The trees thinned as they crested the ridge.

  Below, stretched across the clearing, was the caravan—wagons and tents clustered loosely together, cookfires burning low, smoke curling up into the early evening sky. Figures moved between the fires, carrying supplies or hammering at a broken wagon wheel. Horses nickered from their ropes.

  For a few heartbeats, no one noticed them.

  Ethan shifted the strap of his dimensional bag, boots dragging through the dirt, exhaustion pulling at his shoulders.

  The Pack moved with him—close enough to shield the tired survivors, loose enough to seem casual.

  Then a voice cut across the clearing. "ETHAN! OH MY GOD, ETHAN!"

  It wasn’t a guard. It was Sam.

  Sam sprinted full-speed across the open ground, scarf flapping wildly behind him, arms wide like he meant to take flight.

  Ethan barely had time to brace before Sam crashed into him, throwing both arms around Ethan’s chest in a full-body hug that nearly knocked him backward.

  "You're alive!" Sam shouted, squeezing so hard Ethan wheezed. "I was so worried!"

  Ethan stiffened, caught between confusion and horror. “We talked once,” he said, voice strangled. “For two minutes.”

  “You remembered!” Sam said brightly. “That was a great conversation!” He declared it with the absolute conviction of someone who had never learned moderation.

  Before Ethan could react, Sam pulled back just enough to cup Ethan’s face between his hands and squish his cheeks together like an overenthusiastic aunt at a family reunion.

  Ethan blinked, frozen. Sam leaned in slightly—too close. Way too close. Then instinct kicked in. Ethan jerked his head back sharply, twisting sideways out of Sam’s grip like someone dodging a live wire.

  “Whoa! Nope. Personal space. Big fan,” Ethan said quickly, putting two firm feet of distance between them.

  Buster rumbled quietly through the bond. “Is this how humans normally greet each other? Because if so, I’ve been doing it wrong for years.”

  Pixie chimed in brightly. “Maybe it’s a mating dance! Like those birds with the fancy feathers who hop around!”

  Sam beamed at him like nothing weird had just happened. “You have to tell me everything!” Sam said, bouncing excitedly. “How many did you fight? Did you use magic? Was it awesome?”

  Ethan stared at him for a moment. Finally, he shook his head slightly. “I need to find Durgan.”

  Sam perked up immediately. “I’ll come with you!”

  “No,” Ethan said quickly, raising a hand to stop him. “You should help the cooks. They probably need another hand.”

  Sam practically vibrated with excitement. “Oh! I can do that! I’m great at stirring stew!”

  Without waiting for more instructions, Sam saluted sharply—actually saluted—and sprinted off toward the cookfires, scarf flapping like a banner.

  Ethan stood there for a long moment, blinking after him. Dust swirled quietly around his boots. The Pack shifted closer without a word.

  Pixie scampered up beside Lyra, tail wagging, nose twitching, still half-bouncing from all the excitement. She watched the way Sam had practically launched himself at Ethan and the way Ethan had peeled himself away like he was dodging a lightning bolt. Pixie tilted her head, thoughtful.

  “That was... intense,” Pixie whispered through the bond. “It was like Sam was Alpha’s mate or something.”

  Moose, sitting steady and silent nearby, responded without even turning his head. “Concerning,” he said dryly.

  Lyra stood stiff and very still. She hadn’t said anything during the exchange. Hadn’t laughed or moved. She barely heard the rest of the Pack chatter through the bond. But two words landed in her ears and lodged there like a splinter.

  Sam. Mate.

  Her tail gave a single twitch before she forced it still. Her hands curled slightly into the fabric of her tunic before she smoothed them back down again, pretending everything was fine.

  Across the camp, Ethan ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. He scanned the camp quickly, his eyes sharp, searching. No sign of Durgan immediately. More tents than he remembered. More wagons. More chaos, now that the survivors were being fed and settled.

  Ethan squared his shoulders and set off into the camp, determined to find Durgan himself instead of waiting for the dwarf to spot him. Behind him, the Pack followed loosely—no command needed. None of them said a word aloud. The bond quieted too, going still and careful. Only the faintest trace of Lyra’s closed-off emotions brushed the edges of Ethan’s awareness, and he pushed it aside, too distracted to focus on it.

  He had a job to finish first. Then he could figure out why everything felt heavier than it should.

  Ethan cut through the wagon lanes, scanning the campfires and tents. He finally spotted Durgan near the lead supply cart, barking sharp orders at two younger guards who were struggling with a lopsided barrel.

  The dwarf was still dressed in battered travel leathers, a thick braid tucked over one shoulder, arms crossed over his chest like he was holding the entire caravan together by stubbornness alone. Ethan made a direct line for him.

  Durgan noticed him approaching but didn’t call out. He just gave a short, rough jerk of his chin—a “come here” motion. Ethan adjusted the strap of his dimensional bag and crossed the last few feet. The Pack stayed behind, giving him space.

  When he reached him, Durgan spoke first—voice low, no nonsense. “Ye pulled it off,” Durgan said. His eyes flicked to the cluster of exhausted survivors being led toward the cookfires. “Whole group. Even Gwenna.”

  Ethan shrugged. “Took a few bruises.”

  “Ye brought ’em back.” Durgan said it flat, like a fact, not a compliment—but there was weight behind it anyway.

  Ethan didn’t respond. Instead, he reached down and unclipped two heavy spatial bags from his belt—the ones they had looted from the slavers’ camp. Still functional. Still heavy with stolen supplies. He held them out.

  “Trade,” Ethan said simply.

  Durgan’s thick eyebrows rose slightly. “For what?”

  Ethan nodded toward the survivors. “Ye help them,” Ethan said. “Food. Shelter. Papers if they need to pass through the city gates. If a bribe’s needed, use these.”

  Durgan stared at the bags, then at Ethan. “Ye know what yer offerin’,” he said carefully.

  “I know,” Ethan said.

  “Mid-tier spatial bags,” Durgan said, almost like he didn’t believe it. “Still holdin’ weight. Ye could retire off two of these.”

  Ethan said nothing. He just kept holdin’ them out.

  Durgan exhaled through his nose—half frustration, half reluctant respect. “Even fools don’t give this much away, lad.”

  “It’s not a gift,” Ethan said, voice steady. “It’s a trade.” He shook the bags slightly, not angrily, just firm. “Them,” Ethan said, jerkin’ his chin toward the survivors, “for these.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Durgan looked at him a long moment. Then he reached out and took the bags, testing the weight, feeling the magic stitched into the straps.

  “This isn’t square,” Durgan muttered. “Not even close.”

  Ethan shrugged. “I’m not askin’ for square.”

  Durgan grunted again—low, rough—but tucked the bags onto his own belt with a practiced motion. He jerked his chin toward the campfires.

  “Mana stones,” Durgan said gruffly. “Decent ones. Been hoarding ’em. You’ll take a few. I’ll feel like I owe you blood otherwise.”

  Ethan shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I’m not asking,” Durgan said, cutting him off. “You wanted fair. You’re getting fair.”

  He turned slightly and barked toward the cookfire lanes. “Sam! Get over here!”

  A familiar scarf bobbed up instantly across the camp. “Coming!” Sam shouted in a sing-songy way, and started jogging toward them.

  Durgan smirked faintly. “I’ll talk to my mana stone guy,” he said, voice low. “Sam’ll bring you the selection later. After you’ve had time to breathe.”

  Ethan exhaled—tired, resigned. “Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?”

  “Ye should,” Durgan said, clapping him once on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. “That’s how ye know it’s fair.”

  Then Durgan turned back to yelling at the guards, already deep in the next crisis.

  Ethan stood there for a moment longer, feeling the weight of everything they’d survived, everything they were still carrying. Then he turned and made his way back toward the quiet spot near the supply wagons, where the Pack waited.

  The night was still young. And it wasn’t finished with him yet.

  Ethan made his way back to the quieter edge of the camp, past the supply wagons and into a patch of open ground near a low-burning cookfire. The Pack had already settled into loose positions around the area.

  Moose sat nearest the treeline, quiet and steady, keeping an eye on the camp’s perimeter. Buster sprawled in the dirt with his legs kicked out to the side, gnawing lazily on something vaguely bread-shaped. Pixie was rolling around near one of the carts, kicking at nothing, tail wagging with leftover energy. Amelia crouched by a shallow bowl of water, watching the ripples with intense focus, occasionally tapping the surface with her paw.

  For a few minutes, Ethan just stood there, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on him. Then he dropped onto a crate near the supply wagons and pulled the dimensional bag into his lap.

  “Poor bag of holding,” he muttered under his breath. “Or... whatever you are.”

  The bag didn’t look like much—just worn leather, stitched seams, a plain clasp—but it pulsed faintly under his hands, alive with magic he didn’t fully understand. You didn’t organize it like a backpack. You didn’t shove items in with your hands. You thought about what you wanted. You pictured it clearly. And the bag obeyed—most of the time.

  Ethan took a slow breath and decided it was as good a time as any to practice. He focused carefully. Bread.

  He plunged a hand into the bag, mentally reaching—searching—and pulled. Something rough and lumpy filled his fingers. He yanked it out. A slightly crushed loaf of bread appeared in his hand. Success.

  Pixie, sprawled nearby, lifted her head and sniffed the air. “Victory loaf,” she declared proudly, tail thumping once.

  Ethan grinned faintly and tossed the bread toward her. Pixie caught it with a snap of her jaws and flopped onto her side, gnawing happily.

  Ethan wiped his hands off and tried again. Blanket roll.

  He pictured it clearly—the rolled canvas, the twine ties, the rough texture. He plunged his hand in, felt something soft and cylindrical, and tugged. The blanket came free, a little dusty but intact.

  Buster lifted his head, sniffed, and gave a low approving rumble. “Blankets are good,” he said through the bond. “More napping potential.”

  Ethan chuckled quietly and tucked the blanket aside. One more try.

  He thought hard. Rope. Standard coil. Thick. Useful.

  He reached in—felt around—and pulled. Something metallic clanged against the edge of the bag. A rusted dagger tumbled out and hit the dirt at his feet with a dull, ugly clank.

  Amelia tilted her head and asked seriously, “Were you trying to get a dagger?”

  Ethan sighed and muttered, “No. I was trying to get a rope.”

  Pixie barked a laugh and flopped onto her back. “Maybe the bag’s just cranky! Try asking it nicely next time!”

  Buster rumbled without lifting his head. “Great. Now he’s negotiating with luggage. We’re doomed.”

  Ethan grumbled under his breath, scooped up the dagger, and tossed it toward the supply cart. It bounced once and landed on its side.

  “Better than pulling out a snake,” Buster commented dryly.

  “Or another stew pot,” Pixie chirped.

  Moose, still perched near the trees, said nothing—but Ethan could feel the faint pulse of quiet amusement through the bond.

  He leaned back on the crate, letting the bag rest in his lap. It wasn’t perfect. It was still messy, still slow. But he was getting better. One item at a time.

  He glanced around at the Pack—at their easy sprawls, their familiar presence—and felt a rare moment of peace settle over him.

  It didn’t last long. Because a familiar voice came bounding toward him, carrying a scarf and way too much energy.

  “There you are!” Sam shouted in a sing-songy way, and started jogging toward them.

  Ethan sighed quietly and straightened from the crate, already bracing himself. Sam skidded to a halt in front of him, scarf flapping wildly behind him like a loose flag. His face lit up with pure, delighted joy—like he’d just been handed a dragon’s hoard and told he could keep it.

  “I found you!” Sam said proudly, as if locating Ethan was some great heroic quest.

  Ethan opened his mouth to respond, but Sam barreled ahead without waiting. “I brought you something!” Sam said brightly, hiding something behind his back.

  Ethan hesitated. “Uh... okay?”

  Sam beamed even wider and thrust a small, slightly crushed blue flower at him. “It reminded me of your eyes!” Sam said happily. “Not your actual eyes! I mean—the color! Not the shape or anything! That would be weird.”

  Ethan blinked at the flower. It was a little wilted, slightly lopsided, clearly picked in a rush. He reached out and took it awkwardly between two fingers. “Thanks,” he said, because there was no graceful way out of it.

  Sam rocked back on his heels, looking extremely pleased with himself. Not sure what else to do with it, Ethan tucked the flower into the side of his belt loop, freeing up his hands.

  Across the camp, Lyra’s head lifted slightly from where she sat near the supply carts, eyes flickering toward them. Ethan didn’t notice. He was too busy trying not to visibly recoil as Sam stepped closer again—close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

  “Also!” Sam said brightly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Durgan said to show you the mana stones! I got permission and everything!”

  Ethan nodded slowly, adjusting his stance slightly to create more space between them. Sam either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He bounced once in place, then spun on his heel and beckoned Ethan to follow.

  “Come on! They’re this way! I set them up real nice!”

  Ethan sighed internally and followed. Pixie, lounging nearby, raised her head just enough to watch them go. Buster rumbled quietly in amusement but said nothing. Moose merely flicked an ear.

  Sam led Ethan to a covered cart tucked near the back edge of the camp. A canvas tarp had been pulled halfway aside to reveal a neat row of polished stones laid out on a folded blanket. Sam turned dramatically, sweeping his arm across the display like a magician revealing his grand finale.

  “Ta-da!” he said proudly.

  Ethan crouched beside the display, scanning the stones. Small, polished, faintly glowing—but no labels, no markings to explain what any of them actually did. He frowned slightly.

  “What do the colors mean?” Ethan asked.

  Sam perked up immediately, thrilled to explain. “Oh! So basic stuff: red’s usually fire, blue’s water, green’s earth, yellow’s air. White’s healing or light. Gray’s grounding, maybe shields? I think?”

  He tapped a few stones with his finger. “There’s more too! Purple’s mind magic, black’s death magic—but we don’t mess with that. Orange is energy boosting, teal can be illusions, pink’s... um, love spells? I think?”

  “Right,” Ethan said quickly, cutting him off before he could get any deeper into the color wheel. “Basics are fine.”

  He looked over the stones again, focusing. Some pulsed bright and steady—fully charged. Others were dimmer—flickering low. But as Ethan examined them more closely, he realized something important. Even the low-light stones were solid—no cracks, no signs of mana rot. They weren’t dry stones—they were good stones, just drained.

  He tapped a knuckle lightly against a pale blue-gray stone. “I’ll take the ones that are low.”

  Sam blinked. “Really?”

  “Really,” Ethan said. “Better if you keep the fresh ones for emergencies. I can work with these.”

  Sam looked like he might actually cry from admiration. “You’re so smart,” he whispered reverently.

  Ethan pointed quickly, identifying each one in turn. A pale blue-gray stone—wind magic. A bright yellow-silver one—lightning. And a deep green stone, steady and dense—earth.

  Sam bundled them carefully into a small pouch and handed it over like it was sacred. As he handed the pouch over, he added brightly, “That green one’s special! Earth stones are awesome. You can, like, compact dirt, make bricks, patch broken walls... little stuff like that! Great for camp repairs!”

  Ethan nodded once and tucked the pouch of stones into his belt, satisfied.

  Sam bounced once. “I can come back with you!” he offered eagerly.

  Ethan blinked slowly. Hard. “No,” Ethan said, raising a hand. “You should help with the stew.”

  Sam lit up immediately. “I’m great at stirring stew!”

  Without another word, he saluted sharply—again—and darted back toward the cookfires.

  Ethan shook his head slowly and muttered, “I can’t believe that worked twice.”