Chapter Fifty?One — Dawn of Iron and Dust

  The sun had barely begun to lift its pale crown over the foothills when the world shattered.

  A thin, eerie hush spread through the camp — not peace, but warning. Birds stopped singing. Wind held its breath. Even the oxen stiffened, ears angled toward the eastern ridge.

  Cassian felt it first.

  He jerked his head up from packing his saddle, eyes narrowing at the horizon. “Something’s wrong.”

  Jonah turned immediately. “What do you hear?”

  Cassian didn’t answer — he just listened, jaw tightening, hand drifting toward his rifle as if pulled by an invisible string.

  Miles felt the dread ripple through him, something primal and ancient stirring in his bones.

  Then came the sound.

  A creak. A clatter. A faint whinny carried on the wind.

  Jonah stiffened. “Horses?”

  Cassian shook his head. “Not horses.” His eyes hardened. “Riders.”

  Miles’s heart dropped.

  He stepped forward, gripping Jonah’s sleeve. “How many?”

  Cassian swung onto a low boulder, scanning the ridge with sharp eyes. “Three. No—four.”

  Jonah cursed under his breath. “Are they scouts?”

  Cassian’s whole body went taut. Wolves about to strike.

  “No,” he murmured. “They’re not scouts.” His voice dropped to a cold whisper. “They’re Harrower scouts.”

  A shadow flickered across Miles’s vision as the first rider crested the ridge — a silhouette against the rising sun. Then another. And another. They moved with purpose, easy in their saddles, rifles slung at their hips.

  And every one of them wore the mark: A split circle painted on the breast.

  The same mark Cassian had tossed in the dirt.

  “The Harrower is close,” Cassian said. “Too close.”

  Jonah pulled Miles behind him instinctively. “We need to move. Now.”

  Cassian didn’t look away from the ridge. “Too late.”

  The lead scout raised a hand.

  Another scout signaled with a flash of metal.

  Miles’s breath caught. “What does that mean?”

  Cassian’s jaw tightened. “It means they’ve found us.”

  A piercing whistle split the dawn.

  And then gunfire exploded across the hills.

  The First Shots

  The first bullet slammed into the side of the Dunne wagon, splintering wood. Mrs. Dunne shrieked and threw herself over Sammy’s body. Esther dragged two children under the wagon tongue.

  Finch roared for people to take cover, but his voice was hoarse, barely carrying.

  Jonah grabbed Miles’s wrist. “Down!”

  Miles was pulled behind an overturned crate just as another shot burst dirt inches from his boot.

  Cassian returned fire — quick, precise, lethal. One scout jerked sideways in the saddle, clutching his shoulder.

  But the remaining three kept advancing.

  “DAMN,” Cassian hissed. “They’re pushing hard.”

  Jonah peeked around cover. “They’re trying to box us in.”

  “No.” Cassian shook his head grimly. “They’re trying to grab him.” He pointed at Miles.

  Miles froze.

  Jonah’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “Over my dead body.”

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  Cassian fired again. “That’s exactly what they’d be counting on.”

  Miles swallowed hard. “I can help—”

  “No.” Jonah’s hand tightened around Miles’s. “You stay with me.”

  Miles wanted to argue. To insist he wasn’t helpless. That he wasn’t a child to be protected.

  But the words stuck in his throat when the next bullet cracked overhead and slammed into the wagon’s wheel inches from his skull.

  Jonah practically shielded him with his entire body. “Stay down!”

  Cassian ducked behind a rock and shouted, “They’re circling! They’re going to try to get behind the wagons!”

  Miles’s breath caught. “If they get behind us—”

  “They’ll take you,” Cassian finished.

  Miles felt his ribs tighten with fear. “What do we do?”

  Cassian gave Jonah a look — grim, quick, full of unspoken meaning.

  “Protect him,” Cassian said. “And don’t let them flank.”

  Jonah nodded once.

  Cassian rose to return fire. “I’ll take the left ridge. Hold them off as long as I can.”

  Jonah shouted, “Cassian—don’t you be stupid—”

  Cassian smiled sadly. “Too late.”

  Then he sprinted toward the ridge.

  The Push

  Jonah grabbed Miles’s arm. “We need better cover. Move!”

  They ran between wagons as bullets slammed into wood, canvas, dirt. Mothers screamed. Children cried. Men fired wildly. The camp had no formation, no plan — just terror and instinct.

  Miles stumbled. Jonah caught him.

  Miles grabbed Jonah’s sleeve. “We need to help the others—”

  Jonah tightened his grip. “We help by staying alive.”

  Miles wanted to argue — but then a bullet grazed Jonah’s hat, sending it spinning. Jonah yanked Miles down behind a broken wheel.

  “Stay low!”

  Miles pressed his cheek against the cold earth, heart thundering. Jonah fired two shots, forcing the closest rider to veer off.

  Cassian, on the ridge, traded fire with another scout— and Miles watched in horror as Cassian ducked behind a boulder just in time to avoid a bullet that shattered the stone above his head.

  The scouts were good. Too good.

  Cassian shouted something unintelligible over the gunfire.

  Jonah squinted. “What’s he saying?”

  Miles listened.

  His chest tightened.

  “He’s saying they’re not here to fight,” Miles whispered.

  Jonah froze. “What?”

  Miles swallowed hard. “They’re here to grab me and run.”

  Jonah’s entire body went rigid. “Not happening.”

  But the next rider proved Miles right.

  One scout broke formation — riding low and fast along the southern ridge, using the terrain to slip behind the camp.

  Jonah swore loudly. “They’re flanking us!”

  Cassian yelled from the ridge, “KEEP HIM OUT OF THEIR HANDS!”

  Miles’s stomach dropped.

  Jonah grabbed his chin, forcing Miles to meet his eyes. “Listen to me. If they come close, you run. I don’t care where—just not into their arms.”

  Miles shook his head violently. “I’m not leaving you.”

  Jonah’s voice cracked. “Miles— please.”

  But Miles couldn’t answer.

  The flanking rider jumped off his horse, sprinting toward the rear wagons.

  Straight toward them.

  “MILES!” Jonah roared. “RUN!”

  Before Miles could think, the rider lunged — fast, brutal, reaching—

  And Miles did the only thing he could.

  He ran.

  —

  The Chase

  Miles darted between wagons, lungs burning, vision blurring. His ribs screamed. His legs shook. He wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough—

  Footsteps thundered behind him.

  A hand clamped around his arm.

  Miles cried out, twisting hard.

  He slipped free—

  —but fell to the ground.

  The rider loomed over him, panting, snarling, hand reaching again—

  “MILES!” Jonah screamed somewhere behind him. “MILES— NO—!”

  Miles scrambled backward.

  The rider lunged.

  And then—

  A rifle cracked.

  The rider’s hand jerked back, bleeding — not lethal, but enough to stop him.

  Jonah barreled into the man with a rage Miles had never seen, tackling him to the ground with a howl of terror and fury.

  They grappled, rolling across the dirt.

  Miles crawled to his knees, dizzy. “Jonah—!”

  The rider broke free, slamming Jonah’s head against the ground.

  Miles screamed.

  Jonah didn’t move.

  The rider grabbed Miles’s shirt—

  And Cassian appeared out of nowhere, slamming the butt of his rifle into the rider’s skull.

  The scout collapsed, unconscious.

  Cassian grabbed Miles by the collar, breathing hard. “You alright?”

  Miles trembled. “Jonah— he’s—”

  Jonah groaned, pushing himself onto an elbow. “M’fine… head’s ringing like a church bell…”

  Miles sagged with relief.

  Cassian hauled Jonah upright. “We’re pulling back into formation. This was only scouts — the main group is close.”

  Jonah wiped blood from his forehead. “How close?”

  Cassian’s eyes hardened.

  “They’ll be here by nightfall.”

  Miles swallowed hard, dread thick in his throat.

  Because when night fell—

  The Harrower would come with it.