Return Too: Iron and Ashes 2

The air inside the raiders' war-tent was thick with the foul stench of stale ale, unwashed leather, and fresh blood. Outside, the main camp roared with the crude, drunken laughter of men who lived only to pillage, burn, and conquer, but inside the heavy canvas flap, the silence was suffocating.

Vance was on his knees.

The ruthless track-leader, usually so full of arrogant malice and quick to swing an iron chain, was shivering in the dirt like a beaten hound. His lip was split, bleeding freely onto his stubbled chin, and a dark, ugly purple bruise was already swelling over his left cheekbone. The iron-tipped spear he usually carried sat discarded in the mud near his knees.

In front of him, sitting on a high throne carved from salvaged girders and scorched timber, sat the Boss—a colossal, brutal tyrant who ruled the territory with an iron fist. He was broad as a ox, clad in plates of scrap iron bolted directly over boiled leather, his scarred face illuminated by the flickering orange glow of two iron brazier fires.

And right beside the throne, leaning casually against a thick wooden support pillar, stood Kael.

Kael was the Boss’s right-hand man. He was a tall, hawk-faced brute with cold, sunken eyes and a sneering mouth that always seemed on the verge of a cruel laugh. He wore a long coat lined with the pelts of mutant wolves, a heavy horn-handled dagger resting at his hip. Kael’s gaze flicked over Vance’s trembling form with pure, unadulterated disgust.

"You lost my hammer?" the Boss’s voice rumbled through the quiet tent like low thunder, a sound that made the canvas walls vibrate. "My heavy iron sledge. The one forged from Old World steel. The weapon that marked my authority over every scout from the Ridge to the river."

"Boss... please," Vance begged, his voice high and thin as he wiped blood from his chin with a shaking hand. "It wasn't a normal scout! It was the gray freak—the giant titan monster! He ambushed us in the timber! He took the sledge, and he had a boy with him—one of the survivors from the Ridge camp! We tracked them to the northern bluffs, but the fog rolled in... we couldn't find them in the dark!"

"Excuses," the Boss growled softly, leaning forward. "You took three men, three torches, and you came back with empty hands and a missing hammer."

He raised a massive, scarred hand, his heavy iron rings glinting in the firelight, and gave a sharp, imperious flick of his fingers toward the shadowed back flap of the tent.

"Bring the wine," the Boss commanded, his tone shifting from violent rage to a low, demanding purr. "And let me look at something worth my time."

The heavy black curtain at the rear of the tent parted.

Out from the shadows stepped a small, ethereal figure, cutting through the grim, filthy atmosphere of the war-tent like a quiet, silver blade.

He was small, slender, and unnaturally pale, his delicate skin covered in a thin, powdery layer of white ash-clay that masked his natural scent from the wild beasts, tracking hounds, and roaming Tall Walkers outside. But the clay did nothing to hide the striking intensity of his face. His eyes were his most dangerous feature—flashing like molten amber gold whenever the flickering torchlight hit his face, sharp and impossibly bright.

He wore a scandalously revealing dress made from scavenged black silk, cut impossibly short and slit high up both sides to his hips. The light, fluid fabric was held together only by thin, worn leather cords tied tightly at his slender waist and over his delicate shoulders. With every slow, deliberate step he took across the packed dirt, the long side-slits flared open, exposing his bare, slender legs and smooth, ash-dusted thighs.

The entire tent went dead silent.

The two heavily armed guards flanking the entrance stopped leaning on their spears, their knuckles turning white as their eyes tracked the youth's movement. Even Vance, cowering on the floor with a bloody lip, felt his breath hitch in his throat. His eyes involuntarily tracked the smooth, hypnotic curve of those bare legs, a hot flush of red creeping up his bruised neck despite the sheer, mortal terror he felt for his life.

The pale young man ignored Vance entirely, stepping right past the cowering track-leader as if he were nothing more than a pile of wet dirt. His delicate, pink lips parted just a fraction—a subtle, biting habit that made every hardened killer in the room swallow hard, their blood running hot as their minds were momentarily hijacked by the sheer beauty of the boy.

To the raiders, he was a delicate prize—a silent, fragile pet kept on the Boss's short leash to pour wine and ease the tyrant's moods.

To him, they were all walking corpses.

Beneath that quiet, mesmerizing exterior, his mind was a whirlwind of violent, lethal calculation. Every second he walked across the tent, his amber eyes mapped the space with cold precision.

Three steps to reach Vance... half a second to snatch the long hunting knife strapped to his left hip... spin behind the throne, drive the blade upward through the soft joint under the Boss's iron chin-guard before his heavy arm can rise... then duck low under the guard's spear-throw.

He had calculated a hundred different ways to massacre everyone in the tent. He knew every weak point in their crude iron armor, every slow reflex born of their heavy drinking, and every blind spot in the camp's perimeter. He wasn't weak; he was a silent razor wrapped in black silk, waiting for the right second to strike.

His amber eyes flicked subtly past the Boss's wide shoulders, settling on the shadow leaning against the wooden pillar.

Kael.

Kael stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, a dark, possessive smirk playing on his thin lips. His eyes crawled over the pale youth's slender frame with an unholy familiarity. Whenever the Boss was away leading raids or managing trading parties at the lower outposts, Kael used his absolute authority as second-in-command to keep the youth under constant, suffocating watch. Kael trapped him in the rear quarters, using his position to touch, corner, and push himself upon the boy, treating him like stolen property waiting to be claimed permanently.

The young man's jaw tightened imperceptibly beneath his white ash mask, his breath steady.

I will cut your throat first, Kael, he thought, the amber fire in his eyes burning with a silent, blinding hatred. I will watch you choke on your own blood in the mud before I tear this entire camp down to the bone.

"Come here," the Boss growled, his heavy voice softening just a fraction as he held out a thick, goblet-bearing hand toward the youth.

The pale young man glided forward, his hips swaying with effortless grace, the black silk whispering against his thighs. He picked up the heavy pewter pitcher resting on a low wooden table, pouring a dark, sweet berry wine into the Boss's metal cup without letting a single drop spill onto the floor.

"Look at him, Vance," the Boss spat, taking a long gulp of the wine and glaring down at the trembling man on his knees. "This boy doesn't speak a word, doesn't cry, and doesn't fail me. Yet you—my best track-leader—can't even keep hold of a piece of iron."

Vance pressed his forehead against the dirt floor. "Boss, give me three days! I'll take six men! We'll trail the titan down into the southern lowlands—he can't hide that massive body forever! I'll bring back your sledgehammer, and I'll bring you the boy he was carrying!"

The pale youth froze for a fraction of a second, the heavy pewter pitcher hovering just an inch above the wooden table.

His amber eyes narrowed slightly. A titan? A slate-gray hybrid with a sledgehammer... carrying a boy?

In a world where every survivor fought tooth and nail for a scrap of dried meat, the idea of a towering monster carrying a human boy instead of tearing him apart echoed strange and impossible in the youth's mind. He listened intently, his ears catching every raspy word that escaped Vance's bloody lips.

The Boss stared down at Vance for a long, agonizing minute, the heavy quiet of the tent broken only by the crackle of the iron braziers.

"You have two days," the Boss rumbled, his voice cold as stone. "Take Kael with you. If you come back without my sledgehammer, Kael has my permission to skin you alive in front of the main gate."

Vance shuddered, nodding frantically. "Yes, Boss! Thank you, Boss!"

"Get out of my sight," the Boss sneered, waving his heavy hand dismissively.

Vance scrambled backward on his hands and knees, practically throwing himself through the front flap of the tent to escape the tyrant's wrath.

Kael pushed himself off the wooden support pillar, stepping forward into the light. His dark eyes flicked from the Boss to the pale young man standing by the table, his sneer deepening.

"I'll take four scouts from the north gate, Boss," Kael said, his raspy voice dripping with arrogance. "If this gray freak is carrying dead weight, he won't be moving fast. We'll corner them in the river valley."

"Do it," the Boss growled, leaning back against his carved throne and closing his eyes. "And don't waste my time with more failure."

Kael bowed his head slightly, but as he turned to leave the tent, he deliberately brushed his wide shoulder against the pale youth's arm. He leaned down, his foul, sour breath hot against the young man's shell-like ear.

"Keep the bed warm while I'm gone, little bird," Kael whispered, his hand snaking out to give a tight, bruising pinch to the youth's bare waist through the slit of the dress. "When I bring back that hammer, the Boss is gonna give you to me as a reward. Count on it."

The pale youth didn't flinch. He didn't pull away or cry out. He stood like a statuesque carving of white marble, his face completely devoid of emotion.

Kael let out a dark chuckle, thoroughly pleased with himself, and strode out through the tent flap into the night air.

The moment the curtain settled behind Kael, the pale young man let out a slow, silent breath through his nose. His hand reached down to his waist, feeling the faint, hot sting where Kael's fingers had pinched his skin through the black silk.

Two days, the youth thought, his amber eyes burning with a sudden, sharp clarity. They are moving out to hunt the titan and the boy tonight.

He looked over at the Boss, who was already heavily breathing, leaning back on his throne with his eyes shut, dulled by the heavy, sweet wine.

The youth knew this camp was a dead end. Kael would return, and whether he brought the hammer back or not, the tyrant would eventually hand him over to Kael like a piece of leftover meat. His time was up. He couldn't afford to wait for the perfect moment to kill the Boss here in the center of a camp filled with fifty armed raiders.

He needed chaos. He needed the open wilderness.

If Kael and Vance are hunting this titan... then that titan is my ticket out of this cage.

The pale young man moved with silent, fluid motion toward the back quarters of the tent. He slipped behind the heavy black curtain into his small, dim sleeping area—a tiny space containing only a straw mat, a small wooden chest, and a rusted iron bowl used for mixing his white ash-clay.

He didn't grab clothes. The revealing black silk dress, short and bound by leather cords, gave him complete freedom of movement—unrestricted, light, and silent. He reached beneath the straw mat, his fingers wrapping around a hidden weapon he had spent three weeks crafting in secret: a five-inch needle carved from the sharpened rib-bone of a mutant wolf, polished slick and tipped with the dark, dried venom of a river viper.

He tucked the bone needle securely into the leather strap wrapped tight around his left thigh, hidden completely beneath the high slit of his dress.

He dipped his fingers into the bowl of wet white clay, slathering a fresh, thick coat across his neck, shoulders, and bare legs. The bitter scent of the clay instantly masked his natural human smell, preparing him for the wild dead zones outside.

He looked back toward the main tent. Through a tiny gap in the curtain, he could see the Boss slumping further into his throne, snoring softly under the influence of the drugged wine the youth had carefully prepared earlier that evening.

The pale young man turned toward the rear edge of the war-tent. Using his bone needle, he sliced a clean, silent line through the heavy canvas wall, creating an opening just wide enough for his slender frame.

He slipped through the gap into the freezing night air.

The raider camp was chaotic and loud—braziers smoking, guards drinking around open pits, and Vance shouting orders near the armory as Kael gathered four mounted scouts. Nobody noticed the small, pale shadow darting between the supply crates, moving like a phantom through the high weeds along the perimeter fence.

The youth reached the outer wooden palisade. With terrifying, effortless agility, he leaped onto a low stone, caught the top of the timber fence with his pale fingers, and hoisted his light frame over the top, dropping silently into the tall, dew-soaked grass on the other side.

He crouched low in the dark, his bare feet sinking into the cool, damp earth.

He looked back at the glowing braziers of the raider camp one last time, his amber eyes flashing in the night. Kael and Vance were heading south toward the river valley to hunt a slate-gray titan and a human boy.

The pale youth turned his face toward the dark, uncharted forest stretching into the wilderness. A small, dangerous smile touched his delicate lips as he broke into a silent, effortless sprint through the high weeds, disappearing into the fog.

He wasn't running away to hide. He was going to find the titan first—and when Kael and Vance finally caught up to their prey in the dark, they would realize too late that they weren't the hunters anymore.