Dawn bled into morning, and Dorn waited.

  The winch never stopped. Thump. Thump. Thump. It had become a thing living inside his skull, a second heartbeat that drowned out the steady rhythm of his own pulse. He'd stopped noticing it hours ago, the way you stop noticing the smell of your own fur. But it was there—a mechanical countdown, drilling into the bedrock and his sanity alike.

  He watched the camp through the prismatic haze of the silicon dust. The air was thick today, the dust catching the low sun and turning the canyon into a kaleidoscope of unnatural colors—bruised purples and oily greens that shimmered over the rusted ruins. Rainbows bled from the edges of the dead towers, refracted through particles so fine they coated his lungs with every breath. It was beautiful in a way that made his chest ache.

  The prisoners emerged for their midday slop. A line of broken shadows shuffling through the iridescent fog, chains clinking, heads down. Dorn's gaze lingered on the pronghorn doe. She didn't lift her head when the coyote guard kicked her to move faster. Her eyes were open but seeing nothing—great dark pools that reflected the bruised sky without focus. She was already gone; her body just hadn't realized it yet.

  Beside her, the yearling stayed close, pressing against her flank. Still alive. Still fighting. For now.

  Dorn's claws scored the rock beneath him.

  Focus, he told himself. The plan is stupid. The plan is death.

  But the lock was failing, and the thump wouldn't stop.

  He looked at the pen. Found Vex. She was standing at the fence, watching the chaos at the winch with an intensity that bordered on hunger. Even in chains, even broken, she was waiting. Watching. Ready.

  Flint was beside her, the box between them. His paw rested on its surface, and even from this distance, Dorn could see the tension in his shoulders. The lock was failing. They were running out of time.

  Thump.

  Dorn moved.

  He descended the canyon wall with a predator's economy, belly pressed so tight to the stone he could feel the vibrations of the winch in his ribs. The silicon haze worked for him, blurring his silhouette, softening his edges until he was just another flicker in the distorted light. But it was a double-edged sword. The grit got into his eyes, making them water, and every time he shifted his weight, he risked dislodging a pebble that would sound like a gunshot in the canyon's echo.

  Fifty feet down. A ledge. He paused, pressed himself flat, listened.

  Thump. The sound vibrated through the rock. Thump. The guards below were focused on the prisoners, on the winch, on anything but the walls. Thump. He moved again.

  Thirty feet. The silicon haze thickened here, pooling in the shadows. Dorn's breath came in short, controlled pulls, each lungful sharp with grit. He could taste the old world on his tongue—metal and dust and something ancient, something that had been sleeping for centuries and was starting to wake.

  Twenty feet. He reached a rusted outcropping—the remains of an old fire escape, bolted to the canyon wall when this was still a working quarry. The metal groaned under his weight, a low whine that seemed deafening in the silence between thumps.

  He froze.

  Below him, less than twenty feet away, a coyote scout stood guard.

  The scout wasn't looking with his eyes. He was adjusting a pair of Lead-Sight goggles, the lenses glowing faint blue in the haze. Dorn watched as the coyote raised them to his face, scanned the canyon wall, scanned the rocks, scanned—

  Don't move. Don't breathe.

  The coyote grunted, tapping the side of the goggles. "Dust is thick today," he muttered to himself. "Sensors are ghosting. Can't see a damn thing."

  Dorn held himself perfectly still. The rocks around him were radiating the morning's warmth, baking in the sun that had climbed over the canyon rim. Through the Lead-Sight, that warmth would be a blur—a thermal wall of heat signatures masking anything small enough to hide behind them.

  The coyote turned, spat, and moved on, cursing the tech.

  Dorn waited until the sound of his paws faded, then continued his descent.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  He landed in the shadow of a rusted fuel drum, the stench of ancient oil and ozone filling his nose. The winch platform loomed ahead, a rickety construction of salvaged steel and desperation. The engine was a beast of iron and steam, shaking the very platform it sat upon.

  Thump. The massive belt—a loop of reinforced rubberized fabric—whirled past his face.

  Thump. The gears groaned, hungry for more earth to chew.

  Thump. The sound was physical here, a pressure against his chest.

  Dorn pressed himself against the fuel drum and studied the mechanism. The belt rotated at a steady pace, carrying the engine's power to the drum that hauled the cable. If he could stop that belt—just for a few minutes—the confusion might be enough.

  He pulled the synthetic cord from his pack. It was cold and slick in his paw, salvaged from a snare he'd never get back to. Strong enough to hold a wildcat's weight. Strong enough to jam a gear.

  He didn't just throw it. He waited.

  Thump. The belt rotated past him.

  Thump. He measured its speed, its rhythm.

  Thump. The engine coughed—a momentary stumble in its rhythm, the moment of greatest torque when the gears strained against the load.

  Now.

  He fed the cord into the intake. The belt grabbed it with a violent jerk, dragging it into the primary gear. For a half-second, the engine tried to fight. The metal screamed—a high, piercing wail of friction that cut through the canyon like a blade.

  Then, with a sound like a bone snapping, the winch seized.

  The silence that followed was deafening.

  The thump was gone. The heartbeat had stopped.

  Dorn didn't wait to see the guards' reactions. He was already moving, melting into the shadows, his body running on instinct while his mind raced ahead. Behind him, chaos erupted—shouts, the clatter of rifles, the frantic barking of orders.

  "The belt snapped! Check the gears!"

  "Where's Silus?"

  "Get the Preacher!"

  Silus's voice rose above the rest, sharp and jagged. "Find out what happened! Move, you idiots!"

  Dorn circled wide, keeping to the shadows, using the noise as cover. The guards were running in every direction, searching for a saboteur who was already gone. The prisoners were pressed against the fence, watching with the hollow hope of things that had forgotten how to hope.

  He reached the north corner of the pen—the shadowed pocket where the rockslide met the chain-link. Slipped into the wedge of darkness. Pressed himself against the stone.

  Through the fence, he could see them. See her.

  Vex was standing at the fence, her scarred muzzle pressed to the metal. She'd been waiting. She'd known.

  "Vex."

  She didn't jump. Her eyes found his in the dark, and something flickered in them—relief, maybe, or just the acknowledgment of a thing she'd hoped for but hadn't dared to believe.

  "You," she breathed. "You came back."

  Dorn didn't answer. He was already working on the fence, testing the chain-link, finding the weak point where a rock from the slide had bent the bottom rail. It was a small gap—too narrow for a badger, but enough for a message.

  "Winch is dead," he said, his voice a low rasp. "You have minutes before they find the cord."

  "Flint's on it." Vex jerked her head toward the box. "The lock... it's hot, Dorn. It's vibrating. Whatever is inside is waking up."

  Dorn looked at the box. Even through the fence, he could feel it—a faint hum, a wrongness in the air. The burned-insulation smell was stronger here, layered over everything. His Lead-Sight eye itched.

  He pulled the iron knife from his belt. The handle was warm from his grip, the blade dark with age. He slid it through the gap, metal clinking against rock.

  "For the lock," he said. "If Flint can't open it. Or for Silus. Whichever comes first."

  Vex's paw closed over the handle. Her eyes met his again. "And you?"

  "I'll be the noise." Dorn looked toward the fuel drums, toward the chaos still spreading through the camp. "When the sun hits the top of the bunker, move for this corner. Don't look back. Don't wait for me. Just move."

  Vex nodded once. No questions. No arguments. Just the hard certainty of someone who'd been waiting for this moment.

  "Get to the high ground," Dorn said. "Kestrel's up there. She'll find you."

  He didn't wait for her thanks. He melted back into the shadows, his mind already calculating the next move. The fuel drums. A spark. Something louder than a snapped belt.

  Behind him, the camp seethed.

  He climbed back toward his ledge, finding handholds in the dark, his heart hammering against his ribs. The distraction had worked, but the air in the canyon had changed. Something was wrong. Something was watching.

  He reached the overhang and looked down.

  The Preacher was standing by the seized engine, his silver eyes scanning the heights. He wasn't looking at the broken gears. He wasn't looking at the guards scrambling to fix the winch. He was looking at the shadows. Looking at the walls. Looking at the places where a wildcat might hide.

  The magnet swung from his paw, its chain moving in a slow, hypnotic circle. Clink. Clink. Clink. A new rhythm. A new countdown.

  Dorn pressed himself into the deepest part of the rock, the knife-less weight of his belt feeling suddenly very light.

  The Preacher raised his head. His silver eyes swept across the canyon wall, past Dorn's ledge, back again.

  "Someone is in my house," he said.

  His voice carried in the still air—calm, almost conversational, and terrifyingly clear. The guards stopped moving. The prisoners went still. Everything in the canyon held its breath.

  "Someone who thinks they can stop the clock."

  The Preacher smiled. It was not a comforting expression.

  "Come out, little cat. Let me show you what happens to things that break what's mine."

  Dorn didn't move. Didn't breathe. He was stone. He was shadow. He was nothing.

  The Preacher waited. The magnet swung. Clink. Clink. Clink.

  Then, slowly, he turned away. Walked back toward his tent. Disappeared into the canvas.

  The guards resumed their chaos. The prisoners slumped against the fence. The canyon breathed again.

  Dorn let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. His claws were embedded in the rock beneath him, sunk so deep he'd have to pry them loose.

  He looked at the sky. The sun was climbing. Hours yet until it hit the bunker's top.

  Hours of waiting. Hours of watching. Hours of knowing that the Preacher knew he was here.

  The hunt was no longer one-sided.