The prospector settlement felt different to Harlan now. Three years ago, it greeted him as a green, half-starved newcomer. Now Harlan—or Roen, as he almost used to calling himself—looked at it with different eyes.

  More buildings. More people. New shops, new faces. He saw few old acquaintances. Those who were in the settlement passed him without a glance, paying no attention to the stranger in a worn cloak.

  That was exactly what he counted on. In three years his face had grown sharper, his gaze harder, his movements confident. No one would recognize the boy they'd once considered dead in this man. Besides, he no longer shaved his head—he only kept his now-decent beard trimmed.

  He pulled his hood up just in case, letting the shadow fall across his face, and headed for *The Last Resort*. Everything was the same as before: noise, the rumble of voices, the smell of fried meat and cheap ale. Only the sign above the door had tilted a little more.

  Garret sat at a far table, back against the wall.

  He looked different. More gray in his hair. Deep lines cut into his forehead. His shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. Worst of all were his eyes—dim, wary—and the way he flinched at sudden sounds.

  But Harlan went to the bartender first. Just to test the waters.

  “New here? Looking for work?” the bartender asked out of habit, wiping a glass with a rag.

  “Yeah. Just came in from New Proxima,” Harlan lied smoothly. “Any advice?”

  “Grab an ale and ask around. New expeditions head out every day.”

  Harlan nodded and ordered two mugs of ale.

  He walked over to Garret’s table at an unhurried pace. The older prospector didn’t lift his head, but Harlan noticed how his right hand—hidden under the table—tensed.

  Without a word, Harlan sat down across from him and set the mugs down with a solid thud.

  “Drinks are on me today,” he said flatly.

  “I don’t drink with bums. Get lost,” Garret replied dryly, tired, without looking up.

  Harlan smiled faintly and leaned closer.

  “Strangers aren’t always strangers,” he said quietly. “Sometimes they’re… Firsts.”

  Garret flinched. Slowly—very slowly—he raised his eyes. A second of disbelief, then his pupils widened until they nearly swallowed the irises.

  “Ha…” He sucked in a sharp breath. “Har—”

  Harlan instantly pressed a finger to his lips.

  “Don’t say it. I’m Roen,” he said quietly. “Better for now. For everyone.”

  For a few moments Garret just stared at him, mouth half-open. Then he leaned back in his chair and let out a quiet, hoarse laugh—nervous, broken.

  “Old man actually pulled you out,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Alive… damn it, alive.”

  “More than,” Harlan nodded.

  “And the legs?” Garret asked in a conspiratorial whisper. “You walk?”

  “I run. Everything works. Thanks to you.”

  They clinked mugs softly. Ale sloshed over the rims.

  “Garret, how’s Kel?” Harlan asked.

  Garret stiffened. The smile vanished. He glanced around nervously, as if expecting the walls to listen.

  “While we’re here, let’s talk about the weather,” he leaned across the table. “The rest—later. At my place.”

  Harlan nodded.

  They sat another half hour, loudly discussing snowstorms, gear prices, and monster rumors. Nothing serious—just the usual chatter of a veteran and a newcomer. When they finished the ale, they stood up and left together.

  ?

  Later, at Garret’s house, the conversation turned serious. The wooden walls were soaked with smoke and age. A bottle of wine stood on the table between them—one of those Garret kept in the cupboard for special occasions. Today counted.

  “Damn glad you’re back. You look better—broader shoulders,” Garret said at last, pouring the wine. “But listen, kid. You can’t stay here long. I’m being watched.”

  “Watched?” Harlan frowned. “By who?”

  “The settlement elder’s people. And some other shady types. Somehow they figured out we found something big—maybe by the crystal shapes. And I renewed the prospecting license on the claim. Cost me money. I thought I’d buy time, lie low. Instead, I just made them more suspicious.”

  “Any attacks?”

  “No. Regular bandits would’ve put a knife to my throat by now. These ones are different. Clever. They try to get me drunk. Invite me on ‘expeditions.’ Waiting for me to crack and lead them to the stash or the vein. I might’ve gone—but I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “No one to go with.” Garret looked out the window. “The only people I trusted were Thorren, Mark, and you. Thorren and Mark are dead. Kel… Kel left.”

  Garret downed his wine in one gulp.

  “Wife wore him down. And he said himself he didn’t want to stay in a place that kills his friends. They moved to the city, to relatives. Hope he’s doing all right. I gave him a couple of small stones for the road.”

  “Did you think about slipping away quietly yourself?” Harlan asked.

  “Alone into the Wildlands? With a tail?” Garret shook his head. “Suicide. And leaving without crystals… what would I live on? The money I’ve got might last ten years. Then what? Here, at least, I’ve got a cabin. And my son’s grave. You know that.”

  He looked at Harlan with something like hope.

  “But now it’s different. I owe you your share. And Thorren’s and Mark’s families too. Since you’re back… the two of us can manage. We can pick up a couple reliable guys—”

  Harlan shook his head.

  “Garret, we don’t need anyone else. I’m stronger now. I’m a mage. I think we can do it ourselves.”

  “A mage?” Garret snorted. “Come on. Surviving with the Hermit doesn’t make you—”

  Harlan didn’t answer. He just looked at Garret’s empty glass.

  The glass trembled—then slid smoothly across the table, as if carried by air, straight into Harlan’s hand.

  Calmly, Harlan poured wine and sent the glass back the same way, without touching it, to the stunned prospector.

  “Hell…” Garret jerked back, nearly tipping his chair. “How the—? That’s Thorren’s level… no, better! Smooth as anything!”

  Harlan gave him a brief account of life with Re. No details about experiments—just facts. Housework. Studying magic.

  Garret listened with his mouth open.

  “I even went on solo trips into the Wildlands,” Harlan finished. “Collected rare plants. Survived.”

  “Damn…” Garret shook his head. “Then yeah. Two of us can handle it.”

  He set the glass down, looking at the former “Mr. First” with open respect now.

  “There’s one more thing,” Garret added, darkening. “That girl you were seeing. Elis.”

  Harlan straightened, his gaze sharpening.

  “What about her?”

  “After I said you were dead, she wouldn’t leave me alone. Kept coming, demanding to see the grave. Screamed, said I was lying. Eventually she calmed down, but whenever we crossed paths in the tavern, she looked at me like a wolf.”

  “She was looking for the grave?”

  “Yeah. Even went to the elder, tried to get details. Stubborn girl. But then their expedition wrapped up and she left. About two years ago. Just… keep it in mind.”

  “Thanks,” Harlan said quietly, staring at the wall.

  “All right.” Garret slapped the table. “Enough sentiment. If it’s just the two of us, we prepare. We start tomorrow.”

  ?

  Morning greeted Harlan with the aromatic smell of coffee.

  “By the way, Garret, you know you make coffee wrong?” Harlan took a sip. “You’re supposed to brew it, not just dump hot water on it.”

  “Don’t like it—hand it over, I’ll drink both,” Garret smirked. “Didn’t know we had an aristocrat here.”

  “No-no, just saying,” Harlan hugged the mug closer. “Best coffee I’ve had in three years.”

  After breakfast they went out to buy supplies, then returned to prepare gear and talk through the plan.

  “You go through all this regularly?” Harlan asked, inspecting the neatly folded and greased tent fittings.

  “Of course. Otherwise the equipment rots,” Garret replied seriously. “Discipline keeps you alive out here. You forget what I taught you already?”

  “No. I remember. Saved my life more than once.”

  Harlan checked everything carefully. Garret’s gear was in perfect condition, as if the old man had been preparing for this day all along.

  “By the way, I came up with an alarm system,” Harlan said. “Ever heard of one?”

  He explained his invention in broad strokes.

  “Alarm’s fine, but a live watch is more reliable,” Garret said. “Still, solid idea. Since it’s just us, we can use it alongside sentry duty.”

  When they finished with the gear, Garret spread his homemade map on the table.

  “Here. I marked everything,” he said, pointing. “This is the vein. We can’t reach it—twenty days one way, at least. Too dangerous for just two.”

  "Agreed. Too many Mountain Hexapods."

  "Too many what?"

  “The six-legged ones,” Harlan elaborated. “Scientific term.”

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  “Tch. Picked up fancy words,” Garret smirked and continued. “So. Best option is the crystals buried with Thorren and Mark. There’s a lot left. Chances anyone found them are nil—I buried them, they’re on my claim, and the snow’s covered everything ten times over. Even if you searched on purpose, it’d be like a needle in a haystack.”

  “I don’t remember where or how you dug,” Harlan shook his head.

  “No surprise—you were out cold. It’s close. Three or four days. Right here.” Garret tapped the map.

  “So we can travel light,” Harlan nodded.

  “Yeah. If the stash is gone, we head back and prep for the vein. Hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Garret rolled the map up. For the first time in a long while, the old spark of excitement lit his eyes.

  “Now tactics. If we get attacked—and we probably will—we act together. You’re a mage now. I’m a shooter. Roles need to be clear.”

  They spent the entire evening planning. Harlan’s alarms. Garret’s experience. Magic against bullets.

  By nightfall, they were ready.

  “So, Roen,” Garret grinned, testing the new name. “Ready?”

  Harlan checked the revolver on his belt, then let the wooden cube he pulled from his pocket rise and settle softly into his palm.

  “Won’t know unless you try.”

  ?

  At dawn, Harlan and Garret left the settlement. One sled between them, lightly loaded—packs, a rifle on top. From a distance, just two locals heading out to hunt.

  They left quietly, not to draw attention. But they knew vanishing completely was impossible. Even at dawn there were witnesses—other expeditions heading out—and guards stood at the gates day and night.

  They passed the palisade and headed toward Garret’s claim.

  “It’s still beautiful,” Harlan said nostalgically. “I remember liking the mountains the first time.”

  “Funny how this cursed place barely changes,” Garret replied, studying the snowy expanse. “People change. The land doesn’t. Some die. Some come back empty-handed, never figuring out how the rich live.”

  He spat into the snow and went on.

  “And the lucky ones usually come back too. A couple years later. Broke.”

  “So it happens often?” Harlan asked.

  “Remember Bob?” Garret said. “The one who mocked us for coming back empty?”

  “One of the prospectors?” Harlan frowned. “Vaguely.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Regular here. Came back for the fourth time a month ago. Same pattern—finds a couple crystals, goes to the city, blows it all on booze and women in half a year, then crawls back. At least he stays upbeat. Some sink into depression. He even hired on with the elder now. Guard duty.”

  Harlan frowned.

  “So he could be one of the ones watching us?”

  “Unlikely. But now you can’t trust anyone.”

  Garret suddenly glanced back, then looked at Harlan and muttered through clenched teeth:

  “Don’t stop. Keep walking. But I think someone’s already following us.”

  “You see something?” Harlan asked, pulling his hood lower.

  “Not sure. But if I were them, I wouldn’t just let us go. I’d wait for the moment,” Garret said. “So stay sharp.”

  They fell silent, listening for sounds behind them. For now—nothing.

  The road followed familiar ground: along a dry riverbed that flowed only in spring, then through a sparse larch stand, then the first hills where the true Wildlands began. Garret walked with confidence. He knew this land too well—from how the wind shifted by noon to where predators set ambushes and which crevice held dry branches even after a blizzard.

  The first day passed quietly. They didn’t rush. No need. Drawing attention was the real danger. That evening by the fire, Garret stared into the flames for a long time, silent. Only once did he speak:

  “I always liked dinners by the fire. There’s something… special about them.”

  “Bobel with fat,” Harlan supplied with a smile.

  “No,” Garret laughed. “That’s exactly what I don’t miss.”

  Harlan just nodded.

  They set up the alarm for the night.

  This time the system was sturdier than Harlan’s old improvisation. More tin-can bells. Stronger, thinner twine, harder to see. And the whole setup was “wired” to a can placed right at the tent entrance—useful against a different kind of “monster,” too.

  When they finished stretching the lines fifteen to twenty meters around the camp, Garret said with satisfaction:

  “Good work. Solid idea. Curious how it’ll behave in practice.” He scratched his nose. “Think we’ll find out soon.”

  But that night—and the next—passed quietly.

  ?

  By midday on the third day, they reached the spot.

  “Right here,” Garret said, looking around. “I won’t confuse that rock.”

  The shallow basin ringed by cliffs looked exactly as it had three years ago. Just deeper snow. Taller larches.

  Harlan’s breath caught. There—trampled snow where Thorren’s tent had stood. There, by the rock—the big man wrestling with the heater, cursing “damn technology.” And the fire. Mark by the fire, pale as the snow itself.

  He forced the panic down.

  “Yeah. I recognize it.”

  Garret stood by the rock, looked east, and counted ten steps. Then he scraped a cross into the crust with his boot.

  “Graves should be around here,” he said quietly. “I still see their faces. Thorren. Mark. The others…”

  He paused, then added:

  “I dug fast back then. Otherwise I’d have died too. Ground was frozen, hands shaking. Didn’t bury them deep. With snow, maybe a meter. We’ll have to search. Tracks are long gone—but yeah. Somewhere here.”

  They set camp a little aside, closer to low rocks. Digging frozen ground wasn’t something you did in a hurry, so they would stay the night.

  “Let’s set the alarm first, farther out,” Harlan said. “If someone sneaks up while we’re digging…”

  Garret glanced at the pickaxe he was about to use to break the crust, then put it back on the sled.

  “Agreed.”

  They stretched the alarm lines as far as the twine allowed.

  “Harlan, tug the line,” Garret called from camp.

  Harlan tested it lightly.

  “Works,” Garret called back. “Come back—and don’t trample everything.”

  When Harlan returned, Garret said:

  “Check the revolvers. I’ve got the pickaxe ready.” He pointed to the tool by a rock.

  They started digging. The ground was hard-frozen—no shovel would do. Pickaxes worked better than expected. The earth broke off in icy slabs, like stone.

  After an hour they were half a meter down. From there, shovels worked faster.

  Another hour passed.

  “Over a meter now. Probably not it,” Harlan said.

  “Damn,” Garret cursed. “Then we dig left and right. We’ll find it. Just burn strength.”

  Sweat ran down their temples. Stopping meant freezing in the wind, so they kept going.

  Progress was slower now. But in the second pit, the shovel struck something.

  A half-decayed body.

  “Thorren…” Harlan froze. “The embroidery on the coat sleeve…”

  “Rest easy, old friend,” Garret said, leaning on the shovel handle, staring at the arm.

  They stood in silence.

  “We cover this back up,” Garret said at last. “But now I know exactly where the crystals are.”

  He pointed about a meter and a half away.

  *Feel like a gravedigger,* Harlan thought. His hands shook as he filled the hole back in.

  They continued in silence, stopping only for short breaks.

  Garret had guessed right. The shovel rang against something solid. They cleared another layer of earth, and a dull light pierced through the snowy haze.

  Crystals.

  Even after three years they gleamed in the ground—clean, transparent, like ice, with an inner blue glow that breathed cold.

  “There they are,” Garret said dully. “Ticket to a new life.”

  Harlan crouched, picked one up. He felt the Field force inside it—dense, concentrated.

  “I’d forgotten how many there were,” he said quietly.

  “Enough not just to change the fate of any prospector settlement,” Garret replied. “But enough to get us killed.”

  Harlan was about to answer—

  Then he froze.

  The wind died down. Snowfall seemed to hang in the air. A bell by the tents rang sharply—and went silent.

  “You hear that?” Harlan whispered.

  Garret’s hand slid to his revolver.

  “Clear as day.”

  They rushed for cover—behind a boulder as tall as a man and twice as wide.

  More sounds followed. Snow crunching. Footsteps. One. Another. Many.

  “If you want to live, drop your weapons and raise your hands,” a muffled voice came from behind the rocks. “You’re surrounded.”

  Harlan glanced at Garret. Garret nodded.

  They had come.