[ASC 923.7.16]

  193 cycles since the Xolarii Purge.

  The dusky darkness was soon painted with the purple and pink strokes of dawn.

  Over a dozen klicks were devoured by the long strides of their quadrals before the sky settled into a clear azure. Clouds drifted lazily across the blue backdrop, unmoved by the perspiring brows and aching backs of the riders below.

  Rider may have been more accurate, as the takalans seemed unbothered by the oppressive weight of the twin sun’s glare.

  “So… what was yer plan again?” Tu’rak asked, scratching at the budding tendrils along his jaw.

  “Set up at dawn, over the gulley. Sun at my back,” Xaryk replied, wiping sweat from his brow. He flicked his hand, sending water spraying onto the sand in salty rivulets. “Pick them off. One at a time.”

  “That all?” Tu’rak chuckled.

  Xaryk shrugged. “I’ve got a few other tricks.”

  Drakkan held up a hand, silencing the larger takalan’s retort. “We’ll make a plan when we’re closer. Right now, our concern is getting through the ravine.”

  “The ravine?” Xaryk frowned. He remembered it from the map—though none of the gamblers had raised any concern over it.

  “Letkhan like to gather there,” Drakkan said. “They ambush travellers in much the same way you plan to hit Redmark.”

  Xaryk raised a brow. “Are you going to make me ask?” he prompted dryly.

  Drakkan sighed.

  He sighed often—exasperation seemed his constant companion, the ever-present shadow at his side.

  “Desert wraiths. Takalan homunculi of sorts,” Drakkan said, words clipped. His jaw tensed, clearly wrestling down another sigh.

  “Well?” Tu’rak barked. “You gotta tell the full story!”

  The sigh escaped.

  Zhella shook her head, a rueful smile tugging at her lips.

  “It’s all yours.” Drakkan offered with an open hand.

  Tu’rak grinned, practically vibrating with excitement.

  “Nearly two hundred years ago,” he began, his gravelly voice dipping into a low, theatrical rumble, “during the rise of the Xolarii Empire—”

  He froze. Brow furrowed. His eyes locked onto Xaryk.

  “Hey!” he snapped, pointing an accusatory finger. “You—!”

  “I wouldn’t,” Xaryk replied, voice low and dangerous, evoking the threat spoken by Tu’rak that morning.

  Unlike the boisterous takalan, he had no intention of relenting.

  Tu’rak looked like he wanted to argue, but the steely look in the bounty hunter’s cold yellow eyes gave him pause.

  After a beat, he nodded a wary agreement.

  “Er,” Tu’rak restarted awkwardly. “Nearly two hundred years ago, as the Arconan Ascendancy and the Xolarii Empire clashed, ripples of arcane energy swept across the galaxy.” He waved his hands wide, miming a great explosion. “Such was the power of their magus.”

  Xaryk shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. He tried to avoid all thoughts of the Arcanum War—and the Purge that followed.

  “But the waves of power weren’t limited to the battlefield. The tides of Kashyri rose, devouring what little solid land remained. The jungles of Shay’k, once brimming with harmonious flora, began to spawn monstrous mutations.” Tu’rak raised his arms and chomped his thick jaw for emphasis, snarling theatrically.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Takal was no better. The twin suns erupted into a flare so intense, even the hardiest among us blistered beneath their gaze. Most survived by retreating into rocky formations, where our clans still dwell to this day. Some embraced the technology of the Arconan Expansion, becoming part of Core society. But others…” he paused, lowering his voice, “fled into the old tunnels. Deep underground. Far below.”

  His voice hushed to an eerie whisper.

  “They carved deeper into the stone, lived off moss and lichen. The chaotic magic twisted them. Made them stunted. Twisted. Adapted to the dark and the crawlspaces. They grew bitter. Hateful. They envy those of us who stayed in the sun.”

  He let the silence linger, then leaned in with a grin.

  “Now they are letkhan—twisted shadows of the takalan people. And they prey on those above, teeth gnashing, hungry for more than the meagre scraps offered below…”

  Tu’rak’s words hit deeper than he’d expected, guilt knotting in his gut.

  He shook his head, blue hair catching in the midday light.

  That was a long time ago… he thought, forcing his mind from the acrid smell of smoke and the sharp tang of fresh blood upon his tongue.

  “Takalan homunculi, huh?” Xaryk asked, trying to keep the sorrow from souring his deceptively playful tone.

  Keep moving forward.

  “Well,” Xaryk added, flashing a sly smile, “if they’re a shadow of you, they’ll be half the threat. And I reckon I could take you all just fine—cheap shots aside.”

  He shot Tu’rak a sideways glance. The big takalan scoffed, indignant.

  Zhella glared, her trigger finger twitching.

  Xaryk gave her a slow smile that said, care to try?

  The hard edge in her black eyes answered: definitely.

  “Enough,” Drakkan snapped. “There’ll be time enough to shoot each other after Redmark is dead.”

  Zhella’s gaze snapped up at the mention of the bandit’s name. She gave a sharp nod and relaxed her grip on the trigger.

  “Promise?” Xaryk asked lightly.

  Another sigh.

  “I hate waitin’,” Tu’rak growled.

  “That’s too bad,” Drakkan said, already guiding his mount forward. “The letkhan are our first priority. If we’re lucky, the light will keep them at bay.”

  It took the better part of two hours to reach the ravine.

  The suns were climbing toward their apex, like the eyes of a distant giant rising onto tiptoes to better observe the fight waiting ahead.

  The group took position behind a rocky encampment, sprawled in the dirt to avoid detection.

  Drakkan produced a wide-lensed scope and peered toward the ravine.

  It loomed—a goliath of black stone, its maw split open in an ominous grin, ready to snap shut the moment they stepped inside.

  “See anythin’?” Tu’rak asked, voice thick with impatience.

  “No,” Drakkan replied. “Living underground has made them enemies of the sun. They usually wait until later in the day, but…”

  “Photophobia won’t stop them if they’re already waiting in the ravine’s shadow,” Xaryk said, scanning the cliff edges.

  Drakkan nodded. “They might be counting on travellers assuming the light will keep them safe.”

  “Can we go around?”

  “We’d lose a day,” Drakkan said, eye still fixed to the scope.

  Xaryk scowled. “Not ideal, but there’s no expiration on Redmark’s bounty.”

  “Sure,” Drakkan replied, compacting the scope with a snap, “but then you risk getting caught in Khet’zarran on your way back to town.”

  Xaryk groaned. “I swear, it’s every second word with you people. Speak Core Standard, by dying light.”

  “Heatflare,” Drakkan said dryly.

  Xaryk blinked.

  “The townsfolk mentioned that…” He recalled Malvus’ grim story: Redmark’s gunslinging prowess during some local celebration.

  “Redmark had been in Longshadow for the event,” he mused. “A local custom?”

  “A hazard,” Drakkan said.

  “When the suns’ paths align,” Tu’rak grinned, ever the storyteller. “Even a takalan caught in the open won’t last long in that heat.”

  “How soon?”

  “Six days,” Drakkan said. “And it’ll last for a few more after that.”

  Another fact Malvus failed to mention.

  Xaryk clenched his jaw.

  “So, it’s either we risk the ravine…” he muttered, “or cook like an egg on a tin roof at noon.”

  “We?” Tu’rak laughed. “There’s at least three takalan sanctuaries within ten klicks of here that would welcome us as cousins. An outsider? Ain’t so much.”

  “Aw, and here I thought we were friends?” Xaryk lamented with mock woe.

  “An’ where’d you get that idea?”

  “Well, we sure fight like family,” Xaryk said, smirking.

  Tu’rak chuckled. “Sure do, bounty hunter. But I’m afraid you’re shit outta luck.”

  “We’re,” Xaryk corrected.

  Tu’rak’s face twisted in irritation. “I just told ya—”

  “—And I heard you,” Xaryk cut in, flashing a knowing look. “I need to get back to Longshadow. Post-haste.”

  “Yeah…”

  “Which I can only do by getting through that ravine.”

  “Uh huh…”

  “And you need me to help you execute a certain bandit,” Xaryk finished, one brow raised.

  Understanding—and horror—dawned on the large takalan’s face.

  Xaryk stood, brushing dust from his coat. “Come now, friends. We have a ravine to traverse.”

  Drakkan rose and placed a sympathetic hand on Tu’rak’s shoulder, leaving the stunned man sitting in the dirt.

  “I guess we do,” the bald native said, offering a wry, chagrined smile.

  Zhella was already spinning the chamber of her iron-class revolver. It hummed like a chrome wasp before she holstered it with a flourish. She gave a firm nod, black eyes gleaming, eager for the fight ahead.