Chapter 113 – Smoke on the Horizon
The climb beyond the choke point was brutal—steep shale that slid away under their boots, forcing each step to be deliberate and punishing. The air thinned as they rose, every breath scraping Elira's throat raw. Still, she didn't slow. The quiet behind them wasn't reassuring—it was the kind of quiet that came when predators were simply changing tactics.
By the time they reached the crest, the sky had shifted to a pale steel, the first smear of dawn stretching thin across the horizon. Kairo stopped just short of the ridge's edge, one hand lifting to halt her.
Below them sprawled a wide valley, cut through the center by a dirt road that wound like a snake toward a cluster of buildings in the distance. Even from here, Elira could see the faint curl of smoke rising into the cold air.
She exhaled slowly. "That's no abandoned village."
"No," Kairo agreed, scanning the scene with that measured calculation she had come to recognize. "Too many tracks on the road. Carts, boots, horses. Someone's moving supplies through there."
"Feretti?"
"Could be. Could be one of his rivals. Either way, we can't walk in without knowing who holds it."
Elira dropped to one knee beside him, studying the valley. A small group of riders emerged from the cluster of buildings, moving toward the opposite ridge. The riders' movements were crisp, professional. Armed.
Her gut twisted. "Not farmers."
"Not farmers," he echoed.
They stayed there a few more minutes, silent except for the wind dragging across the shale. Kairo's gaze flicked between the smoke, the riders, and a narrow track that branched from the main road toward a stand of old pines.
"That track," he said finally, "will take us behind the settlement. If there's a way in without walking into their rifles, that's it."
"And if there isn't?"
His jaw flexed. "Then we make one."
They descended on the far side of the ridge, the ground dropping into a shadowed ravine. Here the snow was untouched, muffling their steps. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke, stronger the deeper they went. Somewhere ahead, a crow called, the sound sharp and lonely.
By the time they reached the stand of pines, the smoke was heavier, drifting through the branches in thin grey ribbons. Voices murmured somewhere close—a man's laugh, the clink of metal. Kairo signaled for her to stop, then moved ahead in a low crouch until he reached a break in the trees.
Elira joined him, careful not to snap a twig. Through the gap, she could see the rear of the settlement—a line of crude sheds, stacked crates, and a wagon with its tarp thrown back to reveal rifles. A guard sat slouched on a barrel, smoking.
Her voice was barely a breath. "Weapons stockpile."
Kairo's eyes narrowed. "More than a stockpile. That's enough to arm fifty men."
"Feretti's men?"
He shook his head slightly. "The barrels are marked with the Santero seal. That's not Feretti's crew. That's one of the cartels out of the southern ports."
Her pulse quickened. "What are they doing this far north?"
"Whatever it is," he said, "Feretti doesn't know. Or he'd already be burning it to the ground."
A plan began to take shape in the set of his shoulders. It wasn't reckless—not yet—but it was dangerous, the kind of danger that shifted the balance of power if it worked.
"What's in your head?" she asked.
He gave her the faintest smile. "If Feretti wants me alive, he'll have to work for it. And if the Santeros have set up shop in his backyard… I think we give them a reason to fight each other."
Her brows lifted. "You're going to start a war."
His smile didn't falter. "No. I'm going to point two enemies in the same direction. Then we walk away while they tear each other apart."
Elira glanced back at the smoke curling over the rooftops. It wasn't a bad plan. It also wasn't one that left much room for mistakes. "And if they both come for us instead?"
"Then," he said, standing slowly, "we make sure neither of them lives to regret it."
They moved back into the trees, heading toward the long curve of the track. Somewhere ahead lay the thin thread that might unravel Feretti's grip on the north—or snap around their necks before they could pull it.
Either way, the horizon was burning.