Harlan stood by the gates, watching bluish smoke drift lazily above the low rooftops. A sled creaked past him, runners scraping against the packed snow. A boot jutted out from beneath a rough cloak.

  He recognized the cut—same sharp toe, same worn leather as his own.

  Only that sole would never touch the ground again.

  A prospector in heavy furs dragged the sled. Harlan watched him go. That coat alone was worth more than his entire life up to now.

  "First time in the Wildlands?"

  The voice carried farther than expected in the thin air.

  An older man marched briskly toward the exit, bent under a pack so enormous it commanded respect for the owner's spine.

  “First,” Harlan nodded, tearing his gaze away from the fur coat.

  “Then good luck. Just don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  The man did not slow. He passed through the gates and dissolved into the white haze, never explaining what exactly he meant.

  Harlan drew a deep breath. The wind stung his nose with the smell of roasted meat, pine resin, and something sharp—musky.

  The settlement with the plain name Snownorth looked temporary, like a stage set no one bothered to dismantle. And yet it felt alive. Wooden huts huddled together, roofs covered in local hides. Eager-eyed people moved constantly near the crystal exchange points, gear clinking. Nothing here was built to last—people survived here, hoping to leave one day as rich men.

  Harlan headed for the largest building, marked by a crooked sign: Tavern "The Last Resort."

  The hub of local gossip, a labor market, an eatery, and a drinking hole all in one. Exactly what he was looking for.

  *Need to find work... but how to approach it?*

  But the moment he stepped inside, a bald man behind the counter fixed him with a professionally indifferent stare.

  “New?” he asked. “Looking for work?”

  Harlan hesitated for a second, gathering his thoughts, then answered.

  "Yeah, that obvious? I'm looking. I've got crystal mining experience. Worked near Carmille."

  “Carm?” the man snorted, wiping down the counter. “This ain’t Carmille, kid. You’d be better off grabbing an ale and going back home to your mommy.”

  “My mother isn’t waiting for me anymore,” Harlan said with a faint smile. “So I’m ready to take the risk.”

  “Ha. Everyone says that. Right up until they feel teeth on their throat. Fine—your call. Sit, drink. Maybe you’ll find some fool willing to take on a greenhorn.”

  The bartender lost interest immediately and returned to his mugs. But Harlan pulled him back from the routine, taking the advice.

  “I’ll take a pint.”

  “Five ents.” The man perked up, reaching for a glass.

  “How much? Five for an ale? The best stuff in the city isn’t more than three.”

  “That’s in the city. Try getting it here. And we serve the best. Get used to the prices—everything costs more than in your precious Carmille.” The man grimaced, as if Harlan’s poverty offended his taste.

  While the bartender scraped off the foam, Harlan tallied his meager assets. *If a simple ale costs this much, what about a bed? At this rate, I won’t last a couple of weeks.*

  The beer was finally poured, and Harlan took a free table. The tavern buzzed—dense, alive with voices. People talked about new crystal veins, argued over routes, gossiped about the living, and remembered the dead, spinning lives into tall tales. Nothing like the city, where the main gossip was love affairs and drinking binges. Harlan listened, catching fragments.

  “Heard about Garret?” a voice drifted from the neighboring table.

  “The one whose tenth expedition went straight to hell?”

  “That’s the one. Heading out again. I wouldn’t join him if he paid me. Ten expeditions in a row—think about it. They say he’s cursed. Go with him, you won’t earn a single ent.”

  Harlan leaned in, ears tuned by years of mine echoes picking out the essentials.

  "Does he take people without experience?" he asked.

  A brief silence followed.

  “You serious?” one of them squinted, studying Harlan like some rare beast.

  “If he’s been unlucky ten times,” Harlan shrugged, “maybe the eleventh will be different.”

  “Or it won’t. And you’ll die with him. But if you’re that eager…” The man nodded toward a corner. “He’s over there. Ask him yourself.”

  Harlan turned his head.

  A broad man in his mid-fifties sat by the wall, gray at the temples, eyes tired. His beer had clearly been empty for a while; now he stared unfocused at a single point. Snippets of conversations about him must have reached his ears. If they did, he showed no sign—motionless, like stone.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Harlan stood, tugged at his jacket, and approached.

  “Garret?” he asked.

  The man slowly raised his eyes. They were sharp.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “My name’s Harlan Furst. I’m looking for a spot in an expedition. I'm new to the Wildlands, but I know how to swing a pick. Do you have work?”

  “First?” Garret smirked, but the smile never reached his eyes. “Let’s hope you won’t be last. The graveyard here’s big.”

  “I’ve heard that one already,” Harlan replied calmly. “Plenty of people have had fun with my name.”

  The prospector looked him over, lingering on his hands, his clothes, his face.

  “Why me?” Garret asked, meeting his eyes.

  “Because you’re short on people,” Harlan said honestly. “And I’m short on money.”

  “Hm. City-born. I can hear it,” Garret grunted. “So what good are you, really?”

  “Well… I learn fast. And I’ve worked in mines. Hard labor doesn’t scare me.”

  Garret drummed his fingers on the table, silent for a moment, then nodded.

  “Fine. But know this—if everything goes to hell, I won’t risk my hide for a newcomer.”

  “Fair enough,” Harlan answered.

  “One more thing. If we find nothing—you get nothing. If we do, you get a prospector’s share. Smaller than the others’. You’ve never held a revolver, I bet, so you won’t be much use in a fight. That work for you?”

  “It does.”

  Garret leaned back and crossed his arms.

  “Then welcome aboard, Mr. Furst. Lucky you—I was just looking for one more. We leave tomorrow at dawn.”

  Harlan took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders, hoping his face did not betray the excitement.

  Lucky indeed.

  “Thank you. You won’t regret it,” he said sincerely.

  “I sure hope so,” Garret muttered. “You know anything about prospecting?”

  “In mines? Everything. Out here… not much,” Harlan admitted, then quickly added, “But like I said, I learn fast.”

  The veteran shook his head.

  “Oh, scroot's ass. Since you’re my problem now… sit. I’ll go over the basics. But the ale and food are on you.” He tapped his empty mug pointedly.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Lesson one,” Garret said. “No ‘sirs’ out here. Where’d you even pick that up? Call me Garret. Now go get the drinks.”

  Harlan moved to the bartender. He agreed without hesitation, but a mental counter clicked, deducting yet another chunk from his savings.

  ?

  Empty mugs piled up on the table, but Harlan had long stopped counting and listened intently.

  Garret spoke sparingly, but to the point. Routes you couldn't break. Camps that had to be set up right. Equipment. Local beasts—which he kept calling monsters, stressing that to them, a human was just a soft shell with food inside.

  “Test question,” he said suddenly, wiping foam from his mustache. “How many sets of underwear do you bring?”

  “At least five,” Harlan replied instantly. “You won’t be washing anything on a month-long expedition. Clean gear keeps the rot away.”

  “Hm. Good...” A note of approval appeared in Garret's voice. “Second question. What’s the most dangerous sound in the Wildlands?”

  Harlan paused for a moment, thinking. A monster’s roar? Wind howling? Ice cracking? No.

  “No sound at all,” he said. “Silence is the worst.”

  Garret froze. He studied Harlan for a long moment.

  “You know how to listen,” he said at last. “That’s rare. Carelessness and ignorance kill faster than teeth out here.”

  He finished his ale and glanced at his watch.

  “Alright. It’s late. Tomorrow—west gate, dawn. Six a.m. You’ve got nothing, so I’ll rent you a spare gear set. Comes out of your share. Don’t be late. I won’t wait.”

  “I won’t be. Thanks, si—” Harlan cut himself off. “Thanks for the chance, I mean.”

  Garret smirked and left a few coins on the table for his part of the bill.

  Harlan stayed behind, alone. The foam in his mug had settled, but he didn't notice. Outside, darkness fell. Both moons had risen over the black mountains, and the first stars were already burning.

  Everything had happened fast. He had arrived only that morning, and tomorrow the road awaited him.

  He had wagered everything on this journey. His money was nearly gone, and if this failed, fate would not offer a second chance.

  The Wildlands lay ahead.

  You could die there.

  Or start over.