Jake learned one thing within hours of waking in this world.
People here had all the warmth and hospitality of a sandstorm full of glass.
"Why don't we talk about this, huh?" Jake said, trying for a calm voice.
The machete at his throat made calm difficult. The man holding it, stocky, wide-shouldered, scarf wrapped across the lower half of his face, stood close enough that Jake could smell his breath. It was an aggressive combination of onions and something dead.
"No talk," the man said, words clipped, each syllable landing like a kick to the shins. "You say. I hear. You lie… cut you."
His speech was slow, uneven, like each word had to fight its way out. Jake didn't know much about this guy yet, but something about the way his right eye twitched and his mouth dragged on certain sounds hinted at an injury at upper decks.
Jake raised his hands slightly. "Look, I told you, I just… ended up here. I'm not a threat."
The machete pressed closer, the scarfed man's eyes narrowing.
A deeper, steadier voice broke in from behind him.
"Brack."
The scarfed man, Brack, apparently, froze, shoulders stiff. He didn't move the blade, but his head tilted slightly toward the voice.
The man who had spoken stepped forward. Taller than Jake by a head, built like someone who had been born holding a spear and hadn't put it down since, his face carried a thick scar running from jaw to collarbone. His leather chest guard had metal plates stitched into it, the sort of protection you didn't get unless you were important… or still alive after a lot of close calls.
"Enough," the tall man said. "If the Soul Seeker says he is no danger, then we waste no more time."
Brack's grip loosened—reluctantly—and he stepped back, still glaring at Jake like he was mentally fitting him for a coffin.
A young woman had appeared beside the tall man. She wore a plain brown cloak, her hair bound in a loose braid. She leaned in, murmuring something directly into his ear. Jake caught none of it, but the way the tall man nodded once told him enough. This was the Soul Seeker.
The tall man's eyes returned to Jake. "I am Darius. I lead this convoy. And I do not trust strangers."
"Noted," Jake said, rubbing his neck where the machete had been. "But, uh… your guy there seemed ready to turn me into hamburger. I'm assuming you're the reasonable one."
Darius didn't smile. "Reasonable depends on the cost."
---
Earlier that day
Jake had been walking along the edge of a shallow ridge when he saw it, dust rising in the distance. By the time he got closer, the fight was already on.
A dozen riders were being swarmed by twice as many attackers. The convoy riders wore layered cloth with a few metal plates, riding broad-backed beasts Jake didn't recognize. The attackers, lean men with ragged scarves and wickedly curved blades, darted in and out, mounted on fast ostrich like creatures.
Jake had told himself to stay out of it. He really had. But then he'd seen one of the convoy riders dragged from his saddle, three attackers moving in for the kill.
Something in his head had clicked. His legs were moving before the rest of him agreed.
A spear—someone had dropped it—landed in his hands like it belonged there. He hurled it, striking a man clean through the shoulder. A curved blade came at him, he turned it aside, then slammed its owner to the dirt with a sweep of his foot. The moves felt familiar in a way that made his stomach twist.
By the time it was over, six of the attackers were dead, the rest fleeing into the dunes. Jake stood in the churned dirt, breathing hard, a stolen blade in one hand.
The convoy riders didn't cheer. They stared, like they couldn't decide if he was a savior or a curse.
---
Now, hours later, he sat by their fire with a dented tin cup of something that smelled like boiled hay.
The camp had a strange rhythm.
Men and women moved between the tethered beasts, Dongri, they were called. Heavy, shaggy creatures with curling horns that swept forward like the prow of a ship. They had big, sleepy eyes and a way of chewing that made Jake think of cows, if cows could knock down a wall.
Brack passed by once, glaring at him the whole time, muttering in short, clipped phrases Jake couldn't quite catch. The man's machete never left his belt.
Jake caught Darius watching him more than once. Not hostile, exactly. Just… measuring. Like a trader weighing the value of a suspicious gem.
---
At sunset, the horn blew.
It wasn't loud, but it carried, a low, mournful sound from the west.
People stopped what they were doing. Hands went to weapons.
Shapes appeared on the ridge line, riders, their armor catching the dying light. Their clothes were similar to Darius's people, but more elaborate, with scrap metal plates polished to a dull sheen sewn into the fabric. Their mounts were the same ostrich like creatures from before.
Beside Jake, someone muttered, "Rusttide."
The name hung in the air like a bad smell.
Jake leaned toward Darius. "Friends of yours?"
Darius's mouth tightened. "Lord Hastar's men. They own the rivers. The roads. When they cannot take, they drown."
The Rusttide riders halted just beyond bowshot. One of them, a man with a jagged, wave-shaped crest on his helmet, raised a hand.
His voice carried across the camp.
"We come with one question," he said. "Has anyone new joined your number?"
Murmurs rippled through the convoy. Jake felt the weight of eyes again, shifting toward him.
Darius didn't answer immediately. His gaze swept the camp, then returned to the rider.
"Why do you ask?"
The Rusttide man tilted his head slightly. "Because if you lie, we will know."
No threat. Just certainty.
Jake exhaled slowly. "Here we go ."