Garret hauled the sled, harnessed like a mule. His legs tangled. Knees buckled. He fell face-first into the snow, rose, fell again. Twice he blacked out—waking with an icy crust on his cheek. Once, lying in a drift, he realized he could simply close his eyes and never open them again.

  He turned his head.

  Harlan’s pale face—same cheekbones, same age as his son.

  Garret spat blood, dug his elbows into the snow, and stood.

  When he staggered into the settlement, people stepped aside. No one laughed at the "loser." They stared in silence at the gaunt, blackened figure dragging a half-dead body.

  “What happened?” someone asked from the crowd.

  “Ambush. Monsters.” Garret’s voice scraped like stone on stone. “Everyone’s dead.”

  “But the kid’s got a bullet wound—”

  “Ricochet off a rock,” Garret cut in, forcing steadiness into his tone.

  He said nothing about the crystal vein. Nothing about the betrayal. Let them think he was cursed.

  Instead, Garret shoved through the onlookers and headed for the infirmary.

  The local doctor—more of an apothecary—examined Harlan and spread his hands, trembling.

  “The bullet went clean through, but organs were hit. I can’t do anything, Garret. No equipment here. And I don’t have the skill. I can bandage him, kill the pain, stall the end. That’s it. He needs a surgeon from the capital or a strong healer. I’m sorry.”

  “How long?” Garret asked, ice spreading inside his chest.

  “Three days. A week at most.”

  Garret stumbled out, blind to the path. He tripped twice over the threshold before stopping, staring at nothing. A couple of prospectors helped him lift Harlan onto a stretcher, then onto the sled.

  *How did it come to this? Everyone’s dead… It’s all on me.*

  “So?” Bob called from the crowd. “What did he say? He’ll live?”

  Garret didn’t answer at once.

  “He said he needs a healing mage or a surgical ward.”

  The prospectors murmured. Neither had ever existed here.

  “Poor kid…”

  “Maybe the city folk will be back soon? They always have healers.”

  “No, they’re gone for long stretches. Weeks, at least.”

  “Guess that’s the only hope…”

  One of the old-timers, who hadn’t spoken yet, took a drag from his cigarette, exhaled slowly, and spoke up:

  “Listen, Garret. Fifteen years back, when I first came here, folks said there was a real doctor somewhere east-north. A Hermit. Lives in the house built right in the Wildlands.”

  “Come on,” another prospector with long mustaches cut in. “Fairy tales. Who could survive out there—let alone for fifteen years? Don't mess with his head.”

  Garret pushed through and moved closer to the speaker. After a long drag, the old-timer went on:

  “I’m just repeating what I heard. No idea if he’s real. If he was, whether he’s still alive. Haven’t heard a thing in years. But they said he was a mage. Could heal. People used to go to him when things were truly bad. Hard to reach, though. Foot travel is suicide, but supposedly not many predators in that area.”

  “Tell me everything you know,” Garret said, hard.

  ?

  Garret dug a large crystal from his pocket—one of those he’d stuffed away—and looked at it. It glowed with a deep blue quality rarely seen here. Without hesitation, without bargaining, he traded it on the spot for two riding yargs, bandages, painkillers, and supplies. At the market, the traders all knew one another; they would settle accounts later.

  If there had been time, Garret would have exchanged the crystal for talers first, haggled for hours, and paid half as much.

  But he didn’t want to lose a minute.

  “Come on, kid,” he said, tightening the straps on the sled. “It’s not over yet. I won’t let you die.”

  They headed northeast—toward untouched trails and storms, toward a man who might, or might not, still live there. A blind dash fueled by hope alone.

  By the second day, Garret saw Harlan fading. He was fading fast. Still, he didn’t turn the yargs around. Each night he repeated the same mantra, sitting by the sled and staring at Harlan’s pale face:

  “Hold on, kid… hold on. You hear me? We’re almost there.”

  Harlan was barely conscious. Sometimes he opened his eyes and muttered—about home, about a brother, about crystals, about people long gone. Sometimes he called for his mother. Sometimes, for a single minute, he spoke clearly, as if there were no wound, no pain at all.

  In those rare lucid moments, Garret stopped the sled and tried to get a little broth into him—the thin meat stock he now always carried in a thermos. Each evening he brewed a fresh batch. Harlan ate little, if at all, then slipped back into oblivion.

  They traveled on sleds pulled by a pair of riding yargs. Heavy, shaggy, with knife-like claws and black, gleaming eyes, they moved over the crust like it was a highway. Garret hitched the female in front—an old trick. The male would never lag behind her, especially in season. Their strength and endurance were roughly equal, if the female wasn’t pregnant, and together they could haul loads that would break four horses.

  Best part was, monsters feared yargs and kept their distance. No truly large beasts crossed Garret’s path. It made the run easier. Again, Garret cursed the fact that his mining claim was impassable for sleds and bears. How much simpler expeditions would be otherwise.

  At every chance, Garret cursed fate, himself, everything—and most of all the decision to take on “those bastards.”

  *If we’d waited for Kel… gone to the same place anyway… everything would’ve been different…*

  Weather punished his whining. The wind rose. A blizzard followed. With visibility shot, they had to weave through the rocks, searching for passages.

  Day by day, Harlan’s face grew paler. His breathing softened. One night, Garret woke to silence—thought he’d stopped breathing entirely. He leaned close and heard a faint, fragile exhale. Alive. Still alive.

  The next morning they set out at first light, winding again among the cliffs.

  “What’s that?” Garret said aloud.

  In the distance—a thin thread of smoke.

  Then it vanished.

  He steered the yargs that way. Nothing.

  *Did I imagine it?* Despair surged.

  Then the thread appeared again. Then a column, rising straight above the pines. Garret’s heart dropped.

  If this wasn’t it—Harlan would die. This was the last chance.

  ?

  The Hermit’s lodge sat tucked between rocks, built of rough stone and timber, nearly blending into the landscape. Without the smoke, you’d never notice it. No signs. No guard beasts. Just two stone idols by the entrance and a copper plate engraved with a symbol of the Field.

  Garret pounded on the door with all his strength. It didn’t open at once.

  After several minutes, something scraped behind it. A tall, gray-haired man appeared through a narrow crack.

  “Who are you?”

  “We need help! You a mage?” Garret blurted.

  The Hermit’s eyes slid to the sled, paused on Harlan for a heartbeat—and the door slammed shut.

  Garret froze. His arms fell limp. It was over.

  A latch rang. The door opened fully.

  “Bring him inside.”

  As they moved through the corridors, the Hermit asked no questions. No names. No origins. No explanations. Only short commands and precise gestures.

  Inside, the house was larger than it looked. A steady, soft light glowed in the stone walls. Garret never figured out where it came from.

  When he laid Harlan on a high table in a room that looked like an operating theater, the Hermit suddenly said:

  “Now give me one valid reason to save him. And don't try to lie. I'll know.”

  Garret froze. He stood silent for several seconds, then dropped to his knees. Had anyone in the settlement seen proud Garret do that, they’d have lost the power of speech for weeks.

  “We found a vein. Huge. The kind no one’s seen in decades—maybe ever. But we were betrayed. Almost everyone died. He saved my life. Took a bullet for me. Without him, I wouldn’t be standing here…”

  Garret had nothing left to lose. His words came broken, clumsy, but he told everything—betrayal, monsters, the haul. No omissions.

  To prove it, he emptied a pocket of crystals onto the table.

  “If you save him… my share is yours. I swear it.”

  The Hermit snorted and waved him off.

  “I don’t need your trinkets. Put that away. Hm. But you say the kid’s decent…”

  He stepped closer to Harlan.

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

  “Help me get the clothes off,” he told Garret.

  They stripped the jacket and shirt, cut away the blood-soaked bandage. The Hermit placed his hands at the edge of the wound and examined it closely. At one point he went still for a full minute.

  “Bullet went through,” he said at last. “Grazed the liver. Perforated the intestine twice. Peritonitis set in. Kid's young—living on spite. Another day, he'd be gone.”

  Garret didn’t understand half the words. He kept quiet.

  The Hermit placed both hands on Harlan’s abdomen and froze again. Sweat beaded on his brow. His fingers trembled, barely visible.

  The session lasted almost two hours. At times the old man winced, as if in pain himself. At times he muttered under his breath—Garret couldn’t make out a word. Once he jerked his hands away, cursed softly, and started over.

  When it ended, the Hermit leaned heavily on the table. His face had gone gray. Shadows lay under his eyes.

  “Sealed the tears. Vessels holding,” he said hoarsely. “But while I worked, I realized the bullet nicked a vertebra. That’s harder.”

  Harlan slept—not like a dying man. His breathing was even. Color had returned faintly to his skin.

  “He’ll make it,” the Hermit said, rubbing his temples. “But three months before he stands. Half a year for full recovery. Daily magic. Medicine. Then exercises.”

  Garret, who had just begun to believe, sank down, shoulders slumped.

  “You can heal him? What do you want for it?”

  “Stones and money don’t interest me,” the Hermit replied thoughtfully. “But…”

  He paused for a second, then continued.

  “But… I was planning to hire an assistant. So I thought payment could be service: several years as my hand around the house.”

  He looked from Garret to Harlan.

  “Or I can patch him up enough that he won’t die, but I won’t waste my time further—he might stay crippled. As you wish. His choice, really. Now excuse me—I need rest.”

  ?

  Harlan opened his eyes briefly that evening. The ceiling was stone. The air smelled of herbs and something bitter. He couldn’t move, but his eyes obeyed.

  “Awake,” an old voice said. “Tough—that’s good. I’ll leave you for a bit.”

  Garret stepped closer. He looked exhausted, but his gaze was gentle.

  “Where are we?” Harlan rasped. “What about Mark?”

  Garret patted his shoulder lightly.

  “Didn't think you'd make it, Harlan. They’re dead. Thorren. Mark. Just us left.” Garret wiped a tear before it fell.

  Harlan groaned. He might have cried too, but exhaustion left him dry-eyed.

  “How…?” was all he managed.

  The question needed no answer.

  When Harlan calmed a little, Garret went on.

  “Listen. You saw the man who left? Strong mage—he saved your life. But he says recovery will take a long time. You’ll need his healing magic and medicine the whole way. It’s so complex, so expensive, I don’t know any doctor who’d take it on. But this old man claims he can get you back on your feet.”

  Garret drew a breath.

  “I offered him my share of the crystals. He refused. Said he’d treat you only if you work for him for a few years as an assistant. Sounds like a slave contract… but I don’t think you... we... have a choice.”

  Harlan was silent. He stared at the ceiling for several seconds, then whispered:

  “A choice without a choice. Of course I’ll stay.”

  Garret exhaled softly.

  “Good. I’ll tell him.”

  They sat a while longer. Then Harlan slept again.

  ?

  Garret stayed with the Hermit for several more days, watching over Harlan. The boy looked much better, though he still drifted in and out, sleeping most of the time.

  The Hermit worked on him daily—healing magic, medicine poured down his throat.

  One morning, when Harlan opened his eyes, Garret said:

  “Harlan, I have to go back. Need to tell Thorren’s and Mark’s families. Can’t stay.”

  “Of course,” Harlan whispered. “I understand. Will you come back?”

  “Don't know. I'll try. If I don’t—when you finish your service, find me. If I’m anywhere, I’ll be there, in the settlement. I told you—I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ll wait for you.”

  They said their goodbyes warmly.

  ?

  As Garret was about to mount the sled, the Hermit stopped him.

  “Lie low,” he said. “Prospectors aren't blind. Your stones—that color? Easy math. People will hunt for that vein. And they'll watch you. Always someone sniffing for profit. Watch your back.”

  After a moment, he added:

  “About the boy… what's his name? Harlan? Damn tongue-twister. Tell everyone he died. Safer that way. Even if someone comes after you, they won’t look for him. If they ask me—I’ll say the same.”

  Garret nodded grimly.

  “I will. Thank you. Take care of him.”

  Garret sat on the sled and signaled the yargs. Within minutes, his silhouette vanished over a hill.

  ?

  Back at the tavern, everyone was already discussing another dead prospecting group.

  “What’s new?” a man asked a friend, just returned to Snownorth.

  “Haven’t you heard? Ten dead this month.”

  “Damn. Who?”

  “First Ingwin Slim came back with just the TT brothers. Then Garret took those same brothers—and returned with a living corpse.”

  “No way… what a fate.”

  Elis listened with half an ear. Someone else died—what was new? She was scanning the room for a familiar young man.

  *Not back yet? Or already off on another expedition?*

  ?

  While she wondered, the bartender wrestled with an ethical dilemma.

  On one hand, the letter came from a dead man. On the other—he’d been paid.

  “Ah, hell with it…” he muttered. “Hey—you, miss. Come here.”

  Elis looked up, eyebrow raised.

  “Me?”

  The bartender nodded.

  “Here. This is for you. Some kid left it.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a small, neatly sealed letter.

  ?

  Elis turned it over, surprised. The writing read: *To Elis from H.* She broke the seal, unfolded the note, and skimmed it right there.

  ===

  Hi, Elis. It’s Harlan.

  Sorry for the letter—what if you come back and I’m not around yet?

  The Thorren prank worked. Caught me off guard, chased me barefoot halfway across the settlement. Thought he’d kill me, but looks like I survived. He asked who the smartass mage was who gave me those ideas. I didn’t rat you out—so you owe me. :P When we meet, you owe me a date.

  Hope everything’s going well for you and the expedition. You’ll tell me what you found out.

  Tomorrow we head out on a new expedition with Garret and the guys. Hopefully we’ll get lucky this time.

  See you,

  Harlan

  ===

  Elis laughed.

  “You haven’t seen this guy, have you? He hasn’t come back yet?”

  The bartender hesitated, looking out from under his brow.

  “No idea,” he muttered. “Ask around the tables.”

  ?

  Garret returned to the settlement a few days later. Blue twilight filled the streets as he passed through the gates.

  He didn’t want attention, but every road in a small settlement led past The Last Resort. Someone smoking outside shouted that Garret was back. A crowd spilled out of the tavern and surrounded him as he unbuckled the harness and jumped down from the sled.

  “So what about him?” someone asked.

  “Didn’t make it,” Garret said flatly. He paused. “Buried him under a pine. Rest in peace.”

  Someone sighed. Someone shrugged. Someone scoffed.

  “Wasted a crystal. On a greenhorn who couldn’t even hold a gun.”

  “Should’ve died sooner—would’ve saved the stone.”

  “At least you’re alive,” Bob said. “Garret, sell the bears for half?”

  “Later,” Garret waved them off. “I need sleep.”

  He went to stable the beasts.

  The cynical pragmatism didn’t surprise him. He’d been the same once. After enough deaths, each new one hurt less.

  So he passed them without lifting his eyes. Only one person noticed his fists clench.

  Elis stood in the crowd—the same woman from the scientific expedition. Hearing Garret’s words, she said nothing. She closed her eyes and lowered her head. A single tear slid down her cheek and fell to the ground.

  *“When we meet—you owe me a date.”*