Doc stopped.

  Glasshold spread across the mountainside ahead, carved into the stone itself. The city rose in tiers, each level stacked against the next, following the natural contours of the rock. Towers jutted skyward, their spires threaded with veins of crystal that caught the light and scattered it across the snow.

  The walls were massive—ancient stone reinforced with what looked like enchanted ironwork. Runes glowed faintly along the gate, pulsing in slow rhythm. Above it all, the mountain's peak loomed, crowned with ice.

  Doc had seen settlements before. Outposts, colonies, even orbital cities that stretched kilometers in every direction. But this was different.

  This was fantasy made real.

  Lux, he thought. Analysis.

  Preliminary scan complete, Lux replied. Population estimate: fifteen to twenty thousand. Mixed demographics — human, dwarven, beastkin, minor percentages of other species. Ambient mana density is elevated, particularly near the crystal veins integrated into the architecture.

  A beat of silence.

  The structural load distribution across the upper tiers does not conform to any engineering model in my database.

  Doc waited. Lux didn't add anything further. Just left it there, the way he always did when a data point was simply a data point.

  Except it wasn't quite the way he always did it.

  Doc let it pass without comment.

  He watched the city instead — the gates moving with steady foot traffic, wagons rolling in and out, smoke rising from forges somewhere in the lower tiers. A civilization that had looked at magic the way his people had looked at physics. That had built something from it, layer by layer, long enough that the oldest stones had forgotten what new looked like.

  He'd been trained to understand systems. To pull them apart and find the logic underneath. Every structure, every material, every force had a mechanism — something that explained it.

  He looked at the crystal veins threading through ancient stone, catching the light in patterns that didn't quite follow reflection. He looked at the runes along the gate, pulsing slow and steady like something breathing.

  He didn't know the mechanism.

  He wanted to.

  Fish sat beside him, her violet-lined coat catching the light, amber eyes fixed on the gate with quiet patience.

  Mazoga's boots crunched through the frost behind him. "Rurrak says the inn's run by a goblin. That's where we're heading first."

  Doc glanced at her. "Good."

  "Let's move." She turned back toward the wagon. "Sooner we're settled, sooner we figure out what comes next."

  Doc followed, Fish at his side.

  The road sloped downward toward the gate.

  Toward Glasshold.

  Thank for reading!

  Chapter 81 Drops next tuesday!