The Preacher stood at the edge of the box canyon and watched his world burn.

  Not literally—the fuel-drum fire had been contained hours ago, smothered under tons of sand hauled by exhausted coyotes. But the damage was done. The winch was dead. The prisoners were gone. And somewhere in the darkness beyond the canyon rim, a wildcat was running with blood on his fur and answers in his head.

  Silus found him at dawn. The coyote's face was a ruin—claw marks across his muzzle, one eye swollen shut, the other weeping fluid. He moved like something that had forgotten how to walk without pain.

  "They're gone," Silus said. His voice was flat, emptied of its usual sneer. "Trackers lost the trail at the rim. The rocks just... stopped holding scent."

  The Preacher didn't turn. His silver eyes were fixed on the eastern horizon, where the sun was beginning to paint the sky in shades of orange and red.

  "How many?"

  "Twelve made it out. Maybe thirteen. The rest are dead or still in the pen."

  "Twelve." The Preacher tasted the number. "Out of twenty-three."

  Silus flinched. "The explosion—"

  "Was a distraction." The Preacher's voice was calm, almost gentle. "The wildcat knew what he was doing. He didn't come to fight. He came to break."

  He turned, and Silus took an involuntary step backward. The magnet swung from the Preacher's paw, its chain whispering against the stone.

  "The box," the Preacher said. "Did they take it?"

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  Silus nodded. Swallowed. "Flint had it. The lock was glowing."

  The Preacher closed his eyes. For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he smiled.

  "Good," he said. "That's good."

  Silus stared. "Good? Preacher, they have the Source—"

  "They have a box with a failing lock." The Preacher opened his eyes. "The Source-Prime isn't in that box. It never was. That box is just a key. A key that's been getting hotter, more active, more visible with every passing day."

  He looked toward the eastern horizon, toward the mountains where the survivors were running.

  "The wildcat thinks he's saved them. He doesn't realize he's just made them easier to track." The Preacher's smile widened. "The lock is failing. The signal is growing. And now they're carrying it into country where there's nowhere to hide."

  He raised the magnet. Let it swing. Watched the metal fragments on the ground dance in response.

  "Send word to the other pens," he said. "Pull the guards. Bring everyone back. We're going hunting."

  Silus hesitated. "All of them? But the excavations—"

  "Will wait." The Preacher's voice hardened. "The Source-Prime is waking. When it does, I need to be there. And the only way to be there is to follow the key."

  He looked at Silus—really looked, his silver eyes boring into the coyote's remaining good eye.

  "You failed me," he said. "The wildcat got past you. The prisoners escaped. The box is gone."

  Silus opened his mouth. Closed it. Said nothing.

  The Preacher stepped closer. The magnet swung between them.

  "But failure can be redeemed," he said. "Find them. Follow the signal. And when you catch them—when you catch the wildcat—bring him to me alive."

  Silus nodded. "Alive. Yes, Preacher."

  "Alive." The Preacher's smile returned. "I want to preach to him. I want him to understand what he's done. I want him to see the truth before I let the land take him back."

  He turned away, facing the rising sun.

  "Go," he said. "The hunt is yours. Don't come back without him."

  Silus fled.

  The Preacher stood alone at the canyon's edge, the magnet swinging gently in the dawn light. Below, the camp stirred—guards organizing, supplies gathering, the machinery of pursuit grinding into motion.

  He thought about the wildcat. About the silver-gray fur, the scarred eye, the way he'd moved through the shadows like they were part of him.

  "Dorn," he murmured. "That's your name."

  The wind carried the word away.

  "I'm going to enjoy saving you."