The cold air inside the mountain pass blew stronger as the tunnel widened into an abandoned underground staging yard. Rusted railcars stood abandoned on parallel tracks. Their steel siding was caked in decades of grime and white salt dust. “We are near the southern junction,” Camila whispered. She racked the bolt on her hunting rifle as she scanned the shadowy catwalks overhead. “This whole place was built to haul ore before the collapse.” “Do you hear that?” Kaelen asked. He stopped beside a wooden crate to hold the boy close. “It is just the mountain wind whistling through the ventilation shafts,” Camila replied. Her eyes darted across the high steel girders. “No,” Asher said. He paused in the shadow of a boxcar. “It is not the wind.” A low mechanical rumble reverberated through the stone floor beneath their boots. It was accompanied by the distinct clatter of steel treads against gravel. Farther back down the main tunnel line, heavy searchlights cut through the gloom. T

Three miles north of the collapsed pass, inside a fortified iron hangar, four men sat around a broad wooden table covered in grease marks and tactical maps. A cast iron stove roared in the corner. It threw out waves of dry heat that barely touched the icy chill resting over the room. This whole hunt is bleeding our fuel dry, thought Director Miller. His cold blue eyes traced the red grease lines drawn across the map. If Vance loses another vehicle, the Syndicate will run out of oil before the winter ends. Director Miller sat at the head of the table. His dark wool coat was trimmed with thick winter fur. Beside him sat Jonas, the grizzled logistics chief whose face was covered in deep frostbite scars, and Kray, the ruthless commander of the perimeter guard. “Vance is acting like a lunatic,” Jonas spat. He slammed an unspent brass casing onto the raw wood. “He just burned three hundred gallons of refined diesel pushing a heavy crawler into a dead end tunnel.” “He was chasing G

Kaelen dropped to his knees on a pile of dusty canvas sacks in the corner of the ruined warehouse, his bare hands shaking as he touched the boy's burning forehead. The abandoned supply depot sat tucked deep into the base of the southern ridge, surrounded by rusted razor wire and thick drifts of white snow that muffled the howling wind outside. "He is getting worse," Kaelen whispered, his voice cracking as he unbuttoned the child's frost bitten collar. "His body is too hot. If we do not break this fever tonight, he will not wake up." Camila walked across the cracked concrete floor, her boots crunching over broken glass and discarded metal scraps as she scanned the wire mesh office at the back of the room. She shoved the rusted metal door open with her boot heel, her sharp eyes searching the shadows. "There is an old oil heater in this back room," Camila called out, her voice carrying clearly through the empty depot. "And I found an iron drum with a few gallons of kerosene left

Asher crouched behind the rusted frame of a half buried ore cart. His revolver was held steady across his knee. Two hundred yards back, three dark hounds tore across the blinding white crust. Their choked growls cut through the sharp wind. Four Bone Crow hunters followed close on foot with iron spears. “How many rounds do you have left?” Camila asked. She crouched low behind the opposite iron wheel with her rifle butt pressed against her shoulder. “Four in the cylinder,” Asher said. His dark coat whipped in the gusting mountain breeze. “Two spare in the pocket.” “I have three rifle rounds,” Camila whispered. She lined up her sights with the lead hunter. “We cannot afford to miss a single shot.” “Do not shoot the dogs,” Asher commanded. His voice was dead calm. “Shoot the men holding the leashes.” “If we drop the handlers, the hounds will run wild,” Camila warned. She kept her breath steady in the freezing air. “They are trained to attack anything that moves.” “Let them move

Asher did not move a muscle. His dark coat was heavy with river slush as he stared up at the four Iron Union guards lining the bank. Beside him, Camila kept her hunting rifle trained on the lead guard’s chest. Her finger rested lightly against the cold steel trigger. “Lower your iron,” the lead guard barked. His greasy sheepskin collar was pulled high against the sharp wind blowing off the river. “You have nowhere to run, dark coat. The river is behind you and the ridge is ours.” “We do not want any trouble with the Iron Union,” Kaelen said. He pulled the shivering boy closer to his chest as he struggled to his feet in the deep snow. “We are just trying to cross to the southern valley.” “Trouble?” the guard snickered. He turned his head slightly to spit a dark streak of tobacco juice onto the white crust. “You brought fifty brass shells and two fresh battery cells straight to our front door. That is not trouble. That is a winter pension.” “Miller’s bounty is a trap,” Camila