The tunnels spat them out into the desert barrens — an endless stretch of cracked, salt-scabbed earth and scorched sand that stretched to every horizon. The rising sun cast no warmth, only a bone-colored light that turned the land to bleached ash. Even the air hung thick with brine and dry heat, a stifling, dead weight on the chest.

  ProlixalParagon stumbled out first, lungs burning, silver fur matted with sweat and grit. The black-marble whorls along his arms shimmered faintly in the dawn. Behind him, the rest of the Vermillion Troupe emerged from the narrow throat of stone — weary and dust-choked, but alive.

  Kaelthari followed, mulberry scales dulled by salt and blood, bardiche clutched in both hands. The delicate chains strung between her spiraled markhor horns jingled softly with each step, their charms and crystals caked in grime.

  Marx came limping after, his olive skin streaked with dust, twin woodcarving knives drawn, and his mana-powered prosthetic hissing softly as it adjusted to the uneven ground.

  Ralyria appeared a moment later, metal body gleaming dully in the harsh light, spear gripped firm as the hum of her mana core filled the air around her.

  And then, the rest of the Troupe.

  Twenty goblins with hard eyes and salt-rimmed faces. Fifty or so Fennicians, their fur plastered with dust and sweat, arms wrapped tight around children or guiding kin too weak to walk unaided. They emerged in small, scattered clusters — not a line, but a gathering of family.

  They had escaped. But barely.

  ProlixalParagon turned toward Lyra, who leaned on her staff nearby, her silver fur dulled with sweat and her golden eyes sharp and exhausted.

  “The wagons,” he rasped. “We go back for them.”

  Lyra didn’t hesitate. “We’re not leaving them behind. They’re not carts — they’re homes.”

  Kaelthari nodded. “And everything worth surviving for’s strapped inside ‘em.”

  “No question,” Marx grunted. “But the Hollow’s breath is at our backs. We can’t risk everyone.”

  Lyra gathered them quickly — ProlixalParagon, Kaelthari, Marx, Ralyria, and a few of the older Troupe runners. There was no need for debate; every soul among them knew they wouldn’t last long in the barrens without the vardos. No one in the Troupe could live without their wagons. They weren’t just tools. They were history. Lineage. Lives.

  “They’re where we left them,” one of the goblins rasped, his voice hoarse. “South ridge, near that salt-dried arroyo.”

  “Close,” ProlixalParagon murmured. “Far enough to matter. But we go.”

  Lyra pointed to the north-east rise. “The rest of you move for those hills. There’s quarry caves in the ridge wall. We reach them by dusk, or we bury people in salt.”

  A murmur of grim assent.

  Ralyria lifted her spear. “I’ll stay with the main group. Keep them moving.”

  Kaelthari flexed her claws around the haft of her bardiche. “I go with the wagons.”

  Marx spat dust. “Same.”

  ProlixalParagon gripped his dagger tighter. “We get them. We bring them back.”

  The plan was swift and simple. The bulk of the Troupe — the mothers, the younglings, the elders, and those too injured to fight — would push east for the sheltering hills. ProlixalParagon, Marx, Kaelthari, and a dozen of the hardier goblins and Fennicians would cut back for the wagons, recover what was theirs, and rejoin the others before duskfall.

  Stolen story; please report.

  No one hesitated. Not once.

  The wagons were not burdens. They were life.

  As the two groups split, ProlixalParagon spared one last glance back at the buried tunnel entrance. Dust still hung in the air. The Hollow wasn’t finished — but it would have to hunt another day.

  He pulled a caltrop from his pouch and palmed it as they started moving, heading south across the blistered flats. His sharp gaze swept the land ahead. The wagons waited. Their homes. Their history.

  And nothing born of salt, steel, or dark magic would keep them from it.

  The desert barrens stretched before them, a brittle wasteland of bleached earth and scattered salt-crust veins. The horizon shimmered under the creeping sun, the light harsh and sickly, casting long, wavering shadows across the cracked flats.

  ProlixalParagon moved at the head of the small retrieval party, the weight of the salt-rimed dagger in his grip a steady reassurance. The black-marble whorls in his silver fur gleamed faintly beneath the high sun, though sweat and dust dulled the sheen. Every breath pulled dry heat into his lungs, thick with brine.

  Beside him, Kaelthari strode in long, powerful steps, her mulberry scales dulled by the grime of the Hollow and her bardiche balanced across her broad shoulders. The chains and charms strung between her markhor horns chimed softly in the breeze, each delicate clink a quiet counterpoint to the barren silence.

  Marx limped behind them, the hiss-click of his mana prosthetic steady and familiar now. The big human’s brow was furrowed, though his single hazel eye gleamed with grim focus. A handful of goblins and wiry Fennician scouts fanned out behind, keeping wary watch on the horizon.

  They made good time. No signs of Revenants, no mercenaries trailing them. Just the empty barrens and the steady, hammering sun.

  And then, at the crest of a low salt rise, ProlixalParagon saw them.

  The wagons.

  A ragged line of vardos huddled near the dry bed of an old arroyo, half-hidden by sun-bleached rock outcroppings. Their once-bright paint was dulled by dust, and the colored cloth hangings hung limp and salt-stiff, but they were whole.

  ProlixalParagon felt a sharp ache in his chest — an unfamiliar, raw wave of something like gratitude.

  They hadn’t been touched.

  Kaelthari let out a low, approving grunt. “Still standing.”

  “Gods,” one of the goblins whispered behind them. “Didn’t think we’d see them again.”

  ProlixalParagon led the way down, ears twitching at every sound, every gust of wind. He half-expected to find fresh tracks, a saboteur’s mark — but the dust lay undisturbed. The vardos stood as they had when the Troupe fled the Hollow’s reach.

  He placed a hand on the worn wood of Lyra’s vardo, feeling the warmth of the sun-soaked timber beneath his palm.

  “Let’s move them,” he said. “Quick and quiet.”

  The Troupe veterans fell into the familiar routine without a word. Hitching the oxen — tired and thirsty, but alive — and checking the wheels and axles. ProlixalParagon double-checked the salt stores in each vardo’s cache, his sharp eyes lingering on the delicate hinges of the mana-shielded carts.

  They were ready to move in less than an hour.

  No pursuit. No dark shapes on the horizon.

  Just the endless wasteland and the oppressive weight of silence.

  As the sun sagged toward late afternoon, the retrieval party crested the rise to the northeast where the barrens gave way to jagged stone bluffs and long-forgotten quarry caves.

  The main body of the Vermillion Troupe waited there — a ragged cluster of weary Fennicians and goblins sheltered in the shadow of the rocks. The relief was palpable the moment they saw the vardos.

  Kits squealed in joy. Tired hands gripped the rails of wagons as they rolled back into the fold.

  Lyra stood at the forefront, her silver fur dulled by dust but her eyes sharp as ever. She met ProlixalParagon’s gaze, and though her face remained its usual unreadable mask, a flicker of relief passed through her expression.

  “You brought them,” she said softly.

  “Wouldn’t leave them,” ProlixalParagon replied, voice rough.

  Kaelthari barked a satisfied grunt. Marx just grinned through the salt dust.

  The Troupe moved quickly, circling the wagons and making a rough camp beneath the rise. The quarry caves loomed beyond, empty but offering some shelter from the night winds.

  As dusk painted the barrens in streaks of rust and shadow, ProlixalParagon sat by the nearest vardo, the scent of old wood and dust thick in his nose, and let his shoulders sag for the first time since the Hollow.

  The road ahead was still long. Still dangerous.

  But the Troupe was together.

  And that meant everything.