The east gate of Camp Tile was little more than a gap in the wooden palisade — two weathered posts with a rope across them that someone had tied loosely.
Rorik was already there when Gray, Tamemoto, and Gauis arrived, standing beside a small cart loaded with spare axle beams, tools, and a few sealed crates.
Three others waited with him.
Rorik nodded once as they approached. “Right on time. Good.”
He was tall and broad, sun-baked skin marked with old scars, armor patched but well-maintained.
His eyes flicked over the two boys, then settled on Gauis.
“Seven of us total,” Rorik said. “Four from my crew, three of you. We move fast, stay quiet, deliver the parts. Pay’s good. That’s the only thing that matters.”
Gauis gave a single nod. “Agreed.”
Rorik gestured to the three men behind him.
“Karg,” he said, pointing to the big Zharathar man with the heavy axe on his shoulder. Karg didn’t speak, just grunted once.
“Vesh,” Rorik continued, nodding to the lean desert-born mercenary with the curved blade. Vesh met their eyes for half a second, then looked away.
“And Dren,” Rorik finished, indicating a quieter man with a short bow slung across his back and a hooded cloak.
Dren dipped his head slightly — the only one who acknowledged them. Gauis studied each man for a moment, then turned to Gray and Tamemoto.
“Stay close,” he said quietly. “Eyes open. They’re here for coin. So are we. Nothing more.”
Gray nodded once. Tamemoto copied him.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
They left Camp Tile without ceremony. The rope barrier was pulled aside. The cart wheels creaked as Rorik’s team pushed it forward.
The road stretched ahead — dusty, uneven, flanked by low scrub and scattered boulders.
The Tile River curved away to their left, its sound fading as they moved deeper into the badlands.
The first day passed quietly.
Howls drifted from the distance once or twice — low, guttural sounds that made Tamemoto’s grip tighten on his practice blade.
Gray glanced at him.
“Monsters?” Tamemoto asked, voice low.
Gray shrugged. “Maybe. If they come close, we use what’s around us. Rocks. Dust. The cart. Anything.”
Tamemoto swallowed but nodded.
They made camp as night fell, pulling the cart into a shallow dip off the road. A small fire crackled.
Rorik’s team sat on the far side, eating in silence. Gauis sat near Gray and Tamemoto, back against a boulder, knife resting on his knee.
Rorik approached after a while, settling on a rock near their fire.
He chewed on a strip of dried meat, eyes flicking between the three of them.
“Long road,” he said casually. “You three been in Camp Tile long?”
Gauis answered without looking up. “Long enough.”
Rorik smiled thinly. “Family business?”
Gauis didn’t reply.
Rorik’s gaze shifted to Gray. “You two look like you’ve seen a fight or two. The little one’s got that look in his eyes.”
Gray met his gaze steadily. He didn’t speak.
Tamemoto stayed quiet, but his hand rested near his blade.
Rorik chuckled softly. “Relax. Just making conversation. Roads get long. People get curious.”
Gauis’s voice was calm but final. “Conversation isn’t part of the job.”
Rorik raised his hands in mock surrender and returned to his side of the camp.
Gray stared into the fire.
The world felt bigger out here. The stars were clearer away from Camp Tile’s haze.
The badlands were silent except for the occasional distant howl and the crackle of the flames.
Tamemoto leaned closer, voice barely a whisper.
“Gray… do you think we’ll see real monsters out here?”
Gray looked at him. The firelight danced in his younger brother’s eyes — fear mixed with something sharper.
Curiosity.
Hunger.
“Maybe,” Gray said quietly.
“If we do, remember what Gauis taught us. Use everything. Don’t freeze.”
Tamemoto nodded. His small hand tightened around the hilt of his practice blade.
Gauis watched them from across the fire. He didn’t say anything, but the small nod he gave Gray said enough.
The night deepened.
Somewhere in the dark, the world kept turning.
