The hours crawled past like wounded things.

  Dorn lay in the shadow of his overhang and watched the sun creep across the canyon floor. The camp below had settled into a new rhythm—guards doubled, voices hushed, eyes constantly scanning the walls. The winch was still dead, its broken belt a coiled snake on the platform. No one had tried to fix it. The Preacher's orders, probably. Leave the trap. Watch what comes to investigate.

  Clink. Clink. Clink. The magnet swung somewhere below, a sound Dorn felt more than heard.

  He forced himself to breathe. Forced himself to wait. The sun was a finger of light crawling toward the bunker's concrete mouth. When it touched the rusted steel frame, that was his signal. Not a moment before.

  He checked his gear. Water skin—half empty, but he'd need it later. Cord—most of it was jammed in the winch, but he had a short length left. Salt block—still heavy in his pack, pressed with the mark of the mountain herds. Mossback's price. Mossback's hope.

  He looked at the salt. Thought about what she'd said. Last resort, if you get desperate enough to eat it straight.

  He had another use in mind.

  The fuel drums sat at the edge of the camp, a cluster of rusted cylinders leaking ancient petroleum into the dust. The Purists used them to power the winch, to cook their food, to burn whatever needed burning. They were careless with them—stacked too close, unguarded, their contents eating through the metal from the inside.

  Dorn had noted them on his first night. Had smelled the sharp chemical tang, had seen the dark stains where the ground had soaked up decades of leaks. One spark. That's all it would take.

  He needed a spark.

  The salt block came out of his pack. He turned it over in his paws, feeling the rough press of the mountain herd mark. Minerals. Reactive, if you knew how to use them. His mother had taught him, once—a lesson about old-world fires, about the things that burned when you struck them hard enough.

  He didn't have flint. But he had the knife.

  The iron knife, still warm from Vex's grip. He'd watched her take it, had felt the weight of it leave his belt. But Mossback had given him something else, tucked into the bottom of his pack without comment.

  A piece of flint. Small, dark, sharp-edged. Old-world salvage, the kind that still sparked when you struck it right.

  He'd found it hours ago, while checking his gear. Had held it in his paw and felt something cold settle in his chest. Mossback had known. She'd known he'd need fire.

  He looked at the sun. Almost there. Almost touching the bunker.

  He looked at the fuel drums. At the salt block. At the flint in his paw.

  Then he moved.

  Descending was harder this time. The guards were watching, their eyes sharp, their rifles ready. Dorn went slow, belly to stone, each movement measured. The silicon haze helped, thickening as the sun heated the valley, but it also made the rocks slick with settled dust. His claws found less purchase than he liked.

  Fifty feet. Forty. Thirty.

  A guard looked up. Dorn froze, pressed against an outcrop, willing himself to be rock. The guard's eyes swept past him, lingered on a shadow that might have been movement, then moved on.

  Twenty feet. Ten.

  He dropped the last distance into the shadow of the fuel drums, landing in the sticky residue of ancient leaks. The stench was overwhelming—petroleum and rust and the ghost of fire. His paws came away dark.

  The drums were stacked three high, their sides corroded, their contents weeping into the dirt. Dorn circled them, looking for the right one. The fullest. The most likely to burn.

  He found it at the bottom of the stack, its seams bulging with pressure, a slow leak dribbling down its side. The ground beneath it was black, soaked, a sponge waiting for a match.

  Dorn pulled out the salt block. Crumbled a piece between his paws, scattering the white crystals across the dark stain. Salt wouldn't burn, but it would react. It would pop and hiss and draw attention.

  The flint was next. He held it against the rusted metal of the drum, raised the knife, and struck.

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  Spark.

  Nothing.

  He struck again. Spark. A tiny flare, there and gone.

  Again. Spark. This time, the salt crystals caught—a brief fizz of light, a snake of white smoke.

  Then the fuel vapors found the flame.

  The explosion was a fist of heat and sound.

  It picked Dorn up and threw him into the rocks, drove the air from his lungs, left him stunned and gasping. The world went white, then orange, then red. Heat washed over him, singeing his fur, blistering the tender skin of his ears.

  He crawled. Didn't think, didn't plan, just crawled away from the fireball that had been a fuel drum. Behind him, the other drums were catching, their contents igniting in sequence—whump, whump, whump—each one a hammer blow against the canyon walls.

  The camp erupted.

  Screaming. Rifle fire. Orders shouted and lost in the roar. Guards ran in every direction, some toward the fire, some away, some just running because running was all they knew. The prisoners were on their feet, pressed against the fence, watching the chaos with desperate hope.

  Dorn found his feet. Found his breath. Found the north corner of the pen.

  Vex was already there, waiting at the gap, the knife in her paw. Flint was beside her, the box clutched to his chest. Behind them, the other prisoners pressed close—Cricket the fox, the two pronghorns, a dozen others whose names Dorn would never know.

  "Now," Vex said. Not a question.

  Dorn nodded. Turned to the fence. Braced his paws against the chain-link and pulled.

  The gap widened. Not much—just enough. But enough was all they needed.

  Vex went first, squeezing through with the knife held flat against her chest. Flint followed, pushing the box ahead of him. Then Cricket, her missing ear twitching, her eyes already scanning for the way up. Then the others, a flood of broken things finding their legs.

  The pronghorn doe wouldn't move.

  Dorn saw her standing in the pen, her yearling pressed against her flank, her great dark eyes fixed on the fire. She wasn't running. Wasn't trying. She was just there, waiting for something that wasn't coming.

  "Move," Dorn snarled. "Move now."

  She looked at him. Didn't speak. Just shook her head—a small, final motion.

  The yearling looked at her. Looked at Dorn. Made a choice.

  He ran. Through the gap, past Dorn, into the shadows where the others were gathering. The doe watched him go. Didn't follow.

  Dorn didn't have time to argue. He turned and ran.

  Behind him, the fire roared, and the doe stood motionless, and the Preacher's voice rose above the chaos.

  They climbed.

  Cricket led, her fox's body built for this kind of terrain, her missing ear cocked toward the sounds of pursuit. The others followed—Vex, Flint, the yearling pronghorn, a dozen scavengers who'd spent weeks in the pen and had forgotten what freedom felt like.

  Dorn brought up the rear, his body screaming, his lungs burning with silicon and smoke. Below, the camp was a chaos of fire and shadow. Above, the canyon rim waited.

  They were halfway up when Silus found them.

  The coyote came out of nowhere—a blur of matted fur and yellow teeth, his rifle swinging toward Dorn's chest. Dorn twisted, felt the bullet burn past his ear, heard it crack against the rock behind him.

  Then Silus was on him.

  They fell together, tumbling down the slope in a tangle of claws and fury. Rock cut into Dorn's back. A knee drove into his stomach. Silus's breath was in his face, sour with rot and rifle oil, his missing ear a dark hole against the fire-lit sky.

  "You," Silus snarled. "Should have shot your head, not your water."

  Dorn's claws found purchase—in fur, in flesh, in the soft place beneath Silus's jaw. The coyote screamed, jerked back, and Dorn used the moment to move.

  He rolled, came up on his feet, claws extended. Silus was already recovering, the rifle lost somewhere in the dark, a knife in his paw now—a blade of sharpened iron, the twin of the one Dorn had given Vex.

  They circled. Below, the fire roared. Above, the prisoners climbed.

  "You're dead," Silus hissed. "The Preacher's gonna hang your hide on the winch."

  Dorn didn't answer. He was watching the knife, watching Silus's eyes, watching the way he favored his left side—the same limp Dorn had noticed in the Fingers, the old injury that never quite healed.

  Silus lunged.

  Dorn sidestepped. Not fast enough—the knife opened a line along his ribs, hot and sharp. He ignored it, pivoted, brought his claws across Silus's face.

  The coyote screamed. Fell back. Came up again, blood streaming from his muzzle.

  They circled. Dorn's blood dripped onto the rock. Silus's breath came in ragged gasps.

  Then something moved in the darkness above. A shape—small, fast, dropping toward them with the silence of a falling stone.

  Kestrel.

  The horned lizard hit Silus like a rock from a cliff, her spiked body slamming into his back, her claws finding his eyes. Silus screamed—a real scream, high and terrible—and went down under the weight of her.

  Dorn didn't wait. He grabbed Kestrel's arm, pulled her off, dragged her up the slope. Behind them, Silus writhed in the dirt, his hands pressed to his ruined face.

  "Go," Kestrel gasped. "More coming."

  They went.

  The canyon rim was a lifetime away.

  Dorn climbed on instinct, his body moving while his mind raced. The prisoners were ahead—Cricket pulling the yearling, Vex carrying the box, Flint stumbling beside her. Below, the camp burned and the guards regrouped and the Preacher's voice echoed off the stone.

  They reached the rim. Fell over it. Lay gasping in the dirt.

  For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. They just breathed, filling their lungs with air that didn't smell of smoke and blood.

  Then Vex was beside him, her scarred muzzle inches from his face.

  "You're hit."

  "Know."

  She pressed something to his ribs—a wad of something soft, bandaging from her harness. The pressure made him hiss, but he didn't pull away.

  "The others?" he asked.

  "Scattered. Some made it. Some didn't." Her voice was flat. "The pronghorn doe stayed behind."

  "I know."

  "She bought him time. The yearling. He's with Cricket."

  Dorn closed his eyes. Saw the doe's face. The way she'd shaken her head. The way she'd watched her son run.

  He opened his eyes. Looked at the sky. The stars were coming out, cold and bright and indifferent.

  Below, the fire still burned. The Preacher still hunted. The box sat between Vex and Flint, its lock glowing faintly in the dark.

  Dorn looked at it. Felt the hum in his teeth, the itch behind his eyes.

  "What's in it?" he asked.

  Vex looked at him. For a long moment, she didn't answer.

  Then she reached for the lock, and the world held its breath.