The peace of the high country lasted exactly one day.

  They'd found shelter in a stand of twisted pines, the trees stunted by altitude and wind, their branches forming a canopy that broke up the sky. The ground was soft with needles, holding none of the tracks that betrayed passage on bare rock. It was the kind of place Dorn would have chosen to rest, to heal, to disappear.

  He should have known better.

  Kestrel found them at dusk. She materialized from the shadows between trees, her scales shifting from pine bark to dirt as she moved, but something was wrong. Her breathing was too fast—the thin air burning through lungs built for lower elevations. Her movements were jerky, not the fluid economy of a scout but the panicked twitching of prey.

  "They're here," she said.

  Dorn was on his feet before the words finished. His shoulder screamed. He ignored it.

  "Where?"

  "Below the ridge. Half a mile back." She swallowed, her throat working. "Moving slow. Moving quiet. It's Silus. Alone."

  Vex appeared at Dorn's side, her scarred muzzle tight with tension. "Alone? Why would he come alone?"

  "Because he wants redemption." Dorn's voice was flat. "He failed at the canyon. Let us escape. The Preacher doesn't forgive failure."

  Cricket was already moving, gathering the wounded, counting heads. The squirrels helped the raccoon to his feet. The pronghorn yearling stood apart, watching the darkness with eyes that had seen too much.

  "We need to run," Cricket said. "Now."

  "No." Dorn looked at Kestrel. "He's not following the group. He's following you."

  Kestrel's eyes widened. Her scales flickered—fear, a rare display of emotion she couldn't hide. "Me?"

  "You were the last one on the ridge. The last one he saw before we disappeared. He knows you're the scout. If he catches you, he'll make you talk."

  "I didn't leave a trail. I was careful."

  "Careful isn't enough against someone who wants to die trying." Dorn turned to Vex. "Take them north. Follow the ridgeline. Don't stop until you reach the tree line."

  Vex grabbed his arm. Her grip was iron. "You're going back."

  "Someone has to slow him down."

  "You're wounded. You can barely stand."

  Dorn pulled free. His legs held. Barely. "Then I'll fight from the ground."

  He didn't wait for her response. He was already moving, slipping between the trees, heading back down the slope toward the hunter in the dark.

  Behind him, Kestrel followed.

  "I said stay with the group."

  "I'm the reason he's here." Kestrel's voice was quiet but certain. Her scales had settled into the mottled grey of twilight, making her almost invisible against the rocks. "If I'm not there, he'll know something's wrong."

  Dorn wanted to argue. Didn't have time. He kept moving, reading the terrain ahead, searching for sign.

  The high mesa was brutal country. The air came in thin gasps that left his lungs burning after twenty steps. The rock was jagged, volcanic, every footfall a risk of sliding or snapping or echoing off the stone walls. A wrong move would carry for miles.

  He moved anyway. Quiet as he could. Quiet as his wounded body would allow.

  There. A broken twig. A scrape of claw on stone. The faint, greasy smell of rifle oil and matted fur.

  Silus was close.

  Dorn dropped to his belly, crawled to the edge of a rock outcropping, and looked down.

  The coyote moved through the trees below like a ghost—a broken ghost, his face a ruin of scars and fresh wounds. One eye was swollen shut, the other half-lidded, scanning the ground with the intensity of something that had forgotten how to blink. Claw marks raked across his muzzle—Kestrel's work, from the fight at the canyon. He carried a rifle across his back and a knife in his paw, the blade catching the last light.

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  He was following something. Not tracks—Kestrel had been too careful for that. Something else. A smear of scent on a rock. A displaced pebble. The ghost of passage that only a hunter could read.

  Dorn had to respect it. Silus was a coward and a bully, but he was also a woodsman. He'd found them.

  And he was heading straight for where the survivors waited.

  Dorn looked at Kestrel. "Circle wide. Get behind him. When I move, make noise—anything to distract."

  Kestrel nodded. Her scales rippled, and she melted into the stone.

  Dorn waited. His Lead-Sight eye itched, flickered, went dark. The bunker had damaged it—too much feedback, too much signal. He was half-blind in more ways than one.

  He'd have to rely on what his mother gave him. Ears. Nose. Instinct.

  Silus moved closer. Twenty feet. Fifteen.

  Then he stopped.

  The coyote stood motionless, his head cocked, his single eye scanning the shadows. The knife hung loose in his grip. The rifle was a dark shape across his back.

  "I know you're there," he said. His voice was a rasp, ruined by screaming. "I can smell you, wildcat. Blood and pine and fear."

  Dorn didn't move. Didn't breathe.

  "You think you're clever. Running into the high country. Hiding in the trees." Silus took a step forward. "But the Preacher knows these mountains. He knows where prey runs when it's scared. And he sent me to bring you back."

  Another step. Closer. Too close.

  "I'm going to cut your tendons first." Silus's voice dropped to a whisper. "Then I'm going to drag you down the mountain by your tail. The Preacher wants you alive, but he didn't say anything about whole."

  He lunged.

  Dorn was ready. He rolled out of the crevice, came up with claws extended, caught Silus across the chest. The coyote screamed—not in pain, in fury—and swung the knife wild. It opened a line across Dorn's good shoulder, shallow but hot.

  They crashed to the ground together.

  The fight was ugly. There was no grace, no skill, just two animals trying to kill each other with whatever they had left. Silus's knife found Dorn's side. Dorn's claws found Silus's throat—not deep enough, not fatal. They rolled down the slope, bouncing off rocks, tearing through scrub, leaving a trail of blood and fur.

  Dorn's shoulder gave out. His arm went numb. Silus was on top of him, the knife raised, his single eye blazing with triumph.

  "Die," Silus snarled.

  The knife started down.

  Then Silus's head snapped sideways. A rock—small, sharp—had caught him flush on the scarred side of his face. He screamed, clawed at his ruined eye, and Dorn used the moment to move.

  He rolled, came up on his knees, found his feet. Silus was already recovering, blood streaming down his face, the knife still in his paw.

  "You," he hissed. "I'll kill you. I'll kill you slow."

  Dorn didn't answer. He was watching Silus's feet, watching his weight, watching for the tell that would let him end this.

  Silus charged.

  Dorn sidestepped. Brought his claws across the coyote's neck—deep this time, deep enough. Silus stumbled, gurgled, went down on one knee. The knife fell from his grip.

  He looked up at Dorn with his one good eye. For a moment, the hatred was gone. There was only confusion. Fear. The look of something that hadn't believed it could die.

  "The Preacher," he rasped. "He'll... he'll..."

  "I know." Dorn stood over him. "He'll come. But you won't be there."

  Silus opened his mouth to speak. Blood came out instead. He fell forward, face-first into the dirt, and didn't move.

  Dorn stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving, his body screaming. The thin air burned in his lungs. The blood ran down his side, his shoulder, his leg.

  Kestrel appeared beside him. Her scales were normal now—just a lizard, just a scout, just a survivor.

  "Is he dead?"

  Dorn looked at the body. At the stillness. At the pool of blood spreading beneath it.

  "Yeah," he said. "He's dead."

  Kestrel stared at the corpse. "We need to move. The Preacher will feel this. Somehow. He'll know."

  Dorn nodded. Turned away from the body. Started the long climb back toward the survivors.

  Behind him, the coyote lay still, his one good eye open to the stars.

  Vex found them halfway up the slope.

  She didn't speak. Just looked at Dorn's wounds, at the blood, at the exhaustion in his eyes. Then she pulled his good arm over her shoulder and helped him walk.

  "The others?" Dorn asked.

  "Waiting. Cricket held them." Her voice was tight. "You look like hell."

  "Feel like it."

  She almost smiled. "Good. You earned it."

  They climbed together, badger and wildcat, leaving the body behind.

  The survivors gathered in the trees as dawn broke over the mountains.

  Dorn sat with his back to a pine, watching the sky lighten. His body was a map of wounds—shoulder, side, ribs, the new cut on his arm. Kestrel had bandaged what she could with moss and torn cloth. The rest would have to heal on their own.

  Vex sat beside him. The box sat between them, its hum a constant presence.

  "Silus is dead," she said. Not a question.

  "Yeah."

  "That's going to make the Preacher angry."

  Dorn looked at her. "He was already angry. Now he's just got one less hunter to send."

  Vex nodded slowly. "What next?"

  Dorn looked north, toward the peaks, toward the Dry Settlements, toward whatever waited in the high country.

  "We keep moving," he said. "We find the mountain herds. We find someone who knows what's in that box." He looked at the lock, still glowing faintly, still failing. "And we hope we get there before it opens on its own."

  Vex followed his gaze. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

  Then the yearling appeared at Dorn's side. The pronghorn stood silently, his dark eyes fixed on the mountains ahead.

  "I know the way," he said.

  It was the first time Dorn had heard him speak. The voice was young, thin, but steady.

  "The high pastures. My herd's summer range. There's a pass—hidden. The Purists don't know it." He looked at Dorn. "I can take you."

  Dorn studied him. The yearling's eyes were still haunted, still grieving, but something else was there now. Purpose. Direction.

  "Lead," Dorn said.

  The yearling nodded. Turned. Started walking.

  The survivors followed. One by one, they rose and moved into the new day.

  Dorn walked at the back, watching their backs, reading the trail behind them for any sign of pursuit.

  The mountains rose ahead, cold and indifferent.

  And somewhere behind them, the Preacher knelt beside Silus's body and began to plan.