Ulon's gaze lingered on the ruined wagons and the uneasy cluster of Kultians gathered around them. He exhaled slowly through his nose.
He and Shane both knew why these people had chosen this road.
Not because it was the shortest.
But because it was lawless.
No border patrols marched here. No inspectors demanded papers or allegiance. No imperial banners marked authority. Noone could send them back. This route belonged to monsters, cliffs, and the desperate. Kultians who traveled it had already accepted death. Since, if the rumors drifting out of Varkesh were even half true, being sent back meant something that crawled far deeper than death.
Shane walked alone.
His boots crunched softly against gravel as he stepped forward, posture relaxed but deliberate. The rocky clearing stretched wide but bare, hemmed in by jagged stone and dotted with only a handful of trees twisted into crooked shapes by wind and poor soil. Their leaves were sparse, dulled by dust, branches rattling quietly in the breeze. The air smelled dry—sand, sweat, and old blood baked into stone.
Across from him, the Kultians reacted instantly.
Weapons didn't rise—but grips tightened. Spears angled just enough to matter. Curved blades shifted within reach. Even the wounded straightened, jaws clenched, pain forgotten for the moment. Women pulled children closer, arms tight around small shoulders. The children went silent, sensing the tension even if they didn't understand it.
Shane stopped a respectful distance away and lifted his hands slightly, palms visible. A faint smile touched his lips—not warm, but not cold either.
"Good day, my friends," he said evenly. "May I have your permission to stay here for a while? We mean no harm."
The wind stirred.
For a long moment, no one answered.
Then a man stepped forward from the group.
Middle-aged. Rugged. His skin was tanned by sun and sand, creased by years of travel and hardship. Gray threaded through his crimson hair and beard, and his eyes—sharp but tired—carried the look of someone who had learned to distrust kindness without losing the ability to recognize it.
He studied Shane carefully, gaze flicking over his stance, his hands, the space behind him. Then, slowly, he raised one hand. The signal was subtle—but his people understood. Weapons eased back. Not lowered. Just eased.
He pressed his left fist against his chest in greeting.
"Good day," he said cautiously. "May I ask your business on this dangerous route?"
"We're commissioned to hunt the sand wyrm along the Pedleton–Crowvale border," Shane replied without hesitation.
The reaction rippled through the Kultians like a shockwave.
Murmurs broke out. A woman sucked in a sharp breath. One man muttered a curse under his breath. Even the children shifted uneasily. Sand wyrm wasn't just a monster—it was a nightmare.
"We encountered that sandy beast on the way here," the man said slowly. "If you continue on this route… you may meet that monster by dusk, or maybe worse."
Shane's eyes drifted briefly toward the battered wagons, the crude repairs, the scorch marks half-hidden under dust.
So that explained it.
He whistled once—short, sharp.
At the signal, Ulon guided Molly away without complaint, steering the massive rhinoceros toward the edge of the clearing. Molly snorted, hooves grinding stone, but obeyed readily, padding toward the edge where the rock rose higher. The distance it created wasn't accidental—it gave the Kultians space, breathing room.
As he passed, Ulon flashed them a wide, carefree grin.
"Relax," he said brightly. "She only tramples people on my birthday."
Maddy leaned out of the wagon immediately, eyes sharp.
"That is not reassuring!"
Kiel, perched on the wagon roof, leaned forward with open curiosity instead of fear. He tilted his head, studying the Kultians' darker complexions, their red-tinged hair, their sand-colored eyes. Their gazes followed the wagon warily, fingers flexing around weapons even as no one raised them.
Klaus hopped lightly down from the wagon roof, landing with hands already tucked into his pockets. He strolled toward Shane at an unhurried pace, eyes half-lidded, expression lazy—but nothing escaped his notice. Ulon dismounted as well, falling into step beside him, humming faintly under his breath.
Shane noticed their approach but didn't turn.
Ulon glanced up at Kiel. "Hey, kid. Check the wagon. We'll chat with Klaus' people for a bit."
Kiel hesitated. "Are they—"
"They're not my people," Klaus cut in smoothly, without even looking back. "I repeat. Not my people."
Maddy climbed down next, brushing dust from her sleeves with irritation. "Let's see what Klaus' kin actually look like."
"You stay here," Ulon said quickly, lifting a hand. "Let the grown men talk. If we crowd them, they'll get jumpy. Besides, Kiel needs someone to pull off once molly chew his hair."
Kiel flinched and looked at Molly. As if she sensed the young man's gaze, Molly stared back, which frightened Kiel more.
Shalotte nearly tripped climbing down behind Maddy, clutching his staff like a lifeline. He steadied himself, cheeks flushing.
"Mr. Ulon… do you think we can talk to them?"
"Of course," Ulon said cheerfully. "We've got Klaus."
Maddy shot him another glare. "Still. Not. Reassuring."
Petra climbed down last.
She moved carefully, boots crunching softly, scythe held close to her body like a shield. The moment the Kultians noticed her black armor, tension snapped tight again. Several men stiffened. One took a half-step forward, eyes narrowing.
Shane spoke before anyone else could.
"She's no threat. She's not from Malvury Fortress."
He knew they recognized the armor. Everyone in Varkesh did. Malvury's name carried weight—and fear. Especially for the Kultians.
"Then why does she wear it?" the leader demanded.
Petra swallowed but didn't look away.
"It belonged to her father," Shane said calmly. "He's a former soldier."
"Don't ask us to believe you," the man replied.
"We aren't," Shane said. "We're leaving once our wagon is checked."
His gaze sharpened slightly as he shifted the conversation.
"Are you heading toward Al'Qatl Canyon?"
"Yes," the man answered. "To Crowvale."
"I advise you to wait," Shane said evenly. "Or you may lose your life trying."
Weapons shifted again. Not raised—but close.
"Is that a threat?" the leader asked.
Shane replied. "No, it was a friendly warning. You knew the reputation of the canyon, right?" He continued, "We fought man-eating monkeys earlier. Their bodies are still on the road. That blood will draw every beast for miles. The canyon will be flooded by now."
He paused, letting the image settle.
"If you want to, wait for three days. We'll be done with our mission by then. We'll travel back to Crowvale together."
The leader turned, surveying his people.
They were exhausted. That much was obvious now—slumped shoulders, dull eyes, movements slowed by weeks or months of travel. But exhaustion wasn't the real problem.
"That won't do," the man said quietly. "We can't delay."
Behind Shane, Klaus heard everything and sensed something odd about the man's statement. He closed his eyes briefly.
'Echolocation'
The world shifted.
Sound became shape. Breath became rhythm. Footsteps, heartbeats, the subtle scrape of boots against stone—all mapped themselves into his awareness. His echolocation spread outward, brushing against the Kultians, the wagons, the land beyond.
No immediate ambush. No hidden blades.
And something else was missing.
He opened his eyes again.
"Do you have gold?" Klaus asked casually.