“He’s *here*?” Nairi’s voice was a ragged whisper, a low, guttural sound of disbelief. The splinters of the shattered dining table seemed to mock her, stark against the pine planks. She looked from Maro’s ashen face to Toros, who had already moved, his large frame blocking the snow-dusted window. His hand rested on the rough wood of the frame, knuckles white. Cold draft poured through the chinked logs. Metal clattered against the front stoop.
Toros didn’t answer. He simply nodded, a grim set to his jaw, then gestured urgently towards the back of the cabin. “Root trap. Now.”
Maro darted behind the heavy wool curtain Toros indicated. Nairi followed, the rolled blueprints still clutched in her hand like a lifeline. A drop ladder descended into damp earth and rot. It was an ignoble hiding place for a city architect and a corporate lawyer, pressed shoulder to shoulder, listening to the muffled thud of boots above them.
Heavy boots ground over the porch boards before the front door creaked inward. Voices, rough and unfamiliar, echoed from within. “Empty. The old man said she was here.”
“The journal’s gone, but the blueprints are too important,” another voice snarled, closer this time, just above their heads. “Tigran wants this cabin searched top to bottom. Find anything she might have left. And check the outlying sheds. She’s not far.”
Nairi gripped the cylinder of blueprints until the paper creaked. Tigran hadn’t just come for the journal; he was here for *her*. The scale of his desperation, his ruthlessness, hit her with sickening force. He was closing in, twisting the knife. Her firm, her legacy, her freedom… and now her life.
Toros put a finger to his lips, his eyes sweeping the cramped cellar. He pointed to a small, almost invisible hatch set into the far wall. “Drainage culvert. It leads past the old cistern, away from the timbers. Tight crawl. You two first.”
Maro shoved through the gap without hesitation. She squeezed through the opening, muttering about claustrophobia and the deplorable lack of ventilation. Nairi followed, pulling the hatch shut behind them, plunging them into near-absolute darkness. The air was colder here, carrying the faint scent of pine needles. They crawled on hands and knees through a winding tunnel for what felt like an eternity, emerging finally into the frigid twilight behind a cluster of gnarled juniper bushes, overlooking the mountain cluster below.
From their perch behind the scrub, Veris lay stark beneath lantern glow. Lamps glowed in a few windows, but the narrow lanes were alive with movement. Figures in dark coats, many carrying long rifles, patrolled the snowdrifts, their torches slicing wide arcs through the gloom. They weren’t locals. Their movements were too precise, too practiced. Tigran’s hired muscle. They were hunting.
“We can’t stay here,” Maro breathed, shivering. “They’re sweeping the houses. We need a vehicle. A tracked rig.”
Toros scowled. “There aren’t many. And the villagers… they don’t welcome outsiders, especially when trouble comes knocking.”
“Outsiders? They’re pragmatic, Toros,” Maro snapped. “And humans respond to incentives. What’s the most valuable thing in this godforsaken place, besides a quick exit?”
Toros’s gaze narrowed. “Supplies. Fuel. Medical care, if they’re sick.”
“Exactly.” Maro scanned the lane, spotting a distant lean-to with a carved pelt board. “That trapper’s hut by the timberline. I saw it on my way up. He’ll keep a tracked hauler. And he’ll take cash.”
Against Toros’s better judgment, and Nairi’s growing unease, they moved, keeping low, using the deep snowdrifts and the shadows between the sturdy log buildings as cover. The biting wind helped, muffling their footsteps, but it also threatened to numb their exposed skin. They slipped past a patrol, hiding behind a stacked pile of firewood, the harsh beam of a flashlight sweeping mere inches from Nairi’s face. Her breath rattled small and thin in her throat.
They reached the trapper’s hut, a single plume of smoke curling lazily from its chimney. Maro rapped sharply on the door, a series of urgent, deliberate knocks. After a tense pause, the door creaked open a sliver, revealing a pair of wary eyes in a grizzled, snow-lined face. The trapper, a gaunt man with a thick fur cap, clutched an old hunting rifle. His squint was dark with suspicion.
“What do you want?” Aris’s voice was a low rasp, like dry leaves skittering over ice.
“The keys to your crawler,” Maro said, steady and flat. “We leave the valley tonight.”
The man scoffed, tightening his grip on the rifle. “The tractor stays put, especially for city folk bringing trouble to my doorstep.” He started to close the door.
“Wait!” Maro pushed her hand against the rough wood, stopping him. “I can offer you more than you’ve seen in a season of trapping. Gold. Not paper money. Actual gold, from the Tsovasar vaults.” She saw his eyes flicker, a hint of greed cutting through his suspicion. “A hundred Tsovasi coins, right now. And another hundred when we reach the pass. Or would you prefer Tigran’s mercenaries? They take what they want.”
Aris hesitated, his gaze darting from Maro’s resolute face to the shadows where Nairi and Toros waited. The sound of distant shouts carried on the wind, closer than before. He weighed his options, his eyes narrowing. “The crawler is ancient. Starter sticks in the frost.”
“Then we bump-start it,” Maro countered. “Take the purse, or lose the rig for nothing when those gunmen search your yard.”
Aris grimaced, a defeated sigh escaping him. “Fine. It’s parked in the lean-to behind the barn. Ignition key is in the dash. You were never here.”
“Agreed.” Maro slipped a small, heavy pouch from her pocket, the clink of coins distinct even through the thick leather, and tossed it to him. Aris snatched it, his expression still surly, but a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He pointed towards the barn, then melted back into his hut, shutting the door.
They scrambled towards the shed. The machine sat under a crust of rime, its metal tracks caked in frozen loam. Toros cranked the ignition, the diesel clatter tearing across the yard. Just as Nairi pulled herself onto the passenger seat behind him, the distinct crack of a rifle echoed from the main lane, followed by a shouted command.
“They’re at the barn! Don’t let them get away!”
Toros hauled the lever forward, the iron treads spitting powder as the cab lurched ahead. But their path was blocked. Two figures, rifles raised, emerged from the blizzard, blocking the tractor path. Another group appeared to their right, fanning out, forcing them into a small, open clearing. They were trapped.
“There they are!” a voice bellowed, closer now. “Don’t shoot the women! Tigran wants them alive!”
Toros swore, a harsh guttural sound. He looked back at Nairi, his eyes burning with a fierce, desperate resolve. “Hold on. Don’t stop for anything.” Before Nairi could answer, he pegged the throttle toward the muzzle flashes and vaulted off the steel running board.
The vehicle veered sideways until Maro grabbed the dual steering levers, hauling the nose straight. Nairi pitched against the roll cage, watching Toros hit the powder, roll into a crouch, and pull a black service piece from beneath his sheepskin coat. He opened fire, deliberately drawing the attention of the thugs away from their retreat.
“No!” Nairi screamed, her voice ripped away by the wind and the roar of the diesel. The armed figures, caught flat-footed by Toros’s sprint, turned their weapons on him. Shots rang out, sharp reports in the biting air. Toros staggered, a dark stain blossoming on his side, but he kept firing, buying them precious seconds.
Maro didn’t look back. Her face was set, grim, as she fought the snowcat, forcing the steel nose along the tree line. Nairi twisted in her seat, clutching the blueprints, her chest aching with a raw, visceral pain. The treads tore through drift after drift, widening the gap between them and the valley floor.
Through the swirling snow, she caught a final, agonizing glimpse. Toros, outnumbered, outgunned, was forced to his knees in the pristine, blood-splashed snow. A rifle butt slammed into his head. One of Tigran’s men pressed the barrel of his weapon against Toros’s temple. Their eyes met across the impossible distance, across the swirling white void. Toros’s lips moved, a silent, desperate message, as he mouthed one word: *Go.*