Markum Nez Toron stopped at the edge of the ravine.
The forest had gone silent.
Moments earlier, something enormous had crashed through the trees below. He had heard the impact, followed by the splintering of wood and the sharp crack of stone breaking under tremendous force. Then everything had stopped.
Markum tightened his grip on his spear and studied the forest.
At fifty-two, he had spent more than three decades in military service and nearly as many years patrolling the northern frontier. Experience had taught him that sudden silence usually meant one of two things: the threat had left, or it was waiting.
He approached the fractured edge of the ravine.
The ground had been torn apart. Fresh cracks radiated through the stone, several large boulders had been displaced, and loose gravel continued to tumble into the darkness below. Markum crouched and examined the damage. Something heavy had come through here. Very heavy.
He looked down.
The bottom of the ravine was barely visible.
After a moment, he began his descent.
The walls were steep, but natural handholds made the climb possible. Markum tested each foothold before shifting his weight, moving with the controlled efficiency of a soldier accustomed to difficult terrain. His shoulder-length silver-grey hair fell across his face as he descended, and he pushed it aside without breaking his rhythm.
The deeper he went, the colder the air became.
The damage grew worse.
A section of the ravine wall had been blasted apart. Stones were fractured and blackened, and a boulder nearly as tall as Markum had been split in two. Dark scorch marks covered its surface.
He stopped beside it and placed a hand against the stone.
It was still warm.
Markum’s brown eyes narrowed.
“Lightning Boar.”
There was little doubt.
The creatures were rare this far up the mountain, but Markum knew their signs. Scorched stone. Shattered trees. Electrical burns. Whatever had happened here, a Lightning Boar had been involved.
And judging by the damage, it had not been a brief encounter.
Markum continued downward.
The ravine widened near the bottom. He slowed as he stepped over broken stone and fallen branches, scanning the area for movement.
Then he saw the body.
A man lay among the rocks, flat on his back and completely motionless.
Markum stopped.
He lowered his spear but did not release it.
The stranger looked young, perhaps in his mid-twenties. His clothing immediately caught Markum’s attention. It was dark, almost black, and had been badly damaged. The material was torn across the chest, shoulders, arms, and legs, with sections shredded nearly beyond recognition. Dust and debris covered the remaining fabric.
Yet beneath the damage, Markum could see the purpose of the clothing.
It was close-fitting and reinforced around the knees, shoulders, and torso. The construction was unfamiliar, but it was clearly designed for protection and mobility.
Not ordinary clothing.
Markum searched the area around the man.
No sword.
No bow.
No knife.
No pack.
Nothing that explained who he was or where he had come from.
Then Markum noticed something partially buried in the dust beside the stranger.
He crouched and picked it up.
The object was a small rectangular device with a dark casing and a flat surface. Several small controls were arranged along one side.
Markum turned it over.
No insignia. No markings. Nothing he recognized.
He pressed one of the controls.
Nothing happened.
He examined it again, turning it in his hand.
“What are you?”
The device remained silent.
Whatever it was, it was not immediately useful to him. Markum placed it back where he had found it and returned his attention to the stranger.
Something was wrong.
He crouched beside the man and placed two fingers against his neck.
A pulse.
Steady and strong.
Markum watched his chest rise and fall.
Alive.
He frowned.
The man had fallen into a ravine from a height that should have killed him. The shattered stone around him suggested the impact had been violent enough to destroy solid rock.
Yet there was almost no evidence of injury.
Markum examined him systematically.
Head. Neck. Arms. Chest. Legs.
No broken bones. No significant burns. No blood. No obvious internal trauma.
The man appeared to be unconscious and little else.
Markum had seen soldiers die from falls far smaller than this.
He studied the stranger’s face again.
Then he noticed the hair.
Short. Precise.
Black as coal.
Military.
The thought came automatically.
Markum had seen military haircuts throughout his career, but this particular style was unfamiliar. So was the rest of the man.
Black hair was uncommon this far north, where brown, blond, and reddish hair were more typical. The stranger looked nothing like a hunter, farmer, mercenary, or soldier Markum had encountered during his years on the frontier.
The clothing made even less sense.
Markum looked toward the walls of the ravine.
There was no obvious trail. No broken vegetation suggested the man had climbed down. No discarded equipment marked a route. Nothing indicated where he had come from.
The stranger simply lay there.
Markum looked back at him.
“Who are you?”
There was no answer.
He considered leaving him.
It would be the sensible decision. Whatever had happened here involved a Lightning Boar, and Markum had no interest in becoming involved in a mystery he did not understand.
But the man was alive.
Leaving him here would be a death sentence.
Markum exhaled slowly.
“Fine.”
He lowered his spear and crouched beside the stranger. One arm went beneath the man’s shoulders, the other beneath his legs.
He lifted.
Markum immediately noticed something unexpected.
The stranger was heavier than he looked.
His brow furrowed as he adjusted his grip and stood. The weight was considerable, but manageable.
Markum looked down at the unconscious man.
The torn clothing. The black hair. The absence of serious injuries.
None of it made sense.
“I have no idea what you are.”
He secured his spear across his back and began climbing.
After hours of walking, the darkness had faded into a pale gray dawn, but the forest remained dim beneath the dense branches.
This was the northern frontier of Sariyaz, a region where the kingdom’s influence gradually gave way to wilderness. Farther north and east, the territories of Geldanos and the Unclaimed Lands became less clearly defined. Patrols, merchants, hunters, adventurers, and smugglers crossed through the region with little regard for political boundaries.
The land itself recognized none of them.
Markum knew these mountains well enough to understand the difference between civilization and wilderness. Settlements existed in isolated pockets. Beyond them, survival belonged to whoever possessed the strength and knowledge to endure.
The foothills of Mt. Kan-Alon were particularly unforgiving.
Markum adjusted the stranger’s weight.
The man had not regained consciousness.
He was still breathing. Still apparently unharmed.
Still impossible.
Markum glanced over his shoulder.
He had never seen clothing like this.
And never seen a man survive a fall like that.
He continued down the mountain.
The forest gradually brightened around him. Birds began calling in the distance, and small animals moved through the underbrush. The ordinary sounds of morning slowly returned.
It should have reassured him.
It didn’t.
His thoughts kept returning to the ravine.
The Lightning Boar.
The shattered rocks.
The stranger.
And the impossible fact that the man had been found alive at the bottom of it.
Markum looked back toward the mountains.
Mt. Kan-Alon disappeared into the clouds behind him. Somewhere among those slopes stood an ancient ruin. He had passed near it before but had never considered it worth investigating.
Now he wondered if that had been a mistake.
He looked down at the stranger.
“Where did you come from?”
The man offered no answer.
Markum faced forward and continued walking.
Whatever the answer was, he suspected he was going to regret finding it.
Through the trees ahead, a faint column of smoke rose into the morning sky.
A fort.
Markum adjusted his grip and kept moving.
He was taking the stranger home.