The morning air was crisp with the tang of pine and the earthy undercurrent of damp moss. Logan Matthews crouched low near a patch of disturbed soil, his breath forming faint plumes in the cool dawn light. Beside him, Noah mirrored his movements with a seriousness that made Logan smile faintly despite the weight of the morning’s task. The boy was still young, still untested, but he was eager to learn.

  The wilderness beyond Ladysmith had become both a refuge and a mystery since the Blacklight Event, a patchwork of the familiar and the strange. The evergreens were still there, towering and stalwart, but new flora—thicker, darker, otherworldly—had begun to encroach along the borders of what the townsfolk now called the Blacklight Zone. Logan had been hunting and tracking since he was a teenager, but nothing in his years of experience had prepared him for this alien frontier.

  Ahead, the trees grew denser, their bark dark and glossy, their leaves catching the sunlight with a faint metallic sheen. It was beautiful in a way, though the beauty carried a sense of menace. Logan’s task today was simple enough: scout the area, learn what he could, and figure out what to tell the others.

  Keltz Wicket had briefed them all the previous evening, gathered in the dimly lit remains of what had once been Ladysmith’s community hall. The Pactlands scout—one of the only people in this strange new world willing to talk to them as equals—had spoken in his calm, matter-of-fact way, describing the creatures they might encounter along the edges of the zone. Most were harmless, Keltz had said, though some could be dangerous if cornered. Of particular interest was the silven, a deer-like animal that used its snout to dig up roots. It wasn’t just edible—it was prized.

  “Look for signs of digging,” Keltz had said, his voice low but clear. “Shallow pits near the roots of trees, or soft, wet soil disturbed as if by a hoe. That’s how you’ll know they’re nearby.”

  “Silven,” Logan muttered under his breath, scanning the faint tracks in the soil. His fingers brushed over the marks, his experienced eyes piecing together the story they told. Something had been here, something larger than a deer, with a peculiar dragging at the edge of each print. He gestured silently to Noah, who crouched closer, his wide eyes taking everything in.

  “Dad,” Noah whispered, his voice barely audible over the rustling of the leaves. “Do you think the silven are dangerous?”

  Logan glanced at him, his lips twitching into a small smile. “Dangerous? Only if you make them angry,” he said. Then, more seriously: “They’re like anything else out here. You respect them, give them their space, and they won’t give you trouble.”

  It felt good, teaching Noah these things—passing on the knowledge that had once been his father’s. But the moment of peace was fleeting. His mind drifted to the briefing again, and to the man he still wasn’t sure about: Andrew Johnson.

  Two days ago, he and Andrew had crossed paths at City Hall, where Johnson had basically insisted he be handed command of Ladysmith’s burgeoning militia. Logan didn’t like the man’s military precision, the way he talked about “securing assets” and “defensive perimeters” like the town was some forward operating base. Yet, he couldn’t argue with the results. Just since the day prior, Johnson’s name was attached to several of the militia’s operations. One of them was the procurement of a cache of weapons.

  The source of those weapons still left a bad taste in Logan’s mouth. Vincent “Tink” Conti, an ex-Hell’s Angel turned mechanic, had been the one to provide them. Logan didn’t know the man well, but the stories that followed Tink were enough to raise eyebrows. Rumors of gunrunning, drugs, human trafficking and even a stint in prison. Logan knew better than to buy into small town rumors uncritically, but he wondered how much of it was true. Now, Tink was the town’s best hope for self-defense, and both Johnson and Boone seemed more than willing to overlook the man’s past.

  Logan had spent part of the previous night checking over the cache with the others, making sure the weapons were clean and functional. Most were. Almost all of them were highly illegal. At least in the old world. Tink might have been a shady bastard, but he knew his way around a gun. That thought did little to ease Logan’s unease.

  His attention snapped back to the present as a faint rustling reached his ears, the telltale sounds of an animal moving quickly through the brush. He held up a hand, and Noah froze, his eyes wide. Logan scanned the treeline, his pulse quickening. The signs of digging there were fresh. If the silven were nearby, they might catch a glimpse of the creature Keltz had described.

  If it was a silven.

  Logan adjusted his grip on the rifle slung over his shoulder, his body tensed and ready. “Stay close, Noah,” he whispered. “And keep your eyes open.”

  It wasn’t long before Logan froze, his ears picking up the low murmur of voices ahead. He signaled to Noah, pointing toward a cluster of rocks. “Hide there. Stay quiet,” he instructed, his voice firm but calm.

  Noah obeyed, his small figure darting to the cover. Logan slipped into a depression beneath a bush, peering through the foliage. Three men came into view, their armor black and angular, their cloaks marked with a black sun emblem.

  His mind drifted briefly to the briefing they’d had with Keltz the day before. The Black Sun, he’d said, were how they’d know. These men were Vectorans.

  Logan held his breath as the three Vectorans stepped into view, their armor catching faint glints of dawn light that filtered through the canopy. The black metal had a matte finish, well-worn but imposing, with their emblem emblazoned on their shoulder plates as well as their cloaks. Their movements were casual, almost lazy, but their sharp eyes and hands near their weapons belied their wariness.

  “I told you I saw the light,” one of them muttered, his voice carrying the kind of defensive edge that implied he’d repeated himself too many times. He was shorter than the others, wiry but quick, his hand resting nervously on the hilt of his sword. His gaze darted nervously toward the border of the Blacklight Zone, where the strange, darkened trees loomed.

  “And I told you to shut your mouth about it,” the tallest of the trio snapped. His tone was gruff, exasperated, and tinged with disdain. He moved with a deliberate swagger, his confidence that of someone accustomed to command—or bullying. “Free Folk, maybe. Or some Magi trick. Either way, it’s nothing to worry the Commander over.”

  The wiry scout gestured toward the trees. “Nothing?” he repeated, incredulous. “Look at them! Those trees aren’t right. Too thin to be so tall. Pale in color, but vibrant—and the air!” He paused, breathing deeply, his nose wrinkling as though he could taste the strangeness. “It’s wrong. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it.”

  “Feel what?” the third scout interjected, his tone dripping with mockery. He was stockier than the others, his face shadowed beneath his helmet, but the sneer in his voice was unmistakable. “The sweet, fragrant smell of your imagination?”

  The wiry scout turned on him, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Laugh all you want, but I’m telling you—I saw that light the night before last. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen. There’s not a Luxmancer alive that could have made such a spectacle. And now look!”

  At that, the taller scout snorted. “Shut it,” he said, his tone turning lecherous, “your fat tongue has us out here chasing tall tales while everyone else is enjoying the spoils of the last raid. Did you see that blonde? The one with the braid? I had plans for her, but instead I’m looking at trees of a funny color. I should—”

  “Shut up,” the wiry scout hissed, cutting him off. His voice had grown urgent, his gaze fixed on the Ladysmith side of the Blacklight Zone. “We’re not alone.”

  Logan’s grip on his rifle tightened as the wiry scout’s head swiveled in his direction. For a moment, Logan thought he’d been spotted, but the man’s gaze lingered just beyond him, scanning the unnatural forest with increasing unease.

  “You’re jumpier than a fifteen year old conscript,” the stocky one said, shaking his head. “If there was anything here, it would’ve—”

  The sharp crackle of static burst from the walkie-talkie at Noah’s side, loud and grating in the oppressive silence. All three scouts froze, their heads snapping toward the sound like predators scenting prey.

  “There!” barked the wiry scout, his hand darting to his sword hilt. He pulled the blade free with a steely rasp, stepping forward with purpose.

  Logan didn’t hesitate. The crack of the rifle shattered the stillness, echoing through the trees. The first Vectoran crumpled instantly, his body hitting the forest floor in a lifeless sprawl. Blood streaked his cloak, pooling beneath the black sun emblem emblazoned on his armor.

  The second scout twisted toward the sound, his sword half-drawn. Shock and rage warred on his face as he lunged in Logan’s direction, but the second shot stopped him cold. The bullet ripped into his hip, dropping him with a strangled scream. He writhed in the dirt, clutching at the wound as dark crimson soaked the earth.

  The third scout turned and bolted, his boots pounding against the underbrush as he vanished into the dense line of trees. Logan gritted his teeth, cursing silently. Chasing him wasn’t an option—not yet.

  Rising from his cover, Logan advanced cautiously toward the injured man, his rifle still trained on the prone figure. The scout’s dagger gleamed faintly where it had fallen, and Logan kicked it out of reach, sending it clattering into the underbrush.

  “Don’t try anything,” Logan said, his tone flat and dangerous.

  The Vectoran’s breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, his face pale with pain, but defiance burned in his eyes. “Coward,” he spat, his voice hoarse. “You fight from the shadows like a thief.”

  Logan crouched slightly, his gaze never leaving the man. The rifle’s barrel hovered level with the scout’s head. “You picked the wrong border to cross,” Logan said evenly. “See your friend over there? I hit him in the head with what hit you in the hip, and there’s more where that came from. Drop it.

  The man winced, his hands trembling. He hesitated for a moment before dropping the dagger as he tried in vain to stem the bleeding from his side. Logan kicked the dagger away from him and remained tense, waiting, until the Vectoran finally sagged back, his resistance draining with his strength.

  “Noah, give me the walkie,” Logan said, never taking his eye, or his aim off of the Vectoran. Static hissed faintly from the walkie-talkie as Noah handed it to him. He pressed the button, speaking low and steady into the receiver. “This is Logan. Call Boone and an ambulance. I’ve got a Vectoran.”

  He clicked the device off and turned toward his son. Noah watched the Vectoran cautiously, his eyes wide and his face pale but resolute. Logan’s expression softened as their eyes met.

  “You okay, kiddo?” he asked, his voice gentler now.

  Noah nodded, though his hands fidgeted nervously at his sides. “Yeah, Dad. I’m okay.”

  Logan walked over to Noah, placing a steadying hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy was trembling slightly, but he held his ground, his wide eyes fixed on the injured Vectoran. Logan gave him a brief squeeze, then ruffled his hair in an effort to reassure him.

  “Good,” Logan said. “Now listen. I need you to head back to the truck and grab my First Aid kit. You know where it is, right?”

  “Under the seat,” Noah replied. His gaze flicked back to the Vectoran, his voice quieter. “Is he gonna bleed out?”

  “Not if we get him some help,” Logan said firmly. “Go on, make it quick.”

  Noah hesitated only a moment before nodding and breaking into a run, his strides long and purposeful as he disappeared through the trees. Logan tracked him with his eyes for a second longer, ensuring the boy was clear, before turning back to the injured man.

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  “You Pactless fool,” the Vectoran spat through gritted teeth. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just brought upon yourself?”

  “Sounds to me like you’re the one who doesn’t know what you’ve just stepped into,” Logan replied, his tone calm but edged with steel. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and crouched beside the man, his sharp gaze meeting the Vectoran’s. “I’m not Free Folk. And I’m not from your Pactlands. That light you saw? Didn’t just bring a forest, chum. It brought your worst nightmare.”

  The soldier’s bravado faltered, and Logan caught a flicker of something in his eyes—fear, or perhaps recognition.

  Logan took a closer look at the wound. The bullet had struck high in the man’s hip, hitting bone. Blood seeped steadily from the torn flesh, staining the dirt beneath him. Logan’s mind flashed to a memory: a client from one of his guided hunts had once botched a shot, hitting a buck in the hip. The animal had managed to stagger far enough that Logan had to track it for over half an hour before putting it out of its misery. He hadn’t forgotten the sight of it, sprawled on the forest floor, blood pooled around it.

  He let the silence hang, a tool as sharp as any blade. “You’ve got a choice right now,” Logan said finally. “Probably the most important one you’ll ever make. You’re either going to live, or you’re going to bleed out and die right here. That all depends on how well you answer my questions. Nod if you understand.”

  The Vectoran hesitated, his jaw tightening, but pain and fear won out. He nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hatsch,” the man replied hoarsely. “Varin Hatsch.”

  “Alright, Varin,” Logan said, his tone steady but firm. “How far away is your camp?”

  Varin’s lips pressed together for a moment before he answered. “A day. Southwest.”

  “And how many of your people are there?”

  “Fifty,” Varin said, too quickly.

  Logan cocked his head, his gaze unyielding. “I don’t like liars, Hatsch. Liars make bad choices.”

  Varin groaned, his breath hitching as fresh pain lanced through him. After a long pause, he gritted out, “Just over one hundred and fifty.”

  “And your main camp?” Logan asked, his voice sharper now. “Where is it, and how many are stationed there?”

  “Anastae,” Varin muttered. “Six days by mount. Thousands.”

  Logan’s expression remained unreadable, though the information sent a chill down his spine. “Are there any more of your forces nearby?”

  “I… I don’t know,” Varin admitted, desperation creeping into his voice.

  Logan’s eyes narrowed. “What did I say about making choices?”

  “I don’t know, you fool!” Varin snapped, his frustration flaring despite his injury. “Does a farmer know what the chef is cooking for the feast? There are units spread across the Disputed Lands. I only know about my own!”

  Logan studied him closely, the man’s fear and exasperation lending weight to his words. He believed him. Still, the news wasn’t good. A full day to the nearest camp meant it was at least two days’ march before reinforcements might arrive—longer if the third scout hadn’t reached them yet. Two weeks at most before a response came from Anastae.

  That didn’t leave Ladysmith much time.

  Logan stood, his rifle shifting on his shoulder. “You’ve made better choices than some, Hatsch,” he said. “But don’t think for a second I won’t leave you here if I need to.”

  Varin’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

  Hearing Noah’s approaching footsteps in the distance, Logan glanced toward the sound, his resolve firming. They had work to do—and not much time to do it.

  —

  Andrew Johnson trudged down the road toward the Acute Care Centre, the morning air still thick with the scent of damp earth and smoke. His boots crushed against the loose gravel at the sides of the road with each step, his thoughts heavy with the events of the past few hours.

  Vincent Conti had been a surprise. Not in the way Andrew would have liked. The man was a grease-streaked bastard with a survivalist mindset. His transactional nature grated on Andrew. Even in the middle of a crisis, Conti's first instinct had been to haggle—resources for protection, weapons for amnesty. It was the sort of thinking that would get people killed in the long run.

  But damn if the arsenal he unearthed hadn’t been impressive. Locked away in a buried safe at the back of his property that even Boone hadn’t known was there, it had taken Vincent hours to break into it, cursing the entire time. Apparently he’d been left without access, merely protecting it for “the Club.” It was part of his severance deal, he said. Andrew had dealt with bikers before, and he knew they had a code to their organization. Some could negotiate their way out, but for most, that brotherhood was a life sentence, for better or worse. When the door finally gave, it was like a warlord’s dream come true—enough firearms to equip fifteen men with automatic weapons, stacks of ammunition, even a few military-grade vests and explosive ordinances. A goldmine in that world. They’d taken the arsenal to the evidence lockup at the RCMP detachment, which was serving as their temporary armory and inspected them.

  Andrew had walked away from the stockpile with a grudging respect. Conti might be an opportunist, but he came through.

  That thought lingered as he arrived at the Acute Care Centre. Boone had found him at the high school field earlier, dropping news of the shooting in his usual no-nonsense tone. “Matthews shot a Vectoran. They’re bringing him into town.”

  Andrew’s gut had tightened at that. A captured Vectoran meant information, but the one that got away meant trouble. He’d heard the ambulance in the distance, and so had many of the Halish soldiers he was observing, who seemed unnerved by the sounds. That was an element they could exploit. If the Halish, who were ostensibly on their side, were alarmed or confused, then the Vectorans who definitely were not would as well.

  The Acute Care Centre was unassuming. Andrew understood it used to function as a hospital until the funding got cut after COVID, and now served as an oversized medical clinic. Still, this clinic came equipped with x-ray machines and many other trappings of modern medicine.

  Which might actually matter if they could get the power back on. The only power they had in that world now was what they could squeeze out of their limited fuel reserves, whatever solar power some of the residents might have had, and… magic.

  Magic was power. However, magic was power that, as of yet, they couldn’t control.

  As he approached, his sharp gaze swept the area. Logan Matthews was waiting outside. The hunter pushed up from where he’d been crouched near the entrance, his face lined with exhaustion.

  Andrew didn’t waste time. “What happened?”

  Logan exhaled, scrubbing a hand through his stubble. “I was scouting the Blacklight Zone. Looking for one of those Silven—”

  Andrew grunted. The deer-like creatures had been identified as a potential food source by the Halish Lieutenant, Wicket, the previous night.

  Logan continued. “I came across three Vectoran soldiers. I shot two. One’s dead. One’s here.”

  Andrew’s gaze sharpened. “And the third?”

  Logan hesitated.

  Andrew already knew the answer before Logan muttered, “Got away.”

  Rage curled hot in Andrew’s chest. His voice dropped, low and biting. “You let one go?”

  Logan’s shoulders squared. “I had my son with me.”

  “That’s your excuse?” Andrew snapped. “You put this entire town at risk because you brought a kid into a combat zone?”

  Logan’s jaw clenched. “I know what I did.”

  “Do you?” Andrew took a step closer, eyes burning into the hunter. “Because that bastard is running back to his people right now, telling them exactly what we’ve got. How long do you think before they come looking for payback?”

  Logan bristled. “I had to protect my boy. And he didn’t see shit. Trees, at most.”

  “Trees? He saw your gun. Now they know we’ve got killing instruments they don’t. That means when they come back, they’re going to be on their toes.” Andrew let out a harsh breath. “All because one dumbass needed to bring his kid along with him!”

  The tension between them thickened, but before either could push further, the doors to the centre swung open.

  The door to the Acute Care Centre swung open.

  “If you two insist on acting like idiots, I will sedate you both,” a sharp voice cut in. “I’ve already done it once today—don’t try me.”

  Andrew turned to find a woman standing in the doorway, arms crossed, dark eyes flashing with irritation. She was lean, with sharp cheekbones and dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Blood stained her scrub top, and a tired but unwavering intensity clung to her like a second skin. She didn’t just look pissed—she looked like someone who had been dealing with far too much for far too long.

  She met Andrew’s gaze, seeming to measure him just as he measured her. Then she sighed. “Dr. Elena Varga. Head physician. And currently too damn busy to play referee.”

  Andrew ground his teeth but reined himself in. Logan cast a glance toward the doors, then back at Andrew before shaking his head.

  Elena turned her attention to Andrew. “Your soldier is stable. He’s not going anywhere, but he won’t be walking soon.”

  Andrew nodded. “He doesn’t need to walk. He needs to talk.”

  Elena’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s out for a few hours. He was thrashing, and I’d rather avoid using more sedatives until we can start producing our own.”

  “Fine,” Andrew said. “Then we’ll wake him when he’s ready.”

  Elena didn’t move. “I want one of the Halish Vitamancers to heal him up the rest of the way.”

  “No.” Andrew’s response was immediate.

  Elena narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”

  Andrew crossed his arms. “We don’t need him patched up. That healing is leverage. The more he suffers, the more willing he’ll be to talk.”

  Elena muttered something in Spanish, then took a step toward him, fire in her eyes. “Do you hear yourself? Enemy or not, he’s a human being, and suffering is not a bargaining chip.”

  Andrew studied her, noting the hard set of her shoulders, the way her fingers curled like she wanted to throw a punch. And then he saw it—something beneath the anger.

  “You’ve been in a war zone,” he said, more a statement than a question.

  Elena held his gaze. “I’ve worked in conflict zones. And I refuse to watch this town become one.”

  Andrew saw her in a different light. She wasn’t just some doctor playing catch-up with the crisis. She had lived through hell, same as him.

  Logan chose that moment to speak. “Before he passed out, the Vectoran told me something.”

  Andrew turned, focusing. “What?”

  Logan exhaled. “They have a camp a day away. One hundred and fifty men. Their main force is at a camp six days away. Anastae, he called it.”

  Andrew took that in, piecing together the timeline. “That means we’ve got a window. A small one.”

  Logan nodded. “The one I let go—”

  Andrew cut in. “—is going to bring them down on us.”

  “Dios mío,” Elena swore, rubbing her temples. “What does that mean?”

  Andrew exhaled. “That means we start preparing for a skirmish. The Halish need to know. We need to start reinforcing our positions, setting up choke points.” He looked to the doctor. “Preparing medics.”

  Logan frowned. “And the main camp?”

  Andrew met his gaze. “There’s only one way to handle that.”

  Logan waited.

  Andrew’s voice was cold, certain. “We get ahead of the problem. First step is talking to our new friend there and getting everything we can out of him.” He looked to Doctor Varga. “We need to move him to the lock-up at the detachment. Any sign of magic?”

  Logan shook his head. “I had him dead to rights, if he had it he’d have used it on me,” he said.

  “Still, better to be careful. Might be choosing his moment.”

  “He’s restrained for now,” Varga responded. “We’ll have him moved to the detachment as soon as I can move him without reopening his wounds.” She sighed for a moment. “I’ll need you both to do me a favor,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Try to avoid more corpses,” she said. “We’re already in the double digits due to the anomaly itself. In the coming weeks and months, we’re going to lose hundreds more, and with you men and your fighting, we’re going to be overwhelmed.”

  “Hundreds?” Logan asked.

  “Twenty percent of the people in this town are over sixty-five,” she said, her voice clipped and unwavering. “Most of them rely on medication to keep them alive—blood thinners, insulin, heart medication, dialysis treatments. Some of them are already on borrowed time. Without those medications, without proper care, people are going to start dying in numbers we can’t handle. Even if we somehow secure enough food to keep everyone fed, we don’t have the resources to reproduce the drugs that are the only thing standing between some of our people and a slow, painful death.”

  She folded her arms, her gaze sharp as a scalpel. “There are fifteen bodies downstairs in a makeshift morgue built for less than ten. Casualties from the anomaly, two suicides, three overdoses and that Vectoran soldier you shot in the head. That number is going to keep rising as time goes on, and we’re going to have to start burning the bodies or burying them in mass graves if it continues at this rate, even if we skip the post-mortem work. How popular of a decision do you think that is going to be?”

  The doctor let that sink in for a beat before continuing, her tone like a hammer striking metal. “The longer those corpses sit, the more we risk an outbreak. Cholera. Dysentery. Typhoid. Sepsis from contaminated wounds. If the rats or scavengers get to them? We could see a resurgence of diseases we haven’t had to deal with in a modern medical setting for decades or centuries—plague, leptospirosis, even hemorrhagic fevers if the conditions are right. The dead are dangerous in ways you don’t think about until it’s too late. So for the love of whatever god you believe in, do us all a favor and stop making more of them.”

  Andrew nodded, understanding the weight of her words.

  Elena sighed and walked back into the building, muttering about men and war.

  Andrew stared after her for a moment, then looked back at Logan.

  War was coming.

  And they’d better be ready.