The clatter of metal against metal echoed through the garage as Vincent worked the wrench against the stubborn bolt of a battered generator. His shop smelled of grease and ozone, mingling with the faint scent of burnt rubber from the tires stacked in the corner. The garage door was open, but even so he held a flashlight between his teeth to cast a scattered, shaky light onto his work. The generator hadn’t been used in years, but if he could get it working again, he could at least enjoy some semblance of modern comforts, at least until he ran out of fuel. His calloused hands paused as the sound of an approaching vehicle reached his ears.

  Pulling the wrench free with a grunt, Vincent straightened, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag. A moment later, an RCMP cruiser rolled to a stop outside, its presence almost laughable in the world Ladysmith had become. Vincent's sharp eyes caught the familiar stocky figure of Boone climbing out, uniform pristine as ever despite its increasing irrelevance. Beside him, another man emerged, his military bearing evident in his squared shoulders and scrutinizing gaze. The scar on his temple was visible even from a distance.

  Vincent muttered under his breath and turned back to the generator, pretending not to notice the approaching men until Boone’s voice broke the quiet.

  “Hi, Tink.”

  Vincent didn’t bother masking his disdain. “Boone,” he replied curtly, his hands continuing their work. “Nice costume. RCMP uniform’s a bold choice for a guy with no detachment left to run.”

  Boone smirked, unfazed. “We’re working on that. Don’t get too comfortable.”

  “Oh, I’m shaking in my boots,” Vincent deadpanned, finally setting the wrench down. His eyes flicked to Boone’s companion. “And who’s this? A friend from the home office?”

  “Sergeant Major Andrew Johnson,” the man said, stepping forward and extending a hand. Vincent noticed his eyes dart briefly to the tattoo on Vincent’s arm that read once a soldier, always a soldier. “Army?”

  “Misspent youth,” Vincent said, shaking the offered hand briefly before turning back to the generator. “Hey, Boone, flip the breaker on that fuse box, would you? Open panel, next to the door.”

  Boone shot a skeptical glance at the box but did as instructed. Vincent yanked the pull cord on the generator, and it roared to life, flooding the dim shop with buzzing fluorescent light. “Let there be light!” he declared with mock grandeur before strolling to a dusty CD player on a nearby shelf. With a press of a button, AC/DC’s “Back in Black” blared to life, shaking the windows with its first electric riff.

  As Vincent lit a cigarette, his smirk deepened. “Alright, gentlemen, what’s this visit really about? Social call, or do you have a more interesting reason to darken my doorway?”

  Boone didn’t waste time. “Ladysmith’s in trouble.”

  Vincent let out a short laugh, exhaling smoke. “When isn’t it? Heard about this army massing out there. Sounds rough. Also sounds like a whole lot of not my problem.”

  Andrew spoke this time, his tone clipped. “If the town falls, it’ll be everyone’s problem.”

  “And your biker buddies won’t be much help,” Boone added, leaning casually against a workbench. “Far as I can tell, you’re the last Hell’s Angel on the planet.”

  Vincent chuckled, low and gravelly. “Two years clean, Boone. I left the club behind. Guess the universe left me behind too.”

  Boone’s expression darkened. “You think I’m stupid, Tink? We both know you don’t just walk away from the Angels. So, let’s cut to the chase. We need guns. Ammo.”

  Vincent leaned back against the generator, crossing his arms. “And you think I have those? Hate to break it to you, but I’ve been keeping my nose clean.”

  Boone’s skeptical glare spoke volumes. “Right.”

  A slow grin spread across Vincent’s face. “What’s in it for me?”

  “Serving the community,” Boone said flatly.

  Vincent barked a laugh, smoke curling from his lips. “Oh, that’s rich. Try again.”

  Boone’s skeptical glare didn’t waver, but Andrew broke the silence. “What do you want?”

  Vincent leaned back against the workbench, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. “Amnesty, for starters. Just because the courts are gone now doesn’t mean they won’t pop back up eventually. Lawyers have a way of surviving the apocalypse.” He grinned. “And beer. And smokes. Supplies are getting thin. Stores aren’t exactly open for business.”

  Boone crossed his arms, his tactical vest creaking. “That all?”

  “For now,” Vincent said with a shrug. “Depends how entertaining this favor of yours turns out to be.”

  Boone exhaled sharply, a sound halfway between a sigh and a snort. “We’ll see what we can do. But don’t start thinking this is a free ride. We’re doing what we can to keep this town standing. Sent a group north just this morning to try and get help from the locals.”

  Vincent’s brow quirked, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You’re telling me Ladysmith’s big plan is to send some of our people begging to a bunch of medieval clowns? What, did you promise them beads and shiny trinkets? Bet they couldn’t tell an engine from a rock.”

  Boone’s jaw tightened, but Andrew interjected with a faint grin. “Not far off. It’s a long shot, sure, but we’re playing with a stacked deck here. We need every option on the table.” His grin faded. “Still, I’m not holding my breath. I’ll be keeping an eye on things personally.”

  “Ah, so you’re what passes for the cavalry in this new world bullshit.” Vincent’s tone was light, almost teasing, but his eyes sharpened as they appraised Andrew. “You ever play hero before, or is this your first rodeo?”

  Andrew’s face remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something—discomfort, maybe—in his gray eyes. “Seen my share of trouble,” he said vaguely. “You?”

  Vincent smirked, tapping ash onto the floor. “Combat engineer. I was the guy making sure the trucks didn’t break down and the roads didn’t blow up. Spent some time in the sandbox playing ‘fix it’ with landmines. Not as flashy as what the infantry gets up to, but someone’s gotta keep the gears turning.”

  Andrew gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. “Useful skills. We could use men like you.”

  Vincent’s smirk widened, his tone turning sly. “I bet you could.”

  The tension in the room thickened for a moment, Boone watching the exchange closely. Vincent finally broke the silence, pushing off the workbench with a shrug. “Look, you want my help, fine. But don’t start thinking this is anything more than a business transaction. I’m not signing up to be your town’s savior.”

  Boone’s lip twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile. “We’ll take what we can get.”

  Vincent snuffed his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and grabbed his toolbelt. “Good. Now let’s get moving before I change my mind.”

  The rhythmic strides of the brightstrider beneath him were anything but smooth. Cale gritted his teeth as the beast lurched again, its elongated legs moving with an almost alien grace. His thighs ached from trying to stay steady in the saddle, and his grip on the reins was white-knuckled. Ahead of him, Terra Murphy sat confidently atop her own brightstrider, her hair catching the sunlight as it bobbed with the creature’s movements. She glanced back at him with a smirk.

  “You’re making it look harder than it is,” she called.

  “Easy for you to say,” he replied, grumbling. “You look like you’ve been doing this your whole life.”

  Terra laughed, leaning forward to pat the brightstrider’s feathered neck. “Rode an ostrich once at a wildlife park when I was a kid. It’s not that different. Just... bigger.”

  Cale shook his head, muttering, “Sure, just like riding a bike.”

  Two hours into their journey, the forest began to thin. Smoke drifted above the treetops, and the faint sound of hammering reached his ears. He adjusted his position in the saddle and squinted at the horizon. They crested a small rise, and the scene below came into view: the village of Stone’s Mouth.

  Several dozen buildings, a few reduced to charred skeletons, clustered together in the valley. Around them, hundreds of men were hard at work, constructing palisades from freshly felled timber. The sharp tang of sawdust and sweat filled the air as they approached.

  Nalya Ruus reined in her brightstrider at the edge of the village and turned to the group. Her golden hair gleamed like sunlight, but her voice carried the steel of command. “Dismount here. I need to speak with my men and the village elder. Take a break.”

  As Cale clambered awkwardly from the saddle, Bayne Dalon strode past, his weathered face twisted into a smirk. “That beast got the better of you, eh, lad? Maybe next time, leave the fancy riding to those with the skill for it.”

  Cale swallowed his irritation and forced a grin. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll be sure to take it into consideration.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Bayne snorted and stalked off, his armor clinking faintly. Cale turned his attention to the village. The structures reminded him of something out of an old western—wooden facades, flat roofs, and simple designs that seemed an odd mix of rustic and practical. Yet, there were no horses in sight, only empty pastures where livestock should have been. The people working on the palisades spared the group curious glances but kept their distance.

  Ryan Stills wandered nearby, his guitar strapped to his back as he studied the buildings with interest. “Lumberwork’s solid,” he commented. “Bit rougher than home, but it does the job.”

  Cale nodded absently, his gaze drifting to Terra, who sat beneath a nearby tree. Her headphones were in, and she stared at her phone screen, completely detached from their surroundings. He frowned. They weren’t in Ladysmith anymore; the coming days were going to be life-or-death, and he couldn’t have her zoned out of her surroundings. He made a mental note to speak with her about taking things more seriously.

  The thought was interrupted by the sharp pang of memory. His ex-wife’s face flashed in his mind—her laughter, the way her hair glinted in the sunlight. He clenched his jaw, pushing the image away. She was on Earth. He was here. Whatever hope he’d once had of repairing their relationship had been swallowed by the Blacklight. The finality of it was like a knife twisting in his chest.

  “Sir?”

  Cale turned to find a boy, no older than eight, staring up at him with wide eyes. The boy’s gaze darted to the pistol holstered at Cale’s side. “What’s that for?”

  Cale softened, crouching slightly to meet the boy’s eye level. “This?” He patted the holster. “It’s to keep people safe.”

  “Is it magic?” the boy asked, his tone a mix of awe and curiosity.

  Cale chuckled. “No. No magic. Just metal.”

  The boy nodded solemnly, then scampered off toward Terra, his questions spilling out faster than she could pull out her headphones.

  Before Cale could follow, Nalya returned with an older man at her side. His wiry frame spoke of years of hard labor, and his eyes were sharp with suspicion.

  “Cale Shephard,” Nalya said, gesturing, “this is Akris Holm, elder of Stone’s Mouth.”

  Akris crossed his arms. “So, you’re the newcomers. The ones who fell out of the sky.”

  “Something like that.” Cale offered a hand, but Akris didn’t take it. “Guess we’re neighbors now.”

  Akris’ sharp eyes studied him, unblinking. “Neighbors.” He spoke the word as if tasting it for the first time. “I suppose we are, though neighbors don’t usually arrive with the sound of storms and the smell of burning skies.”

  Cale lowered his hand but kept his expression neutral. “Can’t argue with that. But we didn’t choose to drop in uninvited.”

  “The Vectorans forced my hand,” Akris said, his tone clipped. “Made me trust the Pactbound. We’ve no banners here, no Council. Yet here you are. Free Folk you’re not, but we share that, at least. You’re... something other than intruders. For now.”

  “Fair enough,” Cale replied. “We’re just trying to survive, not to start trouble.”

  Akris let out a short, derisive snort. “People who only care about survival rarely care about fairness.” His gaze shifted to the village’s burned-out buildings, and his jaw tightened. “But perhaps necessity and trade will change that—for both of us.”

  “Maybe it will,” Cale said carefully. “What are you thinking?”

  Akris’ expression remained guarded, but he inclined his head slightly. “The hills here are rich with ore—iron, copper, some silver. We use what we can, but we’ve neither the hands nor the tools to make full use of it.”

  Cale nodded. “Ore’s valuable. We might be able to work something out. Our people need materials to rebuild.”

  Akris turned his sharp gaze back to him. “Rebuild, sure? Survive, that’s understandable? But what comes after that? To conquer? To expand? You see the line I’m drawing?”

  Cale held his ground. “Ladysmith’s got no interest in expansion, just security. We just want to get through the next season alive, and I get the sense we can’t do that alone.”

  Akris seemed to weigh the words, his eyes narrowing. “Perhaps. But trust is earned, not declared. Stone’s Mouth is all we have, and I’ll not see it ruined by strangers playing saviors.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Your people come to speak, I’ll hear them out. But make no mistake: respect goes both ways. Violate ours, and we’ll answer in kind.”

  “Noted,” Cale said, his tone even.

  With that, Akris turned sharply, his boots crunching against the dirt as he strode away, muttering something about fools and inevitability.

  Cale watched him go, then glanced at Nalya. “Well, he’s a ray of sunshine.”

  Nalya smirked faintly. “He’s lost more than he lets on, and trust doesn’t come easily to him. But he’s only thinking of his people.”

  “Fair,” Cale said. “Bad timing, I guess.”

  Nalya didn’t respond, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes before she turned to the group. “My men will fortify the village. If Vectoran forces return, we’ll be ready. But I doubt they saw the Blacklight. For now, we’re safe.”

  “Hope you’re right,” Cale murmured, his gaze trailing to the treetops and the smoke beyond.

  She looked down to her uniform. “We will leave shortly, for now, I’ll need to change into something less formal. We may encounter bandits on the road, and it’s best to not draw more attention than is necessary. We’ll leave once I’ve changed.” Without a further word, she walked off toward a building near the edge of the village.

  He leaned against the brightstrider, letting the weight of the exchange settle. His thoughts drifted to Ladysmith, to the people counting on them, to the uncertainties ahead. They might have survived the Blacklight, but here, survival was no guarantee.

  The music poured into Terra’s ears like a balm, wrapping her in the familiar rhythm of home. She leaned back against the tree trunk, one boot resting against the gnarled roots while her other leg stretched out on the soft moss. Her fiery red hair spilled over her shoulders, its hue unnaturally vibrant against the muted greens and browns of the forest. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in her phone’s black screen before the next song began.

  It’s not real, she thought, running a hand through her carefully dyed locks. None of this is. Not the hair, not the music. Not the life I thought I’d have.

  She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the bark. She’d always had a plan: graduate, get a decent job, maybe leave Ladysmith one day for somewhere bigger, somewhere brighter. The Blacklight shattered all of that, dropping her into this fractured world where medieval villages sat next to impossibly tall forests and magic felt as real as gravity.

  The sound of small footsteps interrupted her thoughts. She opened her eyes to see a boy no older than eight staring at her with wide, curious eyes. His dark hair was a messy tangle, and his small hands clutched the hem of a patched shirt.

  “Your hair,” he said, pointing. “Why’s it red like that? It looks like a flower.”

  Terra chuckled, pulling her headphones off and letting them rest around her neck. “It’s dyed. I colored it to look this way.”

  The boy tilted his head. “Dyed? Why would you do that?”

  “Because I like it,” Terra said with a shrug. “It’s fun.”

  The boy squinted at her, as if trying to make sense of an alien concept. Then his gaze landed on the headphones. “What’s that? Is it magic?”

  Terra laughed, holding them up. “These? No, they’re not magic. They’re headphones. They play music.”

  “Music?” The boy’s eyes lit up. “But where are the chordweavers? Or the drummers? How do they fit in there?”

  Terra smirked, amused by the question. “It’s kinda like... a little machine. Do you know what a machine is?”

  The boy shook his head, his expression unsure.

  She held out the headphones. “Here, try it. You’ll see.”

  He hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer. Terra placed the headphones over his ears, watching his face as the music started. His eyes widened, his mouth falling open in amazement. He turned to her, grinning. “It’s like they’re inside my head!”

  She laughed. “Cool, huh?”

  The boy nodded eagerly, but as she reached to adjust the headphones, her hand brushed the side of his face.

  The world shifted.

  The blue skies above melted into a choking haze of black smoke, curling like snakes through the air. Fire roared, its searing heat pressing against her like an invisible wall, and the acrid scent of burning flesh stung her nostrils. The boy lay crumpled in the dirt, his once-wide eyes now staring lifelessly at the gray sky. Soot streaked his pale face, smudging across his small nose and cheeks, as if someone had tried to wipe it clean and failed.

  All around him, other villagers were scattered like discarded dolls, their bodies twisted in grotesque finality. Some clutched at one another, their hands frozen in a futile grasp for comfort or escape. The Ladysmith high school loomed in the background, unrecognizable. Its windows were shattered, jagged shards catching the firelight like sinister teeth. Flames licked hungrily at its walls, blackening the familiar exterior as the roof began to cave in.

  The screams came next, faint and fleeting. They echoed from the crumbling school, desperate and raw, fading into silence as if swallowed by the inferno itself. Somewhere, the sound of splintering wood and falling beams cracked through the chaos. Terra wanted to move, to scream, but her feet were rooted to the ground, her breath trapped in her chest.

  And then it was gone.

  The world snapped back to the tranquil clearing beneath the trees. Terra staggered, gasping for air as if she had been underwater. The boy stood before her, his face a mask of fear, his wide eyes glistening with tears. He stepped back, trembling.

  “Your eyes,” he whispered, his voice small and shaky. “They looked... wrong.”

  Terra’s hand shot to her face, her fingertips brushing her eyelids as if she could erase whatever had frightened him. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I—”

  The boy recoiled further, his small hands clutching his chest as though shielding himself. His lips quivered, but no sound came out.

  “Darik!” A woman’s voice cut through the moment like a blade. She ran toward them, her face tight with anger and fear. Sweeping the boy into her arms, she held him protectively against her chest. “What did you do to him?”

  “Nothing!” Terra said quickly, her voice rising defensively. “I didn’t do anything. I swear!”

  The woman’s glare was ice-cold. “Stay away from my son! He’s been through enough already!” Her words were a sharp hiss, a dam holding back the torrent of emotion threatening to spill over.

  “I’m sorry!” Terra called after her, but the woman was already retreating, her steps quick and purposeful as she disappeared into the village.

  Terra sank to the ground, her knees hitting the moss with a dull thud. Her chest tightened as she fought back the sting of tears.

  “Terra!” Ryan’s voice broke through the fog of her thoughts. He jogged up, worry etched into his face, his guitar bouncing against his back. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  She shook her head, swallowing hard. “No. I saw another vision.” Her voice was a strained whisper. “It was the boy, Ryan. He was... dead. They all were. The school was burning.”

  Ryan crouched beside her, his hand settling gently on her shoulder. “Hey, hey. Take a deep breath. You’re okay.”

  “No, I’m not okay!” Terra snapped, her frustration spilling out. “These visions—they’re random. They come out of nowhere, and I can’t control them. I never see them coming, and I don’t know what they mean! I—” Her voice cracked, and she pressed her palms against her temples, trembling.

  Ryan’s hand didn’t waver. “We’ll figure it out,” he said softly. “We’ll figure out what they mean. But right now, just breathe, okay? You’re not alone in this.”

  His calm tone steadied her, and she took a shaky breath, her hands dropping to her lap.

  “Time to move!” Bayne’s gruff voice rang out, and Terra glanced up to see him approaching with his usual air of impatient authority.

  Terra stood, brushing the moss from her pants. She glanced at Ryan, her eyes pleading. “Don’t tell anyone about the vision. Not yet. I don’t want to freak them out.”

  Ryan hesitated, his gaze searching hers. Finally, he nodded. “Alright. I won’t say anything.”

  She gave him a faint, grateful smile before following the others back to the group. But the vision lingered in her mind—the flames, the boy’s soot-streaked face, the cries of the dying. No matter how hard she tried to shake it, the foreboding sense of doom clung to her like smoke.

  Whatever it meant, she had to find a way to stop it.