FHA Chapter 9 : Ashen Bonds
Four years, 361 days until Aloy's Proving
POV: Rion
The mist clung low to the ground, curling around the roots like smoke that had lost its way. Every breath I took hung in the air, vanishing into the early light.
My fingers gripped the bowstring, elbow high, shoulders tight. Ten meters ahead, a rabbit twitched at a patch of moss—small, brown, oblivious.
I exhaled too sharply and released.
The arrow clipped the ground with a thunk. The rabbit bolted, a blur of fur and panic.
"Damn it," I muttered.
Leaves stirred behind me. I didn't have to look.
"You're trying too hard," Sula said, stepping into view. Her voice was still gritty from sleep. "Your shoulders were locked. And you were holding your breath like you were picking a fight with the air."
I turned toward her, scowling. "I didn't realize I had an audience."
"You didn't," she said, crouching where the rabbit had fled. "But frustration's louder than footsteps."
She rose, walked over, and plucked the bow from my hands like she was handling a stubborn tool. Her stance shifted—loose but firm, breathing steady. She drew the string back in a smooth motion, not to fire, but to feel the rhythm.
"This is how my mother taught me," she said. "Flow with the world. Hunting isn't a duel. It's listening."
She held the posture for a moment longer, then eased the bowstring and handed the weapon back to me.
"We'll track the rabbit and you can try again," she said, smirking. "And this time, don't act like the rabbit owes you an apology."
Her eyes were sharp now, more awake than she let on. She crouched low, fingers brushing over the disturbed soil where the rabbit had fled, following the faint impressions left in the dew and dirt. Every movement she made was quiet, purposeful—like the earth itself had grown used to her steps.
I followed, bow in hand, trying not to mess it up.
We moved quietly through the underbrush, Sula tracking with the ease of a wind tracing familiar paths. Every movement she made whispered trust with the ground. I followed—heavier, clumsier.
"That style your uncle used during the duel," I said, "you ever train in it?"
She didn't glance up. "You mean Deathclaw Kenpo?"
"Yeah."
"He tried teaching me when I was younger," she said, brushing her fingers over a faint print. "I learned some basics. Torque strikes, anchored footwork. But..." She stood, rolling her shoulder. "That style's built for a wall of muscle, not someone like me. I had to adapt. Focused more on speed. Precision."
I raised an eyebrow. "Still seems useful."
"It is," she said, a faint glint in her eye. "If you're serious, I can show you. But it's a fragment. Not the full art."
"Still more than I had yesterday."
She gave a faint nod. "Then after breakfast, we start with a stance."
She turned to move again, then hesitated.
"You know," she said, tone shifting slightly, "some of our tribe who've wandered far—trade runners, exiles, the Ashmarked—they've passed through the Carja Sundom."
I raised an eyebrow. "Ashmarked?"
Sula glanced at me and gave a faint, knowing smirk.
"Warriors who leave the Grove to see more of the world. Not exiles—more like scouts with no map. They carry ash on their faces, take contracts, learn what they can. Some return with new styles. Some don't return at all. Either way, their stories come back."
I raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"They told stories," she said. "About the nobles there. Not just pampered lordlings… but warriors. Trained. Dangerous. But not like us."
She stepped into a clearing, boots soft on the moss. "They fight with something else. A style built on light feet. Spiraling steps. Movements that look too graceful to be deadly."
Her eyes narrowed.
"They said it was like… a dance."
Then, to my surprise, Sula shifted. One leg lifted slightly, heel drawn up to her calf. Her arms rose, one extended forward, the other curved overhead in a form I'd only seen on stage or in old-world vids. Balanced. Precise. Controlled.
It didn't look like a killing stance.
But it was a stance that was fairly familiar. Until it clicked the Carja nobility had based a fighting style off ballet.
"A Carja noble posed like this before striking," she said. "Our people thought it was a joke… until one of them dropped a warrior in three steps. Didn't even break their rhythm."
I stared. "You're telling me their fighting style is based on ballet?"
She let the pose go, shoulders rolling loose again. "If that's what the old world called it, then maybe. All I know is—they turned dance into violence."
Then she smirked.
"I'm not that graceful. But I can appreciate anyone who can cut you down and look beautiful doing it."
I watched her for a moment, then said, "Maybe you're not done learning."
She raised an eyebrow.
"If your Deathclaw Kenpo's incomplete, and the Carja have a style that fits your frame better… what's stopping you from combining them?"
She blinked. Thought about it.
Then, slowly, a small, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Time. And a very long walk to the Sundom."
My Focus blinked.
[LONG-TERM QUEST UNLOCKED] Dance of the Sun
Objective: Travel to the Carja Sundom with Sula when ready. Seek out the noble families' martial houses and uncover their ballet-based fighting art. Notes: Combining Carja grace with Kansani brutality may unlock a new hybrid style.
Status: Inactive (Requires Sula as Companion – Relationship Affinity: Trusted)
Reward: Unique Style – "Ashen Waltz" (Locked), Companion Upgrade – Sula Combat Tree Expansion
….
She was still smirking. "You just want to see me in gold armor, don't you?"
I didn't deny it. The Carja had a sense of style that could be appreciated. They were in the medieval stage while the rest of the North American tribes were still living in the tribal era. Well, the Legion might qualify too, but they were mimics—imitators clinging to the bones of the past. The Carja started from scratch. Rebuilt. Refined. Cultured.
In my opinion, that made them the real nobles.
I would need to head to the Sundom one day anyways. There was no way I was going to leave Aloy handling HADES to chance. The canon could only survive so many changes before the consequences reared their head.
Sula knelt again, brushing aside a patch of moss to reveal another faint set of tracks.
"It doubled back," she murmured. "Rabbits panic easy, but they're creatures of habit. If it felt safe here before, it might again."
I nodded, resetting my grip on the bow. We moved slower this time, quieter. She showed me how to shift my weight to avoid cracking twigs, how to spot the change in undergrowth where something small had passed.
Then I saw it—just ahead, behind a rotted log. Same rabbit. Same twitchy ears. Still oblivious.
Sula stopped beside me. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Don't lock your shoulders. Draw slow. Exhale as you release."
I inhaled. Drew. Felt the rhythm.
And let go.
The arrow struck true.
The rabbit jerked once, then stilled.
Sula raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Looks like breakfast's on you."
I exhaled, letting the tension drain from my arms. "Good. I was tired of hardtack."
She smirked and gave me a pat on the back. "Then let's eat. Before something else does."
We cooked and ate, the scent of real meat drifting in the crisp air. But while I chewed, my thoughts drifted elsewhere.
If the canon still held true, Aloy's journey would hinge on one thing—Override. And that started with a Corruptor.
I glanced at Sula. "Have you ever seen a really old machine? Bigger than a Watcher. Bug-like. All legs and armor with a single long arm on the back. Looked like it was built to stomp on cities?"
She gave me a sidelong look. "According to the elders there was a gravefield in the canyon spines near the Ironwood rim. Machines that were frozen. Crouched like they were about to leap—but never finished. We call them the dead ones."
My heart kicked. "Still intact?"
"Some are," she said. "But not many. We salvaged most long time ago."
"Salvaged?"
She nodded. "The Ironbones stripped them. Took anything useful. Armor. Coils. Even wiring, if it wasn't fused."
That stopped me cold.
"If those machines were ever meant to wake up…" I murmured.
"They won't," she said simply. "Not here. Not in Kansani lands. They're bones now. Burnt and broken. We made sure. Our Elders who remember finding them say that the way they were standing could only mean they were dangerous so they made sure they were dead."
I let out a breath. That meant if HADES ever tried to call them? Nothing would answer. At least not in this territory.
Sula added, "Most of the tribe's early armor was made from them, we just had the armor—black plates, scorched and pitted. It wasn't until the Inspirer became part of our stories that we began using the white. The shamans said it made the shadow louder."
"A declaration, not decoration," I said quietly.
She nodded. "Exactly."
Then she added, "There might be something left, though."
I blinked. "I thought you said they stripped them."
"They did. But not everything gets used. The rest goes into the Pile."
"The Pile?"
She nodded. "Junkyard. War vault. If it sparked, whined, or didn't melt clean, it went there. The Ironbones keep it sorted. Dangerous, but rich. Outsiders can poke around all they want—as long as they've got the shards for it."
"Really?"
She smirked. "Oseram caravans come every other moon. Trade parts. Sell their ale. The Ironbones don't care who you are—just that you pay."
I nodded slowly. "You'll take me there?"
"When we circle back to Ironwood Grove," she said. "Just don't try to haggle. They'll win. With coin or with knives."
She chuckled. "Only folks I've ever seen haggle with the Ironbones and live to brag about it are the Oseram. And even then, they usually lose half their ale doing it."
I grinned. "Fair enough."
I scratched my jaw, thinking. "What if I don't have enough shards? You think they'd accept labor? Chores, maybe?"
Sula gave me a sidelong glance. "You offering to haul scrap and shovel ash?"
"If it gets me inside the Pile, I'll sweep every forge vent they've got."
She snorted. "You could try. But there's a better way."
She shifted, tugging her gear tighter. "The Ironbone clan puts up bounties now and then—specific machines they want parts from. Not common salvage. Rare stuff. Pristine coils, override cages, heat sinks that haven't melted through."
"And if I bring them what they ask for?"
"They'll pay. In shards or trade." She looked at me, expression serious. "It's how most scavengers earn their way in. You kill what they post, and bring back the goods in good condition. Do it clean, and they remember your name."
"Good to know," I said. "I'm better with bounties than brooms."
Sula smirked. "Then sharpen your aim, tourist. If you want to dig through a war god's leftovers, you'd better prove you're worth more than your fingers."
I rubbed the back of my neck. "Who are the Ironborn exactly? Part of the Kansani?"
Sula paused, then gave a small smirk. "They are now. But they didn't start that way."
She shifted her weight, voice settling into a storytone. "Long before my time—maybe even before my grandmother's—there was a forge-clan that wandered in from the north. Never said where they came from. But a lot of folks think they were Oseram once. Exiles maybe. A breakaway group."
I raised an eyebrow. "What makes people think that?"
She shrugged. "The way they talk. The way they drink. The way they treat scrap like sacred scripture. They've got that Oseram fire, but none of the flair. Just grit."
"So they showed up here, what… looking for a place to set up shop?"
"No one knows for sure. They just settled near the gravefields. Started building. Tinkering. Pulling apart machines no one else dared touch." She tapped her thigh. "When the Kansani found them, we expected a fight. But they didn't posture. Didn't threaten. They just offered to trade. Tools, weapons, armor—better than anything we had at the time."
"And you let them stay?"
"No one let them. They didn't ask. But they didn't challenge us either. They gave more than they took. And when the shamans saw how their work held up in battle, it just… made sense."
She looked up. "They never painted their faces. Never took up the chants. But they forged every spear we carried into war. So we gave them a name. A place. Called them Ironbones."
"And now they're part of the tribe."
"They don't act like it," she said with a snort. "But they've been Kansani longer than some bloodlines. You ask one, they'll say they serve the forge, not the war god. But when our enemies burn, it's their steel doing the burning."
Sula rolled her shoulder and added, "I've got a friend in their ranks—Ubba. Grease-stained, wild-haired, and twice as loud as anyone needs to be. But she's brilliant."
"Ubba?" I echoed.
"She's working on a new weapon," Sula said, with the kind of casual pride that meant they'd shared more than forge talk. "Says it'll whistle when it fires. Shoots iron spikes fast enough to impale into a Behemoth's Armor. Wants it to scream as it fires—to scare the fight out of whoever's still standing."
I blinked. My brow furrowed.
Whistles. Spikes. Screaming steam.
My eyes shot wide.
"You're telling me she's building a—"
I stopped. Almost said the name out loud. Gamer talk confuses more than clarifies now.
But the grin slipped out anyway.
"She's making something real nasty."
Sula smirked. "That's one way to put it. She calls it her singing death stick."
I let out a low whistle of my own.
A Railway Rifle. Or something dangerously close.
In this world? That was a game-changer.
Steam-powered spike thrower. Practically recoil-free. Ammo from scrap. Silent until it wasn't—then pure, brutal punctuation. If Ubba pulled it off, she didn't just make a weapon. She tilted the battlefield sideways.
Sula's eyes narrowed, studying me. "You know what she's making, don't you?"
"Vaguely," I said, feigning casual. "I'll have to take a look."
"She's been looking for someone brave enough to test it," Sula added, tone too even to be innocent.
I paused, then gave a half-shrug. "I'll think about it." but the look Sula gave me we both knew I was going to test it.
Quest: Whistle of the Forge step one
Ubba, an eccentric Ironbone weaponsmith and Sula's old friend, has designed something dangerous—a prototype spike-launcher she calls the Singing Death Stick. A steam-powered hybrid weapon built from salvaged pressure coils, forge housing, and reinforced rails, it's loud, lethal, and barely tested.
She needs a field tester.
And she's not just asking for volunteers. She's waiting for someone mad enough to say yes.
Objectives:
Return to Ironwood Grove with Sula
Speak with Ubba at the forge
…..
After that we ate in silence, save for a few dry jokes and the crackle of the fire. The rabbit had been small, but real meat always hit differently. Sula cleaned the blade while I packed the rest, and once the last embers were buried, we moved northeast—bellies full, minds sharper. The trees thinned as ruin crept back into the world. The scent changed first—less pine, more metal. Rust and dust. That kind of dry rot that clings to parking structures and old steel walkways.
Then we saw it.
Newton.
Not marked. Not clean. Just a shift in the bones of the land. Cracked roads reappearing like veins beneath the moss. Streetlights leaning like drunks, their cords long since chewed by time. Ahead, the skeletons of mid-rise buildings—most too damaged to identify. But I didn't need signs.
I knew this place.
"I used to live here," I muttered.
Sula glanced over. "Your home village?"
I shook my head. "No. Just where I stayed as an adult. My birth village was farther south—closer to the core Lonaki lands than here. But this? This was just convenience. Rented space, short drive to work, cheap groceries."
I paused a beat, the air turning heavier with the thought.
"Maybe one day I'll go back. To where I was born."
Sula tilted her head, quietly attentive.
"The land had been in my family for generations," I said. "Decent in size, my father rented it out to farmers to raise cattle, smaller Bisons. There was an original house there too—weather-beaten, two-story, porch sagging at the edges."
I gave a faint smile. "Instead of tearing it all down, my father kept the basement. Poured a new foundation right over it when he built the new place. Said the old bones still had use. That there were memories in the walls worth keeping, even if the roof was long gone."
Sula didn't interrupt. She just listened.
"Maybe there's still something there. Tools, keepsakes. Maybe even one of his cars—he had more than sense. Always elbow-deep in an engine, even if it ran fine. Said a man should keep his hands busy, or his thoughts got too loud."
I glanced at the horizon.
"Place like that… it's nothing but ghosts and echoes now. But if I ever make it back, I'll check under the hood. Might still be a wrench set waiting for me."
Sula was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Maybe it's your turn to build something there."
I looked at her.
She wasn't being poetic. Not exactly. Just honest. The way only someone who understood loss and legacy could be.
"Your father kept the basement," she continued. "Left the old bones beneath the new roof. Maybe that was his way of saying not everything had to start from scratch."
She turned her gaze forward again, toward the mist-cloaked ruins ahead.
"Maybe you don't have to go back just to remember. Maybe you go back… to begin."
I looked at her, and for a moment, I let the idea settle.
A quiet place. Familiar soil. Building something instead of just surviving.
Maybe.
But then I shook my head.
"I've thought about it," I said. "Really. But… I can't build anything. Not yet."
Sula raised an eyebrow, waiting.
I didn't tell her the real reasons. Not about Nemesis. Not the Zeniths. That weight would crush her—and it wasn't hers to carry.
Instead, I kept it simple.
"There are still threats out there. Ones I need to deal with. Big ones. If I built something now… I'd be building it on borrowed time."
My voice dropped lower. "Home's supposed to be safe. I won't lay roots until I know I can protect them."
Sula didn't press.
She just gave a small nod, quiet and understanding.
And we walked on—through the ruins of the old world, toward the shadows of the next.
We rounded a bend where the road broke apart completely, swallowed by weeds and time. The terrain dipped into a shallow cut—what used to be a maintenance path. And there, slicing clean through the earth like an old scar, were the tracks.
Steel. Gleaming. Maintained.
Sula stepped up beside me, brow furrowing.
"Another Track Rider path," she said. "Machines must keep this one clear too. We should move—if one's coming, it won't stop."
But I didn't move.
Not because of the tracks.
Because of what lay beyond them.
My eyes drifted past the rails, down the slope and across to a patch of twisted fencing and broken ground—half-swallowed by vines, but unmistakable.
I knew that spot.
That curve.
My breath caught. Just for a second.
Sula noticed the pause. "You recognize it?"
I nodded slowly, keeping my voice even. "Yeah. There was a crash. Long time ago."
She followed my gaze, but didn't speak.
"That," I said, pointing toward the general direction, "was where everything changed."
She glanced at me, curious but not prying. "You were in it?"
I gave a short nod. "Driver. Solo."
Another beat of silence.
"That's how I ended up being frozen," I added, tone casual—too casual. "Too much damage. They said I wouldn't wake up right. So they put me under. To heal."
A lie. Clean. Practiced. And mostly true—if you squinted at it sideways.
Sula didn't question it. Just gave a slow nod.
I could feel the spot still watching me. The weight of a moment that took everything away.
And for the briefest second, another image surfaced—uninvited.
Paws on tile. A soft whine. Warm breath against my hand.
My dog.
He'd been there. In the building. Sleeping near the couch like he always did when I worked late.
I clenched my jaw.
Even if he'd made it out… he wouldn't have lasted long.
He was already old back then—graying muzzle, stiff joints, slow to rise. The vet had said he had maybe a year, if I was lucky.
I remembered the trip to Seattle. A week for work. Left him with a friend I trusted.
He stopped eating after the second day.
My friend had to carry him out to the grass just to get him moving.
Said he just lay by the door.
Waiting.
When I got back, he cried. Wouldn't leave my side for hours. Slept on my chest like he was afraid I'd vanish again.
And now… I had.
Maybe that's what hurt most.
I never got to say goodbye.
My family could properly grieve because they knew what happened. But a dog, a would think they were abandoned.
I didn't linger on it. Couldn't.
The ache was too quiet to fix and too deep to chase.
So I turned from it—just like the rest.
Because this wasn't a grave anymore.
It was a threshold.
Then my Focus blinked.
[OBJECT DETECTED – UNKNOWN ALLOY SIGNATURE]
I frowned and looked down. A glint of something caught in the dirt near the old fencing, half-buried under moss and time.
I crouched. Brushed the earth aside.
A small, battered piece of metal came free—worn smooth by weather, the chain long rusted to dust.
A dog tag.
My fingers tightened around it.
And when I turned it over, the engraving was still there, faint but unmissable:
CESAR
If found, call—
Not Caesar.
Cesar.
With an S.
He came with the name.
He was a rescue—young, full of life, just unlucky. Wrong shelter, wrong timing. They told me if he didn't get adopted that week, he'd be put down. Kennel space, policy, nothing personal.
Except it was.
He'd been with me ever since. Fifteen years. Longer than most people ever stay in your life. Older than every one of my nieces and nephews except the eldest.
I remembered he never wore a leash, freaked out, but he would listen to me and stay beside me as we walked.
I remembered how he used to tilt his head when I talked to him like he understood every word—because, somehow, he did.
I slipped the tag into a pouch at my belt. Not just a keepsake. A vow.
He was family.
And now… he was memory.
But not forgotten.I stared at the dog tag in my hand—CESAR, it read. Weather-worn. Chain long gone. The kind of metal that remembered teeth, wind, and waiting.
And then the memory struck. Not from here. From before.
From the void where I first met Terra.
FLASHBACK: The Deal
"I want my dog."
That was the last thing I said. After perks and perks and systems and swords. After laying the groundwork for the kind of world I thought I wanted to fight in.
Terra blinked. "Seriously? That's your final demand?"
I nodded. No hesitation. "He was old. But not gone. Not yet."
The ROB tilted his head like a crow amused by a puzzle. "Checking the timeline… hmm. Interesting."
Terra folded her arms. "What?"
"Cesar died early too," the ROB said, tone almost reverent. "Not by much. Days, maybe. But enough. His ledger was supposed to close next week."
My chest tightened.
The ROB smiled. "Which means his soul still had leftover potential. Not much—but paired with yours?"
Terra sighed. "It's enough to thread him into the same cycle. Barely."
I looked between them. "So… he could come with me?"
The ROB gave a slow nod. "He won't arrive as he was. Not exactly. His soul will pass through the Chaos filter. It'll blend with the wilds, shaped by instinct and memory. No leashes. No guarantees."
"But he'll be here," I said. "Somewhere."
"Yes," the ROB replied. "And if he finds you… it will be because the world remembered."
PRESENT
The dog tag pressed into my palm like an echo. My chest felt tight, but not with pain. With weight.
He hadn't been abandoned.
Not really.
He'd just gotten here ahead of me.
Cesar had crossed into this world, soul intact—threaded through wild grass and firelight and long-forgotten trails. Maybe reborn. Maybe still roaming. But real.
And now, I'd found proof. Not of survival. But of presence.
Of love that refused to vanish quietly.
Sula stepped closer. "What is it?"
I didn't hide it.
"It belonged to my dog."
I looked up, meeting her eyes.
I looked over at her. Didn't dress it up. Didn't need to.
"It belonged to my dog."
She blinked. Just once. Then glanced back down toward the patch of dirt where I'd found it.
"Don't you guys have dogs?" I asked.
The question came out softer than I expected. Not idle curiosity—more like reaching. Wanting a connection to something that hadn't changed.
Sula frowned slightly. "A dog?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Like a wolf. Just friendlier."
She blinked. "Wait… those are the same thing?"
That stopped me.
"No—wolves are wild. Dogs are… well, they're domesticated. They live with people. Loyal. Protective. Smarter than some humans I knew."
She tilted her head. "We just call them all wolves. The ones raised by the village? Those are the friendly ones. But they're still wolves."
I opened my mouth, then squinted at her. "Hold on—you called the Legion 'dogs' back in… Wichita."
She blinked. "Witch-what?"
"The big ruins," I clarified. "Half-buried buildings, broken Watcher cluster, that place."
"Oh. That place."
She gave a small smirk. "You've just been hearing what we've called each other for years."
I raised an eyebrow. "What did you think the word dog meant?"
She shrugged. "Dishonorable. Biting. Loud. Packs that follow without thought. Always pissing on what isn't theirs."
I let out a slow breath. "Yeah… that tracks. Except the dishonorable part."
She looked at me, confused. "Why would it mean anything else?"
I paused, "Man dealing with the Legion has messed up your guys vocab big time, if I say something that's going to get me hit tell me damn it."
Sula rolled her eyes and I went on with my explanation "Dogs were loyal. Smarter than most people. Slept at your feet. Followed you everywhere. Picked up on your mood. They weren't tools. They were family."
Sula frowned thoughtfully. "Yeah. I guess when you put it like that we do have dogs. Sort of. The Kansani have a breed of wolves. We call them hounds. Not as feral as the true wild kind, but still wolves. We raise them from pups, teach them where the fire is, when to run, when to stand. They fight with us. Hunt beside us. And they do respond to commands—just like the old-world dogs you're talking about. You've just got to be careful. Let them know if you're coming up from behind. Spook one and you'll lose more than a finger. But if they trust you? They'll bleed for you."
She gave a small shrug. "We do name them—but not always the way you might expect. The names come from what they do, or how they act. One might be called Ember if it never leaves the fire. Another might be Ghost if it moves without sound. But they don't really belong to one person. Not usually. Maybe the hound master, who tends to them but they're mainly that particular village's. Anyone who personally owns a hound is a Planeswalker, which are hunters who only venture into town every now and then. But most hounds grow up around us, eat from our hands, and sleep near the children. If one walks beside you into a hunt, that's not ownership. That's trust. I never had one myself—but I helped raise a few."
"Still counts," I said quietly.
Then I gave a half-smile. "Honestly, that's pretty much how it started back in the old world too. People just raised wolves that stuck around the fire long enough, and over generations they became dogs."
Sula looked over, curious.
"So I guess," I continued, "whether you meant to or not… you're breeding your own kind of dog. One way or another."
She didn't argue. Just gave a small, thoughtful nod.
I glanced ahead, but my mind lingered behind.
If GAIA ever came fully back online—if her subfunctions were restored and the Earth healed proper—someone might've expected her to bring dogs back, too. Load the genome, print the sequence, restart the species. But watching Sula, hearing how she spoke about their hounds, how they raised them by firelight and trial…
She wouldn't have to.
The tribes of this world were already doing it.
GAIA didn't need to restore everything.
Some things, people remembered on their own.
And honestly?
Not every breed from the old world would survive out here. The delicate ones. The ones bred too far from their roots—pampered, shaped for show instead of survival. They wouldn't last a season in the wilds.
But the old working breeds?
The ones made to take down wolves. Wild hogs. Guard livestock through snow and siege.
Those might have a shot.
Somewhere in the bones of this world, maybe their blood still echoed.
And if not?
Breeds like the Kansani hounds would fill that role.
Built by grit.
Tempered by trust.
She glanced at me again. "What was his name?"
I hesitated. Then said, "Cesar."
She blinked. Then gave me a look.
"Not like that," I groaned.
Her smirk was immediate. "You named your dog after the Legion's founder?"
"He came with the name!" I snapped. "And he had it first, anyway!"
She laughed, biting back more jokes.
"Cesar," she mused. "From warlord to furball."
"He was loyal," I said firmly. "And didn't crucify people."
She gave a small, respectful nod. "Then maybe he deserved the name more."
And for a little while, we just stood there—me with a memory in my hand, her with a grin she tried to hide.
But beneath it, I knew she understood.
Because grief comes in all shapes.
And love? Sometimes it wears paws.
"He was pure black," I said after a moment, almost to myself. "White paws. White chest. Used to look like he was wearing boots and a badge."
Sula stopped walking.
She didn't turn right away. Just stood there, spine stiff.
"What?" I asked.
She looked over her shoulder, her voice lower now. "You just described the Wolf Lord."
I blinked. "The what?"
"It's not just a wolf. Bigger. Wilder. Something else entirely. The first real sighting was about five years ago, near the Ironbone salvage trails. Since then, he's been spotted across the region. Feral. Huge. Killing anything that crosses him. Legion patrols, Kansani hunters, machines—even a Deathclaw once. No one's sure if he's a spirit, a cursed beast, or just nature given too much anger and muscle. But everyone agrees on one thing: when you see him, you run. Because the Wolf Lord doesn't take sides. He ends fights."Sula's words hung in the mist like a warning bell.
The Wolf Lord.
Bigger than a Kansani wolf-dog. Wilder. Untouchable.
And somehow… familiar.
Intent.
A cold knot formed in my gut.
Cesar.
Not the old dog who once curled at my feet.
Something new.
Something forged by grief, instinct, and the unchecked chaos of this world.
It made a terrible kind of sense.
He had always been smart. Could read my moods better than most people. Knew what the words spoken to him meant
That kind of mind—threaded through a Chaos filter—mixed with the genetic gifts Artemis left buried in the bloodlines of wolves?
It wouldn't create a pet.
It would create a sovereign.
A king without a leash.
A wolf no man could call down.
A god of the wilds, built by accident, memory, and war.
I swallowed hard.
Sula shifted uncomfortably. "You okay?"
I shook myself back to the present. Forced a thin smile. "Just… a lot to process."
She nodded, but her eyes stayed sharp, studying me like she knew I wasn't telling the whole story.
Maybe one day I would.
But not yet.
Not until I knew what I was facing.
Because if that beast out there was Cesar—
I would have a choice to make.
Not between victory and survival.
Between memory and mercy.
My Focus blinked again, a soft pulse under my vision.
[QUEST TRIGGERED – SOUL OF THE WOLF LORD]
Objective: Confirm the true nature of the Wolf Lord.
Choice: Tame him—or put him down.
Notes: Only loyalty, instinct, and strength will decide his fate.
Status: Dormant (Requirements: Higher Affinity with Kansani, Improved Survival Skill,)
The words burned into my sight.
Put him down.
A cold, sinking feeling bloomed in my gut—heavy and slow, like a stone dragging through deep water.
They could have said defeat.
They could have said kill.
But put him down was different.
It was the phrase you used for an animal who couldn't be saved.
For something you loved once—and had to end because love alone wasn't enough.
I swallowed hard, the metallic taste of old regret rising in the back of my throat.
Because if Cesar was truly out there—
If he had survived through the Chaos filter, twisted but real—
Then finding him wouldn't be a reunion.
It would be a reckoning.
We moved on after that.
But I carried a new weight with me.
Not fear.
Not grief.
Something deeper.
A promise, older than this world.
And a terrible question that gnawed at the back of my mind:
Had I made a mistake?
I thought I was saving him—giving him a second chance at life, at freedom.
But maybe… I had just condemned him.
Maybe dragging a soul out of its rightful place, threading it through a world shaped by broken gods and chaos, hadn't been mercy.
Maybe it had been selfishness.
I didn't know.
Not yet.
But the time would come when I would have to face that answer.
Face him.
Face myself.
And when that day came...
I prayed I'd still recognize the soul behind those teeth.
The ache didn't vanish.
It just folded in—tight and heavy—and settled somewhere beneath the ribs.
I couldn't afford to dwell on it. Not now.
There were still things that needed doing. Dangers that wouldn't pause for the luxury of grief.
I took a slow breath. Felt the air scrape against the back of my throat. Sharp. Real.
Anchor yourself to the moment.
I glanced at Sula. She was watching me quietly, not pressing, not asking. Just waiting.
Trusting me to find my footing again.
Good.
I adjusted the strap on my pack and jerked my chin toward the east.
"Come on," I said. "We've got ground to cover."
She nodded once, a simple motion, then fell into step beside me.
But because there were still dangers ahead. Still things that needed doing.
I tightened my grip on the bow and adjusted my pack. Sula walked beside me, silent but steady.
No words passed between us for a long time.
We just walked—two small figures threading through the bones of a dead world.
Carrying memory.
Carrying promises.
And somewhere ahead, through the mist and ruin—
new ghosts waited.