The sound of gravel stopped abruptly at the edge of the ravine, as if someone had paused mid-step, testing the air.Allen gripped his dagger, not looking toward the mist or guessing who waited beyond. His gaze stayed fixed on the thin salt line before him—fragile, faint, just enough to last a single night.
Ying stirred in her uneasy sleep, rolling onto her side. The motion pulled at her wound; her breathing faltered, quick and shallow. The fireseed in her chest pulsed faster, echoing the rhythm of her heart. Allen pressed his palm down hard, forcing the heat back into stillness. He counted silently, four beats at a time. Rhythm was life; to lose it was death.
Footsteps moved again—two steps, pause, two steps more. Too slow for a patrol, too steady for the wounded. Allen eased the dagger point into the dirt and laid the back of his hand against his chest pouch. The temperature was steady. Whoever approached carried no open flame.
He spoke quietly:"Awake."
Ying opened her eyes but said nothing. Her fingers found the crowbar beside her. Allen lifted one finger, a silent signal—guard the left corner. He crouched by the doorway's narrow gap himself. The rule was simple: Do not cross the line. Do not answer voices.
The mist at the mouth of the cave shifted. Someone outside brushed it aside, opening a gap the width of a palm.A man's outline stood there, motionless. After half a minute, he tapped twice on the stone—clink, clink.
Allen didn't answer. His eyes stayed on the man's hands. Leather gloves, new and clean. Thick fingers, callused from holding a staff or rifle. The man tapped twice again, waited, then stepped back a pace as though expecting the door to open itself.
Ying's whisper trembled against the wind:"There are two of them."
"Even if they're human," Allen murmured, "no one enters before dawn."
The man outside seemed to understand silence for what it was and began circling slowly, scraping his boots across the ground, testing the boundary. Ying laid her crowbar flat across the floor, leaving a gap three fingers wide. If a beast tried to crawl in, its paw would jam there first.
Allen added another thin line of salt to the threshold and drove a bone needle through it on a slant, stitching the edge into the damp soil. Every motion was deliberate, soundless; the night amplified everything.
Then came another noise—soft, dragging, like cloth pulled across gravel.Allen froze and raised his hand. That was no human sound. A chill damp stench seeped in—sour, rotting, too thick to be mere mist. Ying recognized it; her fingers trembled. Allen caught her wrist and squeezed once: Don't move. Don't let go of the needle.
The first shadow-beast slithered forward, tongue flicking across the salt. The instant it touched, it recoiled with a hiss. The second beast didn't bother testing; it slammed against the doorway, tearing a half-inch crack in the salt barrier. Allen sewed it shut with swift precision, salt sinking deep into mud, the line gripping the earth. He didn't lift his eyes, only watched the tension at his fingertips.
A third beast crept low from the side, its claws slipping three fingers into the gap. Ying struck without hesitation. The crowbar caught between its talons and twisted. The creature jerked back, snarling; the pulled salt tightened the seam instead of breaking it.
The man outside hadn't left. He leaned against a boulder, and Allen caught a faint click of metal—something small being triggered. His stomach clenched. A fire extractor.
Those things were designed to drink flame.Allen pressed the fire pouch down beneath his breastbone, tightening the strap until it crushed his ribs. The heat surged upward, suffocating, as if the fire itself were struggling to breathe. He refused to loosen his grip.
Wind cut sideways through the ravine, clearing the mist from the doorway. A deeper shadow formed beyond—the beasts had regrouped. They no longer charged blindly; they advanced in rhythm, testing the edge inch by inch.
Allen knew the tactic—slow pressure. He lifted the salt pouch, pinched a dry handful, and pushed it forward across the ground, drawing an inner edge. Ying understood. She dotted three small anchors on each end, forming hooks that would bite when stepped on.
The next assault came in silence.Seven impacts, three deflected by the crowbar, four patched with the bone needle. Ying's breath turned ragged; blood leaked through her bandages again. Allen dragged her two feet back and stepped forward himself, dagger still buried in the earth, hand on the hilt, ready. But he knew the rule: If blood spilled beyond the line, the shelter was lost.
Outside, the man finally spoke. His voice was calm, almost amused."I'm not coming in. Don't come out. Just lend me a flame."
Allen said nothing.