Mazen didn’t know how long he’d been running.

His legs ached, his throat burned, and the raw cold in the air bit into his skin with every breath. The red sky had deepened into a darker, angrier shade, and the hunting horns were mercifully farther now. But he didn’t slow.

He couldn’t.

Somewhere ahead, a cluster of jagged stones jutted out of the earth like crooked teeth. Mazen staggered toward them, half-blind, half-hoping there was a place to rest, half-expecting another creature to lunge out and finish what the last one started.

He ducked between the stones and found a narrow hollow — a shallow pit half-shielded by overgrown rock slabs and skeletal trees.

It would do.

He dropped to one knee, breathing hard, sweat clinging to his back.

I just need a minute.

A flicker of movement.

His instincts screamed too late.

A shadow dropped from the rocks above.

Mazen spun, raising his hands to defend himself—

A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, dragging him down into the hollow.

“Stay down, boy,” a familiar voice growled in his ear. “Unless you want your throat split in two seconds.”

Mazen’s heart hammered.

Shadow.

The masked warrior released him and crouched beside him, eyes scanning the ridgeline.

“Vorak’s hounds are everywhere tonight,” he muttered. “Lucky you ran this way.”

Mazen didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His chest heaved as he fought to catch his breath.

Shadow straightened, motioning for him to follow.

“On your feet. I’m not carrying you.”

Mazen forced his legs to work and followed him deeper into the hollow.

Mazen followed in silence, his legs aching but moving.

Shadow slipped between the rocks like a ghost, his cloak trailing behind him. They moved through a narrow crevice, the world narrowing to stone walls and the occasional flicker of strange red light ahead.

A faint fire crackled somewhere deeper in.

Then the scent of smoke. Cooked meat. Human voices.

Mazen’s chest tightened.

Another settlement? More soldiers?

Shadow gestured sharply for him to stay low.

They rounded a final bend, and the hollow opened into a small camp nestled between natural stone walls. Makeshift tents of gray cloth hung from wooden poles. A few men and women, armed and rough-faced, sat around a fire pit.

Most wore faded armor or patchwork leather. Scarred faces, worn eyes.

And all of them bore the same mark — a jagged, claw-shaped scar slashed across their forearms.

Shadow stepped out into the open.

“Stand down,” he barked.

Weapons lowered, though no one fully relaxed.

A grizzled, broad-shouldered man with a gray-streaked beard and a half-healed wound at his jaw approached. His gaze fixed on Mazen, sharp and suspicious.

“Who’s this?” the man asked.

Shadow shrugged. “Another idiot who fell through.”

The grizzled man spat into the dirt. “We don’t need liabilities.”

Mazen opened his mouth to speak, but the man cut him off with a glare.

“You fight?”

Mazen hesitated. “I— I can handle myself.”

A snort. “We’ll see.”

Shadow clapped a hand on Mazen’s shoulder. “He’s mine for now.”

The camp grumbled but let it be.

Mazen swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure if he’d found allies or something worse.

Mazen sat near the fire, his back to a rough stone wall. He was still catching his breath when one of the men tossed a chunk of charred meat his way.

It landed in the dirt by his boot.

“Eat,” the man growled.

Mazen hesitated. He didn’t ask what it was. Hunger beat caution.

He took a bite, grimaced, and forced it down.

The grizzled man from earlier sat across the fire, watching him like a wolf eyeing a stray.

“Name’s Calen,” the man finally said. “Calen Wolfscar. And this,” he gestured to the others, “is the Howling Pact. You’re breathing because Shadow says you’re worth it. That doesn’t mean we believe it.”

Mazen stayed quiet.

Calen leaned in. “Listen close, boy. This land eats outsiders. It’ll bleed you dry and wear your skin like a trophy. The ones who live? They bleed back.”

A few of the others chuckled darkly.

Shadow spoke up from where he leaned against a boulder.
“He fought a marrow wolf alone. Stayed on his feet.”

Calen grunted. “Then maybe he’s not useless.”

Mazen swallowed another bite of the tough meat, the taste barely registering.

“Who’s hunting us?” he asked.

Calen’s smile was all teeth.

“King Rhys’s dogs. Ivory Fang. Blood Covenant. Cultists. Half the damned land wants a head to hang, and new blood’s worth twice the bounty.”

Mazen’s stomach tightened.
“And the girl with me… Shina… is she—?”

Shadow’s eyes met his.

“If she’s smart, she’s running. If she’s lucky, she’s not dead.”

The fire cracked between them.

And the weight of those words sat heavy in Mazen’s chest.

Later, when most of the warband drifted off to sleep or pulled sentry duty, Mazen found himself sitting beside Shadow near the dying fire.

The masked warrior sat sharpening his blade, the steady scrape of stone on metal the only sound.

Mazen hesitated, then spoke.
“You said… I’m not the first.”

Shadow didn’t look up.
“No.”

Mazen’s throat tightened.
“Who else?”

“Doesn’t matter. Not anymore” Shadow replied.

“But… they came from my world? From Earth?” Mazen asked.

Shadow paused, the whetstone still against the blade’s edge.

“Some. Others from places worse than yours. All of them ripped through a tear, like you.”

“What happened to them?”

A long silence.

Shadow sheathed his sword.

“This land doesn’t forgive mistakes. And it doesn’t care where you came from.”

Mazen’s gut twisted.

“But one of them… a girl, maybe—”

Shadow finally met his eyes.

“I didn’t see her.”

And that was all he said before walking into the mist.

Mazen sat alone by the fire, dread curling in his chest.

Shina moved quickly through the rocky path, Mirra leading the way with the silent ease of someone who knew every inch of this cursed land.

Neither of them spoke much.

The mist clung low to the ground. Every distant sound — a scrape of stone, a shift in wind — made Shina’s nerves jump.

Finally, as they crested a ridge, Mirra spoke.

“You’ve got two choices in Vortrex,” she said, not turning. “Hide. Or pick a side.”

Shina frowned. “I didn’t come here to pick anything. I just… I need to find someone.”

Mirra gave a dry laugh.

“Everyone here’s chasing something. Most of them don’t live long enough to catch it.”

They paused near a crumbled stone arch. In the distance, faint firelight marked a small encampment.

“Who are you, really?” Shina asked.

Mirra glanced back, eyes sharp.
“Used to run with the Ember Clans. Spies, thieves, knife-throwers. Before Rhys’s men burned half of us alive.”

Shina’s stomach twisted.

“Where are we going?”

“Emberfall,” Mirra said. “Rebellion’s gathering there. You want answers, you’ll find them in the fire.”

And with that, she moved ahead, vanishing into the thickening mist.

Shina hesitated only a second, then followed.